He played no paycheck, he played too many bills
He played a boring life, he played no thrills
He played they don't, they don't, they don't, they don't
He played they don't, they don't, they don't
He played they don't, they don't, they don't
Give a damn
About him
No one's gonna miss him at work today
No one's gonna say, "it's just not the same without what's his name"
No one's gonna miss him at work today
No one's gonna say, "it's just not the same without what's his name"
-Rachel Griffin, Portland, ME
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Let's start in Maine. My deepest venture into New England, met with anticipation and angst, as I longed to see crashing waves...for lighthouses.
My bus ride up was rather quick. A small stop in Boston, and I was on my way North. The roads leading into Maine are lined with dense pine trees, coming very close to the road. I feel as if I was apart of a expedition into a thick wilderness, where the path was barely cleared by a convoy ahead, and mysteries linger in the Thick. Maine is "good for a weekend - good for a lifetime" it is said, and the rigid pines and hilly roads told me I was headed to a place that had its own way of doing things. I like that - almost the way Buffalo feels, or Ediburgh, Scotland.
I was expecting this grand entrance into Portland, and that certainly was not the case. I was expecting steep sea-cut rocks with waves crashing on them as the wharfs and city buildings co-existed as a product of our nation's love of seafood and our system of capitalism. I foresaw cobblestone streets, victorian street lamps, and weathered faces to be bopping around. Instead, I think I entered into a transitional neighborhood, near the Maine Medical Center. The houses looked disheveled and in need of repair. The people were all out on their front step, watching the cars, and me, pass by. Not exactly the pristine Maine in my head.
Fortunately for me, my Inn that I stayed at is right across the street from the bus terminal. The Inn at St. John's it was called, and it reminded me of living in England. My room was way up on the top floor, and the amenities were very much like living in Manchester. A sink in the room, with an attached toilet room, a nice closet, beautiful bed, and wonderful view. I was excited to sleep in a bed not my own for once, to sleep peacefully.
I arrived with 3 hours to kill before my show. I decided to walk along Congress St., the main drag in Portland, so I was told. The consierge at the Inn had given me a map of Portland, about two feet by 1 foot in size, and told me Congress St. was where all the main sections were located. I started my walk along Congress, and Portland was starting to weird me out. Depressed housing, downtrodden peoples, and little to no signs of culture or arts made me worried this trip might be fruitless. But I kept walking. By the time I arrived around Bramhall St., I noticed little quaint pubs, vintage shops, and other boutiques beginning to pop up. I went into one of the pubs to get a bite to eat and a pint, the Bramhall Pub. It was located in a basement, and its European qualities seemed to be just what I needed. Unfortunately, the bar was blasting old Boston records, smelled of stale beer on the floor, and was filled with much of the same type of people I encountered on my walk up the street. There would be no tourists in this bar, and apparently there was no kitchen either. I had to settle for a pint of local beer, which was tasty. $3.25 too. Shocked at normal drink prices.
Leaving the pub, I decided to enter the Sal-Vo located nearby. They had a crazy record collection in the back, but I think all the hipsters raided through them, because all that was left was obscure Tammy Wynette records and the greatest hits collection of Englebert Humperdink. Or it seemed that way at least. They were about to close, too, so there would be no purchases there, and I would press on towards the city centre.
Crossing over State St. was like entering a new world - the bustling traffic, little art shops, record stores, restraunts, and clubs all seemed to have a place on the blocks I passed. The people changed too, seeming to be more my speed, and I knew this was getting closer to what I had longed to find up North here. I decided to stop in one of the local Mexican restraunts, located next to a really hip coffeehouse. The meal was amazing, a humungous chimichanga with rice and beans and shredded beef - I could not finish it. $15 for the whole meal, too. Nice.
I walked a little further down, but upon inspection of the time, decided to double back towards the Inn and start getting ready for my show. To my surprise, I hadn't really walked all that far, but just uphill. The walk back was nice and quick, and I still had time to relax before my show.
The room was so cozy, and I lay down and watch some episodes of "Top Chef." I never really understood why food needs to be so complex. To me, freshness means goodness, and always will. To make my meal overly complex is to take some of that away, and it will undoubtedly be lost on me. Anyways, I readied myself and called a cab to head out to the show at the Dogfish Bar and Grille.
