I have been on this musical journey for over 5 decades, beginning in grade school when I was in the glee club. My love of guitar started at 15 when I won a guitar at a church bazaar. First chance I got, I went out and got an Alfred Guitar Method 1 book and began to teach myself the basics. I always laugh that I never took a lesson in my life, and it shows! That never stopped me from learning to strum along to the music of some of my favorite artists such as Carole King, Ed Sheeran, The Temptations, The Supremes and others. And my lack of musical training never stilled the original tunes constantly germinating in my head and my heart.
I had a musical milestone this morning (4/29/23). I’ve written/co-written over 100 songs. Usuallly within the first week or so of writing a new song it’s pretty much ever-present in my head, especially after performing it at an open mic.
This morning I was reviewing the video of last night’s performance of “Long Leash”(Ⓒ2023Melanie A. Scott) at The Artist (#TheStarvingArtistCityIslandNY) as I was getting dressed and suddenly I broke out into a little dance… TO MY OWN SONG! First time that’s ever happened. Dare I actually call myself a songwriter now? Who know? That’s for you to decide.
1/4/25 -- This is a Short Story gift for all who were patient enough to try to sign onto that "other" short story site. I hope you can enjoy it here for free!
Legacy
I – Lizbeth
At 15 years old, Lizbeth was very happy. She was involved in the community, but could hardly be described as a teenaged activist. She didn’t have to be. She lived in a community that was united in brotherhood. Somehow her small town of Dalby had emerged from all the strife and social unrest of the 60s, 70s and even the 80s as a place where people had learned to respect one another and live together in peace. They were integrated, more or less, without being legislated to do so. Yes, there was a Black part of town, a White part of town, an Asian part of town. Birds of a feather tend to flock together after all. But unlike other places, there was no sense that people of one race were unwelcomed in another part of town.
Except Heightstown. Nothing but a bunch of rich, old school Snooty Mc Snoot Whites living there. Didn’t nobody want to associate with them anyway. Their kids all went to private schools in the next county, bused there in private buses that looked like those party buses people rented for bachelor parties and graduation night. Heightstown wouldn’t even associate itself with Dalby if it weren’t for the fact that legally separating from it would have driven their taxes sky high. All those working class salaries and single family homes kept property taxes low, so the “got rocks” of Heightstown chose to remain a neighborhood of Dalby rather than becoming their own town. Didn’t mean they were inclusive though.
Pretty much everyone in Dalby felt the same way and avoided the Heightstown subdivision as much as possible, unless they wanted to be questions, followed, annoyed or just generally looked down upon. The Heightstown subdivision sat just at the edge of Dalby and was more or less backed up to small Lake Miracle so there was not much call for anyone to go traipsing through the area. On the other side of Lake Miracle was The Ridges, a development of private homes in the town of Merrimack, built with middle income families in mind. Unlike Dalby, Merrimack, and of course The Ridges, had never enjoyed the same spirit of peace, unity and brotherhood. The development was polarized from the day of the ribbon cutting and only got worse as the years progressed. Well-meaning, good-hearted people from Dalby tried to bring the spirit of unity to The Ridges with festivals, meetings, and peaceful marches. Lizbeth’s family and friends were involved so naturally she joined in. It made her feel good to be doing such important work at such a young age.
The residents of Heightstown watched all this cross politicizing and thought it was foolishness. Those Dalby idiots ought to mind their own business and stay home. The Ridges have nothing to do with them. That’s exactly why we don’t mix wth those people. They don’t know when to stay in their own lane.
Lizbeth loved the Festival for Peace. She even made a few friends in The Ridges. She introduced the friends and their parents to her parents and everyone got along well. Lizbeth’s mother felt comfortable dropping her off and Lizbeth spent time at her new friend’s house, picking her up when it was time to come home.
That is until that time her mom was late and Lizbeth decided to walk home. It wasn’t that far, she told her friend’s mom. It was still light outside and she knew a short cut. She’d be home in a half hour. She’d call the minute she got there. That was at 4:30.
