Previous Episodes: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18 

I really should have written this post a long time ago.  But nothing, so far, has been in chronological order, more like kronic-logical. 

Anyway… way back, somewhere between the time when Grandman’s Cookies were stale and Exit 118 was just around the next bend, I did very little, musically.

To fully understand the situation, I’ll have to go back to my freshman year. By some strange turn of events, I didn’t have a roommate first semester. Before arriving to college I had spoken with my assigned roommate on the phone. He told me that he was really into a band called “Fish”. I had never heard of them. Anyway, believe it or not, this Phish phan phlaked out, and I ended up without a roommate. That was sweet. I loaded the room up with couches stolen from the lounge, brought in a TV, and had one of the best hangout rooms on the hall.

Pretty soon, one of my engineering classmates picked me out as “a kid who liked to party”. This guy, “Sickles”, was the guy that gave me my first bong hit - 2-foot glass, kind bud - pull it, hold it, hold it, exhale, pass out on the floor. That’s how it started for me. Just like that, I was a pot smoker.

Through a series of events, Sickles’ friend “Server” ended up moving into my room. He had decided that he had to move out when he walked in on his roomate lying in the middle of the floor with the TV on his fat belly wearing only his headphones and one sock. The sock was not on a foot. He needed to move out and I needed a roommate according to the housing committee, so he moved in.

When Sickles and Sever decided that they wanted to rent a house off-campus the next year, I thought it seemed like a good idea. They introduced me to “Red”, a burnt-out soccer player from College Park, PA. We all rented a duplex, Red and I on one side, Sickles and Server on the other. There were a lot of drugs moving in and out of that house. More than just pot. I saw a lot of things I wish I hadn’t. I lost a lot of respect for the guys across the hall, and mostly, just hung out on my side with Red.

Red had the best music collection I had ever seen. He had every album by Dylan, Dead, Allmans, CSNY, JGB, etc. All hippy music, but all great. He’d put something on when he studied, and I’d sit in my room and try to play along on my guitar. He used to ask me all the time about playing music live. I had really given that up, since I had left my friends behind in high school. I knew I wasn’t much of a singer, and playing by myself in front of people made me (and still makes me) nervous as hell. Especially playing in front of other musicians that are critiquing everything.

One day I was walking home from class and a girl named Laura called out my name. I was pretty recognizable, as I was white with a large afro. I saw that she was calling to me.”Hey, I’m a friend of Red’s”, she said, “He told me you’d play at a coffee house I’m hosting for charity.”

“Oh, really, he did? I wish he had told me.”

“Anyway, it’s Wednesday at Pedro’s, do you think you can do it.”

“Do what?”

“Play guitar.”

“You wanna sing?”

“No, I’m dancing in it. I’m just looking for people to get on stage for 10-15 minutes each and do something artsy, whether it’s telling stories, reading poetry, anything. Kinda like an open mic. Red told me you were really good at guitar and would probably do it. Please, I really need people.”

Now, I’m a sucker for a high-pitched “please.” Red knew that. I looked around and saw his blue hat bobbing the other way towards the student union. He knew that if he asked me to do it, I’d say no, so he pointed me out from afar and sent this cute girl to come ask me in her own sweet little bra-less way. That Bastard.

“I guess I can do it. But I’m not very good by myself.”

“That’s okay, there’ll be a whole bunch of other musicians there, too.”

“Oh, great.”

When I got back I had some words with Red. He told me how he listens to me “jamming along” in my room, and is really disappointed that I don’t play out more. “How ’bout this, if you do it, I’ll get you a bottle of Jack Daniels. You’ll probably need a few shots before you get up there, anyway.” He was right, and I agreed.

Over the next three days, I picked out three songs I that I would play. The first one way an instrumental song I had put together. The second song was one I had written about, guess what? Yep, getting high. The last song I chose was “Can’t You See” by the Marshall Tucker Band. It was a standard request from a friend of mine, and one of the few songs I felt like I could actually sing, although badly.

The day came for the event. I sat in my living room with Sickles, Server, and Red before going over to Pedro’s. Hours before I was supposed to play, I had butterflies in my stomach. I had never played in public before by myself. I took a bong hit and a shot of Jack to “calm my nerves”. That didn’t really work. So I tried it again right before we left. I don’t remember much about the walk over to the bar, but I do remember that as soon as I got in that place, I almost threw up.

Laura greeted us at the door. She said hi to Red and gave me a hug. “Thanks for doing this. I hope you’re not nervous. Red told me you’ve never done this before.”

“Nothing a few shots of bourbon won’t take care of.” Red said smiling, patting his shirt pocket, where he’d stashed the small flask of the bourbon he meant for me to drink before going on. 

“OK. Good, well, you’re scheduled for 8:32.”

The four of us found a table off to the side, invisible to the bartender or bouncer, where we could be shady and still see the stage. It was 7:45. 47 minutes until I crapped my pants. Actually, it’d be sooner than that.

…I have an issue with stage fright, it makes my stomach upset. Back when I was a swimmer, I had qualified for the Zones meet. The top two finishers in each event from each state go to compete. Clearly the biggest race of my life. Not only was I almost late to the event from wiping myself in the bathroom, they had to call us down off the blocks cause I threw up in the pool when I heard “swimmers take your marks”…

Yes, I have a serious performance anxiety problem. This was no exception. Unfortunately, the bathrooms at Pedro’s dungeoun were nasty. So, I ran across the street to the Student Union building and took care of business. When I was finished, I looked at my watch. 8:23. 9 minutes to get back across the street, swig some bourbon and play some songs.And that’s how it went. I walked back into Pedro’s, sat down at the table in the shade and took a few pulls off the bottle jsut in time to Laura announce me into the mic. I walked on stage, with my guitar, plugged my cord into the PA system, and sat on that bar stool stairing out at the crowd.

“I think you guys should know, I’m litterally scared shitless right now.”

Laughter

“I told Laura I’d do this, so I guess I will. I’m not much of a singer, so I figured the first song I’d play won’t have any words. That way, maybe you’ll still be here to hear the next one.”

More laughter

“Well, here goes…” and I started to play. That first song I know is about 4 minutes long, but it seemed like it was only 10 seconds.

Applause. 

“Now, I warned you, I’m gonna start singing now. If you don’t like my voice, blame my friend Red for not giving you enough bourbon.” Then I started the second song, which seemed to last a little longer, cause I forgot the words halfway through.

More applause

Then I just started into the last song. By now the Jack was making it’s way to my head, and I my nerves were finally gone. I had stopped shaking and could concentrate on what I was doing. I looked out at the crowd. I could hear people singing along and clapping. And when I finished that song, there was a big applause and standing ovation. People were either clapping cause they dug it, like at the end of a Springsteen show, or cause they felt sorry for me, like watching joe Theisman get carted off the field. Either way, it had entertained, and that’s what I had set out to do.

I walked off the stage, sat down at our table, and started to drink the rest of that bourbon. This time in celebration.

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Tagged as: Blacksburg, coffee house, Exit 118, Grandma's Cookies, Music, nervous, Newman, performance anxiety, VT