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

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

The Switchback

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

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

Ever Been to Darby?

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

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.