AMERICAN TRASH: My First Open Mic (This is a long one.)

Nobody ever forgets their first open mic.
Unless they had to get so blasted before taking the stage that "remembrance" was just never an option to begin with.

I remember mine remarkably well, considering my level of inebriation. It was two Decembers ago at this joint called American Trash, conveniently located right on the fringe of Manhattan's extraordinarily affluent and "classy" (ahem) Upper East Side. I found the place through Openmics.org, this cool website with a day-by-day calendar listing open microphone nights around the city. (Seedling musicians, I would highly recommend this resource if you're looking for places to play, but once you narrow it down to a few venues I suggest calling first. Some of the listings are outdated, and you might get a little embarrassed when you unwittingly show up at Drag Night.)
Randall (my then-boyfriend) and I were all about some life change. We were (and are) in our mid-twenties, perpetually contemplating the meaning of life and what have you, wondering what exactly we were doing with ourselves. He was a gifted writer in an unhappy real estate agent's body, returning every day to a dismal office that he loathed. I was the "musician" who just kind of plunked around on the guitar on days off between waitressing at the pool hall. No actually, Amsterdam Billiards had fired me by this point for excessive drinking on the job and general bad behavior that I had gotten away with for FAR too long. So my broker-than-broke self was barely skimming by, picking up sporadic event gigs as a traveling bartender. And I had never felt so miserable or so hopeless.
We decided it was time to take action. Some people, Randall and myself included, will never be satisfied with life on this earth as long as we are not fulfilling our obligations to walk in the gifts with which God has endowed us. Sorry, but hustling people into spending their extra money on booze and broker's fees was not our idea of an existence. So we hatched a plan- no more work force for us, he would be a bestselling novelist and I would be a rock star! It was that easy! All we had to do was sit around in the stairwell of his Brooklyn building, smoke cigarettes, drink oversized Coronas and talk about our combined creative genius and how great our life was going to be. Repeat that process enough and it would all just happen.
Approximately 6 pounds of beer gut and a nasty wheeze later, we realized our master scheme might not be as effective as we had hoped, and that we might actually have to put some work into it. So Randall came up with a brilliant concept for a novel (which I am pleased to report he is currently writing), and I grit my teeth and headed to my first open mic.

I went alone. It was Randall's best friend's last night in town from Los Angeles, and they were having a boys' night at home. Perfect. Now I only have to embarrass myself in front of a bar full of strangers.
So I packed up my electric guitar, because I was too lazy to carry my acoustic and didn't know any better, and made the over-an-hour-long hike from Union City, NJ to 77th & 1st in Manhattan. It was freezing, but I barely noticed. Zillions of frenetic nerves + 2 ENORMOUS shots of vodka immediately prior to departure = 1 relatively warm Marron. On the way there I ran over my song selections in my head- I didn't have very many. Figured it would be a safe play to stick with one cover and one original. For the original piece I chose "Prodigal Son," the first song I ever completed. It's funny, I really don't play it much in public anymore, even though I love that song. It's a little long, kind of folky and lilting, and there is no PUNCH. No fixed chorus. And the biggest problem with it is that it's a full story, so you actually have to listen to the lyrics to "get it." A bit of a paradox, isn't it? The problem with the song is that you have to listen to it. That's what the record industry has done. But I digress... For the cover song, I decided to go with "Mother" by Glenn Danzig. Yes, Glenn Danzig. Why? Because it's the best freakin' cover I do, PERIOD. To this day. I love it- it's easy, people don't expect it, and I can get LOUD. However, up until this point, all I'd ever really done with it is sort of half-impress myself and fully disturb my neighbors.
Making the giant leap from playing for your own satisfaction at home to putting yourself out there on display is one of the toughest transitions a person can make. Given the opportunity, people will tear you apart, even if they themselves would never have the nerve to even get up and try. If you are reading this, and you are not a performer of any sort, and you KNOW you'd never have the balls (pardonnez moi) to get up in front of a room full of strangers (the vast majority of which will fall under one of two categories- hostile or totally apathetic, which may be worse), then I implore you to think twice next time you criticize someone who does have that kind of fortitude. It takes a lot more brass than you realize, but you'll never know because you're afraid. I know a lot of people like you, and they rarely do anything worth noting. They're intimidated by others' confidence, because they don't have any. Very few things piss me off like those ignorant assholes in the crowd shooting their mouths off about the person on stage, when we all know damn well that they would NEVER have what it takes to get up there and try. Just remember- only the spineless talk shit.

