Our Founder

It was midnight as I slipped through the gates of The Foxton Inn, armed with a pseudonym and just enough luck. As I stepped across the wide stone threshold, a short fellow named Rupert, handed me a mint julep and ushered me through a labyrinth of oak-vaulted chambers. The air was thick with the soothing balm of Latakia, dancing in wreaths of smoke around dimly lit lamps that hung like riddles from the rafters. We hurried on, past the curling conversations of crooked politicians, by the snickering of the critics and the cliques of the upper crust until we reached the heart of it all: the theatre door.  

 If little is known about this society, then less is known about its founder, Jamey Foxton. Some claim he was a Hollywood power broker, others say a door-to-door salesman looking to reinvent himself. Yet for all the speculation of the press, one fact was soon made plain to me: the man could tell a story.  

 As the first note rang from his lips, the room was transformed. Switchblades were sheathed, cards folded, and foes became old friends as tales set sail, binding all in their wake. He sang of devils in the deep south, thrummed mythical ballads, and crooned love songs that did thaw even the coldest hearts. Here at last, a man could hope perhaps to forget himself until dawn stretched her rosy fingers over the clubhouse.

 The exclusive allure and magic of the club’s late-night shows swelled each week. Whispers began to circulate that the Inn was preparing to bottle up its enchantment for the public on vinyl records, setting the city ablaze with excitement. What started as a gathering of artists, writers, and poets quickly outgrew itself, challenging the might of New York’s elite clubs and the entertainment moguls of Tin Pan Alley. 

 But, on the brink of hitting the market, betrayal struck. Founding member Lex Cofields orchestrated a most treacherous scheme, reducing the club and her walls of freshly-pressed records to ashes in a great inferno. All but one record survived—along with the founder himself— who followed the fate of all foxes and vanished underground.

Years drifted by in silence, which was broken only this morning by a peculiar development. A large crate of unknown origin surfaced on the shores of Sydney, Australia. Thought to contain hideous quantities of contraband, the crate was seized and carefully disassembled in quarantine. Inside were found three hundred records, all meticulously restored to full-spectrum stereo, ushering listeners into the embrace of those long forgotten halls. 

Featuring the Foxton Philharmonic and a constellation of artists summoned from across the Atlantic: The Foxton Inn presents…

Confessions of a Love in Twilight.