As a young boy, William Bartholemeu Sprott could be found chasing after his Great Pyrenees mountain dog Arabella, as she tried to herd the many packs of feral pigs that inhabit the savannah of the South Bay. He was also know to hide in storm gutters, only his head exposed above street level, waiting for interesting things to pass by so that he could document them in his mind for later lyrical use. Aside from that, William would often console a 3-legged terrier named Jake, who lived across the street and who was madly in love with Arabella.

This kaleidoscope of experiences would boil over in William’s mind, and he would sit at his grandmother’s piano, late night, and trepan his memories into wildly inventive rag-time tunes…mostly in the minor keys. One night, after his philistine neighbors called the police and filed a noise complaint, and after facing his oppressors in nothing more than a slightly baggy pair of tidy-whities (it was the middle of the summer, and quite hot that night), William decided to fight back the only way he knew how.

So that night, he sat back down at the piano, cracked all his eleven fingers, and began to compose an opus of indefinite ending. To this very day, his vengeance knows no limit and he continues to grace us with his melodic heroism. Not unlike The Odyssey, The White Album, or a broken watch…his music is timeless.

Playing at the Pagoda (Fairmont Hotel) | 11:30pm