So I arrived at American Trash. I do this thing when I'm nervous- I harden up and come off as a real asshole with a chip on my shoulder. I become entirely unapproachable in certain new environments. I walked into this joint with that exact attitude, went to the bar, grabbed my typical bucket o' bourbon (Jim Beam neat) and downed it in one gulp. Sometimes people stare at me funny when I do this. I have ordering said buckets down to such a science that I can get pretty much any bartender to fill up 3/4 of a rocks glass for the price of a 1.5 oz shot. Still haven't figured out whether or not that's something to be proud of.  After that I went to find the guy who ran the open mic.
Every open mic has one- a director, a master of ceremonies, a commandant. They're all different. Some of these guys are really bitter- after failed attempts at a music career, they find themselves middle aged and organizing gatherings for aspiring young minstrels who still might have a crack at the life they missed. These guys are often rude and dismissive to the performers, and treat us as something subhuman. I never return to those open mics, because if the person running the thing is not there to promote a sense of community, what's the point? I got REAL lucky when I chose American Trash as my first prospective slaughterhouse... The man presiding over the festivities was named Dan Schteingart- one of the nicest people I have ever met. A lot of you reading this probably know him, as the Trash open mic was once a very popular hangout. Dan was very calm and encouraging- there was just something about the way he talked to me and the other musicians that always put us at ease. Dan just understood us, and knew how to remind us that it's not that serious, everyone is here to have fun, and mutual support for fellow musicians is the order of the day.
Anyways, I'm still a bundle of nerves, but I sign up. A few people went before me... and I don't want to sound like one of those jerk-offs I mentioned two paragraphs ago, but the nicest way to put it is, the first two people who got up there REALLY bolstered my confidence. Eventually we might end up in a discussion about people who, although their courage is respectable, might not actually belong on stage. But at least they try. I had also previously made the fortunate discovery that the bar had a special- 5 shots of Jim Beam for $10. WHOA. I got the special, and asked for it all in one glass. The lovely bartender was like, "um... okaaaaaayy...", but she obliged. So I'd been sitting around for about half an hour after signup, by myself, afraid to talk to anyone, looking like I must be a real b**ch (even though I like to believe that's the farthest thing from the truth), sipping on a full highball glass of whiskey. It was pretty much gone by the time I hit the stage- my nerves, however, were not.
My turn. The trip from New Jersey was my Green Mile- and though I was more than tempted to petition for a stay of execution, I knew it really wasn't an option. If I backed out now, I'd lose a substantial chunk of self-respect. So I got it together, stumbled up to the rickety little platform, and set myself up on the stool. I plugged in my electric and fumbled with the dials for a moment (as if that mattered). 
The feeling that came over me when I opened my mouth and started to play is... difficult to describe to anyone who hasn't been there. There is a moment in every performer's life in which one realizes that playing well and singing well alone are just not enough, and this was it for me. Because as soon as I began to play, I swear on my life that everything I was putting out was just coming right back at me. I was in a self-conscious bubble, and though noise was able to break through the force field, the energy was not. There was nothing connecting me with the other people in the room, just dead space between us. And they really weren't paying attention anyway. That's a tough thing to deal with- knowing that your performance is neither actively good or bad, but not even worth paying attention to.
I tiptoed through "Prodigal Son." DEFINITELY the wrong fit for this scenario. I'm in a bar called American Trash, drinking a pint glass of White Label smack in the middle of others who are doing the same, singing a song I wrote about my relationship with God. Wow. I tried my best to gather up the pieces of my bloody heart off the dirty wood floor and shove it back into my chest, unsterilized though it was. That's a good way to get an infection. Then it was time to try and power it through "Mother-" thought for sure there was no way I could screw that up, but it was exactly the same thing. Only worse, because this time, I found myself practically yelling to overpower my fear. And although I probably came close to giving myself an aneurysm, that didn't work either. *Sigh.
Dejected, I slunk off the stage before the brief, tepid applause had faded. Keeping my humiliated head down, I made a beeline for the bar and ordered a tall glass of liquid painkiller to numb the mortification. A thousand doses is never enough.
"Hey, that wasn't bad," said a kindly voice over my right shoulder while I was shuddering mid-gulp. I turned around and it was Dan.
"Actually it was terrible, but thanks."
"No I mean it, you have a very nice voice. Was that your first time getting up there?"
"Yeah, and if they're all like that it'll be my last."
"No, don't say that. Everyone's nervous in the beginning, but stick with it. I think as you get comfortable over time, you could be pretty good." And it didn't seem phony at all, it really seemed as if he meant it.

