The old soldier, several youngsters and ourself are at a Bullfinch bench, discussing the brand new album by the band from just a few cities over whom we all agree is the best rock ensemble on the planet.
The band in question is not so unanimously lionized elsewhere, and that is the crux of this discussion.
Sonny Blitt of the Blits wanders by, feigns interest in the conversation so he can fill his glass from the pitcher we bought, then when he finally catches the gist, and launches into a fierce rebuke of our praise.

Sonny, even though he’s old enough to need reading glasses, still has stars in his eyes. His theory is that bands need to constantly be ready to jump to the next plateau. The fave band of the rest of the table hasn’t altered what they do in years, he argues. They were almost big once, then slipped back to relative obscurity. This is not something he respects. Sonny, though he’s never known a tenth of this other band’s fame (or talent), feels they took the wrong path years ago by (if we understand him correctly) sticking with what they do best.

This is not a theory we think we’ve seen Sonny actually put into practice himself. To our ears, The Blits play a loose, blues-based form of punk rock that’s been around for at least 35 years. Sonny wears the same striped T-shirt onstage for every show. But, to hear him tell it, he’s a career-minded forward-thinking rock strategist. As you know, The Blits (formerly The Blats—now there’s a career move right there!) recently became one of the few bands in our little scene which feels they need a so-called manager. So he’s knowledgeable about things like, you know, wasting your time and money on managers.

The rest of the table just stares and wishes he’d go away. Especially the old soldier, who’s had numerous brushes with the big time himself, as a session musician and nostalgia-tour sideman, yet has been arguing more passionately than anyone the divine merits of to-thineself-be-trueness.

Sonny’s injected the kill word into the conversation. We haven’t been talking about superstardom, or power, or majesty. We’ve been talking about greatness. Plus, he’s finished our beer. The conversation dwindles to nothingness…

Anyone seen Q? Apparently the revered Bullfinch barback and occasional show-booker is still lugging kegs down the basement stairs in the early morning, and has been glimpsed at a few after hours gathering, but otherwise he’s vanished.

Some suggest that Q’s fallen into the same black hole which has pulled in so many of the town’s classical players. It’s a mysterious recording project which has been sucking up studio hours for months now, at a location we no longer care to disclose. (Yes, we know more than we’re telling; give us some credit for a suspenseful narrative).

Thursday at the Bullfinch: Lost on Xandu (one of those keyboard acts that sounds like a whole universe in motion), Solution #1 (smoothest garage blues grooves around) and the speedy Rats in My Kitchen… Hamilton’s College Nite Party: Bite of Soul, Atom Spies and La La La La Reprise… D’ollaire’s, meanwhile, is stealing some of Hamilton’s thunder with a slate of regional party bands that used to play the smaller club: Rockin’ This Joint, One More Time and Nothing to Go On. They said it, we didn’t…