Back in Brooklyn, ready to go to Buffalo.
I had decided awhile back that I would rent a car to go to Buffalo, and spent almost a month doing extensive research on what would be needed when I rented. A major credit card, a valid driver's license, and enough credit on the credit card to cover the initial cost of the rental. So, I now have my first major credit card, a Visa, with a very moderate-sized credit limit. I never had one before because I heard nothing but horror stories and bad things about them, and I also never thought I had the credit to actually go ahead with it. Anyways, there's a world of unknown when starting anything new, but I was confident with arranging my ride to Buffalo - credit card + Avis rentals + $$$ = comfort and ease on my trip.
I got up early on Thursday to go to Avis and pick up my rental. I had forgotten to pay off my credit card the night before so it would be clear for today, so I just called and made a payment. I was told, however, that this payment would not be seen until the next day. Therefore, the funds needed to be held on my credit card would not be there, and it would be declined. By tomorrow, I would need to be in Indiana. They also did not take debit cards here in NYC, like they do at home, so I was really in trouble here. I had no way to get home, it was 8am, and Elliot was supposed to come with. I started to panic. My heart racing, saying to myself "think John!"out loud, I started to feel like this trip just might not happen after all. Or, at least, I would be going alone. I decided to run home and talk to Elliot about options. I tend to think better when discussing with people than on myself mulling something over. It's not dumping on them, it's more using discussion to help channel nervous energy into solutions.
I could take a train home to Buffalo, and I looked at Amtrak. Completely sold out. I could take a bus home, and those left at 11am, all the way at 42nd st, not very close to me. They were also enormously expensive. Lastly was a plane from JFK, and that, too, was incredibly expensive, but more doable, seeing that its only 90 minutes to Buffalo in the air. All of these scenarios would mean my mother would need to pick me up from the airport, bus terminal, or train station, and I'm sure she would not be pleased about that. Not to mention, I was still unsure about the possibility of renting a car once I even GOT to Buffalo, given all the red tape and uncertainty. The other looming possibility was to just not go. But, my mother had switched her day off from work, and countless other people were already planning on coming to see me in Buffalo to play. What to do. What to do.
After explaining to Elliot how a rental car is booked (which is hard for anyone to wrap their mind around - I don't think the workers know the process even), he said he had a credit card that should cover the hold, and I would then pay in cash when we returned it. We decided we would go ahead with this option, as it seemed like it could work. If it wasn't possible, I would just fly home, and rent a car in Buffalo. I would also have to play the shows solo if I had to fly.
I'm a firm believer that stress is caused by, at least in one way, by either the lack of or perception of lack of options in any given situation. Knowing that only one way will possibly work for a particular situation is the direct cause of angst and tension. However, knowing that there are at least two options, that very notion, immediately relaxes pulses, returns bleathing to only slightly elevated, and widens one's perspective. Feeling more relaxed, knowing I would find a way, we departed for the Avis location in downtown Brooklyn.
We were given the rental car without incident, and my corporate discount from my hospital was a great help, giving us unlimited miles, and waiving the fee for being under 25. We now had a brand new PT Cruiser, in a wonderful blue-green color, and a world of driving ahead.
After scrambling home, we quickly got ready, and left at 11am. If we hauled ass, we could get home by 6pm, and have a minute to catch our breath, and then play. We were armed with a portable DVD player, two laptops with internet connection, two iPods, and Sirius Satellite Radio. Plenty of things to distract, entertain, and keep me going I think. We had to stop more than I normally would, since we left in such a frenzy, so we had to arrive in Buffalo much later. A GPS device we got from the rental company made the navigation of the trip very easy. After dropping Elliot at home, I arrived in Buffalo at 7pm, 30 minutes before I was slated to play the show. My mother was home, and had her nurse friend and her husband over. She had bought some clothes for me, and had them laid out so I could quickly change. I had wanted to get dinner with her and my sister, but I just wasn't able to anymore. I left in a flash, and arrives at Caz Coffee Cafe at 7:15am.
I hadn't seen Debbie, the owner, since I left Buffalo last year. Since then, I heard she had the unfortunate news of learning her sickness had returned, and she would need further treatment. When I saw her, she looked so full of life, but very thin, and her bandana undoubtedly was covering signs of chemotherapy. It was great to see her, and she give me a big hug and a kiss, saying how glad she was that I was there. I also saw some of the staff that used to work open mics when i played. The Caz hadn't changed much, and if anything, looked that much nicer than I remember it. There was now wonderful artwork everywhere by local artists, and I felt that it really had a wonderful home in South Buffalo.
Mendez was late since I asked him to buy some extra guitar strings for me, since I still had broken ones from my Maine trip. I set up some of the sound equipment, and then just waited for him to arrive. Debbie did not mind that I started late, as she knew the big crowds that always turn out to see me in Buffalo. So Mike showed up, we set up the sound, and we were off and running...
