THE COUNT by Frog

In late August of ’25, a peculiar man known only as THE COUNT began to appear at various locales throughout the New York metropolitan area, drinking heavily and raving about various offscreen women. He was tall, skinny, but muscular in a way that only comes from manual labor, and he wore J. Crew slacks with a wife-beater. If you were in his presence, even if only for a moment, you could feel the power that hid behind his dark eyes, eyes that would stare out at you like deep oceans of hazel and blue, beckoning. He was intensely aware of the presence of every woman within a 2-square-block radius and made a lasting impression on all of them that they didn’t completely understand. He was like a black hole that curved all of space, where the trajectory of every object that passed near him wavered and became blurry. He was the kind of man, in short, that you could stare at for ages, if only he wouldn’t stare back. But the Count always stared back.

There were whispers of associations with various underworld figures, and multiple unsubstantiated accounts of past employment as both a mercenary in North Africa and as a seaplane pilot somewhere near Guadalajara, or maybe Guam. You couldn’t really place his accent, which seemed to somehow waver between thick Alabama drawl and rural Minnesotan twang, but his speech was thick with New York area slang that only a native would ever employ. He almost always smelled of sweat, marijuana smoke, and alcohol. He was meticulously groomed, and his face was never unshaven. On first glance, you’d have thought he was in his late 20s, but occasionally there was a deep weariness that showed behind his eyes that only someone older, maybe even a lot older, ever has.

As he walked up to the piano, there was an involuntary hush that fell over the small group of onlookers and corporate workers having lunch. He was unhurried but graceful, each step measured, his hand dragging behind or brushing a strand of hair from his eyes. There was a kind of rhythm to the way he moved, something ritualistic and primal, as if he needed to treasure every millisecond of this experience, to examine it as fully as he was able. His hands eyed the keys like they were ravenous dogs stayed only by a look from an ominous master. As his fingertips brushed the ivory, he exhaled slightly, and a thin smile seemed to come to his lips. He began to play.

The music was stranger than any the audience had ever heard, but it had a strong and captivating rhythm, and his touch was arresting. He opened his mouth to sing, and it became immediately clear to everyone present that not only had he entered some kind of trance, but his voice and even his face had begun to change, had begun twisting and writhing with other people’s features, screaming with other people’s lungs. He was now a drunken lounge singer in a darkened booth, now a penitent in despair kneeling in a wooden pew, now a redneck with ripped overalls and broken banjo strings. The songs wove into one another, and he did not stop for applause. Not a single person who was there when he began moved or left before the performance ended. When he finished, he rose and walked around the corner without looking behind him.

Afterwards, several of the onlookers would swear up and down that he levitated, and that the whole piano, bench, and player had risen above the sidewalk a good six inches or more.

Real cool guys from NY. Vocalist & Multi-Instrumentalist: Daniel Bateman / Drums & Percussion: Steve Bateman.
Bass: Thomas White

CDs & Merch:
https://frog.band/merch

Photo credit: https://innovacancy.com

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