The Dogfish was also very different than I expected, and the room felt more like a Buffalo bar than I think I initially would have thought. The people were all chatting with the bartender, who knew them all no doubt, but I got the impression that passers-by would be just as welcome. I met the soundguy, and he had a sense of selflessness that was a bit odd, but refreshing. He was glad to be there, but don't ask him too many things, because he's just there to be doing sound. He was excited to hear me play, and that make me feel comfortable.
I can never get used to seeing my picture plastered on a window or wall, and when I walked into the Dogfish, it was no different. But a musician must have an image nowadays, and I think my shot with the UB t-shirt, looking off somewhere will fit just fine. But I digress.
I was hoping that Rachel Griffin would turn up, an INCREDIBLY talented singer and piano player from Portland who I found on MySpace. Her song, "Lighter than Air" is so beautiful and swirling, it is a wonderful example of conveying an image through song. Please look her up sometime.
Well, in terms of the show, it started out slow, with everyone talking and doing their thing while I played. Whenever that happens, I have a big decision to make as a performer. You either meet them at their loudness, rise above it, and make them notice you, or you quietly pour your heart out, and let the word catch on slowly, the way fog creeps in on a cool Sunday morning. I chose the latter. I kept playing slow song after slow song, each time putting my life out there in the hopes that everyone in attendance would stop their conversations and take heed. But they persisted. It wasn't until I played a cover song, much to my dismay, did the room focus more on me. This was the purpose of my entire trip, and therefore, it was important that I was heard by everyone. Once I grabbed them, I never let go. And song after song took hold of the room, and I saw the heads bobbing, the eyes widen, the claps louden, and the whispering begin. A couple in the back of the room moved up to get closer, and a crowd of people entered who starting hooting and hollering after every song. My set ended to much praise, handshakes, and tip-jar-passing. I did okay on tips, and had a dinner entree included in my "fee" for playing. As I sat back listening to other people come up to play, each a little different, some truly excellent, some very new, I began to feel that there was a truth in me I was sharing with the world; that I was slowly and on a small scale telling people what a life is like, what a spirit sounds like in song. I felt accepted into their clan that Wednesday night, I felt respected.
I do not know a single soul in Portland, so when Zuppe walked into the bar, I did a double take! Apparently he was recording someone that night up there, and decided to suprise me and check out my set. Unfortunately, he missed it, and I was eating my dinner when he arrived. It was still really great to see him, and he brought his friend John, a bassist in a well-known Portland band. Open mic was about to wrap up, when one of the local girls shouted out to the host, "We want to hear John again! WOO!" and the whole bar echoed her sentiment. I couldn't really believe it, and after I had broken a string on my guitar, I was definitely not expecting it. The host obliged, and it ended up working out for everyone, as Zuppe got to hear me play, the crowd heard me sing some more, and I felt even more welcomed in a city I was beginning to fall in love with.
After my set, Zuppe and John invited me out with them. We must have went to 5 different bars, never staying too long, seeing bands here and there, and hearing stories from Zuppe on how "the farther North you go, the worse the pussy gets" (direct quote). I didn't know what he was talking about though, because the women there, some of them at least, had an aura about them that intrigued me. John told me about how he works at a radio station, and how the lead singer of his band is a genius and nutjob all at once. I wonder why I can't seem to find the solace others do with being unreasonably off-the-wall. I must maintain a healthy balance and rapoire with my own selves, that I can never let a single part of me take over and start dictating. We stopped at the swanky NYC-style bar, and that's where I started to feel drunk. The beers all hit you at once, you know, and they sock you. I was socked, and ready for bed. Last call, 1:30am, time to cab it home to the Inn.
I plopped into bed, feeling utterly comfortable and satisfied. I felt confident, whole, and looking forward to the days ahead of me.
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Waking up the next day, I lay in bed most of the day, less a stroll to the lobby to get a free bagel and orange juice. I missed breakfast, the way the tea smells in the morning, as you squint in the face of the blazing morning sun. Good morning, Maine, how are ya?
Check out was uneventful, as was my bus ride home to New York. I arrived home at night, to spend the evening with Jay shooting the shit and raving about how we needed to go back to Maine as soon as possible. I wish I had left something there that I care about, like my driver's license - to give me an excuse to hop a train and enjoy the Thick.
Evening passed, and morning came. Friday morning.
(More to come about my travels to Buffalo and North Manchester. Stay tuned.)
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