A Gain in Gainesville, Day 2

Immediately after Christmas, I wandered about Gainesville to see if trying to book gigs in person would yield better results than the failed calling and emailing. I booked two gigs in the thirty minutes. Granted, the first I booked, for the Civic Media Center, was canceled when the other artist, Mark Miale, had to back out, but happily the other went on. I would play at The Warehouse, a "Restaurant & Lounge" in downtown Gainesville owned by a long time family friend, a man of many talents who'd been a University of Florida Mathematics Professor, run an auto shop and now opened this restaurant which has been performing splendidly. We arranged for a standard restaurant gig, playing in a small recess across from the bar and facing the patrons. I'd play two hours on New Years Eve before the party planned there at 9:30, headlined by Heavy Petty with four fabulous singer/songwriter's in the lineup as well.

So the plan was written. The actual night did not go so smoothly. When I arrived they were quite behind schedule setting up the stage and bar areas in the back. We set to trying to make the PA function with inputs for a time. After agonizing minutes with no results, they took me to play on the stage out back. The mic stands they promised were missing, too.

Uncle Yoh'd converted his garage directly into the restaurant, the garage area maintained the same general layout - uninsulated, large garage doors leading to the outside parking lot, ample raised stage at the end facing a mishmash of lower tables, long raised tables, a massive bar area captaining half the remaining space and even a set of movie theatre seats cordoning the area off from the outside to funnel a single entrance. All this rather emphasized the zero-ness of my audience. Every table within the restaurant overflowed with an abundance of guests... but as I couldn't make out the dull roar of their conversations I'm sure I wasn't heard, either.

I jury rigged the two mics they provided me in a fashion I became quite proud of. I retrieved a low chair from a table and a high, round table with stuck to the side. If I hunched a bit in my seat my voice would be directed right at a mic head I edged over the rim, pinched between two tumblers. One of these tumblers also served as a weight for the other mic, sitting on top of the wire while the mic dangled below, a few inches from the guitar. This mic created some very minor feedback issues (no sharp high pitched sounds, just a growing drone), but in the silence between songs, so I made a point to take very short breaks. I started singing as soon as I found the mics satisfactory to now two bartender audience.

The back area filled in quite quickly after that, a couple parties arrived early or used the space as a waiting area. I'd prepared a set list of mostly oldies for the restaurant clientele, but at least in the beginning I abandoned it for more pop covers - my audience ranged from twenty to mid thirty and I expected Jim Croce may have bored them. After a while the small audience my mother brought finished their supper and joined me, too - they began making requests off the lists I'd printed to set on the tables (but never ended up using), predictably ticking off all the Simon & Garfunkel and Beatles numbers before moving on to the Eagles and such. I remained ever conscious of the youth of the primary audience, however, so I snuck in a Hey Ya and a She's So High in there every now and again. The latter earned me a profound ovation from the now full center long table, led by a lonely looking late twenties man with a shirt, a tie and a sad encouraging smile.

With my small seed audience of seven applauding after songs, others began to join in, too. Something like bystander effect, I suppose, combined with the inevitable running out of small talk forcing the patrons to watch me as a less awkward object of attention than their silently struggling for witticism companions. I began to say "Thank you"s. By my final song, the song of the day, my allergy wracked voice had nearly quit, I'd inhaled four or five tumblers full of water provided me by my brother, and the absurd mic stand contraption hadn't yet toppled. I felt comfortable up there, then, though the patrons gave me flashbacks of my high school, populated by same wealthy nothing-to-do-let's-party-unaware-of-our-privilege ilk. I even recognized a few.

After I finished up, however, Brent and I remained for just a few songs by the main acts. The crowd returned to chattering and ignoring their entertainers, who visibly paled to such treatment but played beautifully regardless. They'd warm up in time, I thought, but till then, I had some video games waiting for me at home. When I returned a few days later to collect my compensation I expected a moderate three digit sum, musicians often love New Years Eve for it's famed tripling power - $100 turns to $300, magically - but such was not to be. As it turned out, 1/6 of my earnings came courtesy of a generous tip from the mother of my childhood friend. As I write this I manage to brush off my disappointment, though, since it looks so much larger occupying the same format as my standard busking wages.

