By Tom Grace

OXFORD — The man by the door, tall and broad, has long silver hair pulled back in a ponytail. In a deep voice, he greets us as we enter the Night Eagle Cafe, a musical oasis in the village of Oxford. Uncle Chet pays him for four and lingers up front to chitchat as Alice, Hon and I glide by to find our table.

The room is a deep rectangle in a renovated store-block, probably an appliance store 50 years ago. It’s half-full of boomers and younger couples tonight, more filtering through the door on the verge of show time.

Uncle Chet, who’s always on the lookout for good speakers and musicians, had talked us into hiring a baby sitter and riding 30 miles each way on a Saturday night. "Hey, everyone owes himself a night out once in a while," he had said over the phone. "These guys are from New Orleans; they might have something to say."

So here we are, about to listen to David Roe, a veteran pianist who’s originally from Madison County and now from Bourbon Street, and Chris Chandler, who’s billed as "part preacher, poet, huckster, wandering minstrel and medicine sideshowman."

We have a good table near the stage and watch the performers complete their setup. "They’ve done a nice job decorating this place," Hon says, perusing a collage on one wall, bookshelves across the room.

"Nothing like it in Chenango County," Alice says as Uncle Chet arrives.

"Anyone want coffee or tea?" he asks.

Everyone does, and I rise to help him.

As we get in line at the goodies counter, he says, "These guys are hot. I downloaded some of their stuff off the Internet."

"Don’t confess to me," I say.

"No. It’s legal; they want you to download it."

I nod and place an order for a coffee, a tea, and two slices of chocolate cream pie.

Uncle Chet, who’s been contemplating a diet, says, "I’ll take the same thing," and gets a little razzing from Alice when we return to the table.

Soon, the lights dim and Roe begins to play and sing Duke Ellington’s "It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got that Swing)."

Then, with the piano cranking, Chandler, a trim man in his 40s, emerges from shadow, mic in hand, and does his caustic voiceover, condemning crass materialism and herd mentality, the hallmarks of the corporate society.

It’s raw and dynamic, even if some of the details are obscure. When the duo concludes this number, everyone claps enthusiastically. I look around, figure half of them are free-thinkers and the others must be FBI agents.

"What do you think?" Alice asks.

"Gotta hear more," I say.

More comes and much, like Hurricane Katrina roaring across the Gulf of Texaco, hits home. In the best song of the night, Chandler asks why there are no war-protest songs on American radio, as Roe plays a medley of "Eve of Destruction," "For What It’s Worth," and other standards from the ’60s, when radio stations were independent.

More people are protesting this war than the last one, but you’d never know it, says our minstrel. "There’s something in the air, but it’s not on the airwaves," he intones and a wave of applause circles the room before fading out in the next verse.

Like a shooting star, too soon the show is over and you almost wonder if you saw it. Everyone is leaving, dispersing. We get into the car and start for home.

"Those guys are amazing, but I don’t know if they’ll ever make it big," says Alice, who’s riding shotgun.

"Probably lucky if they don’t," Hon says.

"They’d be blackballed, anyway," I say.

"Or worse," says Uncle Chet, our driver. "They might be Wellstone-ized."

"True."

"Or have a sudden urge to overdose on sleeping pills, like Bush’s biographer," he says.

"Can we talk about something else?" Hon interrupts the discussion. Our driver agrees and almost unconsciously, turns on the radio.

And there, on the air, is Toby Keith, hewing the company line, bad-mouthing the Taliban, those convenient boogeymen from far away.

"We’ll put a boot in your ... (tail section), it’s the American way," he sings before Uncle Chet reaches over again to turn him off, and then for a while, we ride in silence.

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Cooperstown News Bureau Reporter Tom Grace is traveling with his Uncle Chet, who he says is imaginary. Grace’s column appears twice monthly.