Midnight Mystery Band

This is how it began...

This is how it began...

Usually when I’m leaving the library at a quarter to midnight I'm only greeted by the blistering wind bitch slapping me across the face. On this occasion, I was still met with the cold backhand of nature but my ears were greeted by the sound of music! As I walked in closer all I could see was dark figures with flailing limbs, that could only be brought on by an electric guitar. Dance movements that could only be embodied by one man, Jarvis Cocker.

Besides the spastic dancing, the group of musicians were seriously getting into the groove. They were a hybrid of Tame Impala and Pond, oh wait; I mean they are the cousin of Mink Mussel Creek and I enjoyed every harmony and syncopation. This is a group that gives you more bang for your buck with their eight minute intros and did I mention they have trumpet player! In all honesty the trumpet player tied it all in perfectly.

Unfortunately I tend to sleep from time to time so I ended up leaving and did not catch their name. But they will forever be the Midnight Mystery Band to me. (It’s possible they were called Speakeasy, but I'm not completely certain.)

They were  trying to convince his texting friend to join.

They were  trying to convince his texting friend to join.

Do not go gentle into that good night    Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.  Poem by Dylan Thomas

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Poem by Dylan Thomas