In which I use the word Piantastic
I went to a jazz concert last night with some people, following bad directions until we found an amenable Russian and followed him down a creepy little street to a creepy little children's theatre. There, the cashier lady quickly hustled us in for free, shouting in Russian to her colleague down the hall, "Don't ask for their tickets! They're foreigners! They don't know anything!" We walked into a dark theatre, found seats and watched, mouths gaping, as we were treated to the greatest spectacle of Fat Russian Man Dancing I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing. He shimmied. He wiggled his hips. He did crazy chicken things with his arms while grooving on his saxophone. His combover flopped forward and plastered itself to the sweat on his forehead. His bright red Hawaiian shirt clung to his potbelly. I'm afraid that I fell in love, a little bit.
The piano player was also... a precious precious sight. He was introduced as "Composer. Poet. Artist. Reason for our life and salvation." and his piantastic stylings were just... too much. He was too cool for school, and boy did he know it, long balding hair, tight pants and ALL. He was responsible for such songs as "Sahara" and "Yellow Moon" (Or perhaps it was "green moon"... I get the words mixed up.) I have never been so relieved while a concert was over, but I've never had so much fun just watching the people involved. Oh crappy jazz, how I love thee.