Earnings: $60, 2 hours
Audience: ~25
Song of the Day: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole

A Gain in Gainesville, Day 1.5

I tend to forget to take photographs while home (or when I was at Yale, for that matter). Two of my cousins visited Gainesville for the days leading up to Christmas, and we took them wandering about to see it. Now, as my friends Laura and Christine have averred, Gainesville is such a pathetic little town that when a new Publix (grocery store) opens, everyone's talking about it and visiting it and such. One thing we do have going for us, however, is a very distinct and relatively unspoilt ecosystem which I've largely taken for granted or despised for its effects on my sinuses. Through grade school "exploring" these creeks and parks with Laura and later Shannon was one of favorite pastimes. Carrie and Karen were likely natured out by the end of their four day stay. I'll let an abbreviated photo essay explain from here.

Elementary schooler: "Is that the Gator Parking Lot, Daddy?" Paynes Prairie.

Devil's Millhoper.

Karen at Biven's Arm.

Biven's Arm.

Poe Springs.

Paddington

Baughman Center, Lake Alice.


Pengwin.

A Gain in Gainesville, Day 1 by Anuradha Pandey

Anuradha kindly acquiesced to write a guest post for me about an Open Mic I played last week, 12.27.10, at the Laboratory in Gainesville. She arrived at around 10:45, so I'll quickly recap the ridiculousness of the first hour. "Tom Miller's Summer Unspectacular" is an extremely eclectic Open Mic he's been running in various incarnations for twenty five years in Gainesville. He ran the show completely in front of the scenes, with long between act interludes and bucking the schedule entirely (the first two acts weren't even on the list). He'd keep repeating, extremely drunk, "You get what you payed for," an especially commonly recurring phrase during the first half hour when he wandered about stage with a rotund pal doing horrible standup comedy, the only bit I remember being something about Hitler.

Tom welcomed a "Reverend Angel Dust" to the stage, an older stayed-too-long-in-Gainesville man who preceded to read very irreverant and uber-liberal-Christianity-is-to-be-mocked-make-fun-of-the-government poetry with frequent "Amen"s and "Praise Jamba"s. He threw Tom into loud drunken raptures repeating the line "Nuidity is not lewidity." The rest of the very long poem redundantly spoke of his solution to the war: "If we were all high on Afghani keef no one would be killing each other."



The rest, I leave to Anu writing and Milana's photodocumentation:

Gainesville is a small town, the town in which Terrence and I were thrown together during high school and where we still meet from time to time. We don't talk very often when he's away, which is for most of the year. I spend the entire year in Gainesville because I still go to school here, but I make no secret of envying the friends of mine who have gone out into the world and left Gainesville behind as a repository for childhood memories. I still live there, but maybe one day I'll get out. Maybe. Terrence, though, has gotten out without a care for what's going to happen tomorrow and without the security that I have made a requirement before I venture out. I've admired him for having the bravery to do what he does, which is stir the emotions of strangers while expecting basically nothing in return.

Back to Gainesville. On a random Tuesday over winter break, I found myself at the Laboratory to watch Terrence sing at their open mic night. It's funny how there are still places I haven't gone to in Gainesville after living here for twenty years. The Laboratory is one such place that captures Gainesville's weird underbelly. Sure, all small towns are probably weird, but we often think that ours is the weirdest. Or close.



When I got there, an older man was singing rather badly, and had apparently preceded the oldies song I walked in on with three also badly sung French numbers. This was weird, and perhaps a strange place for Terrence to sing. Then CineMike came on to amaze us with his boundless movie knowledge. Legend had it that he could connect any two actors ever. A short younger man, perhaps part of Gainesville's hipster crowd, dressed in a long coat and a bowtie (whom I recognized the following week at the locally-owned supermarket), challenged CineMike with a seemingly impossible connection. Clark Gable and Lassie.

Then a nervous looking girl named Natalie and a dude named Evan did a duet, which was lovely. The only non-weird act of the evening aside from Terrence. It was a nice break from the monotony of CineMike, who was not amusing. After that we thought Terrence was going to go on, but alas. Our expectations were thwarted by a long introduction for a man in a full crushed purple velvet suit with velvet tiger stripe lapels and tiger stripe pant pocket detailing, topped off with a paper bag mask and a Santa hat. He had a small disco ball set up on a chair behind him and kind of shuffled around to a remix of "Stayin' Alive." It was kind of like a single line painted on a canvas that the artist might insist was "deep."

