The people of Detroit boycotted Jazz Fest claiming “Nobody’s gonna call ME a Fathead!”
Her boss, who she was also sleeping with on the side, assured her there would still be plenty of audience if they moved the Jazz Fest to coincide with the first Lions NFL game, and as usual, he was all wrong – they couldn’t even get most of the musicians to show up.
The crowd, thin as it was, avoided the front row seating as no one was ever sure what stunt the jazz musician would try next, and there were whispers of something being called the “jello drop.”
She stood in the way back, her arms raised in prayer or supplication, her body moving in time with the promise of music that only she could hear and god, she was gorgeous, and for that moment I wanted nothing more than to be…her.
Each day, in a microcosom of the city, people with nowhere else to go gathered to see if Detroit had finally found the money to take down the months-old Jazzfest stage.
The one-man band’s manager had overestimated his client’s popularity.
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