Divan Orange
June 9, 2007
Montreal

mr. fingers

Dandy had been muttering about plants and animals since she had come back from the desert. Fong had led her into the sands and she had come back with nothing but a sequence of jumbled letters she’d pulled from a crumpled sheet of paper inside a tumbleweed as she’d lain weeping:

N XLV XXI LXXIV’W LXXIII XXXIV LVII

She spent days brooding over the telegraph wire for days before finally intercepting something. A clue she had pulled from the wire on her hunt for the musical genius. It was a message she kept intercepting over and over.

.–. .-.. .- -. - Plants
.- -. -.. and
.- -. .. — .- .-.. … Animals

She ran to her satchel, extracted the crumpled paper. “Of course! The tumbleweed was no co-incidence. They’re GPS coordinates in Roman numerals.”

She poured herself another scotch.

“Give me the code Fong”, she whispered into her scotch, “Gimme the fahkin’ code.”

I liked it when she drank scotch. It brought something out in her.

She crushed the glass in her hand.

“Got it!” she yelled. She sipped slowly from the palm of her hand. N. 45° 3174; 73° 3457- she smiled with bloody teeth.“Get yer paddle”, she said, “he’s on an orange couch in the river.”

I think he means the street,I told her, looking over her notes. I suggested the Divan Orange on St. Laurent Blvd. Dandy smashed her toe on the way out the door. I followed the trickle of blood to the Divan Orange. The place was full. It was an eager crowd and I was a happy man. The place had the smarts to carry the oatmeal stout. I ordered two. One for the good hand, one for the bad and watched Dandy go into stealth mode.

I expected nothing from the Plants and Animals. I had spent the afternoon at my editor’s office at the hottest spot north of Havana. He was telling me my reviews had been too positive as of late.

“You’re a critic. You need to be critical.”

He was right. I had been very positive as of late but there had been a slew of good shows in Montreal. That’s not to say they were all great, but I usually trust my judgment except around heavy machinery.

And then they made me eat my own glass.

You see, there’s something to be said about musical bravery these days. It’s easy to be clever. It’s even easier to be cute. For every black and white stripe on the indy kids shirt there’s a dozen bands who use cleverness or cuteness as some sort of musical currency. There are few brave bands out there. There are a few Plants and Animals. These goddamned bastards had the gall to play Nina Simone’s Sinnerman. Who the hell did they think they were? They didn’t even have an album yet; their soon to be released Secret City record isn’t due out until the winter. Whoever made them think they could tear off one of the most stinging jazz tracks from the one of the most stinging jazz singers was…well…dead right. The worst part was - this wasn’t even their best song.

This is a band that is not afraid to take chances and not afraid to put it all on the line, an unfortunate rarity these days.

“He’s here!” she said. Dandy had me by the neck. She was wearing a mask and snorkel. “Billy Fong is here! I saw him! That bastard led me to the desert only to send me right to where I had started!” I held her tight, then pushed her to the side. She’d been a wreck since the desert. Fong spelled the end of her. She needed Plants. She needed Animals. She disappeared into the crowd. I turned my eyes to the band. If Fong had been here, then it meant this band was on to something. But I didn’t need a renegade child genius to tell me that.