At 5:30 Lizbeth’s phone was ringing in her jacket thrown on the ground just out of her reach. At 6:30 it was lighting up the mud at the shore of the Lake Miracle. Lizbeth couldn’t see anything then. She was bleeding out; fading in and out of consciousness; hearing that voice in her head, “I don’t hear you protesting now, girl.” That breath on her neck. That fist pounding into her face. The sudden darkness. Being dragged across the rough rocks of the bank of the lake, the air on her naked buttocks sending searing pain into fresh wounds, her pants she knew not where. Being pushed – no kicked to the water line, face down, her clothes thrown on top of her… maybe… then darkness.
“Lizbeth! Lizbeth!” in the distance.
Darkness.
Then she was in a hospital, wrapped in gauze from head to toe, it seemed, barely able to see out of one eye, which was a blessing because the light was blinding.
A month and a half… six weeks coming back from death’s door. Whoever left her there did not intend for her to make it back. In six weeks she should have had a period. Instead she had a pregnancy test. seven and a half months later she was the mother of a child the father of whom was a man whose name she was too traumatized to utter and who’d brutally beaten her, raped her and left her for dead.
Lizbeth looked down at that beautiful baby boy laughing, drooling, grabbing at her teet and she cried and cried. She fed her son breast milk and tears. At sixteen she was the mother of child she couldn’t help but love from a man she couldn’t help but hate. The paradox was too much for her to bear.
That’s why they had to fish her body from the bottom of the Lake Miracle, a cement block tied to her ankle, two notes neatly taped to the dock. One note was labeled “Why!” The other was labeled “For my son, Darius, on his 18th birthday.”
In the first note she explained that in her view, the world was not big enough for the three of them to exist simultaneously. Darius was in no way responsible for the circumstances of his birth. He is an innocent victim of his father’s evil soul. His father deserves to die, but he is untouchable. He is rich, powerful and protected and will never pay for what he did. That left only her. She could not look Darius in his face everyday and see his father. She could not see his father out and about and not want to kill him so she was taking herself out of the equation. She prayed God and Darius would forgive her.
She also asked that her wishes be respected and Darius be given the other letter when he was eighteen and that no one, absolutely no one else read it.
Her wish was respected.
II – Darius
“I love you. I really do. Deeper than you know. Deeper than I ever thought I could. But I look at you and I see him. And I hate him with everything in my soul. And I hate the way you were created. But that’s not your fault.
“Everyone thinks I don’t know who your father is; that I was knocked out before I was knocked up. But I know who he is. I just could never utter his name. I could never forget his cold steel grey eyes or his hot alcohol heavy breath. I could never forget his drawl or his stink. And I could never forget his hate. And I will never understand why.
Your father is rich and powerful. He lives in Heightstown, one of the richest families there. I know if I named him they would never believe me or they would never believe he raped and beat me and left me for dead. They would say the sex was consensual because I can prove you’re his son, but that somebody else beat me. I would have to relive that night over and over again for everyone to hear all for nothing. I can’t do that. And I can’t keep reliving it in my head either.
This is the only way I know to make it stop. I pray God will forgive me. I pray you will.
Your father’s name is Jefferson Boxtail III. They call him Jeffy. You’re the only one I’m telling because you deserve to know. He was already married and had a couple of kids when… well, when you were born so you have brothers and sisters. But you’re entitled to as much as them. Go get yours. I know my mama probably raised you so I know you’re strong. Go get what is rightfully yours. I love you, baby boy. I really do. I’m sorry I’m not strong enough to bear this burden with you. I hope you don’t hate me. If God allows it, I’ll protect you all I can from the after life.”
The letter was signed, “Your mother, Lizbeth.”
Darius gently folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. He sat on the edge of the bed for hours feeling things he could not identify; love, hate, confusion, sorrow, grief, raged, apathy, abandonment. The list of emotions seemed endless and ever changing.
As the sunset and the moon rose in his bedroom window, he took off his sneakers and lay down on the bed. At first he lay there with his eyes open watching the moon’s slow trek across the sky. Eventually he closed his eyes and fell asleep thinking, “Eighteen years into oblivion. Maybe my mother will come and get me.”
