Contributor: Quinn Tyler Jackson
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When he goes up on stage, he knows the audience is corked. They want to hear Cash; they'll tap their toes to that. They've heard it. They know it. They've already heard the Johnson Brothers' sets dozens of times before.
But every so often, he sings Brel's "Amsterdam." English or French version -- it never matters.
It's not what they wanted or expected to hear. It's about drunken sailors with a pocket full of money and a belly full of ache. It's the wrong song, to the wrong crowd.
But nobody cares because their pockets are full of money and their bellies are full of ache.
And as they wander home with their escorts in tow, they find themselves humming the wrong song to the wrong crowd. Even the street lamps shine unexpected refrains.
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When he goes up on stage, he knows the audience is corked. They want to hear Cash; they'll tap their toes to that. They've heard it. They know it. They've already heard the Johnson Brothers' sets dozens of times before.
But every so often, he sings Brel's "Amsterdam." English or French version -- it never matters.
It's not what they wanted or expected to hear. It's about drunken sailors with a pocket full of money and a belly full of ache. It's the wrong song, to the wrong crowd.
But nobody cares because their pockets are full of money and their bellies are full of ache.
And as they wander home with their escorts in tow, they find themselves humming the wrong song to the wrong crowd. Even the street lamps shine unexpected refrains.
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Author:
Quinn Tyler Jackson
