Tuesday 12 June 2012

The Me(n) Who Inspire(d) Me

Another tale of a long weekend, and this time I was the protagonist of every good 80's romantic comedy. I got the job and the girl, relatively speaking. I had my time up in the most heavenly place on earth, the camp, and I got to come home and run what turned into the best yet open mic night.

I find myself saying this often, that this week's show was the best it's ever been. This leads me to believe that at some point a small plateau period will occur, and sooner or later a string of nights will get middle child syndrome.

This is a theater term for the second, and second-to-last performance of a show. It hasn't the excitement of a debut or the bittersweet, heart-wrenching finality of the last night, so it becomes a little self-unaware. I know this is imminent with my show, but on a weekly basis so far we've had every night measure against the others as better than the one before in a new way every time. The factors that made this week so special had to do with how every element came together so well.

I had set three goals this weekend. The first was the introduce my relationship to the camp, my home, the truest of spaces on this earth where I can perfectly envision my past and future and make sense of all that swirls in the head of the ever-metaphorical musician. I got my moment at the end of the dock looking out at the horizon I grew up on, which has changed both of its own accord, and seemingly to my whim, bending to provide whatever it was I needed it to show me at any given moment.

I also got to bust out some sick tunes with my dad. So bonus on that.

The last was that I would be able to make this show somehow stronger and tighter than any others yet, and it turns out that what proved to be my most shining moment came on a night when I was tested in every aspect of my role in this machine I've built. Just like cars in soviet russia, sometimes the car drives you. This week was a testament to the fact that it still steers me now and then, but I've got the reigns on this beast. Mixing metaphors is fun.

After the night got off later to accommodate for this weather bringing people in as the sun goes down, a few regular players came out and killed it as usual. We had a disgustingly flawless keyboard player who torn to shreds some Ray Charles and got the biggest crowd and applause of any acts since the first night. He very politely asked me if he could return. That was the first moment when I realized how my role as a host had put me in a position to be asked permission for shit. Cool, huh?

Following him, and living up to his performance, were a twosome from a band who plugged in the first acoustic bass we've had and rocked out some raspy dark chocolately Joplin covers and got the crowd on the patio cheering and dancing in their seats. Not bad for a Sunday night at this point. All the while I was on top of controlling the noise after our show two weeks ago that brought a complaint from the neighbors when our 'its just a brush on a snare and a little bit of hi-hat' drummer got a bit too John Bonham (at 12:30 in the morning no less.) Cops came to say hello and tell us everything was cool, we made a rule to keeps drums before 11 from now on, and I turned down her slick vocals a bit to make room for some fluid basslines to drip outside into the street and hopefully lull the neighbors peacefully to sleep instead. This worked too.

As the night went on, a friend showed up with intention to drum as well. I had to break it to him tactfully that we had a new plan for man beat animal skin to make boom boom sound. He was respectfully disappointed, as he should have been, but I made sure he knew I wanted to give him priority space when he could come play before the noise cutoff, and explained that I knew how my parade raining made me kind of the slimy record exec that pulls creative control out from under his bands to appease the venue. Keeping the balance of your acts being happy while respecting what the venue can handle. It's all part of the gig. If you milk the cow dry today, how you gonna have your cereal tomorrow? He laughed, said I was 'alright', the way your favourite aging rock star would have said it , and I felt completely understood as a musician who gets it too, and as the host of this thing that requires attention to every detail.

As the night wrapped up with my co-host, who had spent this weekend away with me and still proves to be my greatest ally in the success of this show to date, we did a couple numbers together that won the approval of some of the best acts to grace that stage for me. She breaks my achy heart every time she sings, and she glad-hands the divas and the duds of every show as I would, as if they all deserve their fifteen minutes under the lights equally, even when we have to be aware of how unequal they really are. Its another odd and scary part of the gig to navigate. I owe her more than I've got for how she's given herself to this show. She turned out to be a decent golfer this weekend too, so bonus again.

When it was all done and I slept sound for a year of a night afterwards, I awoke to the view of paradise, and I simply looked around and viewed it. There came the realization that when you think you've hit the top of something, there comes a clarity that you haven't even begun to see how far up something reaches. Its the scariest excitement I've ever experienced. We don't know which direction we are going, and are certainly showing no signs that we are slowing.

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