In the morning Darius awoke to find the letter still crumbled in his hand. He smoothed it out and put it away in his keepsake box along with his favorite trading card from childhood, the picture of his grandparents at the state fair and other trinkets he’d collected in his life. Nothing had changed and everything had changed for him within the time it took to read a one page suicide note. He was still going to college in the fall to study engineering. He was still going on a partial football scholarship. He was still going to make PopPop and Mama proud. They deserved it. He always said it. His best friend, Joe once asked him why he called his grandparents Pop and Mama. He said, “Well, I don’t know. I just always called them that. PopPop just likes being called PopPop and Mama is just Mama. Even you call her Mama sometimes. Plus they’re not just my grandparents. They’re really grand parents. They’re the best, so they deserve the titles.
“Yeah, you’re right,” Joe agreed. “You’re lucky. Well, sort of,” he said, tacitly acknowledging the fact that Darius’ real mother was dead and father unknown.
Darius showered and went down to breakfast as usual. He found PopPop reading the newspaper old school style (actual paper, not a tablet or computer) as usual. Mama was putting breakfast on the table as usual. Nothing had changed.
“Morning, honey,” his grandmother said in her usual cheerful tone.
Morning Mama. Morning PopPop,” Darius replied.
Mama let a few minutes pass in silence, then asked, “Did you read your letter?” trying to sound matter of fact in her tone, but failing miserably.
PopPop silently looked disapprovingly over the top of his newspaper at Mama.
“Yes Mama, I read it. But if it’s alright with you, I’d rather not discuss it. I know you’re curious, but I just can’t. Maybe one day.”
And with that the subject was closed. Mama opened her mouth to speak, but PopPop gave her a second look, so she closed her mouth and sat down and filled it with food instead.
It wasn’t until Darius’ last year of college when Mama got so sick that he brought up the letter again. He wasn’t sure if Mama was on her death bed, but he felt she had a right to know and either way her time on this earth was short.
He sat by her bedside and thanked her for all she’d done for him and told her how much he loved here. Then he took her hand and said, “Mama, it’s Jeffy. My father is Jeffy Boxtail. I know that’s what you really want to know. As soon as I graduate, I’m going up to Heightstown and get what’s mine. It what Lizbeth wanted. It’s what she asked for in the letter. I know you wanted to know. It gonna be alright. I’m not going to do nothing crazy. I’ve been saving for a lawyer and I’ve been studying the law some myself. The fact is, he’s never going to pay for taking her spirit and making her want to take her own life. But he is going to pay for me. It’s not that he owes it to me. But he does owe it to her.”
At that Mama’s eyes smiled and she gently rubbed his cheek. She seemed to get a little better after that. She rallied health wise and even made it to Darius’ graduation. But she passed a short time later.
III – Jeffy
“What kind of shit is this? Who is this Darius Anderson Boxtail? There ain’t no such person.”
“Well, clearly there is and he’s suing you for…”
“There may be a Darius Anderson, but he sure ain’t no Boxtail, I’ll tell you that!”
“He’s alleging you raped his mother 22 years ago and he’s the result. He’s suing for 22 years back child support and to be equally represented in the estate.”
“He ain’t got no proof of that. There ain’t no proof of that.”
“He says he’s the proof; that his blood – his DNA – your DNA is the proof.”
Jeffy Boxtail plopped down in his leather desk chair and chewed on his cigar. In his head he was already scheming an escape from this latest entanglement.
“Is this true?” his attorney asked. “Could this be your kid?”
“I didn’t rape anybody. That’s for sure,” Jeffy shot back defensively.
“But could this be your…”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Twenty-two years was a long time ago. You think I counted every time my wick got wet? Where’s his mama anyway?”
“Dead. She killed herself years ago. Some folks say because of the shame of it all. And Jeffy, this kid is black.”
Jeffy’s blood ran cold, but his voice was hot.
“What?! Black?! Now you know he’s lying. You know how I feel about them I’m very vocal on that point. How would that look, me bedding some black girl? And me, a married man with kids already to boot! No, I think this boy got himself some bad info. Attempted extortion is what this is. Now Jim, I expect you to take care of this. I don’t want to hear no more about it.”
