Last night I went to the coffeehouse at which I’ve been playing (after a fashion) music for the last few years. This is not a grandiose thing. It’s a church basement. Two bucks at the door, open mic, lots of folks bring a tray. But joy is where you find it.
The ringleader of this musical congeries, a gentleman named Rich, who plays marvelous guitar, sent an email a week ago to a horn player named Russ and me with the chords to that exegesis of 20th Century smooth rock, the Atlanta Rhythm Section’s Spooky. Later he sent us a rough chart for the arrangement and I spent a week working on my book and occasionally practicing the tune.
I arrived early and Rich and I ran through it. Russ showed up a bit late and there was no time for another run-through. He looked at me with some concern and resignation.
I have to tell you, the performances at these things have gotten better since I started going. Not that I think I had anything to do with that—let me be clear immediately about that, this is serendipity, I ain’t that good—but I have noted that fewer karaoke performers step up now than when I began and there are more musicians. Some of them real musicians.
There is a drummer now. Last night she brought her new kit.
For whatever reason, last night was mostly ensemble. I got to play on a few (we did Nights In White Satin, with a very good floutist) and it just…
Well, the groove was there. And when we started doing Spooky it really seemed to come together, because suddenly we had a drummer laying down a very good line, and just like that I felt transported back to when…
Not to get too overworked about this. We had fun! I did. You know how I can tell I was playing somewhat better than normal? Because it is now the next day and I cannot remember a single line I played. It is the case that when I play fairly well, I never remember what I played. When I play badly, I remember every damn note.
Russ played trumpet well.
Weather kept a lot of people home. So for a very select audience, last night was a bit of cool music they can tell everyone else they shouldn’t have missed.
Thirty-five years ago I stopped playing, for variety of reasons, and didn’t touch a keyboard for seven or eight years. (I noodle on guitar and that never stopped.) I have forgotten a tremendous amount. This once-a-month gig gives me a chance to pretend to be a musician again and my efforts seem appreciated. Last night someone said that listening to me was better than toking on a doobie, which is a first for me in terms of compliment. At least, I took it as a compliment. It’s nice to sit down and feel the vibe like that again.
But mostly, it’s just a lot of fun.