Ode to the Dear Ole Blue - Spoken Word by Richard Adoradio
Channel: Thriving Artists
Date: 2020-11-28

Richard wrote this piece in celebration of the late Blue Rock Shoot cafe and music venue in downtown Saratoga, Califronia and prepared its delivery for the reunion of artists and patrons on Friday November 27, 2020. The lyrics are as follows:


Ode to the Dear Ole Blue
by Richard Adoradio

I have a confession to make to you all,
Here in this 'virtual' den.
Before all of my musical peers,
I know! “Here we go again.”
Say the crowd in muted gasps,
As they wonder where this overactive mind on mine,
Has taken me this time, in asymmetric rhyme,
“Will you please just play us a song?!”

But confess I must to each one of you,
This opportunity too good to be true,
So, right here at the very start,
I will share what’s been mulling in my heart.
See, I am a total sham! 
A musical film flam man. 
I’m no songwriter at all, haven’t written in years.
It was merely a tool then, to conjure up cheers or tears. 
A clever invention - an imitation of art,
To be seen by the girls and set me apart,
And it drove me for years, this shallow desire,
Surrounded by muse it would kindle a fire,
And lead me to sing from choir to choir,
’Til one day the Blue Rock Shoot.

“Entertainers wanted” said the sign on the wall,
With the help of fair Lyndie we said “come one and all”.
And little by little they heeded the call,
And filled it with music and smiles wall to wall,
Our lives hence forever changed. 

Now, I’ve argued with some, say it people, not place,
And yes all of us make a very good case.
Yet I watched as a crowd would emerge in a space,
Filled with concrete and brick and glass and steel brace,
Sound nowhere to land or interference displace,
A place as a means to the people,
Not people as a means to a place.
Build it and they will come? No!
Come, and we shall build it together,
Right at the dear ole Blue!

Its upper deck perched high like a crows nest,
Looking out over the tops of the redwood trees.
Hand crafted beveled art glass panels,
Refracting prisms of color-filled light,
Into bright, sparkling eyes,
As the Day Room becomes night,
In the setting Saratoga sun.

Majestic Douglas fir beams,
Slowly creating a forest of shadows over our heads,
Helping suspend this lofty wood body up, up in the air. 
Hand hewn pieces of madrone,
Lovingly laid in checkerboard pattern at our feet.
Below us, a cascade of outdoor terraces,
Smoke-filled conversations winding their way down,
Down, down to the valley floor below.

So many places to hideaway,
Disappear in melodious air,
So alive yet so deep into space - space and more spaces,
To tune our instruments, warm up our chords,
Speak freely of mind, heart and soul food, 
For this buzzing hive of busy dreamer-bees,
Birthing the inspiration and courage to dive,
Straight into an unknown You,

And I, Matthew, stood there one fine Thursday eve,
Sound swirling inside her hollow,
See, he knew more than most having supported each host,
In place after place of Thriving Artists outposts.
“This room is an instrument! A vibrating chamber!”
He said with a gleam in his eyes.  
Yes, it moves song through bone to pierce deep into heart,
All from this four-walled disguise.

Elements inside so simple, so pure.
Piano, percussion, program, paint.
Chairs and tables and mic's - no restraint.
From the stage stomps a foot as if striking my tail,
Completely awake now, no longer a veil.
Pulses piping outside to street passersby,
Drawing in strangers - wide wondering eyes.
From toddlers to hobblers nothing welcomes us more, 
Than a carved wooden Indian standing guard at the door,
A wise, noble chief from an era before,
Frozen in time as a sad metaphor, 
That this place will set things afire.

Sound? Check! Lighting? Check!
Strings and drums and everyone comes,
So as to not to miss a beat.
Band in the Hat - grab a drum!
Sing along as I strum!
Forget the words? Then just hum. 
And please, please, don’t stop til we’re numb,
'Cause one day they will tear it all down.

To the Blue Rock Shoot:
A dreamer's nursery, 
Convalescing the artist to thrive.
A strike-anywhere matchmaker igniting literal lives. 
A secret treehouse hideaway at the fringe of silicon stalls.
A shrine of raptured faces framed on painted walls.
And a place so many called home.