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 Some of the listings are outdated, and you might get a little embarrassed when you unwittingly show up at Drag Night.)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.