The Blue-Plate Hustle

Carnival Blues, Beatnik Jazz Noir, Vaudeville Blues

[Verse 1]
Step along, move along, come on down to the corner of Eighth!
We got the short-card shuffle, we got the bargain-basement faith!
We got the simulated diamonds on a second-hand watch,
We got the ninety-proof water in a bottle of Scotch!
It’s the genuine article, the deluxe design,
Straight from the back of a truck on the Jersey line!
It’ll clean your carburetor, it’ll cure your complaints,
It’ll turn your local winos into plaster-of-Paris saints!
We got the high-top, low-slung, double-breasted deal,
Guaranteed to bypass the local automobile!

[Chorus]
Yeah, it’s a fast-talking, finger-snapping, double-dealing night!
Where the left hand’s stealing while the right hand’s polite!
Yeah, you’re buying up the shadows at a premium cost,
Trying to get a refund on the youth that you lost!
And the saxophone’s running like a thief in the park,
Selling wooden nickels to the blind in the dark!

[Verse 2]
Now lookie here, lookie here, see the man in the vest?
He’s got a special dispensation from the mayor of the West!
He’s selling corner-lot mortgages on a swamp in Moline,
To a couple of high-rollers in a linoleum machine!
We got the nickel-plated remedies, the twenty-cent cure,
For the late-night anxiety you just gotta endure!
It’s a multi-purpose, cross-cut, heavily-oiled routine,
For the short-order philosophers on the asphalt scene!
Don't check the expiration, don't look at the seal,
Just put your dollar on the felt and tell me how you feel!

[Chorus]
'Cause it’s a fast-talking, finger-snapping, double-dealing night!
Where the left hand’s stealing while the right hand’s polite!
Yeah, you’re buying up the shadows at a premium cost,
Trying to get a refund on the youth that you lost!
And the saxophone’s running like a thief in the park,
Selling wooden nickels to the blind in the dark!

[Verse 3]
[The bass line stays furiously fast, piano hits sharp, rhythmic stabs like a typewriter]
We got the retread tires! We got the pawnshop flutes!
We got the counterfeit tickets for the Hoboken routes!
We got the miracle grease that makes the calendar slide,
Right out of the gutter where the politicians hide!
It separates the men from the boys, the sheep from the goats,
It’s the preferred lubrication for the electoral votes!
It won't rip, tear, rust, bust, or blow out your shoes,
It’s the only medication for the pool-hall blues!
So come on, get your wallet out, step right on up,
We’re pouring nothing but the best from a cracked paper cup!

[Verse 4]
[The horn section starts trading frantic, overlapping licks, tempo pushing even harder]
Going once, going twice, to the man in the back!
With the grease on his collar and his hat on a rack!
The auctioneer’s sweating, the clock’s on the run,
And the morning-shift specials are beginning to gun!
The street-sweepers are coming to clear out the floor,
And the bargain-basement savior is locking the door!
So take it home, wrap it up, put it in the trunk,
Before the whole operation is classified as junk!

[Outro]
Yeah, selling wooden nickels...
No deposits, no returns.
Void where prohibited by law.
Batteries not included, terms applicable to change.
Slide your quarter in the slot.
Watch it disappear.
Yeah... check the label, buddy.
[The drums hit a frantic, rolling crescendo; the horns let out a final, chaotic, screeching jazz chord that cuts off instantly on a sharp snare rimshot, leaving only the rapid, heavy breathing of the vocalist close to the microphone.]

4486/7500

[Intro] [The drums explode into a blistering, high-speed jazz shuffle. The upright bass drops a lightning-fast, walking line that anchors the groove. A muted trumpet screeches a quick, chaotic phrase. The vocalist lets out a sharp, rhythmic chuckle right against the microphone, clearing his throat at a million miles an hour.] [Verse 1] Step along, move along, come on down to the corner of Eighth! We got the short-card shuffle, we got the bargain-basement faith! We got the simulated diamonds on a second-hand watch, We got the ninety-proof water in a bottle of Scotch! It’s the genuine article, the deluxe design, Straight from the back of a truck on the Jersey line! It’ll clean your carburetor, it’ll cure your complaints, It’ll turn your local winos into plaster-of-Paris saints! We got the high-top, low-slung, double-breasted deal, Guaranteed to bypass the local automobile! [Chorus] Yeah, it’s a fast-talking, finger-snapping, double-dealing night! Where the left hand’s stealing while the right hand’s polite! Yeah, you’re buying up the shadows at a premium cost, Trying to get a refund on the youth that you lost! And the saxophone’s running like a thief in the park, Selling wooden nickels to the blind in the dark! [Verse 2] Now lookie here, lookie here, see the man in the vest? He’s got a special dispensation from the mayor of the West! He’s selling corner-lot mortgages on a swamp in Moline, To a couple of high-rollers in a linoleum machine! We got the nickel-plated remedies, the twenty-cent cure, For the late-night anxiety you just gotta endure! It’s a multi-purpose, cross-cut, heavily-oiled routine, For the short-order philosophers on the asphalt scene! Don't check the expiration, don't look at the seal, Just put your dollar on the felt and tell me how you feel! [Chorus] 'Cause it’s a fast-talking, finger-snapping, double-dealing night! Where the left hand’s stealing while the right hand’s polite! Yeah, you’re buying up the shadows at a premium cost, Trying to get a refund on the youth that you lost! And the saxophone’s running like a thief in the park, Selling wooden nickels to the blind in the dark! [Verse 3] [The bass line stays furiously fast, piano hits sharp, rhythmic stabs like a typewriter] We got the retread tires! We got the pawnshop flutes! We got the counterfeit tickets for the Hoboken routes! We got the miracle grease that makes the calendar slide, Right out of the gutter where the politicians hide! It separates the men from the boys, the sheep from the goats, It’s the preferred lubrication for the electoral votes! It won't rip, tear, rust, bust, or blow out your shoes, It’s the only medication for the pool-hall blues! So come on, get your wallet out, step right on up, We’re pouring nothing but the best from a cracked paper cup! [Chorus] Yeah, it’s a fast-talking, finger-snapping, double-dealing night! Where the left hand’s stealing while the right hand’s polite! Yeah, you’re buying up the shadows at a premium cost, Trying to get a refund on the youth that you lost! And the saxophone’s running like a thief in the park, Selling wooden nickels to the blind in the dark! [Verse 4] [The horn section starts trading frantic, overlapping licks, tempo pushing even harder] Going once, going twice, to the man in the back! With the grease on his collar and his hat on a rack! The auctioneer’s sweating, the clock’s on the run, And the morning-shift specials are beginning to gun! The street-sweepers are coming to clear out the floor, And the bargain-basement savior is locking the door! So take it home, wrap it up, put it in the trunk, Before the whole operation is classified as junk! [Chorus] 'Cause it’s a fast-talking, finger-snapping, double-dealing night! Where the left hand’s stealing while the right hand’s polite! Yeah, you’re buying up the shadows at a premium cost, Trying to get a refund on the youth that you lost! And the saxophone’s running like a thief in the park, Selling wooden nickels to the blind in the dark! [Outro] Yeah, selling wooden nickels... No deposits, no returns. Void where prohibited by law. Batteries not included, terms applicable to change. Slide your quarter in the slot. Watch it disappear. Yeah... check the label, buddy. [The drums hit a frantic, rolling crescendo; the horns let out a final, chaotic, screeching jazz chord that cuts off instantly on a sharp snare rimshot, leaving only the rapid, heavy breathing of the vocalist close to the microphone.]

0/500