I really believe that that single word of encouragement is what brought me back. After that I started becoming a regular at American Trash every Tuesday night. I practiced so heard every week, just so that I could believe in myself enough to get up there on that tiny little stage, in that trashy little bar (not knocking it, hey, it's in the name!), and play two measly little songs. The most gratifying moment in my life thus far is still the first time I nailed "Mother." I mean, I blew it out. And people were listening, nodding their heads, singing along, and wholeheartedly congratulating me when I came offstage. Eventually I worked some magic into my originals, and began to own them very little by very little. I made some friends at that open mic that have really affected my life- some have drifted to and fro, far and away, as musicians do. But many are still close friends to this day. The Trash open mic was its own mini-microcosm; it really had a life of its own. So many characters, so many shenanigans, adventure after adventure waiting to happen between those four walls and the "smoking section" out in front on the sidewalk- I could write a huge collection of short stories based on that alone. A whole world was opened up in front of me, and it changed my life, all thanks to the kindness and encouragement of one person. That's why I'm so keen on encouraging other aspiring musicians now- you never know when somebody is downhearted and ready to give up. And you could be the one to bring them back. A simple word from you may be all they need to pull it together again, and there is NO better gift than that.

I heard last week that American Trash had closed, due to leasing problems. It really saddened me. It also made me wonder what the hell they're going to do with all the NASCAR gear they have hanging on the walls. I haven't been there in several months. I took an office job, and drinking the better part of a fifth of whiskey while rockin' and rollin' til 4am just isn't the best idea when one has to report to work at 9 in the morning with a round trip to New Jersey in between. But I will never forget that place, the experience I gained and the friends I made. So if there's anyone out there, sitting at home, playing your own songs or someone else's, wondering if you'll ever gather up the moxie to take it in front of people, my suggestion to you is just DO it. Go to Openmics.org. Find your own American Trash. Make it your home, find your family, and keep pressing on. You'll never forgive yourself if you don't... But you'll never regret it if you do.

Thanks for staying with me this long...
Catch ya on the B-Side.

Episode 6: GUITAR GNOMES and the GHOST OF HELEN KELLER

I woke up this morning with a broken heart.  But I didn't immediately know why...

