NNAOPP Update
March 2014
Did you know that alligators
cannot digest food if their body temperature falls below 89 degrees? They most likely would die if they
ingest food at the lower temps, thus giving Florida snowbirds a much needed
respite from danger. For years I
listened to geezer Florida golfing companions say, "Don't worry about the
gators in the winter, they only eat in the summer." And now I've learned
that there is merit to the claim.
****
I overheard Lucy chatting with
her Mom the other day and received a mild shock when she said, "I ran into
so and so the other day (a former 8th grade teacher), who inquired, 'Are your
parents still alive?' " Hopefully that query is a bit premature. Lord willing.
****
It was
around 5 pm on a recent Tuesday afternoon. I was practicing my banjo diligently when Judy walked into
my studio, aka WHQ, Southern Command.
I said, "I think I'll sign up tonight for a set at George and
Wendy's open mic night." The
Judester rolled her eyes in a manner that wordlessly, but emphatically, stated,
"Are you out of your frigging mind?" Her concerns were partially attributable to our having
attended an open mic night two weeks earlier as observers, whereupon I was
humbled by the simple fact that almost all of the performers were extremely
gifted musicians. I may have given
voice to my innermost musings that I wasn't quite ready to expose my euphonious
shortcomings to a clamorous crowd made more so by alcohol.
But
despite this spousal crisis in confidence and being crap-in-my-pants nervous, I
journeyed on. As instructed, I
arrived at 7 pm to receive a time slot from Captain Mike who organizes the
weekly event. Also waiting to sign up was a very pretty woman visiting
Sanibel from Pennsylvania. She said she saw a flyer and thought it would
be fun. I would later learn she has a voice like Allison Kraus and was a
very polished performer. She signed up for the 8:45 slot. Lamentably, I was to follow her. I went
out to the parking lot to keep my plucking digits limber and returned in time
to listen to those playing before me. It was dispiriting.
It
turned out that I was one of nine performers during the 8-11 show. Four
were professionals who play at various venues on the island, and one of the
remaining five was the babalicious wunderking from PA, leaving only four
untutored souls. I can safely state, without fear of contradiction, that
I was the worst of those assembled.
There
wasn't an empty seat in the place. It was extremely boisterous,
increasing my anxiety. It was loud inside, so before my set I went
outside again to check my tuning. I sat on a bench and plucked away a
little with an audience consisting of two kitchen guys taking a smoke break.
They asked in heavily accented Spanglish, "Hey, eez zat some kind of
banjo?" And I replied in the affirmative, passing on the opportunity
to be a smartass. Then it was show time.
Captain
Mike got me situated and placed one microphone close to the head of the banjo
and another near my face. I did a few test strums, but I couldn't hear
anything. This was my first time playing with a mic, (and my first time
in front of an audience), and I was surprised to learn that I couldn't hear myself
playing. This was disconcerting. I introduced myself and opened
with my strongest tune, a clawhammer version of Steve Martin's "Daddy
Played the Banjo", but it couldn't be heard. Mike adjusted the mic,
and I started over. This time the audience could apparently hear, but I
couldn't. I think I plucked a pretty clean version and received a polite
applause over the din of a crazy, busy bar. I quickly went to the
mournful tune "Farewell to Whiskey" and again received a polite
applause. Then it was on to an upbeat medley of Wildwood Flower, the
Ballad of Jesse James, and Arkansas Traveler, all received favorably and
concluding the positive part of my set.
I then,
unwisely, switched to blue grass (aka Scruggs) style, but it was truly awful,
somehow flicking my middle finger pick onto the floor midway through Foggy
Mountain Breakdown. People were polite, but precious few ladies were
throwing their bras or panties.
I
wrapped it up, said thanks, and then moved back to my barstool to listen to the
remainder of the show. Amazingly, people were extraordinarily kind in
coming up to me to say nice things. The pulchritudinous Pennsylvanian
approached to say she loved my version of Wildwood Flower. Best of all,
the bar manager offered a drink on the house, which I humbly accepted. Conspicuously absent amongst the
well-wishers was a plea from Captain Mike to "stick around for another
set."
All in
all, a satisfactory experience, but I need a lot more polish before returning.
Sadly, my musical progress is glacial.
I shared
this story with a fellow musical aspirant. He summarized the experience thusly and alliteratively: "The praise of a pretty Pennsylvanian,
the kind compliments of the mic-night-minions, a liberating libation
compliments of the publican...what more proof is needed that your plucking
wasn't sucking?"
****
A few weeks ago, a friend of a
friend contacted me to say, "I tried to find your book at the Sanibel
Bookshop, but they're out."
Once alerted, I hastily rode my bike with a basketful of books to this
fine establishment, and was pleased that they graciously accepted my invoice
for those sold and accepted a supply of replenishments. Sales continue to trickle in. In a
display of optimism, bordering on hubris, I recently took delivery of my third
printing. Thanks to all.
Chuck
