The Getaway Drivers

Escape to Echo Valley

2011-08-19T06:11:00.000-07:00

The revival was bank. No had one expected that instead of the 'Drivers playing a show, Dan would have to give the impromtu sermon of his life. Sheila and Tom had passed the collection plate around not once, but twice after the "speaking in tongues" incident. Gail and Greg finally figured out whatever they were tinkering with in the engine compartment, and near midnight The Getaway Drivers finally pulled out of Texarkana and found themselves hurtling north on I30 towards a town called Hope with a garbage bag full of cash in the back. It it wasn't long before they noticed the flashing red and blue lights in the rearview. Someone at the revival figured out they'd been taken for a hoax. Bob cursed and took another pull from the Soviet era flask Steve had given him. He flicked a switch acitivating the hydrogen carborator his cousin James had installed on their last trek north. The van lurched forward, rattling like a space shuttle on it's last flight, and the police lights receded into the night. They would hit Little Rock by 2, then Memphis, then north on 55 all the way to Echo Valley. They had a show to do and this time among some hippie friends who wouldn't mind using a little of that cash for supplies. The 'Drivers would be only to happy to oblige for a chance to hideout for a while.

Sweat, tears and speaking tongues

2011-08-12T20:17:00.001-07:00

With each rise and fall of Dan's voice, the spiritual agitation grew, and the night wore on, hot and sweaty. The crowd pressed closer, mezmorized by the cadence and reverberations coming from the guitarist's mouth. Tom and Sheila hung toward the back, collection plates in hand, waiting to strike at the most opportune moment. Back at the van, Gail and Greg were jimmying something under the hood while Barbara listened intently, sucking hard on her smoke. Suddenly, Dan's words didn't make sense. A murmer rose through the crowd and grew to an undecipherable cacophony of speech Barbara had never heard. People wept. Hands were raised, forgiveness given, and finally the exhaused worshippers collapsed. Tom and Sheila struck with the collection plates, and Dan disappeared. As he ran up to the van with this guitar case, Barbara looked at him suspiciously: "What the HELL was THAT?" she said. "Don't ask. I don't know what it was, but let's get out of here..."

The Revival

2011-08-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

As they walked out onto the stage, The Getaway Drivers realized that the "gig" Steve arranged was not at all what they expected. Thinking on his feet, Dan pulled a bible out of his guitar case. It was going to be a long, hot night at the revival.

EP Release So Hot, Gail Catches Fire!!!!!!!

2010-01-13T08:25:00.000-08:00

2009-12-04T19:52:00.000-08:00

The band takes a serious turn . . .

2008-10-14T14:11:00.001-07:00

Dan & Barbara've been with us a year.
She-Gail for three.
The other Drivers' pedigrees trail off into the mists of time.
We just opened at the Majestic.
This is getting serious.

Thurberfest 2008!!!

2008-10-14T14:08:00.001-07:00

Pour a hot latté down your subvocal Getaway!

2008-04-17T06:13:00.000-07:00

Elusive stars surface...

2008-02-12T12:14:00.001-08:00

Aha . . . here they are. None, be they however elusive, can escape the able tendrils of Blogger.

The Stars of Blizzardi Gras 2008

2008-02-12T09:16:00.001-08:00

She-Gail-Rah is MIA.

But--regardez nos visages!!--we are not bovvered and will seek our own stardom at the next gig, which will be on MARCH 8th @ 7PM @ 622 Piper Drive!!

BLIZZARDI GRAS!!

2008-02-05T10:11:00.001-08:00

2007-12-12T19:04:00.001-08:00

Fling leftover cranberries at the chicken wire Fence in front of The Getaway Drivers!

2007-11-27T07:32:00.001-08:00

OK, maybe not. We don't have chicken wire fence, and you've probably already thrown out your cranberry sauce. Nonetheless, you should heed this last call for some Tuesday night Happy Hour mirth at High Noon Saloon: we shall most certainly enjoy your company and we promise to play BOTH kinds of music.

So come join us after you shake off another Tuesday for some good music and good fun tomorrow night, after work, or after whatever it is you're doing during the day. As we mentioned last time, the High Noon crew will be serving up two for one rail drinks and special taps. If you're hungry, there's pizza at the bar and great food next door at the Brass Ring!

6:30- $5 cover - see you there!

The Getaway Drivers

Moline, IL - Oct 25, 2007

2007-10-26T21:29:00.000-07:00

The Switchback

2007-09-22T20:20:00.000-07:00

To Steve's surprise, Bob pulled over and handed him the wheel with a nonchalance that belied a long-perfected habit of reading the Cellist's mind.

Gail & Barbara lay snoring in the back seat, utterly worn out by the previous evening's gail-force drumathon and herculean multi-instrumentalism, respectively, not to mention the debauchery that had followed.

Ken was awake but silent, mourning the scratching and mild warping of one of his most treasured fretless basses after an unexpected moment of rage during which he'd harpooned a particularly unruly fan. He grinned suddenly in the moonlight.

Sheila was taking a turn strapped to the roof, trying to let the 80-mph night air clear her mind as she dreamed incessantly of "the most perfect song ever," and how it might be realized. She barely noticed when the car ground to a halt and the boys climbed out, shuffling in tandem towards an odd concrete building belching smoke deep in the shadows off the side of the road.

Bob and Steve stood in the isolated boiler room, sweating, and not just from the heat. A decision hung in the air, deep and dark and important, but nearly impossible to define.

Trust the Driver

2007-08-29T09:14:00.000-07:00

everybody knows what we're looking for. take us there.

Ever Been to Darby?

2007-08-29T08:50:00.001-07:00

a while back we were driving up the Bitterroot Valley of Montana, on the run from, or maybe, for a change, chasing after a who or a what that by now I can't place.

Bob gazed away, up into the mountains. "They'll never hear it the way we did, Stevie," and I wondered what he had heard, and wished he'd keep his eyes on the road or switch with someone.

Practice at Powers Ave

2007-08-08T19:51:00.001-07:00

Something's wrong with Bob's leg.

The Fiddliste in a Dentyne moment.

The Drummiste--faster than the speed of light or at least the light setting.

Thurberfest Memorabilia

2007-07-30T16:49:00.001-07:00

The unsuspecting neighborhood.

E-Man formulates the Master Plan.

First order of business: Beer. Canadian. Now.

Sean Michael Dargan
pipes
Thurberfest 2007
into official existence.

Unable to resist the call of the pipes, hordes of Irishmen storm the stage, led by Paul Martens, Kevin Wissink & Craig Heilman.

Larkin (including guitarist Tom Blain whose generous donation of time, sound equipment and audio engineer is now a thing of legend!) fires up the crowd with an excellent set.

Now it's time for rock and ROLL, baby!! Madi soundchecks the drums, and...

Gail and Ash start the beat, The Getaway Drivers take the stage, and the crowd goes WILD!!

Barbarita & Kenworth
rip it UP.

''Keep your hotel flowers...''

''Yeah!''

It was a long day for The Cellist.
Thurberfest 2007 winds down with a beautiful and mesmerizing performance by our good friends & colleagues, subvocal.

That's all she wrote!

Thurberfest 2007 launch - and the crowd goes wild!!

2007-07-23T19:17:00.000-07:00

Come on down and have a wee dram...

2007-07-17T21:09:00.001-07:00

The Kid disappears...

2007-07-09T22:12:00.000-07:00

So much had happened...

so very, very much.

The Drivers, exhausted from their seemingly endless traverse through Canada, had at long last made it across the North Dakota border.

The Kid, picked up only hours before, had requested a pit-stop for candy bars. Some time around midnight Bob spotted a vile, pink glow on the horizon and pulled into the only all-night gas station--and indeed, the only permanent structure--they'd seen for several hundred miles.

As The Kid scrambled inside, Bob glanced toward the back of the van. Ken, Steve, Gail and Sheila were entwined in an unlikely sprawl of limbs, soft snores, and--hey, what the heck--nah, everyone was just asleep. Zonked. Dreaming fitfully away about the week's stranger-than-strange adventures.

