Whatever you want it to be, although I reserve editorial rights. This website has an unusual page: 'Think About it' where I will include thoughtful material of one kind or another I think worth sharing. It will change as often as response dictates. So please, if you have not looked yet, go to our think about page and if you would like to respond please do so on this blog. I am also a writer with a rich imagination so if you would like to know more about my writing, or how my characters have come about I would be pleased to chat (blog) with you. - Sherman
Earl Crier was in rare form, his fingers gliding magically across the piano keys in a way that you could practically see the notes rise from the ivories as a flight of scarlet chested sunbirds. The bass, moody, reaching out for her lover in the middle of the night – secretive and lustful. Imogene, the beautiful lyrical songbird of the Earl Crier quintet parted her lips to sing “GoodMorning Heartache’ with such heart and soul that the raindrops falling outside The Honeysuckle Rose Hotel hung in mid-air hypnotized by her purity of heart – the blues. Then as she faded a tenor saxophone filled the room – there is no one sound to the tenor saxophone, it is the player. Michael O’Dea transcended his music making it more powerful than it was. His sound was dark, fat, lush, masculine, wallowing in the heart and the pain that made up the man’s soul. A man of flesh and blood, Michael O’Dea was an ugly man, hard to look at, hard to forget. His physical appearance made you uncomfortable.
His music unforgettable.