All gig things must pass, and after playing Tuesday nights for about nine months at The Georgia Boy Cafe on the south side of Hagerstown, well . . . I feel due for a month’s true vacation.
A month of Sundays . . . .
After which, the Mustang and I may wind up with a compact Bose L-Series PA (fits in the trunk with the guitar, or should) because there are other restaurants and other towns, also, already, other private parties on the calendar.
And, who knows, one day I may be back at the old haunt.
And all things considered — listen, the “gal pal” (for me: difficult long sublimely beautiful story) stopped by recently to hang out AND to let me know she (quietly) got married last week.
Or . . . “Woohoo!”
I cannot tell you how much I appreciate and love the dramas and issues I don’t have!
— One must always move on.
So back to music: I got the call as I was getting ready to pick up the guitar case and gig bag.
Good thing: there’s a music circle — round-robin jamming — at a coffee shop a mile away, and I played with that crowd through the early evening.
Then I left for the bar.
Instead of earning tomorrow’s lunch and then some, I spent a few bucks for a beer and popcorn shrimp before getting up to play and sing through old classics — Dylan’s “Meet Me In the Morning”, Springsteen’s “Pink Cadillac”, that sort of thing, and a sweet version of “Me and Bobby McGee”.
I had my old energy, well 57 going on about 28, and got soaked churnin’ it out.
Skyla’s got at least one photo from all that up on her Facebook page.
Of the fine and lively and sometimes positively out-on-the-edge arts, music produces its share of the best, most athlete-of-the-heart moments, connections, and memories.
Not “even while” but “most when” inhabiting a song, things happen.
And they are beautiful.
So I — and I believe everyone there tonight — had a good night.
Is it the work I should be doing?
How much is it going to cost (this time)?
Can I afford it?
Can I afford not doing it?
There is no adolescent dreaming, no youthful pressure to get established. Simply being able to be the very best “writer, musician, and photographer” I can be, however obscure or poor, has turned out a kind of “win”, the meaning and quality of which has no measure.
On the other hand, there is that nagging “prove something” factor, that “want it” and “how bad”, and when 30 minutes of a set (with pretty good musicians I have never met) has gone well, it teases.
Will I be able to sell my prints?
How about a few songs?
We shall see.
Photography: top at the Georgia Boy Cafe: Panasonic Lumix Lx5 on auto with the pop-up flash; Port City Java: Nikon D200 with the SB-600 on-camera flash with a Sto-Fen modifier.
Skyla Burrell Blues Band: http://www.skylaburrell.com/fr_home.cfm
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