After not playing out for nearly a decade, I decided to go down to the open mic at Bar Four last night.
I have many romantic memories of this dimly lit lounge in Park Slope, only a few blocks from where I live. Among them is winding up there at the end of a neighborhood pub crawl, knowing it would stay open past four a.m. in spite of its moniker.
While the ambiance is still in tact, the addition of the stage has not only changed its landscape, it has heightened its vibe. One might say it feels like Williamsburg in the South Slope, but without an air of pretension, which is why I thought I'd give it a shot.
The place was crawling with talented musicians and I wondered if I was in over my head. I already made the mistake of eating a burrito beforehand and although it was tasty, it made me gassy, which is never a smart move prior to having microphones pointed at you. Of course ordering a beer to calm my nerves didn't help.
One of the musicians who played before me ripped off some delta blues reminiscent of Mississippi John Hurt and I wanted to split, just grab my gig bag and take off. After all, the biggest audience I had in the past year was my weeping fig tree and my girlfriend, who usually raises the volume on the TV when I play.
As if sensing my cold feet, the host, Tania Buziak, sought me out and reassured me that I belonged among those present. She confided in me that she still got nervous before playing, even at this, her own open mic. She said she was amazed at the remarkable growth some of the musicians have shown after a few appearances, and then, like casting a stone in a still pond, she reminded me that I was up next.
I grabbed my guitar and headed to the stage where I was greeted by the soundman, who was unaffected by the madness. I told him I can't decide whether to use the high-back chair or the stool, so he made an executive decision to go with the stool and then adjusted the equipment around me. I sat there strumming furiously trying to remember the words to these damn songs I wrote and then the monitors came up and I was off like a prom dress.
Thirty seconds in and I was sweating like a stuck pig. I dared not look at the audience, fearing they'd show me the contempt well known to fat, out of shape strippers who mercilessly solicit lap dances. After the first song, my shirt was soaked through and my mouth was as dry as the Gobi. I looked over my shoulder and winced to find my beer sitting on a ledge, way out of reach. With the adrenaline pumping, I pushed on through the second song, grateful two was the limit.
I finished to the obligatory applause of the crowd and hopped off the stool, eager to get out of Dodge. But before I packed up, the next act took the stage and I did not want to be rude by exiting during their performance. My eyes fixated on the nearby sit-down Galaga video game and a guy walked by me on his way to the bathroom and said, "good song, man."
Between sets I made my way out of the bar and contrasted the relief I felt walking home to the anxiety I felt on my way there. This thing that makes people write music and compels them to perform it is mysterious, but for every hack like me, there is a kindred soul who will one day enhance the human experience.
I'm certain there were plenty of seeds at Bar Four last night and the hosts tended to each of them like dutiful farmers. Who knows what will grow from it, but I'm pretty sure my contribution was fertilizer.
I have many romantic memories of this dimly lit lounge in Park Slope, only a few blocks from where I live. Among them is winding up there at the end of a neighborhood pub crawl, knowing it would stay open past four a.m. in spite of its moniker.
While the ambiance is still in tact, the addition of the stage has not only changed its landscape, it has heightened its vibe. One might say it feels like Williamsburg in the South Slope, but without an air of pretension, which is why I thought I'd give it a shot.
The place was crawling with talented musicians and I wondered if I was in over my head. I already made the mistake of eating a burrito beforehand and although it was tasty, it made me gassy, which is never a smart move prior to having microphones pointed at you. Of course ordering a beer to calm my nerves didn't help.
One of the musicians who played before me ripped off some delta blues reminiscent of Mississippi John Hurt and I wanted to split, just grab my gig bag and take off. After all, the biggest audience I had in the past year was my weeping fig tree and my girlfriend, who usually raises the volume on the TV when I play.
As if sensing my cold feet, the host, Tania Buziak, sought me out and reassured me that I belonged among those present. She confided in me that she still got nervous before playing, even at this, her own open mic. She said she was amazed at the remarkable growth some of the musicians have shown after a few appearances, and then, like casting a stone in a still pond, she reminded me that I was up next.
I grabbed my guitar and headed to the stage where I was greeted by the soundman, who was unaffected by the madness. I told him I can't decide whether to use the high-back chair or the stool, so he made an executive decision to go with the stool and then adjusted the equipment around me. I sat there strumming furiously trying to remember the words to these damn songs I wrote and then the monitors came up and I was off like a prom dress.
Thirty seconds in and I was sweating like a stuck pig. I dared not look at the audience, fearing they'd show me the contempt well known to fat, out of shape strippers who mercilessly solicit lap dances. After the first song, my shirt was soaked through and my mouth was as dry as the Gobi. I looked over my shoulder and winced to find my beer sitting on a ledge, way out of reach. With the adrenaline pumping, I pushed on through the second song, grateful two was the limit.
I finished to the obligatory applause of the crowd and hopped off the stool, eager to get out of Dodge. But before I packed up, the next act took the stage and I did not want to be rude by exiting during their performance. My eyes fixated on the nearby sit-down Galaga video game and a guy walked by me on his way to the bathroom and said, "good song, man."
Between sets I made my way out of the bar and contrasted the relief I felt walking home to the anxiety I felt on my way there. This thing that makes people write music and compels them to perform it is mysterious, but for every hack like me, there is a kindred soul who will one day enhance the human experience.
I'm certain there were plenty of seeds at Bar Four last night and the hosts tended to each of them like dutiful farmers. Who knows what will grow from it, but I'm pretty sure my contribution was fertilizer.