Bob heaved a sigh and turned his gaze away from his enigmatic flock of musicians and back towards the sickly cast of the neon sign: ''Gas. Beer. Cheese.''

The Kid was taking a long time. Bob's weariness gave way to an odd prickle at the base of his consciousness, and he sat up, straight. Okay, Kid, get on with it--get your damn Hershey bar and get back into the saddle.

Nothing.

If there had been something in the van besides a green digital radio clock, it would have been ticking ominously at this point. Bob fidgeted, then swore loudly and threw open the driver's side door. Bloody immature little...agggghhh. He stalked inside and glared around the isles as a sleepy Pakistani teenager raised an eyebrow at him from behind the counter. ''Kid? About this tall?'' Bob pantomimed. The boy shrugged and gestured towards the service door in back.

Bob charged through the flimsy double door and found himself in a long, dark, dingy hallway--much longer, in fact, than he could imagine this tiny building supporting. The hair on his arms raised, he began to move purposefully down through the darkness.

He heard moaning.

All senses on overdrive now, he began to run, throwing his arms out in front of him for protection; the moaning grew louder, and he sped towards it, faster, faster, faster, until he was racing full speed into the neverending blackness. He tripped over something hard and cold, pitched headfirst into the stone wall and lost consciousness.

He was vaguely aware of being dragged...scraping, mumbling, squirming, strong leathery hands around his chest...then blackness again.

Vivid dreams tormented him--lost bandmates, unintended crimes, bad PA systems--and he began, finally, to come to.

Everything in his body ached--bones, muscles, joints--but as his mind sharpened, and his eyes focused, he became acutely aware of--a woman. A creature of incredible beauty, ignoring him completely, as she worked to fasten a recently-undone skirt over her smooth, naked hip. Bob stared dumbly, unable to fully absorb the 55-second transition from van-full of sweaty bandmates to clean, nude vixen.

2007-06-19T14:35:00.001-07:00

3 Piece Adjustable Getaway: Debut!!!

2007-06-19T12:29:00.001-07:00

Dateline June 16, 2007: At half our number--or just slightly under half, depending on fortune's whims--the 3 Piece Adjustable Getaway plays smooth and sweet to an appreciative crowd at Mother Fool's. Mothers--none being fools--were spotted in the audience!! The only way to have fit Ken, Gail, Barbara and Mr. X. onto the stage would have been to debut as 7 Piece Adjustable-Stackable Getaway with OSHA-approved connectors.

Come on down and have a muffin...

2007-06-15T14:32:00.001-07:00

Of hitchhikers and new turns.

2007-05-27T21:47:00.000-07:00

They were two days south of the dreaded Canadian border, Sheila now in the driver's seat. Ken gave her the wheel at an exit north of St. Louis. Anything to stop the Cher songs - maybe she would concentrate on just driving. No such luck, but he was able to slip into a fitful sleep in the back. The rest of the band were awake but quiet, still thinking of the losses in Winnipeg. Steve was mumbling again. "No way, I can't play the guitar parts on my cello," he whined. Bob was insistent. "We've got a gig in two days, and you're going to play them, so start practicing." Steve: "Oh yeah, like... in the VAN?" Bob lashed back. "I'll banish you to the roof and you can play them in the wind. They might sound better like that anyway." Steve mumbled something not nice, and Bob drifted off again, depressed.

On the straight road ahead, Sheila spotted a figure walking the shoulder with the unmistakable shape of a guitar case in one hand and a thumb sticking out of the other one. She pulled over and he walked up like Robert Johnson at the Crossroads, expecting to see the devil. No such luck. "Need a ride?" Sheila said excitedly. "Yeah- hey thanks," he said. He hopped in and cheerfully said, "I'm Chris." Bob said, "What are you, like twelve? Does your mamma know where you are?" Unflapped, he said, "No, just lookin' for a gig." He dumped his guitar in the back, accidently bonking the sleeping Ken, who just couldn't catch a break.

Gail: "Looks like you're going to get your gig. We need a guitar player." She reached out the window and pulled the sullen Steve back in as he was making his way to the roof. Sheila stepped on it, the van lurched forward as instrument cases tumbled again. Bob pulled out a flask and handed the whiskey to "The Kid," as the young highwayman would henceforth be known. Little did he know what he'd gotten himself into. He might have been better off with the Devil.

R.I.P.

2007-04-27T10:12:00.000-07:00

Russian maestro and activist Mstislav Rostropovich playing as the Berlin Wall comes down.

Of celebrities and a clean Getaway.

2007-04-17T19:01:00.000-07:00

Not to be outdone, Bob donned the Freddie Mercury costume to compliment Sheila, now posing as Cher. The gang was ready to make a run for it. Dodging traffic, they made their way to a not so well lit parking ramp. A few minutes later they were heading down highway 75 in a 1979 VW van, hurtling toward I29, back to the good old USA. Ken took an exit 20 miles south of the city, and lurched onto a blinding network of backroads. The last town, Winkler, was dark in slumber - nothing open but a dimly lit gas station complete with buzzing Mobil sign and half asleep attendant. With no Mounties in the rearview, all they had to do was get across the border into North Dakota. Steve and Gail slept; Steve mumbling something about Redbull, gasoline and cotton balls, and Gail twitching in perfect time to Bob and Sheila singing turns of "Bohemian Rhapsody" and "Life after Love." Ken missed his wife, Jen, who was now running a ranch in Montana, long having given up hope of his return. He wondered why he EVER left his accounting job. The wound in his cheek itched. He reached for the a.m. dial. Fargo never sounded so good.

Tasty Pralines, Unplugged to Boot!

2007-04-14T17:40:00.000-07:00

The lovely Pam Richardson and her musical cohorts, collectively known as The Pralines, playing "Paris and My Own Passing" at Uncommon Ground in Chicago: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xyL6hd57FwE
"The Pralines" made their club debut with "The Getaway Drivers" at the now defunct Slipper Club, driving up from Chicago through a raging blizzard to grace the stage.

Of Unionsuits and Tutus...

2007-04-05T10:59:00.000-07:00

Having sacrificed her shirt for the dual purpose of disguising the hyper-publicized cellist and bandaging the bleedin' bassist, Gail extricated a daybag from the front passenger seat of a Mini-Cooper through its smashed window. The five ducked into a nearby alleyway, giving Gail the chance to sneak behind a dumpster to make a quick change. The others heard a gasp...then a stifled giggle as she rummaged through the bag. Two minutes later, she made her appearance.

"Kee-rist!", was the collective utterance, followed by a "Wha...huh?"

Gail stood before them, dimly lit by an overhead lamp, wearing a red woolen unionsuit topped off with a shimmering white tutu. "Chanuck ballet, I'm guessing. You don't want to know what the alternative was."

Sheila was more than interested, though, and ducked back to the daybag to peel off the layers of sludge and take advantage of the remaining booty...

The value of bodily fluids

2007-03-27T14:32:00.000-07:00

Covered in sewage is no way to be when you find yourself in the middle of the street, in the middle of Winnipeg, in the middle of Winter. Unfortunately, that is exactly where the small, but resourceful clan found themselves. They were soaked, and they needed shelter and quick. Sheila had the foresight to slather the thickest of the sludge on her bare arms, neck, and head. This seemed to provide a useful, albeit noxious barrier to the harsh winds. Ken, with his bullet wound found that his bleeding had slowed if not stopped. In addition, the bullet must have nicked his olfactory nerve as his sense of smell was non-existent. Bob, with blind-folded "CELLO" producer-cum -loudly in tow, used the Sundance "kid" as a shield to the elements. All Pingry could keep saying was "Bob, don't stand so F*%#ing close to me, man".
And Gail, shivering to the bone did not hesitate to break the side window of the closest car that appeared to have any kind of apparel in it. This later proved to be helpful.....