I wonder if there is a technical term for the b-side of "performance-anxiety." If not, I'm inventing one- "performance despair." The emotional state one is left to wallow in after every potential problem whose black fuzzy outline on the horizon has been causing you preemptive nerve damage actually goes wrong in real life. There's only one way I can describe this feeling... Anyone out there ever have pre-adolescent nightmares about going to school naked? Awful, right? I think we all had that dream when we were younger. A subconscious manifestation of that deepest fear, that lies inside of everyone, of being exposed. The terror that accompanies the very idea of having all of your protective layers stripped away and being revealed as a phony, an impostor. The moment when everyone realizes that you do, in fact... SUCK.
Well imagine waking up and actually being at school naked. Reality- no *whew, glad THAT was just a dream! moment. That's the feeling that often accompanies the first nasty little inklings of one's hangover when you wake up after a less-than-satisfactory turn on the stage. The light dawns on your consciousness, and the first thing you feel before opening your eyes is nothing short of sickening dread. And you know somehow that the "sickening" element in this equation has nothing to do with the cheap liquor you took to the face late last night just so you could forget your own failure. Which you have succeeded in doing up until... NOW.  BOOM, the first memory of the morning hits like a wrecking ball on what's left of your fragile little ego, and damn it hurts. Oh f**k, that's right! I was AWFUL last night. Plain effing AWFUL.  And despite reassurance from trusted friends, that's what I've got right now: Performance Despair. No, this is not me fishing to be told what a great show it was. This is me being honest, and that's what I'm really setting out to do with this blog. Not spew lengthy dialogues about generalities, and empty philosophies about this that and the other. And you know what I mean. This is a live journal, for better and for worse. And while I don't want to write a reality show script, it's important to stay honest, personal, and current.
I mean, it wasn't a BAD show. One thing that can always be counted on is my ability to "wing it." My mother likes to say that I "keep the pants-seat industry in business." And wing it I did, through BUSTED F**KING EQUIPMENT.        
So I'm a little nervous before the whole thing even starts, which is increasingly uncharacteristic of me, as I've finally broken through a couple crucial walls in my stage fright. I'm usually pretty psyched to get onstage these days, and I've learned how to convert fear and nervous energy into adrenaline and excitement. But tonight is different... For starters, it's at National Underground, which is a great venue (at least in name and in theory). Couple that with the fact that I have a bunch of musician friends showing up who have never heard me... and my friend David, who I really respect, is bringing several of HIS musician friends on the premise that I am worth watching. And let's just compound it all into one giant paranoia pill (aaaaaannnddd- swallow! *gulp) by deciding that this is going to be an "experimental" set, meaning I am going to try and pull a Jeff Buckley and play a solo set with my electric instead of my acoustic. Usually when I hear "experimental" I think drugs... probably would have all been swell if I'd had some to dole out to the audience beforehand. Double dose for me.
Last night was a great illustration of how things do not always go the way you planned them. Man. It was also, in my book, tangible evidence that there are such a thing as guitar-gnomes. You know, the little guys that hide in the hollow cavern at the back of the amplifier, wait til no one's looking, and come out to wreak havoc on your dials and machineheads (and your sanity). Because they can. That's the only reasonable explanation. Because before my s**t-show, I went downstairs for soundcheck... and tuned my guitar... and set the amp with the effects JUST how I wanted it... and went back upstairs to hang with my buddies while the venue got their hour-late act together and ate into my friends' personal time. By the time I got back downstairs to my precious melody-maker, it might as well have been tuned and set by Helen Keller. But considering the unfortunate state of affairs of Helen Keller's being long-dead, it would probably be folly to assume that she might have fumbled her way down to my stage area, eye-patches ablaze with malicious intent, and messed with my equipment. Therefore, the only explanation available is that the National Underground has an infestation of guitar gnomes, and should really have that checked out immediately. No one likes to eat at restaurants with roaches, no one likes to play at venues with gnomes.
