I looked to
the stars, tried all of the bars.
An' I've nearly gone up in smoke.
Now my hand's on the wheel of something that's real,
An' I feel like I'm goin' home.
- Will Callery
One Sunday last spring, Twin Creeks Hall in Volente held a fundraiser for a worthy cause -- a decent sound system. Twin Creeks is sort of an old-time Texas roadhouse; it looks and feels like a gathering place from another era. Like the 20th century. I don’t know what the old sound system was like, but judging from the looks of things that day, I had no problem imagining that it was time for a new one. They had recruited some great bands and songwriters to grace the indoor stage for a full day and evening of music. Outside in the sunlit beer garden which is bordered by the creek on one side and the farm-to-market on the other, there were a couple of microphones set up for an open mic to entertain people between the main acts indoors.
I was there with my friends and fellow songwriters,
Adam Belsky and Mike Eastman. All three of us were fairly recent converts
to songwriting. We had met sometime in the previous six months at the
Austin Songwriters’ Group weekly song critique sessions. Song
Doctor. Song Doctor is a test of courage for songwriters. Don't
take my word for it. Ask anyone who's ever laid their new song -- which I
guarantee you they love like an infant -- out on the table for evaluation and
critique. Adam, Mike, and I went to song doctor every week and put our
songs up for "honest feedback." We regularly compared wounds
and encouraged each other to keep on keeping on. The upshot was that although we hadn't
known each other long, it already felt like our friendships were forged in
fire.
It was an irresistible day so most of the time there were actually more people outside around the open mic “stage” than inside. Too big an audience for me. I thought. I shook my head when Adam pointed to the white board by the door for people who wanted to sign up for the open mic. He wasn’t daunted by my cowardice, though. He picked up the marker and wrote his name on the list. Apparently peer pressure and fear of missing out are stronger forces in my psyche than terror so I only made it about 15 minutes before I succumbed and signed up right underneath Adam. Mike scrawled his name a couple slots below mine.
The fear that goes with performing is curious.
Writing the songs is one thing; performing them is another. Especially
when you’re not used to it. You know that singing a song in front of
people over a microphone won’t kill you, but your body responds as though there
is immediate physical danger, as though you’re going into battle or walking
into flames. The kind of dread that makes you tremble.
At least that’s how it is for me. Mike and Adam and I took our pre-combat
jitters down to the creek where we sat in dappled sunlight with our guitars,
between the sweet sound of the running creek and the humming engines on the
highway, and took turns singing songs we planned to play. I guess it’s
true that life never seems quite as sweet as it does when you think you’re
about to die. That moment with Adam and Mike on the fringe between nature
and civilization sits in my mind as one of those jewels of memory that
compensates for moments when life is mundane or brutal.
Seems funny to me that the rehearsing is so
memorable. The performance itself is a blur. Before I knew it, Adam
was playing and I was up next, singing out, focusing on Mike and Adam standing
near by watching me closely as though they would catch me if I fell. And
then I was done. Three songs behind me and not a wound anywhere on
my body. Still alive. Sun still shining. People smiling at
me. Some of them patting me on the back. The next open-mic
performer shaking off the jitters and taking the stage.
Me, I was already relaxing. Talking at a
picnic table out in the beer garden, going inside to hear my friend Lisa Fancher play with Clyde,
smiling, laughing, enjoying the day. Everyone was talking about Dr.
Danger, a sort of performance artist/ stunt man/ professional pyromaniac who
was planning to set himself on fire at sundown. And his girlfriend,
Mighty Aprhrodite. I didn’t quite get the details, and what details I did
get I couldn’t quite process. I was a little high from all the adrenalin
being drained out of my body. The buzz about Dr. Danger was just part of
the rumble and roar that filled the air. Everyone was happy. I felt
like I was back in old Austin. Back when it really did seem remarkable
that the country music of my parents’ generation -- music that was born and
raised in honky tonks and road houses like Twin Creeks Hall -- was synching in
perfect harmony to the music of my generation. And we were all in cahoots
to defy genre and discount the barriers that might seem to separate us.
 |
| Austin 1973. |
The sun had just gone down when Mike took the open mic stage at Twin Creeks Hall. Unfortunately, that was the time Dr. Danger had set for pyrotechnics. I wish I could describe that event for you, but I can’t because I didn’t see it. When the first flames shot up over the fence that blocked my view of Dr. Danger and Mighty Aphrodite, who staged their performance in the parking lot, I instinctively turned with everyone else to run outside and watch, but I noticed immediately that Adam stayed where he was – in front of the stage, feet rooted to the ground, watching Mike play his first song. I looked back at Adam. I can't say that the look he gave me was judgmental but it didn’t have to be. His rootedness in front of our friend who, remember, was playing at his first open mic ever was judgment enough. Adam knew where he belonged. I slowed my steps and – I have to admit, reluctantly – came back to stand next to Adam to watch Mike's heroic performance. Mike paused for a moment after his first song to smile quizzically at the flames shooting up higher and higher over the fence and then forged on. Of the 75 to 100 people who were at Twin Creeks Hall at that moment, Adam and I were the only ones watching Mike. Everyone else had rushed into the parking lot or were standing on benches and tables to look over the fence. From what I understand, Dr. Danger did set himself and his girlfriend on fire – they were under the flames I could see over the fence -- but because they were wearing some effective flame retardant gear, they didn’t go up in smoke. The whole thing only lasted about as long as Mike’s three songs. Which Adam loyally watched. I’ve already admitted my vulnerability to peer pressure and my instinct to leave Mike the moment the fire started so I can’t get away with claiming instinctive loyalty myself. I was just doing what Adam did. I’ll claim it as a learning moment though. It was a great exercise in resisting the lure of spectacle – like stunt immolation – to keep my "hands on the wheel of something that’s real.” Thank goodness because I don't have any regrets about missing Dr. Danger's and Mighty Aphrodite's performance but I would have some if I'd missed Mike's.