Rising Up to Paradise

2007-03-25T19:10:00.000-07:00

They surged ahead, slipping and clawing their way through the acrid slime to where Sheila stood illuminated by two garish shafts of red and blue light. There was a grate overhead, old and filthy, which begrudgingly allowed the unsettling glow to ooze in and down a series of wet, rusty rungs like an electric fungus.

''What light?'' came a muffled voice from somewhere near the armpit of Gail's t-shirt. ''Uh, you can probably take that off, Ken...'' Gail retrieved her bloodied garment as Ken blinked painfully, eyes stinging but bullet wound now staunched.

''I don't like the look of this,'' growled Bob, ''But we've got no choice--we can't hang around in this disease-infested hole any longer, and Ken's cheek wound could rip open any minute. Y'all get on up that ladder.''

They clambered up and out, the clammy grate offering surprisingly little resistance.

The sight that met their eyes above ground was nearly as terrifying as the dank underworld below: an enormous, crackling sign screamed ''Winnipeg Central Cinemas,'' its excess light spilling across a larger-than-life poster featuring a sullen Asian beauty, a hideously bloodied cello case, and--Steve.

STEVE???

''Jesus GOD,'' bellowed Bob as his startled brain strained to absorb the fact that the boyish mug of his fellow gunslinger-cum-producer was now plastered all over Canada, if not the entire Western hemisphere. ''Pingry, what have you DONE!!''

''No, seriously, wait, it was just a little college project, I mean, I sent it to Sundance like AGES ago but never heard back, and...'' Steve gaped, transfixed at the glorious horror of the predicament.

Bob ripped Gail's shirt back off and tied it firmly around Steve's head. ''Dude, congratulations and all, but now every joker in TOWN knows your face. And you WOULD have to call it CELLO,'' he fumed, glaring at the telltale instrument case Steve was now fumbling to use as an oversized cane, having become both famous and blindfolded in under 4.5 seconds.

Bob cinched the shirt down tighter. ''Keep this on your head at ALL times, or we're DEAD,'' he hissed through gritted teeth, adding a somewhat embarrassed ''Sorry, Gail.''

A Way Out.

2007-03-22T17:40:00.000-07:00

Gail managed to stop Ken's bleeding by tying her shirt around his face. The wound wasn't as bad as it looked. The bullet had entered his open mouth as he was blazing away, blasted a tooth, grazed the jawline and exited the cheek. He was going to be OK. Pain was another issue. The five of them trudged on through the sewer muck. Sheila had gone ahead, and soon they heard her call out from ahead... "LIGHT!" As they made their way to her, they could see her standing in a shaft of light. There it was, the way out.

on the conflict of tendencies...

2007-03-21T14:31:00.000-07:00

in true art, the end is always the beginning.

String Section PA Problems SOLVED!

2007-03-21T08:01:00.001-07:00

Amps, schmamps--batteries, schmatteries. Check out THESE puppies!!!!

It's perfection!! And here you can watch a clip of one being played: strohviolin-shop.com

But wait, there's more...

Stroh guitars for Bobby and....

Yes,
this is a
Stroh bass
for Kenworth.

I have yet to find a Stroh piano or drums, alas.

Anyway, whad'ya think, huh, huh? Let's grab convention by the cojones, discard those run of the mill things we're sawing away on and demand that the Getaway Driver arsenal reflect the true and splendid bizarreness of our collective selves!!

A Nod to Our Brothers

2007-03-21T07:56:00.001-07:00

In the midst of our own landmark project--rich, deadly satisfying and now with a full head of steam--here's a nod to some blood brothers on the Getaway Trail.

If the Getaway Drivers were rocking a swampy Louisiana tavern, then a few of us got shot and took out the power supply as we fell, we might sound like these guys. Or maybe we wouldn't, but our stories sure do:

Pistol with half a grip
torn white satin slip
ten yards of dirty drapes
stack of old acetates
die cast toy truck
picture framed first buck
buckle latch diary
greasy bag of recipes...

Let the moon shine, let the skin crawl, let the monkey jump, let it all go...

Kieran Kane, Kevin Welch & Fats Kaplin; from the album Lost John Dean. The best $15 you'll spend anytime soon, guaranteed to bring you almost as much neural bliss as the blistering vocals and savage mando Bob and Ellie put down on Billy in the last 48 hours.

Fire & Grace

2007-03-20T21:01:00.000-07:00

The sweet, intoxicating current of music, whiskey and cameraderie coursed through the six like medicine.

Tongues loosened, hearts warmed, wounds healed and the spectre of the past few months' devastating run of illness, bad luck and uncertainty began to fade, giving slow but steady way to a fundamental, defining realization:

They were good. DAMN good.

The audience of freethinkers, dignitaries and fellow musicians had sat transfixed in the dusky saloon as The Getaway Drivers scorched through songs of fire and ice, love and loss, sweetness and destruction, the stage transformed into a whirlwind of flesh, steel, weathered wood and determination. They sounded finer than fine, they sounded like The Next Big Thing...

They sounded like they meant it.

2007-03-20T20:54:00.000-07:00

Mangled Angles

2007-03-20T20:52:00.000-07:00

Nice shot, but they could have chosen a more flattering angle in the interests of camaflouging our embarassing physical defects.

Steve's right leg, you will notice, has paled strangely next to his left, a precursor to it's melting off entirely (as had his right arm earlier, victim of ungodly temperature spikes in the postal van).

I have no legs, and am only kept aloft by freakish strength, balancing on The Cellist's head with my elbow. Despite what the photo seems to depict, neither his teeth nor remaining pinky were assisting me in any way.

Bob's loss of both balance and left leg (lopped of below the knee earlier in a mowing accident) are counteracted by the stabilizing gyro-like motion of his right hand and the jet-propulsion effect of the singing, so long as he keeps his lips pointed left.

Having boogied her own off onto the dance floor earlier, Gail gazes wistfully at Bob's posterior (yes, this is the body part Gail boogied off--what WHERE you thinking??) but otherwise looks pretty suave.

Ken's early-morning rampage through a Walmart pesticide isle has left him with most of his body eaten away; only a handsome face and disturbingly large right hand remain.

Ellie has four sound limbs, no visible equilibrium issues and very fetching magenta hair--odd coincidence that it was HER papparazzi snapping the photo.

Riddles in the Dark

2007-03-20T20:51:00.000-07:00

Never had it been blacker or more rank than this. The Dudley Do-Rights at the Check Cashing place were Canadian Mounties. Someone tipped someone off. Bob scratched his head and thought about Scrapes. It couldn't have been him. He'd gotten them out, down into the sewers quick. After guns were drawn and in a blazing flurry of gunfire and smoke, Scrapes got them out the back and into the alley. In the dark, the images in Bob's head were clear: somehow, Sheila and Gail grabbed a shitload of cash as the stunned Dudley's dived for cover under the spray of Steve and Ken's tommy-fire. Then they were in the tunnels before the smoke cleared. Now there they all sat, or stooped, the putrid liquid lapping at their ankles. Ken and Steve were both bleeding- Ken shot through the jaw and out the side of his cheek; Steve nursing a flesh wound to the shoulder. Gail and Sheila had come out unscathed and tended to their injuries the best they could in the cold dark. Scrapes had gone on ahead and was now missing. It was black as Gollum's tunnels and the riddles were worse. How would they get out of this one?

posted by B-Man

Scrapes, Sewers and a Sick Plan

2007-03-20T20:47:00.000-07:00

''It's bad,'' he rasped, his left eye squinting harder than usual. Scrapes had a permanent brow-furrow which at this partucular moment had become so deep that Ellie was compelled by sheer morbid fascination to thrust in an index finger.

''Goddammit, woman, we don't have time for this wacked-out Madison ''Berkeley of the damn Midwest'' spirit worship crap right now! Withdraw your digit or forever strum your sickly electric instruments nine-fingered!''

Ellie reddened and yanked out her hand. It was the longest utterance produced by the man in their 20-year partnership; the combined shock of verbosity and spontaneous brow-poking left her oddly dazed.

''Anyways,'' she muttered.