I spent half of my set-time tuning my guitar and fiddling with the settings on the amp in the middle of songs. Like the classy broad I am. It was just epic- Intro (tune up flatted d-string), verse (guitar volume up, master down, low E is sharp), chorus (damn reverb, why is there NEVER enough of you? Up two more notches), hey, we finally get through a full verse and chorus without having to stop and mess with anything, and... my guitar cuts out. Just stops. That's it, all she wrote kids. But this is where I realize how absolutely AWESOME my friends are- my darling Adreanna just yells, "a-cappella!" and everybody starts clapping in time. And I just go with it, and sing. Finally the guitar cuts back on. At this point I might have appeared to be shoegazing, but I was really just checking the ground for any of those pesky little gnomes that needed their pitiful lives stomped out- when the noise resumes, the levels are totally f**ked AGAIN. So I fiddle some more. Then it cuts off again completely. And so on and so forth, over and over, until my buddy Mike Katz (a great performer who can be found all around town and amongst my FB friends) just shows up out of NOWHERE and places his guitar in my hands. WHOA. Actually I found out later that my friend Enzo kind of cornered Mike in some shadowy side area and intimidated him into it. Enzo also bullied those criminals at the Underground into coughing up a few bucks for my efforts. Thanks Enzo!
The show went on. Turns out it wasn't my guitar that was busted, it was either the house amplifier or my cable (which has never been problematic before). Throughout the set, it just kept happening- the guitar would die every now and again, forcing me to just sing through the parts. I guess it wasn't my fault... At least that's what everyone keeps telling me. They also say it ended up creating a good opportunity to showcase my voice. Whatever. David says it's "rock'n roll." I say it's poor preparation and a shitty performance.
We all had a great time, and then we rolled up a few blocks to see the Ne're Do Wells, whom I LOVE. One of the best local bands out there, if my opinion counts for anything. And watching them play- they are always TIGHT, well-rehearsed, have their sounds set perfectly and all their timings coordinated to the finest points. And the frontman is able to communicate all the "rock 'n roll" energy the band needs without compromising the integrity of the performance. They don't have to pull stupid stunts and fight their way through technical glitches just to keep the audience on edge.
I crashed Adreanna's couch after the show, then woke up in the same clothes and reported to my office to begin another Day In the Double Life. Hair disheveled, stuck broiling in my sweater 'cause the double wife-beater thing don't fly at Activ Financial, dark undereye circles (given my lifestyle, I really should give some serious consideration to turning to the Dark Side, and becoming one of those girls who always packs a deadly arsenal of warpaint). Oh yeah, and one contact lens because I blinked the other out in the cab. 
Why am I doing this, anyway? What is all of this for? I get very disheartened, feeling like I must be kidding myself for thinking that a musician's life could ever be for me. That I could ever be good enough. The 9-5 is always waiting there, taunting me, mocking me in the mornings. Telling me that it's the only fate I'll ever have to look forward to. The ancient elevator opens its gaping maw to swallow me whole, carrying me up its esophagus and spewing me out into the belly of the mundane beast. Is this really it? Am I just playing stupid games with myself at night, pretending as if the possibility of escape is real? I can't even fight my way through a tiny little set, like the ones I described in Episode 2, without laying down to sleep on the cold, rock-hard slab of inferiority and failure that I'm quickly coming to know as my bed.
At least I'm not Helen Keller. I have all of my faculties, and every opportunity in this world to make what I choose of. No excuses. Just like she'd never have known the feeling of playing a guitar, singing a song, or hearing beautiful music, I'll never know what it's like to overcome that level of adversity. And if the bitch's bitter ghost would just stop sending her minions the gnomes to sabotage my equipment... I'll have to overcome even less.

