A Subsidiary of www.JustinFarren.com
How Good Does it Get?
I won't lie, I was nervous...
Spending the last ten years scraping up a living playing in bars and coffee shops has taught me a lot: How to tell a story. How to laugh hard at myself. How to play to an empty room. How to play in a sports bar during the playoffs. All great lessons. But none of them prepared me for this room of 400 people who came to hear great songs. Who would hang on every word and get all the jokes. Who wouldn't take their eyes off the stage until the last note was played. A crowd who wouldn't give me any excuses. No reasons for me not to be as good as I can be.
I met David Wilcox when he played a show here in Sacramento at a venue that I run the sound at. His set was outstanding. Brilliant songwriting. His crowd was like a family listening to their favorite uncle tell stories. At seemingly random points in the night, he'd burst into laughter. It was a loud, imposing, infectious laugh that immediately makes one feel like they know him. It gave me the courage to ask if I could give him a copy of my new CD "Another Bluebird Day".
Bear in mind, I give my CD's to lots of people and I've learned to expect that they'll just throw them away or, at best, donate them to the Goodwill. (On a side note, once i found a copy of "The Sound of Flight" on a Goodwill shelf and, at first, I was a little offended, but then I kind of felt like I'd made it big.)
David left with my CD and I spent the next couple hours cleaning up the venue. I got home around midnight and checked my Email. There was a new message from David Wilcox.
Wow!
Great songs!
Great sound!
Great heart!
Thanks for the CD. I wanna come hear you play live. Please sign me up on the list.
Be in touch.
Dave
I woke Kerry up and made her read it. I went through the list of contacts on my phone to jog my memory as to which one of my friends was just enough of an asshole to open up a new email account with David Wilcox's name just to play a trick on me.
A few days later He wrote again:
Hi again Justin,
I listened to your disk for the rest of my west coast run, and I keep liking it more and more.
I would love to hear your live show. I would love to invite you to play for my crowd. Of course you may be way too famous by then, but just in case, you know.
“Holy Shit!,” I said aloud, and I danced with Pickle Breath in the kitchen.
I played three shows with David last weekend. All of them were awesome, more fun than I can describe.
Portland, at the Aladdin Theater, was the one I'll never forget. Here's Why:
Before the show, David and I talked in the green room for a couple hours. We played each-other some new songs we're working on. We discussed what it means to “make a living” off your art, how to keep sane and emotionally stable while swimming up current. How to find a way to love the “bad” shows as much as the “good” shows. What does “good “ mean. And pondered, how “good” can it get?
Being as Dave is about 25 years older than me and seemingly living my dream, spending time with him felt like getting to peer into that dream. Seeing what it added up to... what success as a songwriter actually means. How it looks. What it feels like. I felt honored to get that glimpse. I thanked him too many times. He was gracious about it.
The production manager called me out onto the huge, empty stage. Dave walked out with me to a round of applause and introduced me to his crowd.
I had been nervous in the days leading up to this. I had expected to be nervous on stage. But there weren't any nerves. My hands were steady. I played “American Singles” like I was playing at home for the dogs. I'd felt this thousands of times before. It was remarkably normal. As if this wasn't the biggest show I'd ever played. I almost forgot that there was even a crowd in front of me. Then I played the last few notes and the whole place exploded! It was like the first time Metallica ever played “One”. (Or at least the folk version of that). At first I was confused. I mean, I like the song too, but these folks were going wild! Then I heard David's unmistakable huge laugh cut through the applause. He'd been rooting for me.
I played the rest of my set like it was a Thursday night at the Naked Lounge. Like we were all friends. The crowd was right there with me. Every joke landed. Every song was understood, appreciated. I closed with “Sometimes I Like to Kill Things Too”, having to pause after each line to let the crowds laughter die down so they could hear the next one. I hit the last chord and the whole place jumped up to give me a standing ovation. They clapped forever. My face got really hot. I walked off stage without putting my shoes back on.
David was there to meet me backstage. He hugged me and said, “There it is. That's as good as it gets.” I don't remember what I said. But here's what I've decided:
I was just doing what I do at every show. I was just playing the music I like to play. Sometimes no one hears it. Sometimes they stand up and call out for an encore. I feel all of that. In order for this to be sustainable, a way of life, I need to see my value before I walk out onto the stage. The rest will take care of itself.
I'm thankful for every dive bar, backyard, empty coffehouse gig I've ever played.. I'm glad to be 31 and just starting to scratch the surface of what I'm capable of. Grateful for all of it.
I played the rest of my set like it was a Thursday night at the Naked Lounge. Like we were all friends. The crowd was right there with me. Every joke landed. Every song was understood, appreciated. I closed with “Sometimes I Like to Kill Things Too”, having to pause after each line to let the crowds laughter die down so they could hear the next one. I hit the last chord and the whole place jumped up to give me a standing ovation. They clapped forever. My face got really hot. I walked off stage without putting my shoes back on.
David was there to meet me backstage. He hugged me and said, “There it is. That's as good as it gets.” I don't remember what I said. But here's what I've decided:
I was just doing what I do at every show. I was just playing the music I like to play. Sometimes no one hears it. Sometimes they stand up and call out for an encore. I feel all of that. In order for this to be sustainable, a way of life, I need to see my value before I walk out onto the stage. The rest will take care of itself.
I'm thankful for every dive bar, backyard, empty coffehouse gig I've ever played.. I'm glad to be 31 and just starting to scratch the surface of what I'm capable of. Grateful for all of it.