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Its fortunate that the piano is tuned, that the glue, strings and wood of the guitar is set to wail. And this hotel room, only a few hours before a flop, has the right amount of transient funk on the walls, and some sort of damp science is in effect with the thick plaster and drapes. That the air, Downtown Chicago, 1930s is charged from nickel stogies, and cheap whiskey sin. Were lucky the evenings still young, top of the bottle when they start, and theyre buzzed, not fumble-drunk, and the engineer has cradled the mike just so above the sound hole and keyboard, and no traveling salesman headed for Gary or South Bend pounds shut up cant a guy get any fucking sleep from his side of the wall. In the morning, what was good will be gone. What was caught of this evening will tease our nose from the book, stop us mid-thought, Bid us lean a bit closer to our speakers. They bend it, they pound it, they scrape it, they ring. The blues gets them both. But there are moments When gravity fools the dice in the cheats hand.