I start the car and follow the roads out of the city. I just drive. I don’t care where. The only place I want to be is Ithaca.
— Part Two —
— Chapter 32 —
March 1997
Brewster, NY
The crowd at Perks is standing room only, but the pickings are slim. I’ve played here before, perched on this rickety wooden stool, on the platform they cover with worn out rugs, under lights that are way too close to the stage. There are faces I recognize. People who were here last time, who came to see me again.
I make sure I’ve figured out the balance of the stool and then I test my tunings, clip my capo to the head of my guitar, and tape three extra picks to the mic stand. One of them is my dad’s old thick black Gibson pick. It’s cracked and I use thins, but I put it there anyway. Because I always have. It used to be one of my rituals—to remind me where I came from, what the first few songs I wrote are supposed to mean—but it’s just procedure now.
The stage me is procedure too. Pretend I’m shocked by the crowd. Wide-eyed and aw shucks like all my wildest dreams are coming true. Eyes closed, three deep breaths, strum, open eyes. And then I make work of the music, my voice sighing over the audience, fingers strong on the strings.
I don’t get the jitters anymore. I miss them. It sucked, in some ways, those moments of shaking and staring at my fingers, wondering if they’d ever be able to connect to my brain again, feeling like I’d lost not just the lyrics to my songs but every word I ever knew. But by the end of those shows, I felt like I could fly. I felt like the whole world was mine and all I had to do was reach for it. Of course, after, when everyone left and the bartender shuttered things up, I’d be in my car, hyped up and alone. Driving until my hands felt heavy on the steering wheel.
Now, that flying feeling is rare, and most of the time I don’t bother to chase it. I don’t let myself care enough about the audience to get nervous. It’s too much work for too little payoff. I get up on stage because my fingers feel right pressing metal to wood, and singing is the only way I hear my own voice because I don’t have anyone to talk to. I play and I work the audience like an old habit and they have no idea that I’m pretending they aren’t even there. It’s private. It’s mourning. It’s a love song. A map of where I came from and it’s just mine, not anyone else’s.
I start with Waiting. It’s a song from my first CD, an EP I recorded in this guy Cole’s basement in Red Bank two years ago. When I play the opening chords, a few people applaud because they recognize it. These people in the audience listen to my songs while they live their normal lives, cooking dinner, driving to the grocery store, picking their kids up from football practice or cheerleading. They make my words mean what they need them to mean. To them, this song isn’t about Adam. It’s about someone they didn’t end up with.
Even though I know it’s just a fairy tale,
I keep waiting, waiting for you
To rescue me from the pale.
Even though I know it’s just a passing phase
I keep waiting, waiting for you
To save me from this choking haze.
Even though I’m the one who said goodbye, it’s true
I keep waiting, waiting, waiting…
Waiting for you.
And when I sing, before I close my eyes, I notice that the ones who applauded are singing along. I’ll sell them the new CD at least. Maybe a few of the new faces will buy both.
Coffeehouse crowds are better about buying, but I like playing in bars more. Bar people are raucous and fun. They request bizarre songs. They whoop and holler and hold up lighters when you play something they know. Coffeehouse people are too polite. Seas of greying boomers with wire-rimmed glasses and expensive fleece vests, pretending they’re still hippies for as long as my set lasts. It’s all so self-conscious. They laugh in unison at my mid-set musings, a low, rumbling chuckle. They wait a beat before clapping at the end of a song, like they need a moment to absorb the entire experience. It drives me crazy.
It’s not that I don’t love playing music. It’s just that it’s not the freedom it was supposed to be. It comes with its own chains. Leaves me pulled apart and spread too thin. People feel entitled to me. They ask questions they’d never ask another stranger, or even a close friend. They ask how much money I make. Where I sleep. Who my songs are about. What my childhood was like. And they tell me the things they felt when they heard my music. Stories about what they did. How my songs were a soundtrack to their breakup or their sex lives or their morning commute, like that’s the only reason I exist. Like none of my music is about me. They leave me holding their memories, as if I’m supposed to know what to do with them.