''ANYWAYS, the gang's in the sewers. Lost all sense. Scattered to the four foul winds like a bunch of wet, panicked chickens. Damn Mounties sprayed a tonne of Canadian lead, and that ain't no picnic what with the ricocheting, stink, slippery footing, foreign architecture and so forth. Small wonder they abandoned their wits.''

Ellie rubbed her finger absentmindedly and chewed on the news. Another fine, stinking mess.

''I'm gonna need a bigger amp,'' she growled suddenly, wheeling around to pull an ungainly, oddly-shaped instrument case off the flimsy motel dresser which had been sagging under the weight.

''Ellie, the crew's in the pits and this is NO time to drown your unfathomably twisted sorrows in equally twisted music...'' Scrapes choked, brought up short by the savage, determined glare the woman was directing at a point somewhere between his good eye and brow-furrow.

''I LIKED YOU BETTER MUTE!'' she bellowed in her inimitable baritone, shoving past him out the filthy, paint-chipped door. ''Like I said, a BIGGER AMP!!"

Back to the Getaway Drivers... The Mysterious Man

2007-03-20T20:44:00.000-07:00

The long dusty ride in the patchwork car left them exausted and feeling mean. They pulled into Rivertown, an oasis at last. It had been ten days on the road and they'd run out of whiskey. Sheila's hyperactive cavorting had turned into a brooding frustration: as much as she liked her male band companions, it had been a long time since she enjoyed the company of a boy to have some fun with. They tumbled out of the car and into a dark bar. Then she saw him: tall, mysterious, handsome. He flashed a dangerous smile seemingly directly at her. She melted in the heat. The rest of the band seemed unaware and wanted only a beer and a place to rest up for the coming evening's gig. He stepped out from behind the bar and approached the band. Bob was already crumpled in the corner, still recovering from an earlier thwack on the head administered by Ellie for taking a wrong turn in Yankton. The rest of the band hung back, still blinking from the transition from bright sun to the dim saloon. Sheila was now leader by default. The gorgous man stuck out his hand. In a deep, sweet baritone voice he said, "Hi. My name is Candace. But you can call me Candy." Sheila cursed in Chinese. It was THAT kind of biker bar. Shit. The last time she got even so much as a goodnight kiss had been that stupid Irish boy in Boston who had passed out before they could get to first base. She stalked away, picked up her bow and sawed furiously on her fiddle. Let Ellie deal with him. Bastard.

posted by B-Man

Our next song

2007-03-20T20:42:00.000-07:00

So I'm biking to work today, and up ahead is a 14-ish boy on his way to school yelling at the top of his lungs.

As I get closer it becomes clear he's trying to rap on whatever he's coming across in his environment - he stops and glares menacingly at a sapling, and I hear:

"Yo, yo, you standing there, TREE
YO, where you FROM, B??
I'mo KICK yo ASS....!!!!''

At which point I nearly pee myself laughing, only it gets worse because he bogs completely down, unsure whether to rhyme his next Pulitzer-winning line with ''tree'' or ''ass.''

Sondheim, move over.

[P.S. This kid here is actually Lil' Bow Wow, who makes as much as Sondheim and me put together, so I don't know why I'M laughing.]


(not so) kinky lee said...

OK...one of the chinks in the kinky armor is an affinity for rappy pop...'Wordy Rappinghood' was an epiphany. Now that I'm out of the closet, I think the rapping acolyte was vamping on Imani Coppola's 'I'm a Tree':

There's a tree in the city
It ain't lookin' pretty
Blessed with stress
Smog clogging feelin' shitty
There's a river on the highway
Things aint goin' my way
Turn around, go away
Come again another day
To the bed I go
Stumble to and fro
Tired from another day of lookin' for my glow
It's hard to get up
You can say I'm fed up
One things for certain
I gotta keep my head up

Keep your head up-keep my head up
Keep your head up-keep my head up
Keep your head up girl, keep your head up
Keep your head up-keep my head up
Keep your head up-keep my head up
Keep your head up girl, keep your head up

The sun aint hard to see
Just turn off your TV
Everything around you is just part of every other thing
I'm a tree

Why you gotta do what you do
Why you gotta tell me how to be
Gee, make me feel like you do
I'm tried of messing around
It's time to let these people know
A tree in the city
It needs somewhere to grow

River on the highway
I've never seen a grayer day
It's sad, its crappy, it needs somewhere to play
As for me, I'll sit under the tree
Cuz there ain't no better place to be

Keep your head up...

The sun ain't hard to see
Just turn off your TV
Everything around you is just part of every other thing
I'm a tree

Yo, what a freak
Are you all staring at me? I'm a tree
Yo, what a freak
I'm a tree! [no you're not]
I'm a tree! [stop lying]

Keep your head up-keep…

Who knows...

2007-03-20T20:41:00.002-07:00

who knows what’s right
lily you don’t have to when you see the moon
you trust it’s light

the crickets sing loud
lily you can hear it in their voices how you’ve made them proud
...
at the top of your voice there is no doing wrong i swear
lily you be just who you are
...
southern skies
lily you’re connected to the stars and to the world tonight

~Matt Pond PA

June 1, 2006: The Saga Continues

2007-03-20T20:38:00.000-07:00

The walking had gotten on Ellie’s last nerve.

“If we do not get WHEELS, and NOW,” she bellowed, “we might as well be the Getaway WALKERS, the Getaway TRUDGERS, the Getaway SLOGGERS. I can’t stand the frickin’ humiliation!!”

As they crested the hill in depressed silence, the magnificent beast revealed itself. Where most saw a rusted-out, crap station wagon surrounded by trash and weeds, sporting a canoe no one had even bothered to remove, Ellie saw a rusted-out, totally fixable crap station wagon surrounded by trash and weeds whose canoe she removed with one deft swipe of her beefy left pinky.

“Bobby, TIRES!” she hollered, and the strapping singer dropped to his knees and began to do what he did best; muffled, rubbery strains of “Wrecking Ball” joined the sound of the wind across the ground as he sang each tire back up to 35 psi.

Ken’s fingers, powerful and lithe from replacing so many thick strings on his thrasher bass, were already hard at work un-Kinking rolls of baling wire into long, smooth strands to be used later for securing the fender, doors and Sheila, whose hyperactive cavorting had been giving everyone headaches.

Ellie had by this time bitten the rusty barrel into neat, square pieces to be used as metal patches, but alas, no welding torch. “No WAIT, this’ll be the BEST,” yelled Steve, and grabbed his deadly cello-poon, the tip of which had been arcing like a high-wire ever since he put in the wrong batteries at the last gig. “Alohamora!!” he screamed, and a jagged, purple bolt of energy shot into the delapidated wagon, fusing the gas cap shut. “SHIT!!” Steve collapsed, hands clasped over a mysterious, bleeding “V” on his forehead; the Getaways would later debate vigorously as to whether it stood for “voltage” or “Voldemort.” ‘

Gail was no fool. She knew her mates would spend at least three full hours in such anarchical chaos before getting anything done; the perfect amount of time for her to invent a new fuel from wood distillate and carbonized sagebrush.

The cello-poon was humming pleasantly, with soothing, sympathetic fifths emanating from the wagon’s tailpipe and Bob’s recently-capped front tooth. Oddly calmed, the Getaways put the last finishing touches on the now-gleaming Plymouth, and held their breath as Ellie inserted the key…

The beast roared to life, and the Getaway Drivers climbed aboard in silent, awed reverence of their own capabilities.

A preview...

2007-03-20T20:28:00.000-07:00

...of tonight's hijinks at the High Noon Saloon: Bob will perform a stage dive of unparalleled magnificence, and Ken will sport a radical new 'do and the latest in rock-star fashion, Stage Socks.

come on down and have a hot dog!

2007-03-20T20:24:00.001-07:00

join us in celebrating the comforting return to the daily grind after another horrid and distasteful three day weekend! but bring your own hot dogs.

posted by the cellist @ 10:09 PM 10 comments

Seeleah said...

