To the Crossroads

My soul feels completely intact after my band played a fantastic show at Seattle’s Greenlake Forza Coffee. The Castaways were the supporting act for a Team in Training/Leukemia Lymphoma Society fundraiser. We played three solid sets of music and while, yes, mistakes were made, even our normally understated bass player admitted to being all whacked on endorphins after it was over. And I was sore the next day, not just from three hours of standing on the concrete floors, but from the jumping up and down. I mean that literally. I was totally into it.

We had two test runs for our new stuff — two weeks prior we’d played an all acoustic set at a gallery party in Poulsbo, and then, the night before this show, we played a private party and focused on all our new work. I felt well prepared and (mostly) confident, but had the usual nerves. I was expecting a lot of friends to show up and I just wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Disappointing strangers is one thing, but playing a bad show for your friends who support you, well, that’s another feeling all together. Thankfully, we had everything going for us. I stand next to that same understated bass player — and towards the end of our second set he leaned over to me and said, “This is the best we’ve ever played, this is our best show so far. This is why we play rock and roll.”

I remain keenly aware of my failings as a musician. I have a squeaky voice that doesn’t carry and I make mistakes, still. But I’m really excited by the obvious progress over the last few months. I feel increasingly relaxed on stage. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I have to make out with the microphone, good lord I hope whoever used it last flossed and took their antibiotics. When I lose my place, I listen until I can find the way back in, and I do not give up. That progress isn’t just mine, it’s collective, it’s in the ridiculous chatter between songs and in hitting the groove and in how it all comes together. At the bar, after we were done, the owner of the cafe shook our hands and said, “I would have you guys play here every night if I could, I just love what you do.”

I am always jittery before and hypercritical after we play, even in practice. I want to be perfect every time, I want to hit every note and I want to stay in lockstep timing and I want it all to come together in a shiny wound balance of string and electricity and metal and scratch and noise. But time is teaching me that I’m not the only one who makes mistakes, I’m not the only one slumping forward over the uke and saying, “@#$*#!!!! I TOTALLY MESSED THAT UP!!!! ARGH! Okay, can we try it again, let’s count it in…” That is hugely reassuring. I am less fearful of failure than I was when I started, not because I have a reached some kind of apathy around my skills but because I have seen — heard — so clearly the evolution of failure into something much, much, better.

A few people have asked me if I’m shifting away from travel writing. I think it’s a fair question and I could see why they’d ask that, given that what I do right now is play music and then, go home and lie in bed waiting for the electrons buzzing around inside my skull to settle, settle down in there, why don’t you? I want to answer no, of course not, of course I’m not shifting away from travel.

But also; the travel itself was never the reason I started writing in the first place, it was always for the writing, the writing was, IS, first.  Now, I write about music, about what it feels like to be in this fast track School of Rock. Instead of writing about what it feels like to be wracked with fever on the way back from Zanzibar or the overwhelming dizziness of reaching the seventh continent, my stories are about how it feels to work really hard on a piece of music and then, the first time you perform it for a crowd, your audience is singing along so loud you can hear them over the amps. (Did you guys hear that? It was amazing!) It feels live, blood throbbing in your fingertips and ears live, your heart in your throat live. Hot night all the windows open radio on flying down the interstate live.

If I’ve shifted, well, it’s not away from writing, not in the least. It’s down to the crossroads; I am taking my ukulele. The devil may get a piece of soul in exchange for music, just like he did for travel. But my words, oh, he’s going to have to sell me his soul and a lot of other things he can’t afford for those. Would you quit writing if you didn’t have travel to write about? While you’re thinking that over, I’ll be busy. I have music to play and writing to do.