I bumped into Laswell, or Billy as I call him, and the distant echoes of the Naked City and spare sounds of old Cuba filled the air between my ears. The lobby was sweaty, and Billy was a bit pissy, but perhaps his muse was speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear: "get the hell out of my face," it said.
In contrast to MC Billy "get the hell out of my face," was the suprise of seeing a tall, bald man in the breakfast room of the hotel. Holy crap that is Tony Levin. A sweet, affable man, Mr. Levin was a pleasure to speak to. Very kind man. Little me was shy, but big me invited him to our show this afternoon.
Rubbing extremities with the grizzled and velveteen artists. What fun.