SWEET lil' poster - hold them up to a window and they GLOW! Too cool.

the cellist said...

except i got the address of the venue wrong! Its REALLY 701 E Washington Ave if it makes a difference to anybody!


Seeleah said...

'Tis okay, you're only a postman :)

Says the foul-spoken linguist.

Seeleah said...

For it is written: "Let the postman, if he be also the cellist, change the address of an edifice at the time and place of his damn choosing, as it be his perogative; and let no man, nor maiden, nor manservant nor stranger within the gates cast him asunder, for sundering a postman sorely vexeth the Lord thy God, and his Wrath shall be upon the heads of the Sunderers."

IT'S HIGH NOON, BABY

2007-03-20T20:23:00.000-07:00

Yeah, go ahead. Make our day. If you come down to the High Noon next Tuesday, we'll give you drugs that will make you see everything just like this.

Six pm, not high noon, at High Noon, next Tuesday, May 30th, $3 damn dollars that will be well spent and pale in comparison to the amount you'll spend on beer. Prostitutes get in for free. No charge for the hallucinogens.

posted by B-Man

OFF THE HOOK!

2007-03-20T20:20:00.002-07:00

My father in the late '60s, predicting the size cable [Big Ass BA-613] it would take to handle the terrifying volume of Getaway Driver fan calls.

Somehow he knew even then that his wee daughter (at the time refusing to walk for reasons never determined) would overcome her initial trepidation of The Big Scary World and join a Big Famous Rock Band.

And thus and for that express purpose was the BA-613 designed, only NOW to be hastily deployed on its maiden mission of responding to the post-WORT Block Party 2006 Getaway Fan Invasion.

All wiring jokes aside, tons of people came up to me yesterday raving about our show. And they weren't even relatives!!!! Well, I spose they were SOMEbody's relatives.

Through the BA-613 the misunderestimated linguist hath said.
[Stealing it one more time, Stevie.]

2007-03-20T20:19:00.000-07:00

→ → →

2007-03-20T20:18:00.000-07:00

Holding onto the railing I was...wet.

Anyway, what on earth do you figure was the purpose of this particular structure?? Just something to break your stride in case you got the sudden urge to hurl yourself down the jetty and into the sea? Is it less unsightly to do that at 10 mph, stop, climb and leap, or just get it over with at 10 mph?

Hittin' the Road

2007-03-20T20:17:00.000-07:00

Travel breaks down a kind of inner structure we have. Stripped of our props, deprived of our masks, we are completely on the surface of ourselves.
- Albert Camus

May 14, 2006

2007-03-20T20:15:00.000-07:00

Yeah, baby.




Candace said...

Remember when we could put 52 cents worth of gas into Dweezil and make it home?

Damn!

So get this. The oil companies make about 9 cents per gallon profit. The govt maked 50 CENTS per gallon in taxes. Who's relaly gouging us??

Is that too political? We can go back to ticks. . .

Hug a tree, get a chestful of ticks embedded permanantly in your supradermal layer.

10:54 PM

the cellist said...

this isn't even about the GAS!

that is most surely the package store you hid behind when you were hanging out with your old friends, isn't it?!?

...you're in SOOO much trouble!

Seeleah said...

Bingo, Cellisto.

Has anyone noticed how hard it actually is to hide in your covers?

Yet every generation will spend the first 10 years of their lives believing it is not only achievable but effective. Some much longer.

Anyway, Montreal is for sissies.

be a getaway unto yourself

2007-03-20T20:12:00.000-07:00

Once again we are faced with the irreconcilability of the old and the new.

The framework is tawdry and unconvincing, no?

posted by the cellist @ 7:23 AM 5 comments

Seeleah said...

I'd rather be tawdry than unconvincing.

9:38 AM

Greensward said...

You rather just be tawdry for the hell of it.

11:11 AM


Seeleah said...

Touchée.

2007-03-20T20:11:00.000-07:00

What if didn't know an artist was meant to 'create' 'art'?

What if I were to think 'art' was just paying attention?

What if I were to forget to think about 'art' constantly?

What if I only had a vague idea about 'art', but didn't know the conventions that told me I was in its presence or was making it?

What if I were digging a hole? Would that be 'art'?

What if I didn't know about audiences or publicity? What if I were to just go to work? Would that not be 'art'?

What if I didn't realize that 'art' happened at certain times and in certain places?

What if I were to lie in bed imagining things at four in the morning? Would that be the wrong time and place for 'art'?

What if I weren't aware that 'art' was considered more marvelous than life?

posted by the cellist

A few magpies, a raven

2007-03-20T20:09:00.000-07:00

"Too thin to plow, too thick to drink," he said.

"But we'll drink it anyway."

I wept because when I was twelve years old I had stood on a snowy riverbank as he became a shadow on the ice and waited to see whether he would slip between the cracking floes into the water.

posted by the cellist @ 10:24 PM 1 comments

Seeleah said...

WOW, I remember that dress!! You know, that morning I's thinking those damn stripey socks just weren't gonna cut it but I says to myeslf "Aw what the heck, it's RADIO for God's sake!"

COTTON-PICKIN' paparazzi photographers - who knew.

Agghh, those socks--my sartorial shame immortalized for all of history. It's a DAMN good thing the music rocked.

Dead or deadly?

2007-03-20T20:08:00.000-07:00

So my thought is, if the worms are after me. . .there's just no point in going out with a whimper. Time to trade the last, tattered vestiges of Adventism for some tight black leather & lace, score the above fiddle/nuclear-harpoon, add several strategic bling-piercings and punch out of the chrysalis. As what--who the hell knows. Something deadlier than a 4th-generation missionary to the formerly free Hong Kong.

Shall we gather by the river??

May 1, 2006: Happy Bealtaine!

2007-03-20T20:07:00.000-07:00

Happy Bealtaine (Celtic May Day) everyone! The day whereon we welcome the return of the sun with fire, feasting, frolicking, and other general festivities beginning with that letter.

[C'mon, you know I meant felting.]

Lá Bealtaine Iontach Mhaith Agaibh - Have a Wild and Happy Bealtaine!

Apr 29, 2006: Wherein we ROC*K Zoma

2007-03-20T20:02:00.001-07:00

to rock: Middle English rokken, akin to Old High German rucken, to cause to move.

1) to daze with or as if with a vigorous blow
2) to move forward at a high speed
3) to significantly disturb or annoy
4) to sing, dance to, or play rock music.

YES, last night Bob Manor & the Getaway Drivers ROCKED Cafe Zoma, whose deceptively small door opened to reveal a deceptively small coffee house with this startlingly ample rock stage in the back yard. All sound and lighting was provided by Zoma, as well as Fair Trade coffee and beer, and a Fair Trade soundman who promised to accept only what payment his services are worth in his native Papua New Guinea multiplied by the difference in I.Q. between his president and ours. Although this last bit wiped out our entire fee, door, and required us to forfeit several unfinished bottles of beer, it was still a good night.

you don't want to sound like they do, you should want to sound like you

2007-03-20T19:59:00.001-07:00

If you weren't already aware, the Getaway gang is destined for a coffeehouse showdown this very evening at eight o'clock.

Here's our setlist-

You should join us!

posted by the cellist

top fifteen suggestions for different names while retaining the same endearing acronymic initials!

2007-03-20T19:57:00.000-07:00

Badly Miked and the Genetically Anomalous Decompression Society!

Bad Manners and the God Awful Dorky Singers!

Big Mamma and the Galloping Ass-Dragging Slopbuckets!

Bilge Monkey and the Guilt Admonition/Damnation Sect!
Burnt Mother and the Gag And Drip Society!

Bowel Movement and the Gastro-Antestinal Disease Syndrome!
Bilge Mange and the Grunge and Dungeon Society!

Black Market and the Generally Acceptable Deviant Scoundrels!

Boring Music and the Geeky-Ass Dumb Shits!

Bonanza Mable and the Gorey Anal Dagger-Sitters!
Brilliant Minds and the Grossest, Awfullest, DOPE-est Strings!

