I’€™m excited to announce that Baxter has found his calling, quite literally. Common knowledge: Baxter is a rock god in his rather plump mind. He will grasp, paw, gnaw and claw the guitar, frequently strumming while I hold a chord on the neck. These are skills reserved for real talents, that much is true, but not true innovators‘€”for that, you must twist your body into a sharp ‘€˜c’€™ shape then add just a pinch of panic to your emotional state. Only then can you reach a musical nirvana.
But what to do when the guitar is not within reach and the music takes over? When you’€™re lying on the ground feeling the rhythm jiggle your every jiggly bit? Sing of course! Partake in an awesome aural exorcism. Mortals can only measure these decibels, this level of energy, in seconds, but half an hour can pass as Baxter unhinges his jaw and lets loose. If you don’€™t go hoarse, you’€™re not trying hard enough.

From above, Baxter loses all semblance of chin, replaced instead with a short, venetian blind of chub below a gapping chasm of a mouth. His tonsils bobble as you steal a glimpse inside, down to his toes.

I categorize Baxter’€™s range as ‘€˜ultra soprano’€™, and at times worry about his mental state as his inner Pavarotti takes over. When I stop playing the music, he regains consciousness, as if just struck by a petite mal. Seconds later, when I restart, his eyes glaze and the chin unhinges. We are again bathed in a blaring bonanza of B-flat bliss.


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