Jump on In!

There is an upside to being technically unemployed (or, free lancing, if you will). You have more time for risk. More time to sleep.

This morning I had toast with honey and butter on it.

Not my honey. Not my butter. Not my bread.

Thank you, everyone who contributed. I need to go grocery shopping.

I like to scare myself somewhat frequently so I can write in my blog. Last night I joined a new friend at an obscure barbeque restaurant that does blues open mic nights. You show up, sign your name and your instrument, and the guy with the clipboard just sends you on up. Hanna was bored enough to go with me, and I stuck my flute in my purse, just in case.

It was QUITE different than what I expected. In contrast to most "open mic nights" I've attended, there was no parking space. For blocks. We nervously parked in someone's yard, reparked in another, less conspicuous yard, and shuffled through the dark towards the sounds of blues.

We walked through a bustling patio right in front of a stage surrounded by men in flannel. Flannel was everywhere. Most people seemed to know each other, and I felt the regulars sizing me up. Who's this girl with the flute in her purse? A few people introduced themselves to us. What a welcoming crowd! There was a middle aged man with a gold chain blasting away on his trumpet, while a large and jittery man banged away on the drums. A bass player with waist-long dreadlocks played a six-string bass that would have the Red Hot Chili Peppers impressed. A bearded saxophonist wailed away on a solo, then quit mid-song to walk out and answer a phone call. We stood by the bar, mesmerized at this hidden live music nebula.

We remained invisible until a small, feisty woman twirled onto the stage and started belting out Aretha Franklin. Somehow she singled me out of the crowd, I think it could have been the friendly shove Matt gave me when she shouted into her mic, "LADIES! GET UP HERE!" Between each R-E-S-P-E-C-T she kept beckoning with her finger. She was so relentless that finally I jumped into the pool with my clothes on. I walked up to the stage and grabbed a microphone. I love blues just as much as the next guy. Simple, catchy, soulful, not too complicated and just comfortable enough. I'm not so great with the words but I can get into some Motown. I love any reason to sing/yell into a mic. And afterwards, I think I made a few new friends.

Some of my favorite mini-dramas on stage included the older man with a Hawaiin shirt and ankle-cropped socks, bobbing his head like a turtle climbing out of the pond while he played his guitar. My favorite was when he got so irritated with the younger businessman (still in work clothes?) playing a solo over top of HIS solo that he just shook his long neck, mumbled "FINE YOU TAKE IT" into the mic, and glared, slightly bent over, as the nervous second-stringer plucked away on his high notes. The drummer behind them, sporting a camo baseball cap and a dirty tee shirt, dutifully kept up the rhythm through the guitar battle. My ears started to pop.

At last, at 11:20, Matt and I were summoned onto the stage. At this point all my terror at being in a new environment had subsided, I felt like I had acquired some new dads who would support me, and everyone seemed excited about the new wind instrument. The guitarist, "British Charlie" as he accurately named himself, leaned over to tell me what key each song was in. Thanks Charlie. I could barely hear myself and it wasn't until he nodded at me to solo that I noticed what notes I was playing. Thankfully all that religious scale practicing in highschool is still somewhere in the shelves of my brain. I remember falling asleep at night, fingers moving in my head, playing up and down the chromatic scale. Like riding roller coasters all day, getting in bed, and still feeling like you're on one. My confidence kept growing with every solo and by the last song, I was piping out squeaks and buzzes with a complete disregard to all the techniques I had been trained in. There's a blissful disconnect between the soothing majesty of wind instruments in orchestral music, and the raw, scratchy blasts of Ian Anderson from Jethro Tull. I think I might continue this throwing it to the wind business. Aren't all artists waiting for the point where they can set loose from their teachers?

I was honored to meet some of the other musicians I did. Anyone who plays a saxophone so beautifully that I want to crawl inside of it and feel every note gets my approval. Although I forgot most of the names. I was too nervous.

Another note on doing things that are scary. I forgot to mention that I live in the ghetto. I've met lots of new people and our neighbors are very friendly. Two guys walking home from school yesterday asked Hanna, "We can come in?" A guy riding by on a bike later asked us where the party was and if he could come. My neighbors across the street saw my guitar and invited me up to their porch. I am slightly nervous that I can't quite get my key to open the door in a timely manner, but as long as rent stays this low I can't complain! It's also fun fitting all of your things into half of a bedroom. My candy (and yes I have a stash- have you seen the post-Easter sales?) is in my pajama drawer, and I stowed my flute away with my tank tops.

I'm not sure what the next adventure will be. I do know one thing- if I stay in my house all evening like I did tonight, there can't be one!