It was a lovely early summer Albion day and I was enjoying it in the front yard with my Hungarian bombshell neighbor. Hungarian-American, I suppose is appropriate since she wasn't an emigre or refugee, and now that I think about it I'm not even 100% certain of a Magyar background, but that's how I remember it. She definitely evinced all the stereotypical attributes of a Hungarian and that's saying something. About me and the international, cosmopolitan flavor of my preconceptions, I mean. Not everyone can draw distinctions that fine; it usually takes a New York Jew to subdivide Europeans so narrowly. Now that I think about it, it was probably my auntie Ruth, an old-school East Coast Ashkenazi with a deep mistrust of all things Hungarian, who planted that seed.
Anyhow, Asha was as busty and vapid as a young Gabor and could often be seen wearing fur and pearls in Albion. As Hungarian as blue eyes, neh?
We were sitting at an old spool table, drinking Sierra Nevadas and snorting cocaine. I don't usually care much for the yayo but I make it a point never to refuse anything offered to me by a bombshell of whatever extraction. I was casually strumming on my guitar, a beautiful old Gibson archtop that a basher like myself had no business mishandling. I know the chords and notes and the mechanics of manipulating strings to create music, but I generally play with an angrily percussive style that strikes many as nonmusical and offensive. Put it this way: if a very skilled and evocative musician could be said to be making love to his instrument, my style might be described as forcible rape and strangulation. Once I get going, pieces of both me and the instrument are apt to go flying. Still, though, given the right combination of intoxicants and the presence of a soothing muse, I can make something approximating music. I was playing and singing a song called "Brimful of Asha" by Cornershop and when I finished Asha clapped gleefully. "Yay!" she said. "That one had my name in it!"
"It did indeed," I said.
"You're really good," she said.
"Thank you for saying so. Do you want to make out?"
"Dream on, old man. Seriously, you should go play at the Caspar Inn for open mic. It's tonight! You'll be awesome! Let's go!"
"Eee-yeah… I don't know…"
The last time I was on stage in the early 90s with a band called Blistering Body Pus where, with bassist Shredder Helmetcheese and drummer Chocolate Woody, we played deathless anthems like "Corpse Boner" for an audience of an amphetamine-crazed teenagers. Not the sort of thing to please the ears of the local reggae and blues-infused cannabis culture.
"You drive, I'll buy the drinks, it's settled," Asha said. "Pick me up at seven."
I acceded to the wishes of her magnificent cleavage. "Bring some more of that cocaine, too," I said.
She left and I sat pondering what to play at my Casper debut. I supposed I could dust off some Bob Marley nuggets or James Taylor artifacts and do my best to fit in with the prevailing (I presume) mellow vibe, but then I figured that if I was going to have any chance of winning this thing, and I had no idea if it was a competition or not, I needed to be myself and stay true to my muse, a lesser-known cousin of the nine known as Cacophonia, muse of discordant clangor. She is a harsh mistress and "being myself" is an always unpredictable, sometimes dangerous path. But I was now in it and felt that soothing sensation that comes with the knowledge that I'm about to sever the moorings and go adrifting into the open sea. I imagine it's analogous to what religious people feel when they surrender themselves to God. No longer responsible. Let chaos reign.
The thing is, this is not exactly uncharted territory I'm heading into. I am no stranger to open mics and there have been three separate instances in the past of live performances devolving into violence and/or chaos. Once at a country western bar in Denver among a crowd of Ethiopian immigrants in Adams-Morgan DC and then at a Denny's in Houston where there was actually no mic, open or otherwise, or sanction for musical performance. It was more of an impromptu guerrilla gig. The only thing more fraught and dangerous than an open mic is a karaoke bar. I simply cannot participate or even watch karaoke without bloodshed. One must obey the muse, even if it leads one down perilous paths.
