Last night I saw god.

Well, I saw four gods, really. All of them on one stage. Went down to the jazz bar and they have a R&B/Blues/Funk band that plays the late set on at least Friday and Sat. Normally they’re very good and a hell of a lot of fun. Last night, for about 30 or so minutes they were gods up on that stage.

You know, it happens. To a lucky few it happens. There’s that moment on stage when a band just clicks so well and powerfully that they transcend themselves for a few. When every moment, every note, is just so great you have to give it your respect and awe.

They opened like that.

I’ve seen them before (the band is called Off the Hook) and, like I said, they’re always good. Last night was something else. They started with the piano line to Billy Jean and people half laughed and half looked to see if they were kidding. They weren’t.

The drums kicked in and… snares are not often tuned that well. Just a solid, hard line to them, the kind of snare you hit the fuck out of because it will sound off like a hammer. And they were sounding it like a hammer, let me tell you. A mad, almost angry beat that just flooded the room.

The bass player came in with a thickness to his line that would’ve done the P-Funk All-stars proud. The guitar joined in the fun with a thin long line, Hendrix by way of Scofield. He wrapped it up and down the bass line, sneaking it into the drums and twirled around the keys like he made his home there.

For ten minutes, what with solos and oddball off-riffs, they played the high holy fuck out of Billy Jean.

That was how they opened. And then they kept up that level of maniacal attack for the rest of the set.

I don’t know that they’ll ever be quite that good again, but last night, good fuck, last night they were the King’s Own Band.