Peter had always wanted to become a silver-man. You know the ones-- out there on the street doing the move, making the coin. He'd gotten his first white jumpsuit at age six (because he liked what he saw in "Breakin' II: Electric Boogaloo"). He'd picked out his first milk crate at age nine. Peter was from out there in the beyond, and he needed to show his groove to the people on this great planet. In his mind, they demanded it. There was no question of "if," no question of "why."

When he was 12, Peter got on the lunch table at school and broke into what he thought were some sweet robot moves. At the time, he didn't have a portable radio for the tunes, so he got his best friend Charlie to whistle something for him. Sadly, the only song Charlie knew was Kenny Rogers' "The Gambler," and anyone's who's ever entertained thoughts of doing the silver-man knows that you can't crank to country. But Peter tried, nonetheless, and those present would say he succeeded! He had the gift-- there was no doubting it.

On his 16th birthday, Peter left for the Big City to follow the call. He studied every street corner and intersection, learning the patterns of the crowds and sizing up the local silver-man talent. There was a great proliferation of the silver-men here in the Big City, and making his way would be quite a task. But as I said, Peter had the gift. Now he just needed the tune.

Then it was dropped on him. As Peter slept in his flannel-lined bedroll on the South side of the Big City, a compact disc was placed at his side by a stranger. And in the morning, after going through his silver-man stretching techniques, Peter noticed the disc on the ground. Was it meant for him? He looked skyward for some sign.

There was no sign, but he decided that yes, it was meant for him. "The Up On In." Three prepositions. Or one command? How many times had his father asked him to get up on in the cab of their old pickup? Or up on in their attic crawl-space to haul down decorations for a holiday? He placed the disc in his radio and listened. A loping stand-up bass slid up and down in 7/4 time, joined simultaneously by rolling drums (who was this Zach Barocas and what was Jawbox?) and popping guitar. The silver muse overcame Peter. He was the Silver Man.

Song 2. 5/4. These were short orchestrations. Like the sounds used by the Chicago silver-men. But faster? Jazzier? Less ramble, more punch? Peter kept up with his moves, but the music didn't lead anywhere; it didn't build. The rhythm was fine for his robot precision, but a silver-man also needed soul. His expression was the music and the music was his expression. The disc continued, never building beyond the potential of that first stand-up bass track. These were explorations in rhythm, but explorations to the backyard without going beyond.

If this disc was meant as a sign for him, it was a disappointment. Sure, he could perform to it, but something was missing. The guy across the street obviously had that something. He was attracting a crowd. Peter silvered across the street to discover this man's muse. Now, here was something! Some funk. Some style. This was uppity. He would have to search for a muse such as this. Until then, well... he could at least practice his rudimentary moves to the Up On In.

-Chip Chanko