Sharon — a smoky, magnetic tale of desire wrapped in the rhythm of a carnival night
There is an irresistible pull the moment “Sharon” begins — a slow, prowling groove that feels like stepping into a carnival after sundown, where the lights glow dimmer, the music grows thicker, and every shadow carries the possibility of enchantment. Sung and written by David Bromberg, the track first appeared on his 1972 album Demon in Disguise, a record known for its adventurous blend of folk, blues, rock, and storytelling flair. Though it never climbed the mainstream charts, “Sharon” has earned something far more lasting: a place as one of Bromberg’s most mesmerizing and unforgettable recordings.
What makes the song so captivating is not just the writing, but the extraordinary musicians who join Bromberg on the track. Members of the Grateful Dead — Jerry Garcia on electric guitar, Bill Kreutzmann on drums, and Keith Godchaux on piano — help shape its moody, hypnotic atmosphere. Their contributions give the song a loose, smoky, improvisational feel, as if the band itself is drifting through the carnival scene Bromberg describes. The recording runs just over six minutes, giving the band time to build tension, mystery, and a kind of slow-burn electricity.
At its heart, “Sharon” is a story — vivid, filled with imagery, and tinged with a sly sense of danger. The narrator wanders into a small tent at a traveling show, drawn by a barker who promises a spectacle that requires no money, only the willingness to risk one’s heart. Inside appears Sharon, a dancer wrapped in a scarf, moving with an uncanny grace that steals the breath from every man watching. She dances, as Bromberg sings, “like her back had no bone,” with a sensual, fluid motion that feels almost supernatural.
The scene becomes a kind of spell. Horns moan, the guitar curls around the beat, the saxophone adds a smoky haze, and Sharon’s dance pulls the entire room into her gravity. She smiles at everyone — and then, suddenly, at the narrator alone. For a moment, it feels like destiny: a fleeting connection, electrifying and impossible to grasp. He leaps forward, heart bursting with hope — only to land in an empty hall. Sharon is gone. The lights are fading. The music dissolves into silence.
And that is where the song stings. It captures the kind of moment that lingers for a lifetime — the brush with someone unforgettable, the enchantment that vanishes before you can take hold of it. There’s no bitterness in the telling, only a wistful resignation, the kind that settles on the soul long after the carnival has moved on.
Musically, “Sharon” is one of Bromberg’s defining works. It showcases his rare ability to merge storytelling with groove-driven arrangement, to craft a narrative that feels lived-in and deeply human. The mix of blues swagger, folk authenticity, and jazz-tinged improvisation gives the song a timeless texture. It’s no surprise that among longtime fans of roots music, “Sharon” is often cited as a hidden masterpiece — a song that doesn’t shout, but smolders.
For older listeners, the song carries a special resonance. It evokes nights of wandering young and carefree, drawn to music spilling onto the street from a tent or a bar. It stirs memories of glances exchanged across crowded rooms, of moments that came and went like a passing melody — beautiful, brief, impossible to forget.
“Sharon” endures because it understands something essential about life: sometimes the most powerful memories are the ones that slip away before you can grasp them. And long after the final note fades, you can still feel her — dancing somewhere just beyond the edge of the light.