"Frog"

Tuning

Then, finally, we got to Terrence. He was nervous, but he didn't sound it. One of the original numbers, "From Dawn to Busk," reminded me to stop caring so much about security in life. Do we need to always know? His voice was soothing. I regretted not keeping in touch with him better at that moment, inexplicably. Of his covers, "Hey Ya" is still my favorite number. I think Terrence might have been the most legit act there. The audience was responsive, though we later decided that it wasn't the best place for him to get exposure. It consisted mostly of older people, and Terrence was followed by a "bellydancer" who was mostly alright and could have been mistaken for pregnant. Sometimes you need to sing in your hometown in an open mic night and share the stage with CineMike and a bearded man in a crushed purple velvet suit with tiger stripe lapels, as the audience drinks beer out of beakers. Terrence defies society. And what it is to be stereotypically Asian. I'm trying to learn how to do that, too.


What a wonderful audience.

P.S. A gem I can't leave out: The old man who sang first who went by "Wahoo" was asked his age by the audience after he blamed the lackluster reception to the generation gap. He responded: "I'm half a blowjob shy of sway sant noof." (soixant neuf)

Song of the Day: Hey Ya - OutKast

Done For in Denver, Day 4.5

As an addendum to the first American leg of the journey, I'd like to include a sampling of what riding the infamous East Colfax bus - 15 or 15L - yields on late nights. During the... show I rummaged in my bag for my journal to jot some notes and the quiet young man made as if to get up to let me off. I told him what I was up to, saying, "This stuff... it's pure gold. Put a writer on this bus every night and what a book they could write." I still hold to that. Anyone game?

Three stops in and a shifty looking man shuffles aboard. The bus driver watches patient while the man fumbles bills slow wrinkled wrong ended into the machine. His eyes dart about - quick and alert despite an inebriation that robs his arms and legs of coordination as he flops into the seat nearest the door. Head all his, under his control, eyes and ears and mouth and neck, even, but separate from a collapsed body, twirling hands conducting an unseen drunk orchestra, legs in a mini-Elvis seizure. For two stops he observes everyone. A glint of cool appraisal lit with a spark of insanity.

Two men walk straight past the driver without paying, but the driver calls out, "You, yes YOU, get back here. No no no no no... Come. Come. Two dollars. Two dollars. Uh uh. Riiight. Suuure. Two. Dollars. And you sir. Sir!" And they pay, and the riders grumble loudly about "That's what's wrong with this country is that everyone wants a free ride." or "What's the big deal it's late and cold and we just want to get home. That bus driver..." But never do they argue, somehow they agree and the young black women in the back make sassy abuses of driver and riders alike. Our shifty eyed gentleslob revels in the lively chaos. His shoulders lift, slowly, marshalling the slow slow process of sending a signal to his mouth.

He's a loud voice. Sharp tenor with the rumblies of a low bass only possible after copious smoking and beers. Sort of that rough poor-white-guy-with-tattoos-from Boston (Denver) who could could be on the Jets from West Side Story or a yes man on the Beat It video. The scruff around on his chin and cheeks and upper neck from however many days or hours - for I have never shaved and have no guage - has the character of a porcupine as he bellows:

"Does anyone on this bus want to make seventy five THOUSAND dollars?" Slurred and ponderous "thousand" each word tumbling into the next, falling elephant into elephant. "Does anyone want to make seventy five THOUSAND dollars? I'm talking seventy five THOUSAND dollars. That's a lot of money. That's a lot of motherFUCKING money."

The chatter dims to the crash of surf.

"All you have to do is call this number and work really FUCKING hard. I mean, really FUCKING hard. FUCKING hard. I mean... I'm not talking Wal-Mart. I'm not talking being a waiter or Best Buy. I'm not even talking no FUCKING truck driving. I'm talking... you need to work really FUCKING hard. Just call this number."

