Paul Siegell


*04.06.06 – the Greyboy Allstars – TLA, PA*
                               —good t’see y’again, Ian

Instruments,
effervescent weapons of pleasure.

and ev’rybody boogaloo is
           “Somebody scream!” screaming

‘cause there’s never been a subtler drum solo:
get-down tender, tasteful tappings: funk beautiful,

                              jazz-
                              access
                              music—

and shining in the shadows: some strange
plumbing,
           a pipe
neither for weed
           nor water
(funk stutters, crystal
                     funk
                     syllables—
the square root of Karl Denson); seriously,
get-down boogaloo, what
           is a saxophone?

my congress of toes, all over that organ;
comforted, my neck, that guitar of frets;
released, my back, that kundalini bass;
my pixie eyes, the notes off that flute—

           and I chew it all up from the drums.

a tap on the shoulder, “—Excuse me.”
and politely, he moves up in the crowd.

“You’re the first person to say that all night.”
(a nod.) “Thank you.”


*10.23.06 – Beck – Tower Theater, PA*
                               —for Pooch & the Puppeteers

Strings on stage, but not just guitarsitars
and bass:

Such performance
(distortedorted, miniature duplicates
following along
as part of show and set) allowsllows
amusement
like puppetsuppets of a rock band
(dressed the same/dynamic the same),
in time imitatingitating the band,
psychedyched for to boogie,
as it releaseseases its repertoire,
live, into the pleasure and memoryory
of its audiencedience.

And, words are sorta like puppets, too.

Such spectacle.
My first show with glasses, and glad.
Beck Puppet, puppet guitar in puppet hands,
mouth-moved when Beck Authentic sang.

Fearless language lyrics.

Such personality.
Each musician adorably replicatedplicated
in plush impersonations
and shot up to the screen above the ruckus.

Visually echoic. Strings of connectivity.
Other than landing in the Tower’s last row,
with Pooch, giggling, heightened on her seat—
justification for watching the televised

while witnessingnessingnessing
it live.


*11.08.06 – Michael Franti & Spearhead – Electric Factory, PA*
                               —‘nother sick show with Pooch & Bones

day Philadelphia Inquirer, my new job, announced new editorship
day US announced new Sec Defense, done with all our shots a-Rum
day after dad’s 65th birthday
day after first Madam Speaker
first Representative Muslim
first Senator Latino, and day after
first-ever felt the imperative to vote the ferocious in midterm election:

“—How you feeeelin’?”

War-torn
world-wise
Rasta Funk
barefoot
Afrobeat
Hiphopolitical
referendums
on Republican
rule—Voters’ vibes
crossing dem fingers
for Virginia—Dancing
demographics all up in your

bass:

Franti in Philada—How you feeeeladelphia?

with guerrilla guitar attacks, getUPstandUP drums, and
two bullet-riddled fingers lifted: He is the Worax. He sings for the peace.


*11.11.06 – Medeski Scofield Martin & Wood – Electric Factory, PA*
                               —congratulations go to Beast & Abby-E

means to melody & rules of rhythm
rephrased,
skylight to a certain challenge of jazz—

Accompanied stray notes conversed out, the sound slid to satisfy
The song backing/song ahead, out of the slight nod, leapt, returned
Rediscover decades, predict the created hour to deliver in volumes

once wrote:
           all I want is for my page to play the piano.

show cerebrations:
           what if piano freefell from atop The Inquirer clock tower—
           its strings sprangling out, disheveled bass to treble,
           clang key-teeth a reconstructive oral surgeon’s nightmare,
           even canons inflammatory from fortification of drums,
           the whole band, cacophony of a massive crashing included?

Let the execution, improv of clatter, toy with at times and at others
Turns in the thick achieved theme, screaming attitude/stomping feel
Leading the breath laugh fray, subtlety worth multiple interesting starts

once wrote:
          what if ballpoint
          abstained from paper
          fingerprints from QWERTY
          (whatever from equivalent)
          and the effort
          could somehow still write
          (like Jackson Pollack
          dripped)? could such attempt
          be read?

out in the Electric’s alley, five-buck balloons deepen voices,
fuzz the cerebral seraphim—and inside the sold-out Factory:
if crash did the piano, could by you to it be danced?

Thunderous of everything takes self-blends, a fiery quality, focus lost
Traces thumping/hastened whole, drawing virtually only of those rare
World solid, exotic, the real introduced, slipping minutes swinging all

show celebrations:
           “Yes.”


*01.17.07 – the Wood Brothers – World Café Live, PA*
                               —for Oliver’s guitars & Chris’ upright

^
New
York
City
or-
din-
ate
stan-
ding
free
jazz
up-
right
wood
y-axis
bass (
Boul-
der
shared
parents
a micro-
biologist
origin & a poet) Atlanta abscissa seated blues roots wood x-axis six-strings >
          with shapes described by musiquations of finger-pressed coordinates

                               Listen in: plot the Cartesian curve


Paul Siegell's writes most of his "show poems" during the first workday following the concert--Loves writing when he's not supposed to, and getting paid for it alike. Find his forthcomers in horse less review, GHOTI, Kulture Vulture and the 2008 Anthology of Younger Poets. Paul's manuscripts, jambandbootleg and Poemergency Room, are currently calling out, "Whooo's got my publisher?" while strolling a concert parking lot together with their pointer fingers in the air. Kindly link to more of his work at ReVeLeR @ eYeLeVeL.


 
 
 
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