Mike posted on Facebook the next day that he had played his
first open mic the night before and that only two people had set
themselves on fire. He’s a card.
We stayed for the rest of the show. Talk about relaxed. By then we were all three as high as a mother
who’s just survived labor and has a cooing baby to show for it. Bob Cheever, Chris Wall, and Will Callery.all
three put on a great show which was just more icing on an already perfect cake. Truth is, though, Mike, Adam, and I would've had a good time kicking cans in a junkyard at that point.
As we walked to the car at the end of it all, Adam asked me if I was glad I had played. I said I was. Of course. In fact I was bursting with pride. On top of everything else Chris Wall and Will Callery and Bob Cheever had all told me I sounded great. Then Adam said, “You know there were two kinds of people here today. Those who played songs, and those who didn’t. You were one of the ones who played songs.”
Sometimes I make the mistake of thinking about the shortfall in life -- feeling guilty that I didn’t start writing songs earlier, that I’m not as good as someone else, that I’m not young, that I’m slow, that I can’t play the guitar better, that I can't hit the high notes, that I'm only playing in an open mic, that I’m not famous or even almost famous. The list can go on and on, but on the drive home Adam said something else that sticks with me. He said we were lucky that we weren't already successful as songwriters. He said, if we were successful or famous or even just recognized, we wouldn’t be getting to try for that now. We wouldn’t get to have the day we’d just had at Twin Creeks Hall. Sure, Bob Cheevers, Chris Wall, and Will Callery had had a good day, but was it as good as ours had been? Who would be willing to trade anything for the day we'd just had?
It’s now over a year later, and Twin Creeks Hall's fundraiser seems to have been the kick off of a new chapter in my life. I seem to have survived what was a very rough patch for me and to have emerged into a day that is full of music and sunlight and friends who stand close when I’m most afraid of going up in smoke.
It's been a year full of songs and circles and growing in new directions. At the end of it all I'm mixed up in a community of musicians and collaborators who seem to be the very pulse of creativity. One of the things that’s come to pass is that Adam and I are launching a new open mic of our own. At Tom’s Tabooley. We begin this coming Thursday night and have high hopes for creating an open mic that is as supportive to songwriters and performers as that open mic at Twin Creeks Hall was to us last spring.
As we walked to the car at the end of it all, Adam asked me if I was glad I had played. I said I was. Of course. In fact I was bursting with pride. On top of everything else Chris Wall and Will Callery and Bob Cheever had all told me I sounded great. Then Adam said, “You know there were two kinds of people here today. Those who played songs, and those who didn’t. You were one of the ones who played songs.”
Sometimes I make the mistake of thinking about the shortfall in life -- feeling guilty that I didn’t start writing songs earlier, that I’m not as good as someone else, that I’m not young, that I’m slow, that I can’t play the guitar better, that I can't hit the high notes, that I'm only playing in an open mic, that I’m not famous or even almost famous. The list can go on and on, but on the drive home Adam said something else that sticks with me. He said we were lucky that we weren't already successful as songwriters. He said, if we were successful or famous or even just recognized, we wouldn’t be getting to try for that now. We wouldn’t get to have the day we’d just had at Twin Creeks Hall. Sure, Bob Cheevers, Chris Wall, and Will Callery had had a good day, but was it as good as ours had been? Who would be willing to trade anything for the day we'd just had?
It’s now over a year later, and Twin Creeks Hall's fundraiser seems to have been the kick off of a new chapter in my life. I seem to have survived what was a very rough patch for me and to have emerged into a day that is full of music and sunlight and friends who stand close when I’m most afraid of going up in smoke.
It's been a year full of songs and circles and growing in new directions. At the end of it all I'm mixed up in a community of musicians and collaborators who seem to be the very pulse of creativity. One of the things that’s come to pass is that Adam and I are launching a new open mic of our own. At Tom’s Tabooley. We begin this coming Thursday night and have high hopes for creating an open mic that is as supportive to songwriters and performers as that open mic at Twin Creeks Hall was to us last spring.
Sign up is at 6:30.
We start at 7 and go until 10.
Tom's Tabooley
(512) 479-7337
2928 Guadalupe St
Austin, TX 78705
Tom's Tabooley
(512) 479-7337
2928 Guadalupe St
Austin, TX 78705
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