Brillo Microbes and the Germy Antiseptic Dung!

Basket Mung and the Glad-Ass Dildo Stackers!

Bangladeshi Myanmar and the Guatemalan-Albanian-Djiboutian-Somalians!

Butt Masher and the Gluteous Anal Derrière Seats!

many thanks to see-laahhh
are we missing any?
you be the judge

posted by the cellist

First Class Wheels

2007-03-20T19:55:00.000-07:00

Stevie's truck, post-kidnapping, in the process of being converted into the The Rolling Getaway Shack of Musical Love.

A whole new branch of federal service.

Years later, fundamentalist paranoiacs and Satanists alike would misconstrue ''GADS'' as ''Guy and Doll Sex.''

The Unkinkifyin' of Kinky Lee

2007-03-20T19:53:00.000-07:00

Coffee Beans...that explained the faint rustling instead of rattling glass every time the old gal lurched through a pot hole. Come to think of it...the pickup joint bore no similarity to any of the usual grungy dives where we loaded in the 'shine. Smelled faintly like a corn roast with a hint of patchouli, too...not acrid sour mash and cigarettes. And the folks weren't shifty or dangerous at all, actually kind of friendly despite the tattoos. They did brew a mean cup of joe, though. Powerful stuff, not that weak dirty water that typically fueled The Drivers.
So Kinky found a new home, and struck a deal without consulting the boss and other drivers:

An acoustic evening with Bob Manor and several (if not all) Getaway Drivers...Cafe Zoma...Friday, April 28...8 pm to 9:45 pm. Oh, yeah...coffee is not the only beverage served, but is all Kinky drinks!

The Getaway Drivers @ High Noon, March 2006

2007-03-20T19:41:00.000-07:00

For no particular reason

2007-03-20T19:36:00.003-07:00

Yeah, there's just nothing like a good kick in the belly between friends to let off steam.

'Course sometimes it's hard to tell
who's winning.

Belgian Waffles

2007-03-20T19:29:00.000-07:00

A 2005 review from Belgium, in Flemish (or Dutch) of Ghosts of Yesterday, translated by an online doohicky. I emphasize points I found particularly hilarious:

Originating Madison, Wisconsin and with "Ghosts or Yesterday" already to its third album. In 2002, "Blue Sky Falling" appeared and executed year had he, however, a very original gift on the occasion of 40 the one year old marriage of its parents. Old time country gospel album, "That gospel Line" featuring rollicking piano, rag stalk, organ, and acoustic guitars with among others two original gospel tunes and traditionals such as “Amazing Grace” and “Old Rugged cross.”

With its link “The Getaway drivers,” Ellie Erickson (rag stalk, mandolin), Know Keeley (bass), Steve Pingry (violoncello) and Peter Fairy (drums), taps singer/songwriter Bob Manor from a complete different barrel on "Ghosts or Yesterday.” “Acoustic Rock with folk and country flavors thrown in for good measure….The writing style and instrumentation are reminiscent or Mellencamp, Springsteen, Tom Petty and Steve Earle (CD baby).”

We looked at thus a lot aroused curiosity from to this recently appeared album. With acoustic Addiction prayed, “Wrecking Ball,” pareltjes the "River's run Dry" (with a masterly violoncello and dobro geluidje) and "Stuck" (harmonica, mandolin), spicier of slide jet ear something provided "John Baker's Toil", not mis but Ellie on the mandoline on "the Sweetness" and banjo gepingel on "Sun beat down" gets we already a first voorproefje of Manor's manner of singer/songwriting.

Storytelling songs which obtains a level that effortlessly can compete with the material of here above mentioned names. The something smoother country twang number “Don't Walk on me” and “Out or Dead” deserve VRT 1 radio hit and it become headstock/rock/number. “Nobody But You” with piano/violoncello/mellotron are the only strange eendje in the bijt. Apparently was that gospel gedoe with the previous album fallen in very fertile ground (Praise the Lord).... "Why Shouldn't It" will have thought Bob and for which not once more repeating with nicely pumping pianootje as surplusje.

With an extra thanks for vriendje Jeff Knight and the report that he not for wedding festivals/personeelsfeestjes but for Take Root - Blue Highways - Roots or Heaven are book, "newcomer" concludes Bob Manor this splendid album. “These are songs from the Heartland we like to call Americana.”

Strings--stroked & strummed

2007-03-20T16:59:00.000-07:00

First Madison, Now the World

2007-03-20T16:32:00.000-07:00

My fortune 36 hours ago--whoa!

2007-03-20T16:31:00.001-07:00

April 4, 2006: No Sound...

2007-03-20T16:20:00.000-07:00

...but the wind across the ground.

March 31, 2006: Aprilhem, Mayhem

2007-03-20T16:03:00.001-07:00

may·hem (mā'hĕm', mā'əm): A state of violent disorder or riotous confusion; havoc.

[Middle English maim, mayhem, from Anglo-Norman maihem, from Old French mahaigne, injury, from mahaignier, to maim, from Vulgar Latin *mahanāre, probably of Germanic origin.]

March 27, 2006: The Calm Before the Storm

2007-03-20T15:58:00.002-07:00

The day grew darker, quieter. An erie silence fell upon the Drivers as they stared off over the prairie. Tomorrow they would unleash musical mayhem on a small mid-western town. Finally back in the States after a long run on the lam, it was if they had never left. Sheila put her hands on the still warm hood of the '37 Packard to take the chill off her fingers. Gail was in the field by the road, peeing again. Steve and Ken sat in the dusty gravel, backs to the side of the parked car, cleaning instruments and weapons. Ellie sniffed the air and huffed on a clove cigarette, glaring irritably at Bob, who was still sleeping in the car. Just because he was the singer didn't mean he should never have to drive. "Lazy bastard," she thought. She reached into her coat, grabbed a flask of bourbon and poured it over his face. "WHAT THE F---!" he screamed, thrusting hands to his burning eyes only to make it worse. "Time to hit it," she said.
posted by B-Man

The Eyes of March

2007-03-20T15:53:00.000-07:00

Band practice!! Look close--Gail's in the mirror.

2007-03-20T15:44:00.000-07:00

The Blue Butterfly--Reprise

2007-03-20T15:40:00.000-07:00

March 20, 2006: The Road Ahead

2007-03-20T15:39:00.000-07:00

March 19, 2006: Gloria in Excelsis Robertus

2007-03-19T10:01:00.000-07:00

Hear ye, hear ye - The Esteemed Esquire Robertus Manorus hath this Day been declared victorious over ALL agressors, having singly and spectacularly WON the Final Prize, the Grail, the One Trophy:

Awardus Maternalus Madisonius Maximus.

Exultate, Jubilate, for this day is Justice served.

Amen.

March 17, 2006: Oh My, Omaha

2007-03-17T22:26:00.000-07:00

It was an informal joint.

But to the Getaway Gang, ears ringing with the trauma of past weeks, it was heaven.

Silence, utter silence. Silence save for the soft sighs of the Nebraska drygrass.

They took off their shoes, opened bottles of Yellowtail, lay back in a hot sweep of sand and listened to the wind sing in the barbed wire.

Bliss.

March 15: Mired in Confusion

2007-03-17T22:23:00.000-07:00

Hot folk-rock band lost in New Mexico--or 1930's gangsters with creepy, greyscale skin??

The sun rose, the moon fell, and the Getaways' self-identities fractured.

"WHO AM I?!?!" screamed Steve, slobbering orange bubble gum on a long, stringed instrument he could no longer remember playing. "The mail--the mail--471 houses to go--huh?? FEDERAL FUCKING HOLIDAY??"

"Settle down there, George," barked Bob "And stop licking that damn thing. I don't know what it is, but it don't deserve whatever you're doing to it."

"I wuv Baab. I wuv Baab," murmured Ellie out of the side of her mouth Bob hadn't sewn shut.

