you ever heard the one about the stone soup?

tribesman gathers up all his neighbors at the monthly meeting and goes "look, we're all starving so I know this great recipe for stone soup, learned it in my travels. so I got the stone, and I heard you grow lentils? those are perfect for the recipe...and you, don't you have a crop of carrots coming in? how about those tomato plants around the corner, are they about ready to eat? who's got some wheat? say, let's all go over and check on the schoolmaster's chickens..."

and so on until everybody in the village gets unlimited refills on soup, salad, and breadsticks.

...but without the stone and the guy who brought it, there would have been no menu, yeah? 

our hero only activated the abundance that others may have overlooked in themselves.

the secret ingredient is people (wait not like that don't be weird).

okay let's reset: thing about a big-time fancy-pants pro chef is very little of the actual cooking--the chopping and mixing, the marinating--gets done by the guy with the title day-to-day. 

alongside her are the possibly dozens of individuals who contribute to putting a dish on a plate in front of you...including whoever washed that nice clean plate, you wanna eat off a clean plate dontcha?

we can break down the finer points of the restaurant industry another time--unpaid labor, toxic hierarchies, classism, food waste--let's just ride the analogy to shore for now.

okay I know you have a life outside of reading this so let me just... 

[fast forward chipmunk talk] 

wait here's a little DVD commentary: we actually hadn't quite come up with an ending for "today" that one Friday at Sanctuary...hey, I'm never afraid to present a reasonably functioning prototype.

and of course you already know we were just gonna jam it out anyways like whenever the desired runtime becomes longer than the predetermined script (even keep the odd scat solo in one of my many pockets) but for some reason--maybe it was the extra shot of mezcal laid upon me by a kind patron at halftime--a risky idea popped into my head.

"HOW DO WE GET FROM HERE TO '4011?'" I murmured to field general ZiZi at the top of my lungs.

her eyes sparked as the cogs in her music box quickened. 

it wasn't more than a couple of beats until she picked at the lock with one series of notes, then one she liked better. she repeated it. the piano quaked with energy, gently shimmering as it rose above the stage.

yes.

on point as usual, Val spotted the change...as our bassist he controls transitions pretty much entirely. with many bands I've heard that bass is like onion in that nobody just straight up hand-fruits a raw Vidalia but you'd definitely notice if your meal was devoid of onion.

our rhythm-driven platform makes a talented bassist essential to the recipe--if we're making band sandwiches here, bass is the bread on an Uprising Supreme, holding the whole damn thing together.

suited and motivated to the task, he started improvising in the same direction...his most trusted technique of playing the stock bassline--usually buttoned out on this very same keyboard--during choruses and going more freestyle during verses, interludes, and solos is a showcase of his skill and adaptability. 

the new notes locked together, creating a brilliant glow as they met and swirled. a fierce gale buffeted him specifically, tossing his long mane behind him. electricity crackled up the strings as his fingers moved faster and faster.

yesss.

Uli began to cast our lead single's guitar riff every few measures. the sound washed over the audience like a tide, crashing against the far wall and rolling back. the dancers moved rhythmically through the waves, their motions increasing in speed and intensity.

yesssss!

finally, with a rapid-fire drum fill from Kim, the building rumbled with energy and the stage began to quake. there was no stopping it now. the transition was complete.

curling the fingers of my free hand dramatically as the mic grew white-hot in my fist--hence the gloves--I cackled at the crescent moon.

the song was alive. the crowd was alive. the band was alive.

I was a l i v e.

gonna hold on to that memory for a while.

suppose I've always gotten off on the way imaginary things can become oh so very real if just enough people believe in them. a band, a song, a nation, a society, a revolution...these are all social constructs, i.e. "made tf up."

all fictions until people say otherwise.

you can pretty much always make soup if you have the stones. it's a powerful feeling.

I am the tribal chef. 

who knows what we'll cook up next?

all power to The People.

--Flor!