THE BAND: This one'z fo' de ladiez

These past few weeks have been mayhem. But this is how it works... At least I'm taking my own advice, right? When I started this series, I made the comment about if you have ten spare seconds in your day and blah blah blah blz.ldvjinhoierhi .i.oipnjhe3ropasdc;ikujhv;oi3o;wg

Sorry, just fell asleep at the keyboard.

Lots has been happening, and I haven't scribbled down a darn thing. I'm supposed to write the second half of the last entry, in which we began to explore the psyche of the type of individual who is willing to put themselves out there in front of EVERYBODY, physically and emotionally, and probe the potential deep underlying motives for such behaviour.

However, I am in no mood for philosophical musings. I'm exhausted. So I'd just like to have a nice, mindless little blog-therapy session and journal about what's been going on. Axl, I'll psychoanalyze your crazy a** later.

Let's start with a bang, the highlight of everything, the culmination of a lot of time, a decent chunk of change, plenty of sweat and effort, and some SERIOUSLY unwanted repetition of a select slice of the back catalogue of one particular 80's hair band. So my band actually went out and played our first show on Saturday night, and it was freakin' FABULOUS. The girls in this band worked SO hard to make it what it was.
[This is the point where we reach the fine line between an informative/interesting read, and a tabloid. I never want to delve too far into the personal lives of the people I reference. So no worries.]
Anyways... So we were totally proud of ourselves, as we should be. How often DO people do what we just did? It feels a little dreamlike- we met on CRAIGSLIST for crying out loud! Have I gone there yet?
I'll go there.
So it's like 3 months ago and I'm BORED. Because I work at Such-and-such Financial Systems, Inc. And like any good office employee, I use my time wisely- playing on the internet. Kind of like I am now. So I decide to have a look-see at the ol' List, partially because I was curious to see if anyone posted anything cool in the musician section, partially because I REALLY get a kick out of reading some of those personal ads. No not THOSE ones, you pervs.
As luck would have it, I stumble upon a listing for a female lead guitar player and I'm like, "Hey, that's me!" So I respond. A couple hours later I am WASTED with coworkers ('cause office people get WASTED), and I get this phone call... from a really sweet-voiced girl on the other end. It's the guitar player for this already-formed all-girl band. They're just missing a 2nd guitar.
I have my guard up, like I do. I know how to turn it on and be the "life" of a social circumstance, but I'm a very standoffish person in certain situations. I've been told that I come off as unpredictable and abrasive. This might have been one of those times. But like I said, I was blitzed so I couldn't really tell ya. All I know is that at some point the information was leaked that I was in talks with this girl about joining... a... RATTcoverbandokiIsaidit. And that's just about how she told me, too. :) All uncertain, because apparently these girls have been blown off before by people who just weren't that interested in playing in a... RATT cover band. And that's understandable. Even you- you're reading this, probably wondering, "So why didn't you just hang up?"
I don't know... As soon as I found out that that's what I was signing up for, my insides flipped a little bit. I started getting all these grandiose ideas about infiltrating the band from the inside, hijacking their pirate ship and sailing them towards cooler waters. 'Cause I'm a megalomaniac.
But what really kept me on the phone was her. She just sounded like such a... NICE PERSON. Not at all what I was expecting... I was thinking that this was going to be a bunch of butch metal biker broads who are gonna kick my a** and rape me with a broomstick first time I show up to practice. But we just seemed to hit it off on the phone instantly (hey, don't we all hit it off with everybody after 5 Jameson's on the rocks?), and even though after 3 minutes of communication I was already spouting off about changing this and that and whatnot like it was already my band, she and the bassist STILL agreed to meet me. Score!
So I kind of met up with these girls on the premise that I think I'm this all-powerful force that can just arrange things around me to my liking. Which is an obvious fact when you consider that I am single, I work 9-5 at a finance firm, and I live in New Jersey.
First meeting went well. I kept the poker (read: I want you to think I'm way cooler than I am) face on, and I think that for at least like the first meeting or two they bought it. Double score! The first shocker was when the two of them wanted to meet at a coffee shop and not a bar. WAIT- this is a rock'n'roll band I'm joining, right? RIGHT? We are of course going to get hammered together all the time and go out and f**k s**t up, RIGHT? Ooohh, man. The guitar player does yoga. I'm damned. At least this coffee shop serves beer.
So the three of us got together and talked, and it was great. These two are all cool-lookin' with their tattoos and awesome hair, but they seemed so... CALM. They seemed like nice, normal people who have functional lives, healthy interpersonal relationships and show up to places when they're supposed to be there. Did I miss something?
So at meeting's end, the three of us mutually concluded that this could go somewhere. That I might make an acceptable addition to their outfit, and their outfit was something I might like to be an addition to. And just like that... I was in a band.


Tune in next time for more of this riveting saga. My mom says these blogs are so long that she only reads the whole thing because she's my mom and she has to. She was all like, "I just kept reading, and reading, and reading..." Thanks, Mom. Glad to know my work kept you on the edge of your seat. Literally. Poised to walk away from the computer as soon as you completed the guilt-burdened task of reading your only child's heart-on-a-page. *weeping  

Anyways... before this continues, I will be doing a few exercises in brevity. Good night and good luck.