"Throw DOWN!!" bellowed Ken Keelio, wielding the unfinished lower receiver of an AK-47 at a startled Gail and Sheila. "I'LL learn you's to shop at Target, ya brazen hussies."

There was a giant whirring, and and what sounded vaguely like "O Come All Ye Faithful" to the rhythm of a thousand drumsticks whapping a human head. More confused than ever, which meant less than usual, Sheila harmonized lustily on the chorus which alas she knew only in Cantonese.

Fame was guaranteed.

March 5: Waiting for a...

2007-03-17T22:11:00.000-07:00

Steve and Sheila, a.k.a. ''Flotsam & Jetsam'' on recording day, had to content themselves in the waiting room with grape Bubble Yum and giant black and white pictures of dead people whilst the rest of the band--The Worthy Ones--did their rock band recording thing onto delicious 2-inch tape in the Double Secret Recording Chamber.

March 5, 2006: Ken & Gail ROCK like gods!!!!

2007-03-17T22:03:00.000-07:00

The inimitable Gail ''Gailileo'' Ken ''Kinky Lee'' rocking OUT at a Coney Island Studios recording session.

March 5, 2006: A Cellist's Rage

2007-03-17T21:56:00.000-07:00

Pingry was fuming. He'd showed up to add his considerable talents to the Getaway Drivers' Big Day in the Studio, only to end up in the lounge blowing bubbles, gazing at mummy photos and listening to Sheila effuse about reels and strathspeys.

He decided to busy himself in Wendy's well-stocked workshop. Idle sawing and random carving gave way to a frenzied focus as he saw something--It--start to take shape.

But what--what?? His hands shaking, he added the coup-de-grace: a hamster's recreation wheel he'd dashed home to wrestle away from the kids on the solemn promise that Hamstring could run around in it during dad's concerts.

The Getaways emerged from the studio, sweating from the 100th take of Fast Driver, and froze.

"Yes, look and tremble!!" hissed Steve. "This--My Precious--is an expression of musical genius DENIED, denied this day by YOU. The mask you see is nothing less than the physical manifestation of my black, Freudian core, long-imprisoned by a postman's innocent uniform but now unleashed on the terrified world by your cruel, thoughtless act. What is done cannot be undone. For it is written: "Sideline Ye a Cellist at Thine Own Peril."

Feb 20: Gail's Great Day

2007-03-17T21:51:00.000-07:00

Gail was no fool.

She allowed her day to be ruined neither by the unexpected foray into insectistentialism, gutter-quality tequila, polyester costuming nor Bob's sudden departure.

She was in New Mexico, dammit, and she was gonna do it right.

"What is WRONG with these people!" she marveled, "I mean, come ON:

Bob: trudging despondent & alone across the New Mexican desert
Ellie: hungover in mosquito-infested Belize
Steve: tumbling in fake wings across a windy Arizona golf course
Ken: weeping in the Olds--something about "No more Ellie cider..."
Sheila: spouting toxic prose naked & sunburnt under a large cactus

Me: basking in a natural hot spring watching the sun rise."

Non-drummers were such an overemotional, melodramatic lot, she mused fondly.

Left behind...again.

2007-03-17T21:50:00.001-07:00

When he got back to the car there was no one there. Like the others, Bob had been out looking for the stupid fabled blue butterflies. The radiation sickness had worn off but it seems some other madness had taken its place. No fucking butterflies, now no band, no gold, no music. Nothing. Only the far off sillouette of buildings in the haze of the New Mexican desert. How had it come to this? Fortunately the old Gibson was still in the trunk. He picked it up, and headed off in the dust toward the horizon.

posted by B-Man

Blue butterflies fade to...blues

2007-03-17T21:49:00.001-07:00

It sure sounded good at the time.

But after ten hours of skipping naked, joyful and gold-free through the New Mexican desert in search of the Blue Butterfly of Happiness, Shigley finally admitted that the thing was more elusive than advertised.

"AY, pinche uese ese cabron, todos los santos y la Virgen MARIA!!!" she bellowed, wrestling away Ellie's last bottle of Sauza and staggering away to collapse under the nearest saguaro.

"Got a date with a bottle...[hick]...and a cactus...[hick]...never do know when the next Blue Butterfly of Happiness lands on your heart and then LEAVES your ass...[hick] little butterfly, she whaps you in the eye, [hick] hope you've got a bottle to help you get by..."

It was sick, it was twisted, and it went on for hours...so long, in fact, that Ellie awoke from her own stupor and, with excruciating effort and a filthy pen-knife, cut several mud-encrusted pieces out of Pingry's socks to jam into her ears.

But nothing could mute Sheila's hideous, off-key caterwauling. "Stevie--STEVIE! Wake up and put these damn things on NOW!!" Ellie shoved two hastily-but-deftly-fashioned polyester blue "wings" into Steve's sleepy mitts.

"Wha..huh...I...wings...AAGGGHHH!! I'm not wearing these--I'm a CELLIST for God's sake!!"

"That has nothing to do with it as you damn well know!!" screeched Ellie. "She'll never shut up unless she catches a glimpse of the farging Blue Butterfly, now STEP UP TO THE PLATE, MAN!"

Sighing heavily, Steve strapped on the ridiculous, oversized contraptions and was promptly turned into a foul-mouthed, blue polyester tumbleweed by a gust of desert wind. It would be days before they found him--or Ellie, who, having pulled off her ruse, had set sail for Belize--incidentally one of the few countries to sport blue butterfly postage stamps.

Feb 18: Uh--Tonopah, Almagordo, Happiness??

2007-03-17T21:46:00.000-07:00

Steve stood on the brakes and the Olds came to a head slamming halt.

They stared.

There really wasn't much to say. They looked at each other, looked at the bags of gold--and heaved them into the dry prairie grass.

The message was clear: happiness had nothing to do with gold; happiness was a matter of oneness with blue, puma-sized butterflies.

As the fortune cookie said..."Relish the transitions in your life; they will happen regardless."

Feb 17, 2006: A Terrible Beauty

2007-03-17T21:44:00.001-07:00

The day dawned beautiful and cruel. The violence wrought yesterday on stone, wood and glass, would this day be wrought on the soul.

The Getaways felt it, knew there was no escape, and ran till they could run no more.

10 hours later, the New Mexican sunset cast their exhausted shadows over a small, dusty tavern in the middle of nowhere--a tavern jam-packed, nonetheless, with gape-mouthed patrons.

After several seconds of mutual culture shock, the Getaway Gang's eyes adjusted to the dim, smoky light, focusing on a small wooden stage at the back of the room. They summoned their last ounce of strength, and staggered onto it.

The room hushed; the clearthinking barkeep flipped a switch, and the soothing hum of musical voltage steadied the musicians' nerves. They started to play, and the night stopped in its tracks.

They played as they had never played, they sang as they had never sung. The audience was transfixed--children froze in place, grown men wept, and women dreamed of glory. The Getaways sang until they could sing no more, until the rawness in their throats and hearts were one, until it seemed every emotion--indeed every breath--allotted them in this life had been spent.

It was a thing of terrible beauty, and they believed it would kill them.

But the night held miracles untold--it was not yet finished, and neither were they.

Feb 15, 2006: Disguises NOW!

2007-03-17T21:42:00.000-07:00

The situation had become frickin' desperate. No time, no money, no resources--no resource, that is, but the sickening, fertile genius of the Getaways' collective mind.

The answer was crystal clear and struck them all simultaneously or at least in rapid succession--they would strip and disguise themselves as elephants.

Why don't other fugitive rock bands ever think of this??

Escape Pachyderms!

2007-03-17T21:40:00.000-07:00

They knew they wouldn't get far with their mug shots wired from Akron to Albuquerque...so Gail and Ken became Raj and Haj and hopped a pachyderm. Seemed at that chaotic moment to be the perfect getaway. The soot from the explosion masked their features, and they were inconspicuous among the herd. Though they chose the swiftest beast available; what seemed so ingenius in the aftermath of the failed heist, appeared hopeless as the day was dawning. How were they going to put any distance between themselves and the scene of the crime? And how much longer could they bear traveling at 7-1/2 m.p.h.?!? ...And the elephant was getting hungry...

posted by (not so) kinky lee

Bob is rescued

2007-03-17T21:39:00.000-07:00

...she hit the gas, but she'd never leave him--not the lead singer of the band. Nor any of them for that matter. She'd tried once before and it nearly broke her.

