The Alvarado Overpass Waltz

Beatnik Lounge Blues, gritty jazz, jazz noir

Chorus
And the city’s just a playground for a pair of loaded dice
Where you pay for your sins at a wholesale price
Yeah, you’re looking for a handle on a door that won't budge
While the morning-shift jury passes out all the grudge
And the piano is choking on a mouthful of lint
Trying to find where the rest of the melody went.

Verse 2
Now, Fish-Fry McGhee is adjusting his patch
Trying to strike a wet independent match
He’s telling a ghost by the cigarette machine
About a girl from Biloxi who treated him mean
And the taxi-cab dispatchers are sleeping in shirts
That are covered in coffee and yesterday's dirt
Leaving nothing but grease-spots and a broken-toothed comb
For the short-order cook who is walking back home.

Bridge
[The trumpet kicks into a slurred, drunken wail; the bass player hits a heavy, syncopated double-stop]
Oh, the bench-legged bums are all holding their breath
As the late-night news salesman predicts their early death
And the ice in the pitcher makes a skeleton groan
As the neighborhood dogs fight over a bone
You’re hocking your typewriter to pay for the gin
At the point where the graveyard and the suburbs begin...

Verse 3
[The tempo collapses into a heavy, dragging pulse. Just a low, woody bass slide and a dissonant piano cluster]
So pull up your socks, put the cap on the jar
Before the sun takes a bite out of the back of your car
The street sweepers are sweeping up the tinsel and tacks
From a parade that went by twenty-four hours back
And you slide your last quarter in a slot that is jammed
And you wave a goodbye to the rest of the damned.
Chorus
And the city’s just a playground for a pair of loaded dice
Where you pay for your sins at a wholesale price
Yeah, you’re looking for a handle on a door that won't budge
While the morning-shift jury passes out all the grudge
And the piano is choking on a mouthful of lint
Trying to find where the rest of the melody went.

Outro
Yeah, to the rest of the damned...
With a tear in your sleeve.
And a glass full of rain.
Just another broken spring in a folding cot.
[A match is struck close to the microphone, followed by a long, raspy exhale and the metallic snap of a lighter cap closing]

2896/7500

Verse 1 The linoleum’s buckling under the weight Of a hot plate that’s cooking up nothing but hate And the super is down in the boiler-room shade Fixing the plumbing with an old razor blade You got a cardboard suitcase held together with twine And an unpaid tab from 1969 While the exhaust from the local down on Seventh and Main Sits on the glass like a permanent stain. Chorus And the city’s just a playground for a pair of loaded dice Where you pay for your sins at a wholesale price Yeah, you’re looking for a handle on a door that won't budge While the morning-shift jury passes out all the grudge And the piano is choking on a mouthful of lint Trying to find where the rest of the melody went. Verse 2 Now, Fish-Fry McGhee is adjusting his patch Trying to strike a wet independent match He’s telling a ghost by the cigarette machine About a girl from Biloxi who treated him mean And the taxi-cab dispatchers are sleeping in shirts That are covered in coffee and yesterday's dirt Leaving nothing but grease-spots and a broken-toothed comb For the short-order cook who is walking back home. Chorus And the city’s just a playground for a pair of loaded dice Where you pay for your sins at a wholesale price Yeah, you’re looking for a handle on a door that won't budge While the morning-shift jury passes out all the grudge And the piano is choking on a mouthful of lint Trying to find where the rest of the melody went. Bridge [The trumpet kicks into a slurred, drunken wail; the bass player hits a heavy, syncopated double-stop] Oh, the bench-legged bums are all holding their breath As the late-night news salesman predicts their early death And the ice in the pitcher makes a skeleton groan As the neighborhood dogs fight over a bone You’re hocking your typewriter to pay for the gin At the point where the graveyard and the suburbs begin... Verse 3 [The tempo collapses into a heavy, dragging pulse. Just a low, woody bass slide and a dissonant piano cluster] So pull up your socks, put the cap on the jar Before the sun takes a bite out of the back of your car The street sweepers are sweeping up the tinsel and tacks From a parade that went by twenty-four hours back And you slide your last quarter in a slot that is jammed And you wave a goodbye to the rest of the damned. Chorus And the city’s just a playground for a pair of loaded dice Where you pay for your sins at a wholesale price Yeah, you’re looking for a handle on a door that won't budge While the morning-shift jury passes out all the grudge And the piano is choking on a mouthful of lint Trying to find where the rest of the melody went. Outro Yeah, to the rest of the damned... With a tear in your sleeve. And a glass full of rain. Just another broken spring in a folding cot. [A match is struck close to the microphone, followed by a long, raspy exhale and the metallic snap of a lighter cap closing]

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