And the digits come even slower as his eyes twist in on themselves trying to read off a phone his hands keep bringing closer and further away. "Seven Oh One. Six... Five Six Six. Six Seven... Oh Four. THAT's SEVEN oh ONE. FIVE SIX SIX. SIX SEVEN OH four. All you have to do is Call this number. Work really fucking hard."

Perhaps he'd have quieted on his own. The gaggle of black girls jeered and laughed, "What's that? I didn't get it?" And he repeated, louder, slower, sharper, unaware. "I didn't hear you. Say what? Seven Oh WHAT?" Desperate giggles, catty "Oh no he didn't"s, keening "Ahhhh sheet this is too much"s.

A bald fat man behind me holds his phone high as he begins to dial along to the fourth incantation. His companion wonders, "Are you crazy, man?"

"No," Amiably, "I'm just curious where it goes."

"Good luck with that." Smiling back.

A thin, ragged woman with the coal black staring eyes, destroyed wispy hair and pallid, dead skin one reads in books about the undead, "What's this number for, man?"

"Oil drilling!" He'd just begun to quiet, arms starting to still from their angry profanity emphases, "If you can throw a hammer wrench as FUCKING" and it's back, "hard as I can you can make Seventy Five THOUSAND dollars."

From the back, "I can't believe it. He's advertising on a bus. For serious?" And something about a chinchilla.

"Oh, it's a job." The middle left side, an old lady smiling bemusedly.

"That's a SHIT TON of money! Motherfucking seventy five Thousand dollars! Yes you gotta work. And you gotta work really FUCKING hard... Hey, half this bus is flack folks and you guys is Strong, man, not like us white folks..."

"Oh no he didn't."

And it continues ten more stops down East Colfax while our driver radios for security who remove him from the bus, still screaming the number, the profanity thicker, louder, less intelligible, the eyes duller, limbs completely unpowered by the adled brain, dragged into the bracing cold by Monaco Street onto the soft snow covered cement shoulder above a gutter drain, limp and confused suddenly as his feet quit the bus, held up by the shoulders like a puppet as we accelerated slowly away. The flourescents within the bus shone bright as ever, the girls laughed and whooped and discussed chinchillas and the bus driver allowed myself the shadow of a smile.

Song of the Day: Mad World - Tears for Fears

Denver or Busk

Busking in the States - if one means to travel - is decidedly impossible. Two factors, mainly, conspire towards this effective ban on the troubadour lifestyle: attitudes towards people on the street and prices/distances of travel between cities. Let's tackle the first one. The United States is BIIIIIG. Like, super big. Like gobble Europe up and squish it in a couple states and lose it in the belly button lint big. Capitalism's king, duh, so even the close distances are negated by inversely proportional costs of local travel and living. Boston, New York and New Haven are all rather close to each other, and only there did I make back my travel costs. New England's incredibly expensive, though. Denver's got a low cost of living but a high cost of getting-to/from.

Now, I'll come clean and say I knew and expected the stereotypes of American lack of generosity from the get-go, and so that subconscious knowledge may have skewed my performances or the Universe or something a la The Secret. And did I mention it's been cold? That said, even my low expectations failed to prepare me for the amount of money I'd bleed on the first American leg of the busking journey. Enough that I'm wondering where I'll find money for the proposed second leg. 51st and Lexington Station's Larry commented on it, mentioning how his tips had plummeted after May. The blues guitarist in Denver told me my three dollars in half an hour was par for the course. Even Maria's absurd ex-roommate, the one who claimed to generally earn "About sixty dollars in a few minutes, but I don't do it much, maybe I'm a good busker, I don't know I just bring my A-game everytime since I don't go out much and I'm all excited and right when I start someone likes me and gives me a couple twenties or something and then I'm done for the day, you know the last time I went out in Austin this man gave me a hundred dollars he must have liked my music, but yea, I tried busking downtown here and I got nothing, or else I'd just do that and get the money for rent you know."

The looks I get in America and the relative dearth of smiles - perhaps it's also the length of my hair now, or, again, the cold - greatly, greatly outweighs that in Europe. Maybe I had the luxury of not understanding people's sarcastic and snide and cruel-intentioned comments there but I certainly didn't mistake their general moods. The States are like Oslo earnings with old Gdansk audiences on the best of days. We're also missing dollar coins here - I think the fact that two euros (or twenty crowns or fifty crowns or five zloty or two lira) is a single coin really helped, too. My gig was a free affair as well, and it now seems that all of Gainesville's Open Mics shut down "a while back." All this to say - Terrence is broke.