Not one to waste time, she drove the pachydermolated Plymouth ("GodDAMNED Plymouth!!") to the nearest airfield and hotwired an army Loach. It was barely big enough for the job, but would have to do.

She dropped the hook with a deft flick of her fiddler's wrist, catching Bob by the seat of his pants--the poor man stretched by now into a weird Gumby shape by the conflicting affections of the transvestite horde.

Elephants & Fuel Oil, Part 3

2007-03-17T21:38:00.000-07:00

The outcome was more spectacular than any of them could have imagined.

"No one will forget us NOW!!" bellowed Bob triumphantly, "Try and put THAT on the back page, you lifeless, good-for-nothing, on-the-take so-called music critic ASS-MONKEYS!!!! I'll make ya warm!!"

Elephants & Fuel Oil, Part 2

2007-03-17T21:37:00.001-07:00

The band played into it's second hour with Sheila playing her violin in a drunken rage, pointing it at the crowd and making rat-tat-tat sounds. Steve set his cello on autopilot, racing engine effect "on", and crept off stage to the dressing room where he expertlly placed the microphone shaped fuel rods. He smiled as he looked proudly at his invention. In just a short time, the band would reach it's final explosive crescendo.

Ken flipped the subwoofer control on his bass amp, the frequecy triggered microphone fuel rods ignited, and the wall blew. They'd be taking more than the door tonight.

posted by B-Man

Feb 14, 2006: Elephants & Fuel Oil

2007-03-17T21:35:00.000-07:00

They found Sheila in the back room a half an hour later, drowning some black, nameless sorrow in a jug of Steve's caustic brew. As usual in this state of mind, she was flailing away at her fiddle with assorted grimy tools in a feeble attempt to add a fifth string. "Goddamned Plymouth - got to have that low C." There was never anything to be done for her at times like these but make sure she didn't drill that fifth peg into her forehead and keep her from wandering off bridges in search of her beloved midnight-blue Mustang, long ago ransomed to an ex-lover for the fifth-stringless fiddle.

Where's Kenny?

2007-03-17T21:34:00.001-07:00

As requested, EB and the testosterone-laden young Ken in Nam.

And you wondered who's 60-cal was mounted on the the Getaway car. The rest of us are happy enough with peashooters.

Feb 13, 2006

2007-03-17T21:32:00.000-07:00

By Gum it even LOOKS like a robot toilet!! The little in-and-out thingie is backwards, though, and the blue isn't quite right.

<--See where it says "Reliever" . . . that's how the robots always know where to relieve 'er. Bots leave nothing to chance.

Feb 9, 2006: HIGH NOON very soon!

2007-03-17T21:30:00.000-07:00

Only a couple weeks away- hear ye and all ye come hear and drink, or Ellie will beat you with flat noodles at her Wednesday lunch! $6, 9:00pm, High Noon Saloon, Madison, February 26th on a rowdy Sunday night. Forget the workweek! Our band of moonshine and instrument smuggling miscreants will open for the Deadstring Brothers (Bloodshot Records) along with Auburn, nominated as a MAMA'S Best New Artist. You can also go vote for our own Ghosts of Yesterday in the Americana section of the MAMA awards at www.broadjam.net. You'll have to sign up and spend $5 bucks, but what the hell else you got to spend it on?

posted by B-Man

Da Kynkk

2007-03-17T21:26:00.000-07:00

The nubile, beardless Ken, before Eve tempted him with the Devil's Cider. What more is there to say.

Feb 4, 2006; Innocence & beauty...

2007-03-17T21:23:00.001-07:00

...all too soon to be beaten down by doubt and shame and fear. The young Steve Pingry, three days before his kidnapping by the merciless MacMahon-Manor clan.

A mere week later, his tender naïveté had been sacrificed to a life of shocking crime, the aforementioned debauchery, too much moonshine, and hats fashioned by the Devil's own hands.

Feb 3, 2006: To Get or Not to Getaway

2007-03-17T21:19:00.000-07:00

Bonnie--er, Bobby--and Clyde were making a relatively clean getaway until rapid global cooling snapped their getaway route sharply to starboard. Well, our starboard, their port--uh, stage port--damn. Anyway, the car quit moving, horizontally that is.

Bobby glances left, er, right--well, towards the widening fissure in the earth (off-stage) to form a clear picture in his mind of what plummeting into the widening fissure will actually feel like. Clyde fixes his/her concentration on his/her rifle barrel in a futile attempt to ignore the inevitable.

Even Earlier...

2007-03-17T21:13:00.000-07:00

Yes folks, as evidenced by the earlier photograph, The Getaway Drivers are in fact a pack of sharpshooting siblings descended from this man, the legendary Björn San Felipe MacMahon, immortalized in the annals of East Asian history as "Wild Biff."

The Getaway Drivers

Escape to Echo Valley

Sweat, tears and speaking tongues

The Revival

EP Release So Hot, Gail Catches Fire!!!!!!!

The band takes a serious turn . . .

Thurberfest 2008!!!

Pour a hot latté down your subvocal Getaway!

Elusive stars surface...

The Stars of Blizzardi Gras 2008

BLIZZARDI GRAS!!

Fling leftover cranberries at the chicken wire Fence in front of The Getaway Drivers!

Moline, IL - Oct 25, 2007

The Switchback

Trust the Driver

Ever Been to Darby?

Practice at Powers Ave

Thurberfest Memorabilia

Thurberfest 2007 launch - and the crowd goes wild!!

Come on down and have a wee dram...

The Kid disappears...

3 Piece Adjustable Getaway: Debut!!!

Come on down and have a muffin...

Of hitchhikers and new turns.

R.I.P.

Of celebrities and a clean Getaway.

Tasty Pralines, Unplugged to Boot!

Of Unionsuits and Tutus...

The value of bodily fluids

Rising Up to Paradise

A Way Out.

on the conflict of tendencies...

String Section PA Problems SOLVED!

A Nod to Our Brothers

Fire & Grace

Mangled Angles

Riddles in the Dark

Scrapes, Sewers and a Sick Plan

Back to the Getaway Drivers... The Mysterious Man

Our next song

Who knows...

June 1, 2006: The Saga Continues

A preview...

come on down and have a hot dog!

IT'S HIGH NOON, BABY

OFF THE HOOK!

→ → →

Hittin' the Road

May 14, 2006

be a getaway unto yourself

A few magpies, a raven

Dead or deadly?

May 1, 2006: Happy Bealtaine!

Apr 29, 2006: Wherein we R*O*C*K Zoma

you don't want to sound like they do, you should want to sound like you

top fifteen suggestions for different names while retaining the same endearing acronymic initials!

First Class Wheels

The Unkinkifyin' of Kinky Lee

The Getaway Drivers @ High Noon, March 2006

For no particular reason

Belgian Waffles

Strings--stroked & strummed

First Madison, Now the World

My fortune 36 hours ago--whoa!

April 4, 2006: No Sound...

March 31, 2006: Aprilhem, Mayhem

March 27, 2006: The Calm Before the Storm

The Eyes of March

Band practice!! Look close--Gail's in the mirror.

The Blue Butterfly--Reprise

March 20, 2006: The Road Ahead

March 19, 2006: Gloria in Excelsis Robertus

March 17, 2006: Oh My, Omaha

March 15: Mired in Confusion

March 5: Waiting for a...

March 5, 2006: Ken & Gail ROCK like gods!!!!

March 5, 2006: A Cellist's Rage

Feb 20: Gail's Great Day

Left behind...again.

Blue butterflies fade to...blues

Apr 29, 2006: Wherein we ROC*K Zoma