The lights are hot in the 30×30 foot studio where they’re filming the set for streaming. The band is decked out in red sharkskin jackets with black lapels, wide collar black button-down shirts and hairdos from an older time. All of them in studio grade headphones. Jim is wearing the same black John Varvatos pants as the rest of the band, but dons a slim black suit jacket instead over his bare chest. And now he has to take it off because it’s hot as fuck in here and they’re really starting to jam, and even though he knows he looks good and that he’s an elder statesman in the game now, he has to take off something and get loose.
He slips it off and casually tosses it towards the wall to the left of where the band members are set up. They’re sweating too but all strapped in to instruments, so they’re trapped for the moment. Jim, now freed from the restraints of some of his menswear, dangles and swings his arms in front of him and then drops them to his sides, pausing to listen to the beat and shake his head in time, the headphones slick from sweat but staying on his head. His pants are slung low, right hip cocked up from the ravages of 40 years of stage antics and now old age; and he turns around, his deeply tanned, wrinkled and veined skin still taut and tense with the energy of the muse.
He hobbles over to the black wooden stool by the wall where his jacket now lays, grabs the stool and places it in the center of the performance space on a large Persian area rug. He grabs the studio mic stand and sits on the stool facing the main camera crew. His short old mangled legs splay out with the mic stand in between them and he grimaces slightly with a puckish sneer as the 20-something Sheffielder to his far left heartily cracks the 4-count on the snare and bass drums.
Jim’s mouth hangs open and he carefully shakes his thinning mane so as not to lose the headset and nods at the lanky ginger-haired guitarist who is now gleefully slamming down on the opening chords to the last song of the session. It almost makes his cock hard to watch this young and brilliant colleague display such unabashed joy playing one of HIS lesser-known songs. Jim glances down at the rug for a moment and almost smiles but holds back. “Respect is an aphrodisiac,” he thinks to himself, then thinks of writing that down for later as a cameraman approaches for a close up as Jim launches in to the first words of the track.