Bus Report #797
A few weeks ago, 9:30 pm, the corner of Valencia and 18th.
I hurried down Valencia to catch the 33 Stanyan bus, after drinks, dinner and debriefing with The Teacher's Pet.
As I approached the corner I heard live music - and I thought it was an echo from the Elbo Room, the sound bouncing off adjacent buildings and zigzagging through the neighborhood.
But it wasn't.
I stood in the bus stop and watched the show across the intersection, by the empty lot beside Cherin's.
A crowd of maybe 20 people stood on the corner, spilling into the street.
The band was a trio of trombone players, a French horn player, a string instrument of some kind (it was dark and I couldn't see that well) and a couple other people. The band was led by an energetic guy with a marching band drum strapped to his chest. He drummed and danced down the sidewalk, conducting his group.
It sounded like a mix of marching band music, Klezmer and old-timey jazz. It was great.
I know I was swaying to the music a bit, and the grey, grizzled older man sharing the bus shelter with me danced too, glancing at me every now and again to grin and tilt his chin in the direction of the band.
"Nice way to wait for the bus," I said, and the man nodded and smiled.
The 33 arrived and we got on, and the music faded as we rolled up 18th Street.
I hurried down Valencia to catch the 33 Stanyan bus, after drinks, dinner and debriefing with The Teacher's Pet.
As I approached the corner I heard live music - and I thought it was an echo from the Elbo Room, the sound bouncing off adjacent buildings and zigzagging through the neighborhood.
But it wasn't.
I stood in the bus stop and watched the show across the intersection, by the empty lot beside Cherin's.
A crowd of maybe 20 people stood on the corner, spilling into the street.
The band was a trio of trombone players, a French horn player, a string instrument of some kind (it was dark and I couldn't see that well) and a couple other people. The band was led by an energetic guy with a marching band drum strapped to his chest. He drummed and danced down the sidewalk, conducting his group.
It sounded like a mix of marching band music, Klezmer and old-timey jazz. It was great.
I know I was swaying to the music a bit, and the grey, grizzled older man sharing the bus shelter with me danced too, glancing at me every now and again to grin and tilt his chin in the direction of the band.
"Nice way to wait for the bus," I said, and the man nodded and smiled.
The 33 arrived and we got on, and the music faded as we rolled up 18th Street.
posted by Rachel at 5:19 PM
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