Bozquo

"Holy Jesus man what is that sound!" I cried to my friend who was busy flirting with a fine young girl in a puffy anorak. He looked at me with a cold stare,"What are you yelling about you bastard? Can't you see this girl is an angel?" He was topped out of his gourd on hallucinogenics, and sheer charm. "Never mind that bird you freak! She's nothing but trouble. We must follow this sound!" He let her go on her way and we strolled rapidly towards the source.

The sound was coming from a long and narrow cafe on St Laurent street. A nice and inviting place. Perhaps a good place to write a book in peace and quiet. But not tonight. Tonight the stage was graced by a couple of cartoonish-looking characters, dressed head to toe in black and white, even their instruments, down to the last detail. Black and White with no color in between.

One of them was small and wiry, with a fierce energy, and an expression that indicated he was walking a fine line between intense joy and rage. He was clearly the plutonium in this reaction. The other was a giant. A lanky man, with long brown hair, who looked as if his midieval freak parents had stretched him on a rack when he was growing up. Atop his head was a fine satin top hat which added another foot to his already six foot plus stature. His calm demeanor and gaze indicated that he was cleary in control of himself. These boys were no amatuers.

When the music subsided, they introduced themselves as Bozquo. The little one picked up a microphone and began beatboxing. He bent over and fiddled with something on the floor and the beat began repeating endlessly. The tall one picked up a guitar while the little one switched over to a keyboard. They began rhyming in a seamless and precise call and response, with vague and poetic lyrics that seemed to cut through to the bone marrow. I stood transfixed by their repor. The little one settled on a drone, while the tall one put down his guitar, picked up some drumsticks, and sat down behind a drumset. He picked up on the beat. The little one stopped his loop and picked up a different guitar, and they were off again on another lyrical excursion, trading lines in an easy and relaxed flow. As he rhymed, the drummer was oblivious as to how difficult what he was doing seemed to the mesmorised audience. Knocking out a beat and dropping lyrics in complementary counter rhythms. The little one was playing a sliky slide riff, a window into their blues influences. The song then began to pick up in intensity, building to a climax that I did not think could take me any higher, and just at that point, the little one stepped on his fuzzbox and unleashed a wall of bass-pounding distortion while the tall one wailed on the drums like a monkey on acid. This was not just one band, they were a chameleon. Many bands in one. Creating an entire spectrum of colors from their black and white tones. They drove hard like a jackhammer until we could all take no more, then the wave broke, and just like that, they settled back into a cool and easy groove, easing off the accelerator like a fine Italian sports car. They played on, with the crowd completely in the palm of their hands. Lulling them all into a false sense of security. Just then a familiar strike of notes hit my ear. They began playing Helter Skelter by the ubiquitous Beatles. At the conclusion of the second verse, the little one let that classic riff hang, over and over it played while they stood up and put down their instruments. The tall one handed the little one the drumsticks, and the little one handed the tall one the guitar. As the crowd exploded in cheers, the tall one clicked off the screetching riff, and in unison they sang "She's so..." immediately breaking into I want you (she's so heavy), another Beatles classic. The crowd went wild at the sheer display of skill and ingenuity and their tastefull choice of covers. Nowhere on earth had I seen anything like this. These two fellas were doing the work of six men, and without even batting an eyelash. They continued in the same manner, playing a myriad of instruments, switching between them all at will. An amazing display of virtuosity and skill.

After their show I went over to the bar and bought them each two drinks. "That was beyond anything I can describe in words boys. You guys have something special here. You must practice all day and night to do that kind of thing." The small one piped in "Well, not that much really, we jammed a couple of times for this show, but just cause we were a little rusty. The whole set was improvised. We don't really rehearse "songs"." I was flabbergasted. Not only did they flatten me with their skill, but they acted as if it was akin to taking a shit or something, an automatic reflex. "Yeah we like calling it out on the fly, that way we never play the same show twice, it's much more fun that way. Like walking a tightrope, we never know if we're gonna make it or fall. You caught us on a good night." the tall one r