Last week I found myself in a place I should have known well and been comfortable in.  A small bar, off the beaten path in a city where the only people I knew were the friends and co workers who were with me.   I am a picture of reserved professionalism at most functions even ones like this night out.   Granted earlier in the day I snapped into a tirade that would make a veteran sailor and 12 truckers blush but that was business.   I work hard to separate who I am from what I do with most folks; often even close friends.

As I sat there watching a lithe 20 something named Jaime belt out song after song with a deep and soulful voice that betrayed the 5 foot frame and diminutive stature I found a few minutes of peace.  In a lot of ways it was refreshing to see artists who still had dreams, who had no idea what forces in the world were stacked up against them, who thought the only thing that mattered was what they were doing then and there.  In their case it was playing for tips in order to get money to finish their CD.  We all tipped very generously.  That made me even prouder to call the people I spend so much time with my friends.  After all I’ve played to empty rooms and people who were just there and music was merely window dressing.

As one of my favorite women sat next to me looking imploringly and distractingly sexy she asked how I could be so subdued watching a band when music was what I loved more than anything?  It was a fair question and I told her I worked hard to hide my demons and that façade was how I did it around most people. The night before I had a few Espresso martini’s in me and might have been tempted but would have still declined.   In fairness it’s not that there was anyone there I didn’t know or trust but just like I wouldn’t start explaining my sexual exploits to them I kept the defenses up and politely declined to join the band for a few songs.  In a way music is the substitute for my soul.  As the night wore on and the girls shook their asses, other patrons came and went and I just enjoyed the whole vibe remembering what it was like to be young and play out, to think that there still might be a chance I pondered what would happen if I did play a song or two.

When the band took breaks I had meaningful discussions, not as a fan or a bar goer but as a musician, we discussed recording techniques and theories on key changes to accommodate vocal ranges.   I sat by like the wily old grandfather just enjoying their youthful exuberance as they talked.   Not offering anything unless asked.

Earlier in the day I showed a piece of my soul to my friend, she became only the 4^th person to hear some of my new songs.  She had never heard me play or sing before, had no capacity to understand what I was capable of, both sonically and topically.  She wanted me to play for the others.  Later as our merry band headed for the door I looked at the guitar and Mic. I thought of standing in.  After all what could an old Alice Cooper or Neil Young Tune hurt.  They were more or less “business outing appropriate” at this point.   I toyed with the idea of doing a Manson or NiN song with the group just to scratch the itch she had started, to allow the slightest glimpse of my rage out.  However it would be easier to strip naked than bare my soul with song for friends who knew me as something else.  Instead I wished the band luck and faded into the darkness with a different woman on my arm under a starry night; my cool passionless façade still intact, that cruel mistress that is music well hidden from their sight, my demons at bay for just a little longer; all the while they were hiding in plain sight inside a man in dark jeans and black shoes with a soul to match.