As I was getting equipment out though, a man was sitting in the room I was about to play in with some friends and family of his. I bought out the gigantic speaker we use to play out of, and he looked at me and said "You don't really have to use those in HERE, do you?" It kind of rubbed me the wrong way, and I just smiled and said, "Yeah, we sure do." He then asked me the standard questions, "So what kind of music do you play?" "What does it sound like?" "Where are you from?" which I am very used to at this point. I think those questions function for only a small amount of reasons.
First, they can be sincere and out of genuine curiosity about who I am, what I do, and why I do it. I meet this line of questioning with honesty and sincerity right back, and I welcome people who take a vested interest in who I am as a player. These type of people tend to stay at the shows for awhile, and then leave after a set or two, grab my business card, and apologize for ducking out early. I have hope they ultimately would come back to see me, but who knows.
Second, there is the people who ask me those things as a line of questioning, almost as if I was filling out an application for the opportunity to entertain them. If I don't say the right combination of influences or styles, they brush me off. If my life story isn't as compelling or dramatic as others, they usually leave before I begin. The inquisition I am under is usually done destructively, and I sense that music snobs often take such roles, feeling that someone with talent couldn't POSSIBLY be playing at the local coffeehouse in South Buffalo. I say destructively, because I sense that they're looking for a way to duck out, and way to unplug from the connection a performer makes, and any reason to hate. These are the tough sells, the types I have to be on my A-game around. When I am, they will stay for the entire set, and they will be more impressed than the sincere passer-by I described above. You've taken them on a journey if you've impressed them, bringing them all the way from the extreme of "here we go again, you're gonna cover Tom Petty," all the way to "holy shit, this is great, I can't leave." They're the people that become die hard fans, if you can swing it with your performance, because you take them to a place they love beinf. The way they felt when they first heard "Tommy" by The Who, or the wonder they felt walking into the Rock-N-Roll Hall of Fame for the first time. If you can touch these people, you have succeeded that night.
This guy at the Caz was the "destructive" asker. I could tell just by his tone. He was readying himself to be annoyed and uncomfortable, and ready to leave after the first song. As much as it pissed me off, it also challenged me. Every stage is a new task, a new feat to accomplish, and being at my old stomping grounds would be no different tonight.
I rocked it, in a more folky way. I've learned that screaming and loudness do not equal depth, and decided to hold back some on my songs, opting to reach out to people's sense of love, truth, and space. Space gives us the opportunity to think, and makes mundane things interesting. Much in the same way that baseball is so dramatic, or the way an open G chord, with the proper space, can entrance someone. I played with this space, and I could tell it was working. There was not a peep out of the entire crowd, less the blender in the other room making smoothies for my friends and family. I played my new song for everyone, and I could tell people got it. I could tell people in the audience were either engaged or newly single, and "Ophelia" touches on all that with its message.
Anyways, the set went on, and I played well, and took a break when Elliot arrived to set up his kit for a neat little set we were to put on. He had modified percussion, drums without the "drums" really - the parts of the drums I love, but without the loud, cutting noises and expectations that drums carry with them. The drums would be an extention of my guitar, and subsequently, of my voice. The vocal is the center, which moves all other things with it, and I've learned to embrace that. I used to think the melody moved it, but it's more the actual voice. Sorry, abstract singer/songwriter-type jargon. The point is, we were going to explore the space, and prop up the acoustic guitar to give it the flight to help the vocal out, aiding in dynamics, and keeping a rhythm people can bob their heads to.
We played well, and played off each other well. People really enjoyed it, and were saying how interesting the space was with just the guitar, vocal, and drums. Debbie was happy to have us, and had a great night of business at the Caz. All my friends came out, some of their parents too, and stayed the entire night. My family was there as well, and we all decided to go to my favorite bar back home, Doc Sullivan's, for the best wings in the city, as well as the wonderful drinks and people.
I started to pack up my things, now around 11pm or so, after playing for 3+ hours, when a felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the guy who had asked me all those questions, the one I labeled as a dick; he had stayed the entire time, and I hadn't noticed. His family and friends had also stayed. He shook my hand, and had really genuine things to say, and wished me well. He wanted my card, and said he was sure to buy my new CD that is coming out. He told me how he wasn't planning on staying, but he really liked what I was doing, so he and his family decided to make a night of it. It was a wonderful moment, and I was hoping it would turn out that way.
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Doc's was hopping, as usual. The drinks flowed, the wings were fried, and I had a great time talking with my friends and family. It was as if I never left; home is a place you never really "leave." You just notice you're there from time to time, wherever you are in the world or life.
I drove Elliot home, and headed back, my eyes burning from the sweat earlier draining into them. They would be red for the remainder of the weekend, but it didn't matter. A good trip home, touching people by song. That's what is rewarding for me. That is what home is.
Evening passed, and morning came. Saturday.
More on North Manchester, Indiana tomorrow. Stay tuned.
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