Saturday night at 36 Handles in El Dorado Hills, where Euphemism’s Prism played its first quasi-post-pandemic gig, was the setting for the performance of some musical magic that helped me understand more deeply what I’ve thought of forever as a binary choice. Music is either a) live or b) recorded—I’m not counting music written on the page as “music,” though my bracketing of sheet music is arbitrary, I realize. Literate musicians do “hear” music through their eyes as they read it, but I’ll leave that avenue for later.
Even a week before the gig, magic happened. I own an electric 12 string guitar built almost two decades ago, one of only 1,000 to have been built by a master builder. I’ve wanted to get my hands on another one, but they show up for sale but rarely, and finding one at a brick and mortar would be like a needle in a haystack. But a swimming pool blue prs custom 22/12 showed up in my browser—in Virginia just a hop, skip, and jump from the master’s factory in Maryland. I bought it for a reasonable dollar, got it on Thursday before the gig at 36 H, and played it that night. It turned out to be have impeccable frets, very minor blemishes, and a lush sound that reached my ears like an old friend. There is some work to do on the tone control, but nothing big. There’s a photo here somewhere.
This particular gig was different from my first gigs following widespread vaccination. The initial ones had familiar friends and family in the audience. This was the real deal. When I played with the UnDuLaTiOnS, Bob, the band leader, encouraged me to talk with people in the audience during our breaks, as he did. He said it helps the music. So at 36 H that’s what I did.
Several small groups, families, some with young children, and couples stopped in for dinner; so during breaks I visited each table and asked how the music was for them. Several responded with a song they liked. “That Tom Wait’s song you did was really good,” a dad said. “I’ve always liked Tom Waits but you never hear him out like this.” A mom told me about a one-man band like mine she’d heard not long ago in Florida. “You sound like him,” she said. “He played by himself but sounded like a whole band. He sounded good, but your voice is way better.” Her son chimed in: “He was good, but sometimes it sounded like he was out of tune.” I felt for this one-man band. It’s tough to cover it all when the only voice around is your own.
”Tell the bartender you like this band,” I said with a smile. “I want to come back. The acoustics are great, and I’m getting good vibrations. Hey, I know how easy it is to slip out of tune. I’ll keep my mic mechanic dialed in as much as I can. Thanks so much for the feedback. I’m so happy you like it. I’ll see you again.”
In a booth tucked away at the end of a narrow room I stopped to talk with Michelle and Dante. I’d noticed Michelle from across the bar while I was playing. She sometimes sang along. They said they live in the area, and they wanted to know my next gig date. “I love live music,” Michelle said. “You sound good.” “Michelle’s got a great voice if you can get her to sing,” Dante said. “Really?” I said. Something convinced me that I’d heard a truth. “Why don’t you email me with a song you’d like to sing and next time I’m here you can sing it.”
”Can we buy you a drink?” they asked.
“Aw, thanks. I appreciate it, but I’m drinking water tonight. I do have a tip jar.”
I played some more. Sometime later I saw Michelle walk to the tip jar and wrap some bills in a scrap of paper and put it in the jar. Find a photo of the note they left me below.
As I was packing up, I reflected on the conversations. It was all good, and even if it hadn’t been, it would have been valuable. Bob was right: Talking to your audience does help the music. I’d learned that covers of non-hit singles would be ok; the guy liked Tom Waits. I’d learned that it is possible for me to be a lead singer, something I had rejected my entire adult life as a performing guitarist in perpetual search of a vocalist. I could sing some harmony, but I wasn’t the guy to front the band. From Dante and Michelle, I learned that at bottom any philosophizing about live vs recorded music didn’t apply when downbeat came on. The real magic slips in between the songs and the right now, the now tonight, this moment’s song, this booth near the back in the shadows, Michelle and Dante.
They had had a bad week, suffered a loss. They had come expecting to eat some great food and have a glass of wine or a beer, and they did, but they also found joy and light and even love in this live music backed by an iPad. The whole idea is humbling and exhilarating. Why pursue this second childhood dream of a band-in-a-box or music on a bun? Because of moments of joy and light and love…
…moments of magic.
What an awesome story! This is what music is all about.
I think so, too, Linda. This is what makes the work of the musician so satisfying.