From a stool at the end of Tangerine's bar, a banjo player picks a tune. What is he doing here? His right hand flashes with the speed of a Vegas dealer, shuffling, flicking, rapping the strings. His left hand moves across the banjo frets as if telling a story in some lightning sign language. It's a slow Tuesday night: The bartenders and the few customers look over at the musician and listen. The melody moves in a long loop through the room, then charges and careens off the walls. No sound could be more at odds with the Washington strip, where music is most often a means to be seen or get laid, yet no sound could be more rhythmic, more... More >>>