A marque may be the only noticeable landmark. Shining dots point you behind the gravel littered parking lot of a cluttered auto shop, hiding the view of the long, narrow blues club bustling with patrons. A few seasoned veterans linger outside as I step away from a late night ride share. Sure it’s a Monday night, but soul never sleeps, not in this town anyway.
The velvet wearing singer gracefully rocks back and forth, like a giant condo crane with neon letters lifting blocks on South Congress Avenue. His purple handkerchief rising from his jacket pocket matches his almost buttoned collared shirt, long lapels draping over the soft velvet. He spins as the first song ends, black shoes shining like a boy just slapped them with a towel on main street. Sam Cooke rings out from his vocal chords on the second number. “Give me time, give me time,” he sings as his hands reach for the sky like a character from Glee.
The guitar twangs through a tasty solo, a beautiful Fender that rings out a final chord of the tune. The bass steps up to take his place, and the audience grooves with a head shaking number. His panama hat flying like a halo over his head, approving of the angelic groove anointing the audience.
Mr. Monday Night knows he’s got it, walking into the crowd and taking a seat to sing a slow, soulful moment. He props his feet up in the front row as he moans.. “We’re just going to warm up a bit,” Scartocci says as an adoring fan hands him a salt littered shot of tequila. “Y’all are trying to make me go ‘till Tuesday.” He’s not fooling anyone. If the band isn’t warmed up, the house sure is.
A woman places a wad of cash in the tip jar in front of the stage. “Meet me here in a blaze of glory,” Scartocci sings. As if we haven’t yet. He claps to his original song, asking the audience to join in as the saxophone riddles a few notes. He follows it up with a cover of “Hard to Handle.” Sure it’s great, but his song tore it to pieces, leaving me wanting to hear another original. Begging on a free Monday night? How can this be? The sax wales like a Blues Brothers scene in the 1970’s. Yea, I’m dancing too, in between my combative nature it’s great.
His wireless microphone lets him stroll past a sea of dancers, around the narrow walkways in a maze of cocktail tables. The guitar rings musings of Stevie Ray Vaughan on “Kiss Left to Give,” very soulful with a taste of Sixth Street.
A couple slow dances in front of the stage. They hug like it’s their honeymoon, her hand on the back of his neck. Another couple joins in, clutching in similar fashion. Love graces the room, and a sweet solo rings out from that wonderful Fender. Scartocci drops to his knees as the dancers erupt in applause. He thanks the audience and sings a “Sam Cooke” happy birthday to a friend in the front row. Every Monday? How is this possible?
“I’ve got something to lay on you real quick,” Scartocci says as he breaks into Michael Jackson’s “Baby I Want You Back.” The crowd groves like they’re dancing to a Youtube video. “I appreciate y’all, y’all are making me feel good tonight .” His purple button up seems to lose a button after every song, his necklace dangling over his hairy chest. “I ain’t going to be no kind of pretty boy,” he grooves as his sweat darkens the shirt to a deeper purple.
The curly blonde hair of the piano player bounces around as he nods his head. Stomping as he grooves, rolled up jeans and cowboy boots slamming the crowded stage. Scartocci says he’s not ready for a break, strikes up the band for “Feelin’ Alright.” The curly haired piano player leading off with that signature lick. Yep, we know it, and damn it’s good.
A wine sipping older woman makes her way to the bustling dance floor to prove she’s still got it. The other dancers move to support it like a drunken wedding reception. The sax blares like an important intro to Saturday Night Live. Scartocci’s shoes shine as he spins and spins. He needs a break. We need a break. The world will know this man, the music demands it.
The Hill Country Standard 