"What do you think of this plan," I said, addressing Mrs. Stellington, the one eyed, three-legged cat that attend most of my outdoor functions, a sage if terribly unlucky beast who in addition to the traumatic events visited on her resulting in the loss of the aforementioned components, was recently stepped on by the neighbor's horse and developed a jaunty little kink in her tail.
"I think it's a capital idea," said Mrs. S., lifting up a paw in salute and toppling over on her side.
"Whoopsie, forgot about that leg again." She tottered off into the brush in search of disabled or recently deceased vermin to hunt.
As H-hour approached and I was eight or nine beers further along the road to oblivion, the phone rang. "Ready?" Asha chirped. "I called down and got you a spot."
Of course she did. Not only does Asha know everybody, she has the kind of bountiful superstructure that makes men of all ages and most sexual orientations forget the word No. If she had called and asked them to terminate the evening entertainment and close the club down so she could use it for an anarchist's collective, they'd only ask if she had enough bombs.
I confess to being slightly — okay, very — surprised at the level of talent present that night. Open mics are usually grab bags of everything from the abysmal to the mediocre with the occasional bright spark to brighten things up. But I was continually amazed — and a little dismayed, since my own shortcomings would be thrown into sharp relief — at the degree of creativity and skill I was witnessing. There was a rapper with a key-tar, a bluegrass duo with unbelievably tasty harmonies, and an old cat playing Delta blues with what sounded like several extra fingers. I certainly couldn't compete with these people on talent alone. I would have to make up the difference with showmanship and animal magnetism.
By and by my turn rolled around. I quaffed the rest of my drink and unpacked old Betsy. "Wish me luck," I said.
"Go get ’em, tiger," Asha said, patting me on the shoulder.
I took the stage, essayed an exploratory strum to check my tuning, and slammed right into "Dog Farts" by the Dayglo Abortions, followed immediately by an original, "Sperm of the Moment." I paused for applause of which there was actually a small ripple and said, "My name is Flynn and I'm here to fuck up your evening. This next song is called, No Blowjob, No Backstage Pass!" Kee-rang! During the instrumental break I kicked over the stool and mic stand and punched myself in the face where there would normally be a huge cymbal crash. I was halfway through "I'll Fuck You When I'm God Damn Good and Ready" when the crowd began to turn on me. The shouts which I had interpreted as encouraging took on a menacing tone and debris began to litter the stage. I stopped playing in order to take the temperature of the crowd.
"Get off the stage!" someone shouted. "Tune your guitar!" Random catcalls and disapproving boos. I grabbed the microphone.
"You know," I said into it, "this is exactly how Eric Satie was received at his debut in fin-de-siecle Paris. Is that how you want history to remember you, as a bunch of ignorant philistines who wouldn't recognize genius if it gave you a lap dance? Huh?"
"Boo!" "Get him off the stage!" "Who is Eric Satie?" "What's a fawnsicle?"
I caught in the corner of my eye the MC on his way up, lookin' like he was about to do some hookin'. I dropped the mic dramatically and left the stage, head down, fist upraised in a power salute. "1977!" I shouted. A surge of applause attended my departure but somehow it didn't feel appreciative.
I made my way back to our table where Asha was being courted by several admirers. "That was fun," she said. "You should have played the pretty one with my name in it."
"Rock 'n roll is not always pretty. Especially when I get my hands on it," I said.
When I got home later the cat was waiting up for me. "Well, Mrs. Stellington, things didn't turn out quite as you anticipated. Or did they? You do know me pretty well. Could I have been a … cat's paw, making vicarious mischief? Oh, you're a deep one, you are. Using my very predictable tendency to provoke and annoy people to wreak havoc from a safe distance now that you're in your dotage and I can no longer effectively engage in the kind of capers that you cats are so fond of. Well played, madam. Well played."
She gave me a wink and, having rendered herself momentarily blind, walked into a table leg.
I have hosted open mics and once met a great drummer at one. Most people who show up, however, possess poor to mediocre talent/music skills and are those who are never asked to play anywhere.