1983, date unknown
You think you can sing. You’ve sung around the house, you’ve sung in the grade school choir, you’ve sung in the shower. Strangely, though, when you step in front of that microphone, your voice tightens up. You feel uncomfortable. It doesn’t matter that you’re practicing in someone’s basement. When you sing, you sound like you’re choking and/or whispering. And the harmonica? Well, let’s don’t talk about that.
1984: First gig
This is a Knights of Columbus or VFW or Moose or Eagles Lodge, right down to the cheesy paneling and the bored bartender. You find that, at your age, attitude and volume can overcome a lack of actual musical talent. The band leans into a Subhumans song and the crowd — such as it is, made up mostly of coworkers and their friends — screams its approval. The song is followed by a bunch of originals, and a little Johnny Cash, and some Neil Young. You’ve talked the band into working a little Beat Farmers and Romantics into the mix. You get to scream and pretend you’re singing. You’re starting to like your new hobby.
1992: A bus, somewhere
You pull out the harps. You’ve been neglectful. It’s been two years since you’ve had a gig, mostly because you’ve been on the road, and the rust is obvious — to you. To the other people on this bus, most of whom have become your friends over tens if not hundreds of thousands of miles, you sound great. You play the riff from “Baby, Scratch My Back,” which you think is a Fabulous Thunderbirds song. Eventually you’ll learn that, like Tarantino, the T-Birds only steal from the best. No one else on this whole caravan of buses has ever heard this riff, with the possible exception of a guy in the lead bus, who could quote Slim Harpo to you chapter and verse if he wasn’t so busy trying to become president.
1994: The Emerald Isle, Capitol Hill
When you’re a bar band, there might be a few times in your career when you rule the bar. We rule this bar. We play here every other Friday, and the crowds usually are good, even though we’re playing jump blues and New Orleans music to people who are completely unfamiliar with either vein of Americana. You’ve picked up an extra-long cable for the occasion because you have an idea. Sure enough, the moment comes and you jump off the stage and run out the door, microphone in hand, playing a solo all the way. You stand on the sidewalk out front and wail for 72 bars or so, waving people into the club while you keep knocking down a solo. Later that night, you find a note on a bar napkin atop your amp. It says “Call me” and there’s a number.
1995: Your apartment, Arlington
Who is that guy outside your window, trying to figure out where the noise is coming from? You’ve been practicing, and the Bassman is a little loud, but this seems like a bit of an overreaction on his part. Then you realize that this guy is Mark Wenner, lead singer and harp player for The Nighthawks, and you wonder what he’s doing out there. You go outside and introduce yourself, and he says some really nice things, and you find out that he lives a block away. Amazing. When one of the best blues harp players in the world is complimentary about your playing, you should just die and go to heaven.
1997: Whitlow’s On Wilson, Arlington
You’re tossing back shots with your sisters, mostly because they insist that this is the appropriate thing to do on the night before you marry. Your brother-in-law walks up to the bandstand and whispers something to the lead singer. You know the singer — hell, you know the whole band and have gigged with most of them — but your brother-in-law doesn’t know that. The lead singer tells everyone in the house that you’re getting married and the congratulations (and additional shots) rain down. The band does a couple of numbers for you and you’re sad that you haven’t brought your harps.
1997: A mansion ballroom near Dupont Circle, Washington
You have been married for two hours. Time to sit in with the reception band! Many people in the room have no idea that you can play at all.
2001: Parking lot, RFK Stadium, Washington
This gig wasn’t supposed to go down this way. You were supposed to have played a couple of weeks earlier, on a stage in the shadow of the Washington Monument, for 5,000 or so people who have finished an annual bike ride. But that was before 9/11, which occurred five days before this gig originally was set. Everything was delayed a couple of weeks, and there’s no way anyone is going to let 5,000 bicyclists congregate on the National Mall at this time of intense national security, so this parking lot will have to do. The 5,000 has been reduced to 2,000 or so, but that’s still a meaty crowd, and they’re glad to hear the joy that you’re trying to put down. A little revenge and this too shall pass, Springsteen would write within months. He was right.
2001: Paw Paw, WV
This tool shed has been converted into a stage. Outside of the shed are 200 or so people who are camping overnight on the banks of the Cacapon River. Somehow you missed this gig last year. You will not repeat this mistake for the rest of your life if you can help it.
2008: Washington, D.C.
Your boss — actually, if you want to get technical, your boss’ boss’ boss’ boss — has just started break-dancing in front of your band. You’re not sure how to feel about this.
2010: Alexandria, Va.
Some of your new colleagues come out to see you. They think they are going to see an adorable little gig where their boss plays a toy instrument with a garage band. The look of surprise you get when the band starts playing is the sort of thing that never gets old.