Much of this could be expected, what with the stated purpose of this leg of the journey - to get to Maria and make a record. Making a record is always an investment, and Maria's too poor for me to take meals off of. (She rejoined this assertion with, "Aww, you didn't have to say that!") I already feel awkward and strange doing that off the rather employed of my friends. As I'm now away from the music and mixing process, lacking a computer to carry the files with me and the knowledge to know what to do with them anyhow, I've but to hope and pray Maria will create a fabulous set of records out of the bits we recorded. Then, perhaps, I can recoup some of the losses. Thanks, Maria.

Boston, MA:

Charlie Card, two swipes: $3.40
Charlie Ticket: $2.00
Bus to New York: $12.50
Water: $1.68

Total: $19.58
Earnings: $33.05
Net: +$13.47

US NET: +$13.47
TOTAL NET: -$101.03

New York, NY:

7-day Metro Card: $27.00
Metro Card: $10.20
Metro North to New Haven $14.00

Total: $51.95
Earnings: $41.54
Net: -$10.31

US NET: +$3.11
TOTAL NET: -$111.34

New Haven, CT:

Train to Chicago: $83.30

Total: $87.10
Earnings: $21.50
Net: -$65.60

US NET: -$62.49
TOTAL NET: -$157.94

Chicago, IL

3-day Chicago Card: $14.00
1-day Chicago Card: $5.75
Strings: $14.99
Train to Denver: $82.45

Total: $117.19
Earnings: $62.76
Net: -$54.43

US NET: -$116.92
TOTAL NET: -$212.37

Denver

10 ticket book: $18.00
2 bus tickets: $4.00
Groceries: $59.08
Thanksgiving contribution: $11.32
Harry Potter 7, Part I ticket: $10.50
U147 Mic Rental: $60.00
Flight to Gainesville: $106.00

Total: $263.90
Earnings: $3.00
Net: -$260.90

US NET: -$371.82
US NET excepting flight home: -$265.82
TOTAL NET: -$473.34
TOTAL NET excepting flight home: -$367.24
TOTAL NET excepting nothing: -$1886.93

Done For in Denver, Day 4

Before I write anything else, I'd like to note that Maria and I have updated the recording of Kids we posted online, as the old one was... of lesser quality. The link is here.

This past Tuesday (12.14.10), I played at the MeadowLark Open Stage in downtown Denver, after wrapping recording on a rather harried night Monday afternoon. Funnily enough, my voice decided to feel alright on the last two days - perhaps I'd gotten accustomed to the dog fur? Regardless, what you can all expect from me is an EP of seven originals and a live album of nineteen covers. They'll come out... Soon™ (Blizzard). If you didn't get that you're not as geeky as I am. That's not hard. If you did, let me know, eh? I just arrived home in Gainesville for the holidays, so I'm leaving the mixing in the very capable hands of Maria.

Back to the MeadowLark. I'm an extremely awkward person in Bars and Cafes and such - especially when I know no one. This didn't change when I walked in. I basically wandered about looking lost till I found out where the sign up sheet was from another loner looking type named Paul. No one'd signed up before him and I wasn't eager to do so myself - I ended up fifth in the list and tried to settle down for my turn. While we waited for the organizers to set up mics and things I whiled away the time with a drawing of Paul.



He later told me he moved often intentionally, since he knew I was drawing him. Cheeky bastard. After his three song set - soft muted vocals murmured directly into the mic and big strumming patterns on his guitar, no eye contact with the audience - in short your general singer/songwriter type deal - great guitar playing in chord choice, bad sense of balance and cheesy lyrics, I wandered over to his seat admit that I indeed drew him, earlier. This sparked a little conversation with him and a couple who'd joined the table, so I joined happily and voila. Allies!

Paul during his set.

