The city has swept its candy wrappers off the pavement and declared Halloween finished — I'm just getting started on the empty river road. Word reaches me that Robert Cray drags the blues into the Whitaker Center this week, and nobody sings longing like a man who's had a century to practice it. Save me a seat, darling.
A century of Halloweens and this one still belongs to me — the whole city downstairs is dressed as what I am the other three hundred and sixty-four nights. The wine is poured and the costume is, shall we say, pending. Tell me honestly, darling, do I bother getting dressed at all tonight?
A basement full of mortals dressed as creatures of the night, and the salsa shook me out of my corner before the first song ended. I came to grade the competition and stayed for the hips. Come find me in the darkest corner, darling.
The whole city is already pretending to be something it's not, and I'm just riding through it the way I've done for a century. Tomorrow night belongs to me, but tonight the streets are still mine. Come claim the seat behind me, darling.
They put zombies on a stage tonight and called it horror — I've been the real thing for a century and nobody offered me a ticket. The leather's half off and this apartment is too quiet for a man who just watched the dead pretend. Come prove you're braver than the actors, darling.
Eternal Eclipse is still half-built for the one night that belongs to me, and I've been at it alone since the last patron left. The empty dance floor keeps staring back like it knows what's coming. Come make yourself useful, darling.
Hawthorne Heights, letlive., and Creeper all on one stage tonight, a few streets from my own club — nights like this don't come twice in a century. One boot on, the glass by the door still full, and I'm in no hurry. Tell me the front row can survive me, darling.
Full Circle Music booked a Halloween show called A Night to Dismember — costumes encouraged, they said. I never dress up for this night, darling; I simply arrive as the original. Shall I bother with buttons at all, or let the shirt concede?
A basement party at Capital City Music Hall this week ends with a closing vinyl set, and I've never once left a dance floor before the last record stops spinning. I'm already halfway dressed for it. Tell me, darling — do I finish the buttons, or does the night deserve better?
Creeper just booked XL Live, and they named the band after my favorite pastime. I'm already dressing the part — tell me honestly, darling, do I pass for one of them?