The Late Set

He played the late set on the weekends

for a room of maybe nine,

tuning up between the tables,

calling everybody baby.

He never cut a record,

never had a name outside this block —

but if you heard him do that slow one,

you have never been the same.

And they cleared the club out in the spring,

and the sign came down, and the block moved on —

But we still play the late set.

Somebody's got to hold the room.

Same tunes, same tempo,

same lie about the drink prices.

Every song he taught us

still knows how to walk in here —

so we keep the late set going,

and he keeps showing up.

The bass player took the corner,

the young girl learned his ending,

and she plays it just a little wrong,

which is exactly how he'd want it.

Somebody's grandson asked us

who wrote that one, and why —

and that's the whole immortality

that any of us get.

It ain't a stone, it ain't a statue,

it's a chord that keeps arriving —

So we still play the late set.

Somebody's got to hold the room.

And the ones we lost this decade

get their names called from the stand.

Every song they gave away

is out here doing rounds tonight —

that's the late set, baby.

Nobody really leaves the band.

We still play the late set,

and here's what I need you to do:

when it's my turn to be a story,

don't stand around and cry.

Take the tune I loved the most,

play it slightly wrong, on purpose,

in a room of maybe nine.

That's how you keep a man alive.