Next up the fabulous, soulful Teresa Storch originally hailing from Boston, MA stole the stage. After my set I'd find out she'd been a professional busker there for a number of years. She'd offer me wonderful advice on booking gigs and the like - recommending me to plant myself in more cafes than bars. I agreed. Her three song set consisted of two originals sandwiching a Patti Griffin cover. Her guitar playing flew naturally with strange funky chords. Her voice never seemed strained - deep and rich and cheerfully painful. She'd smile at the audience, look some of us in the eye... I was captivated. There's just something about female singer/songwriters that males like myself can never approach. Some certain magic and confidence to them.

A small mousy Indian-American man followed her with a truly painful set of songs from his upcoming demo, the release party of which he pitched at the beginning. He'd set up his pickup all wrong such that a sharp high pitched squeak emitted from the speakers with each upstroke. He also had a habit of swaying out in time to his music perpendicularly to the guitar, closer and farther from the mic so that he'd blow it out when he sang close and be inaudible on the opposite end of the pendulum. The sound was so awful that Paul, Mary, Jacob and I took our leave for a "smoke break" midway through the second song.

He was followed by Minneapolis-based A Night in the Box. They intimidated me greatly. I'm almost never very nervous for being on stage, but the bigness of their sound and hugeness of their energy level and professionalism put me off. They played acoustically right up off the stage in the area between that and the bar, walking around and engaging the audience to clap and the like. I didn't find them very talented musically, but what they lacked there they more than made up for in energy level. The lead singer's voice was completely blown (or rather, he couldn't sing nearly as high as he attempted to) but you forgave that because of how hard he was trying and how much bounce and life the band gave. Four people - a violinist, a banjo player/drummer/tambourine-man, a mandolin player/harmonica player and, and the lead singer/guitarist. They sang six songs per an agreement with the establishment, as they were to headline a show the next night. Playing mostly traditional bluegrass music that utilizes the same melody and chords and relies on shouting and participation and density of sound, they owned the crowd. At the end, the lead singer stood on a chair belting at the top of his lungs while the others stomped in time and sang a capella style on the stage behind.

So energetic they're a blur!

I quivered on the way up to the stage for my set. I'd chosen From Dawn to Busk, Squirrel Song and Stamsund for my turn. A distinctly lower energy, simpler sound type deal. I framed it a short explication of my journey. I engaged the audience by looking at them, speaking to them despite my nervousness... but at the end of the night I don't think they really dug me. They cheered after my first song, but after that they started talking a lot amongst themselves. By the last song I felt crushed. Stamsund is a song that's so important to me. It's my best. Interactions like this are the reason it's so hard for me to sing my own songs on the street. That feeling that you're giving something of yourself - something bare and real and no one's listening, no one cares. Like a Jook Songs performance where people laugh at your sadness or disregard your triumphs. Something of a rejection of me.

Perhaps people needed to talk after remaining silent for A Night in a Box's long set. Perhaps - and this I noticed to be true after I sat back and listened - I only noticed the high level of conversation for my own set, since others dealt with high noise levels, too, and I noticed so well because I spoke between my songs - a time of low volume from me that couldn't cover up the chatting. To compound the rejection, however, the duo, MiracleMan, that followed me met with large applause and cheers for their "songs." A thin Thom Yorke doppelganger played head down, hair in the eyes muttering Ramstein esque nonsense babble into a mic while a Dresden Doll type girl banged nonsensically at the drums - replacing finesse with sheer force - and screamed ear piercing atonal shit into her mic. Then they switched and the girl wore a guitar she didnt play while screaming into the upright mic while the guy banged even harder on the drums to no apparent rhythm. It felt like a personal insult.


Apologies for the quality. This should just give a sense.

I stayed for two more performances so as to hear my new friends Mary and Jacob as Cobary Jam. Micah, he singer before them seemed a copy of Glen Hansard - beard and propensity to sing low verses and high, loud passionate choruses, svelte, good natured. Then Cobary Jam. I'm glad I ended the night with that note. They were positively excellent, matching each other very well with a wonderful combined sound that convinced me once again that I'm half of a duo waiting for my other half. The other half that can sing while I write and do backup harmonies - that can strum while I finger pick or solo on the violin. Where are you?

Before my walk through sketchy downtown Denver back to the bus stop, Night in a Box asked me for advice busking downtown, which I happily provided. I suppose I am something of an expert on the vocation, now.



