Dred Scott Trio  in the house at atBlue Note Tonight-

2 sets-   8PM and 10:30PM

i’m standing in line waiting to be checked in.  we’ve gone through
security – bag check and a metal detector (america’s got psycho’s) –
and i turn around and right behind me is a squat and swarthy man with
a very bad comb-over wearing a long black overcoat and an expensive
looking white scarf.  i overhear him saying to his equally squat
female companion in an accent i can’t place,
‘i hope i have time to warm up.’
she replies in a thick russian accent,
‘don’t worry.  you worry too much.’
i lean over between them and say,
‘doesn’t matter if you warm up or not.  you’re going down just the same.’
‘oh!! WE’RE going down??!  i don’t think so.  this man has performed
at the met!  and he was headliner in las vegas,’
she stresses the first syllable of ‘vegas’ so it sounds like, ‘VAYYYgus.’
the comb-over guy touches my arm and moves in close like he’s going to
tell me a secret, ‘you know why i think you are right?’
his breath smells like an empty warehouse.
‘last year a tenor won, so they can’t have two tenors in a row.’
‘stop saying that!’  and his accompanist gives him a lite punch in the
arm.  russian spirit.  irrepressible.  i take a step back and say,
‘hey, you never know.  maybe you guys take the whole thing.’
it’s no fun kidding around with people who are too serious.  it can
even be irritating.  so i say,
‘i notice your accents.  you guys are americans, right?  i mean, this
is america’s got talent.  do they make you show your passport?’
the russian snorts,
‘i have been in this country 25 years!  i am as american as you!!’
‘oh, ok,’ i say, ‘i was just wondering if they check is all.’

it’s our turn so i turn back around and show my id to the registrar
and without looking up she hands me 4 or 5 papers stapled together.
‘fill this out.’
name. age. address. name of act. phone. email. usual stuff on the
first page.  most of the rest of the pages were rules and regs
contestants were to read and agree to.  the last page had a series of
more personal questions:
who is the most important person in your life?
my momma.  she raised me up from nothing and gave me everything.  i
love my momma.
what is the single most important event in your life?
9/11.
what would you do with the money if you were to win?
buy momma a new house.
i return the forms and we are escorted to a holding room.  on the way,
an elderly man dressed like george washington carrying a massive flag
walks by.  apparently america’s got a crazy grandpa in the attic.  we
walk in and just to our right is a guy, bean pole thin in a flannel
shirt tucked into jeans that are riding too high sitting in a tight
circle with his family.  he’s obviously the talent but at what is not
obvious.  looks like the dude maybe drinks water and shoots it back
out his nose while his eyelids are turned inside out.  next to them, a
high school drum line that is thankfully not warming up.  across the
room is an acrobatic team of ten-year-old girls dressed like pixies -
brightly colored polka dots on their body suits that cover their heads
from which protrude tinsel covered wire making it look like they have
antennae.  standing back-flips. splits. aerials. moves and jumps i
don’t know the names for.  they are so cute i walk over and say to a
couple of them,
‘hey, you guys are really good.  but you’re going down.’
the two run over to the group and i am instantly beset by a half dozen
pixies surrounding me and shouting,
‘YOU’RE GOING DOWN!!!  YOU’RE GOING DOWN!!!”
just then what appears to be and all-white 80’s break dancing team
with matching outfits and a giant boom box saunters by.  one of the
guys has a fu manchu and the back of his jersey has the number 1 on it
and his name.
‘hey lazer.’ i say. ‘you guys are going down.’  and the pixies behind
me all chime in,
‘yeah, yeah!  going down.  going down.’
lazer lunges for me but a guy with a warm-up jacket that says ‘coach’
on it holds him back.
‘easy lazer.  he’s not worth it.’
lazer tries to get at me from behind the coach.
‘yeah? well you’re going down buddy……later…….outside.’
‘oooo,’ i say. ‘too bad you’ll never win america’s got snappy comebacks.’
‘let it go, lazer.  let it go.’  the coach walks lazer and the team to
the other side of the room where i can taunt them no more.  a long
line of misfits enters carrying garbage cans, pots and pans, plastic
containers.  looks like america’s got a bunch of crap lying around the
house.  they call our name and we are escorted back across the wide
open convention center main room to just outside an audition room.  on
the way we pass a kid waving a twenty foot long pole over his head,
stabbing and striking imaginary foes.  i know we will not win when the
kid balances the spinning pole over his head on one hand, his arm
completely outstretched and his palm completely flat and gracefully
descends into the splits.  america’s got flexibility.  the tumbling
pixies go by and two of them see me and start pointing and mouthing,
‘you’re going down.  you’re going down.’
i look back across the vast expanse of space and can see all at once
african dancers, an electric fiddler, a couple of crusty blues guys, a
juggler, a fat italian crooner in a black suit with a red tie talking
to his buddy who looks exactly the same but not dressed up and i
think, these are my people.  this is who i am.  we get called, i slap
the numbered sticker on my pants, excuse myself from the conversation
i’m having with a tap dancer and enter a too brightly lit room to take
another shot.

tonite
the dred scott trio
the blue note
8 and 10:30pm
w/ ben rubin, bass
tony mason, drums

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