With the wind at my back, I steadied myself. And pushed on. I could see the city lights before me. The wharf, the piers, les clochards, all beckoned. I was headed to the LIC Bar to play a gig with Saints and Sinners, AND Mancie, mind you. This was no ordinary night. Google maps says that it’s four tenths of a mile from the Court Square subway stop to the bar, and I was feeling every decimal point. I had my ’75 hard-tailed Strat, a Gibson SG, an old beaten up bag from some place in the Village, and my fully stocked pedal board. You’ve got to figure the fifth floor walk-up into the equation. How many steps is it from the apartment down to the bowels of the Spring Street subway station? But I dither. I had a mini of Dickel Eight Year on me as well. It was coming soon.
L-R Rich Philips, Mark Feldman (obscured), Dave Gerstein, Chris Botta
A Girl was singing Irish songs when I got there. She was good, belting them out and thrashing a sweaty but beautiful Gibson J-45. It can take a shot, she told me afterwards. The first set went well. Mancie. She’s a classy dame, but still full of surprises. We ripped and roared through a mix of originals and covers. The crowd began to build. Then the set was over. We worked at the beer. Saints and Sinners took the stage for the final set, starting as a three piece, then four. The saxophone splattering and echoing in my mind for days afterwards. A girl took up her position at the bar right across from me but I didn’t seem to notice as I obsessed over the blues and the abstract truth. The trashed Deluxe Reverb spoke its sweet and hard charging melody as the bass shadowboxed with the ineffable. Then Mancie joined the fray. “I just want to make love to you,” she sang. It was almost over. We cut a few more tunes, the drummer doing double duty. Everyone vanished as soon as the last note drifted out the window and onto Vernon Boulevard.
-Christian Botta Photos by Andrea Fischman
On Practicing Guitar 
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