Encouraging Christmas lights downtown.

Song of the Day: From Dawn to Busk - Terrence Ho

Done For in Denver, Day 3.1

Maria did the honor of capturing some of the gig on our pair of shitty cameras. I debated a bit whether or not to post the videos, especially with the annoying fan thing in the background (which was hardly noticeable during the gig) and the fact that the cameras didn't pick up the guitar very well, but I decided I needed a blog post anyways. If you're using headphones, watch out, it clips a bunch. One of these days I'll acquire a real camera (thanks again to Ragnvald for this one, if you're reading) and start a real youtube, eh?

Enjoy :).




Car No. 5


Christiania


A Thousand Post-its


Mario Kart Love Song - Sam Hart

Done For in Denver, Day 3

All photos courtesy of Maria

I had my first gig last night, a solo show at the Mercury Cafe in downtown Denver. It's a distinctly hippie place, full of heavy velvet drapes in lieu of doors, rich purples and greens and reds. I played in the "Jungle Room," a largish place with little dark wood round tables and armchairs with spooled backs, wooden floors, christmas lights of red and yellow strung up along the far side, red drapes cordoning off the kitchen and bar areas, and a modest stage half occupied by an old wooden piano with the strangest keyboard like action. When I contacted the owner about the gig she was distinctly cold and unfriendly to me, but I suppose she let me book it, which was something the other bars/cafes I contacted didn't do. Most of them have yet to respond. Unfortunately it was a free gig, which doesn't help my income any. Then again, were it not I'd have no audience.



The waiter who helped me set up and served me some tea (I failed to take advantage of a free meal because the owner hadn't indicated that was in the cards...) was the most enthusiastic of the waitstaff, coming up to speak to me afterwards, too, telling me I had a good taste in music. A tall, spindly man in hippie rags and long hair and foppish manner. Steve, Maria's roommate, helped me balance the guitar and voice. I stood right up at the edge of the stage so I might see my audience better through the blue-hued shine of stage lights. I knew the vast majority of my audience - seven of the fifteen who stayed for a significant portion of the time. I knew everyone who stayed the whole way through. The waiters and bartenders encouraged me, however, by popping in often to listen at the back.



I was to begin playing at 930PM, and I told the man who'd just shown a hippie conspiracy theory type documentary to stick around, and he did. At 940, with Chris's friends yet absent and Ashley and Henry not yet arrived, either, I decided to just go ahead and begin. Thanks to the monthly recitals "play-ins" my violin teacher mandated for us in my youth, I was only the slightest bit nervous. Right as I began, an late middle-aged coupled stopped on their way upstairs and gave me gentle tips as to how to position my voice mic better. They stayed for a few songs.



I began with Hey Ya to get my energy up. The call and response section didn't meet with much enthusiasm, mostly embarrassed titters - too small of an audience to feel comfortable being so engaged, I suppose. From there I launched into a one and a half hour set list based conceptually around my travels in Europe. I interspersed an equal number of covers and originals as I told of Scandinavia and East Europe and busking in general. Talking felt natural and comfortable. I think I can thank Jook Songs for that. Halfway through my second song, Purple Dress, an annoying buzzing sound began from my left, never quitting for the rest of the show. At about the same time, two cafe patrons sat down nearish the front. This pair of youngish men warmed to me slowly after my energetic Liberta, and by my second to last song they were grinning shyly at me. All my audience was extremely considerate with their silence or hushed, brief conversations. Two engaged couples were in the audience, so I sang them Gotta Have You.



It took some time getting used to hearing my voice out of speakers and out of my own mouth to feel comfortable with my pitch. The coldness of the room also did a number on my guitar strings. A trio of young men joined after a few more songs, and right before Mad World and Mario Kart Love Song, Ashley and Henry joined - perfect timing as these were the two songs she was most looking forward to. Not long after that, Chris's two friends Dan and Hannah joined, and from their expressions they seemed to really dig me. My audience laughed at my stories, comisserated with my telling of racism, stayed engaged throughout my songs. I'd worried before I'd have to cut my set list short but it ended up a fine length. I think the only thing off was occasional problems with my voice - due to allergies, oversinging for recording, etc. - but nothing horrid.



