The convivial contingent doesn't realize the girls are dolled and lonely. It makes it easy for a native to slip in. The road moves. Accouterments, stiff drinks, thrum, slips in the local canaille, Montana. Open band night, spontaneous music licks and curls, big, cheap speakers placed away, awry.
Stage lights kindle beams through smoking desires.
The Desi girls get their voyaguering lips on the mikes, licking and curling, tongue rolls, coyote French, vocal a la Jeri et Chantal. Shelterbelt Slim has coaxed me here, no arm twisting necessary. He brought me here thinking, knowing I would like the atmosphere as bemused as I had become. Born in Rapelje, this is big city, bright lights. Jumping to the stage he yowls his shelterbelt blues, the Desi vocals back him up like a Buntline .45.