My main flubs came towards the end, as I'd never really thought of how to go about doing that. Though Ashley loved Stamsund, which I closed with, I very awkwardly introduced Steve to play a song after me, and never adequately thanked my wonderful audience. Steve played a great cover of Gypsy Woman on the piano, and that wrapped up our set. I realized as he played that I'd completely forgot to plug myself. The two men had taken their leave during Stamsund, as had the trio in the back. I even forgot to tell the waitstaff anything about how or where to find me. Luckily I remembered in time to jot down the names of six people to contact for the impending release of my EP.

Audience: 15 people, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: Car No. 5 - Terrence Ho

Done For in Denver, Day 2

Unlike in Poland, where my "prolonged" absence - prolonged for my mother, who was convinced I'd been killed, or jailed or something - was due to inability to access the internet and events so intense I had to take a while to process them, here in Denver the lack of posts owes to a lack of events and an excess of internet. Over the last few weeks, Maria and I have been perfecting my originals for recording, which began this past Saturday. Naturally, that leaves no time for busking et al. I've hardly left her house, actually. We've run into rather the gamut of problems. I think we've spent more time fighting with the software than actually recording. That and my allergies or asthma or something have decided that this is the perfect time to rear their heads.

That said, I'd like to share a quick live recording we did just to show the quality difference between it and my rough ones earlier. This cover, of MGMT's Kids earned me one of my memorable experiences in Vienna, when a lovely twenty something girl engaged me in conversation, sharing her blog with me and sending me some music.

We have a few more days to complete recording for both my record and Maria's arrangements. If all goes smoothly from here out I'll have the components necessary for a EP. Don't be alarmed, now, this investment serves my busking designs. Money's been so absurdly difficult throughout my trip (and actually impossible in the States) that I've decided to make something to sell to keep the journey going. Most professional buskers make the majority of their profits off of CD sales. Now that I'll have hopefully two records to sell, one original EP and one of live covers, I hope to be able to continue the journey for many months to come.

Song of the Day: Kids - MGMT

What, I write songs too? Part XIII

If I sound far from the mic for the covers, well I am, compared to my guitar - it was the compromise I decided to make for balance (since my voice carries rather more than my guitar). The recordings Maria and I will begin shortly will, of course, be free of that problem. In other news, literally, I stumbled upon a story on the LA Times which seems rather indicative of the dynamic between street people and "the establishment" if you will, and the general state of honesty. Link here.

I've uploaded:

Leaving on a Jet Plane
Scarborough Fair
Torn
RE: Stacks
How Great is Our God

Maria objected rather strongly to the topic of this song, so it likely won't make the CD. I suppose I wrote it to get the lyrics out. I still like the melody and general feel of the song, so I may rework it in the future... in a less "Woe is me, I'm so bitter" fashion. Many have told me I ought to be a lyricist. They accompany that praise with strong feelings about the (low) quality of my singing. I think I'd agree overall, but I don't know:

1. How to be a lyricist
2. Whether I'm OK not singing my own songs
3. If I can get a lot better at singing

Link here.

Will

It's been a while since I have seen you,
Yet somehow you're still on my mind.
Each cloudless day's too gray to get through,
And oh how swiftly they pass by.

I feel such bitterness about us.
It was you that closed the gap.
Your brokenness just proved contagious,
But unlike you I can't detach.

And not hang on to not just anyone,
To love again. To give.
But my heart breaks slow, I've nowhere to run,
I'm losing the will to live.

They say you're deep beneath my skin,
In every reflex I betray
Just how much you bared me open,
With pretty words that couldn't stay.

I squandered trust and hope inside you,
As number fourteen on your shelf.
And when I wonder what those many do,
I sing hopeless to myself:

Don't hang on to anyone.
Smile again, and give.
But my heart breaks slow, has no strength to run,
I'm losing the will to live.

I fill each moment to forget you,
Finding calm in foreign skies.
And sometimes I'm not even sure who
Keeps me grieving all this time.

If I ever quit this memory vault,
I'll sing softly to myself:

I'll move on and find someone.
I'll love again. I'll give.
May my heart mend whole, turn towards the sun,
I'll smile, I'll cry, I'll live.

I'll live.