Jeffy’s tone was final and dismissive, but the truth was he didn’t have any idea how his attorney was going to “take care of this.” He remembered Lizbeth very well. He remembered the night he encountered her cutting across his property on her way home from The Ridges. He’s seen her before, marching with the protesters at The Ridges. He didn’t even know what they were protesting. He just knew she seemed way too young to be in league with that group of rabble rousers. Hell, she wasn’t much older than his own daughter. Probably didn’t even know what she was marching for on those skinny brown legs.
He saw her walking across the edge of his property and he circled around and jumped up at her from out of the bushes. Startled, she jumped back.
“What you doing cutting across my land, girl?” Jeffy demanded.
“Uh, nothing,” Lizbeth stammered. “Just going home. I didn’t know this was your land. I thought it was part of the lake.”
“Yeah well, now you know. What’s your name?”
“Uh, Lizbeth. I gotta go. I’m gonna be late.”
“What’s your rush?” Jeffy reached out for her, but she pulled away.
“I gotta go.”
She turned to run but he caught her arm. She turned and slapped him and he punched her. Her head snapped back and her lip began to bleed. Then in a fog of anger and alcohol and rising nature he began to do things to her that he could barely remember, but that he could feel as though there were happening right then all over again. He could smell her teenage perfume mingled with his sweat. He could feel the arch of his body as it released into hers. He felt his anger as she clawed his chest trying to get away. He did remember beating her afterward and dragging her body to the lake thinking – hoping she was dead. Kicking her to the water line and throwing her clothes on top of her. Then he walked back onto his property like nothing ever happened.
But something had happened. And because something had happened, Darius had happened and now he was here claiming his birthright.
“Well damn him. He ain’t getting’ shit from me!”
IV – Confrontation
To say Jeffy thought he’d seen a ghost would be completely off the mark. It was mor like he was looking at a timeless dark mirror. Darius Oswald Anderson… Boxtail, for he was surely a Boxtail. He was the brown spitting image of Jeffy himself. The only hint of his mother was the color his skin. It’s amazing no one had put it together sooner.
But then why would they? Or rather how would anyone put this particular two and two together? As small a town as Dalby and its wealthy sub-division Heightstown was, it was the rarest of occasions for the paths of members of the two communities to cross.
Jeffy had to catch his breath before he could speak as Darius and his attorney entered the conference room. He composed himself and slipped back on his mantle of bravado. He had to come up with a strategy of “leaning in.” He could tell just by looking at this young man that if a DNA test were demanded, his parentage would be known. There was no point in denying it. He’d created this child on drunken night.
Almost before Darius and his lawyer were settled, Jeffy leaned back in his chair and barked, “What you want from me boy?”
Flustered, Darius stammered, “I… I…”
“Mr. Anderson is seeking support payment from the time of his birth through his graduation from college. In addition, he’s seeking full reimbursement of all his out of pocket college expenses. Those have been mitigated, of course, because Mr. Anderson did attend college on both sports and academic scholarships. He expects, however, all his other college expenses to be reimbursed.”
Jeffy sniffed, “That so? How much he figure he’s worth? Seriously. How much is it gonna take to make this stain disappear?”
“Mr. Boxtail,” his attorney cautioned.
Darius’ attorney slid a folder across the table.
“Here’s a detailed accounting of what Mr. Anderson deems to be reasonable restitution.”
Jeffy did not touch the folder. Instead he left it for his attorney to take and look over first. The lawyer flipped through the pages, then pushed the folder over the Jeffy when he got to the tally page. Jeffy locked eyes with Darius the entire time. Finally he slowly looked down at the page, chuckled a bit, then looked up a Darius again, allowing silence to settle over the room for several minutes before he spoke.
Without averting his gaze he said, “Cut him a check.”
At that moment the other three men in the room all realized they’d been holding their breath and all exhaled at once.
“Verify those numbers and cut him a check if that’s what it takes. But you ain’t gettin’ another cent out of me. That’s it! You’re a grown ass man now. You’re on your own.
Darius laughed.
“I’ve been on my own for a long time. At least I’ve been without you and thanks to you I’ve without my mother too. Thank God for my grandparents. Anyway, there is one more thing. Like it or not, I’m a Boxtail. Your blood and your DNA runs through my veins. That name has its privileges. I deserve those privileges. I want that name. So from here on out I’m changing my name to Darius Oswald Anderson Boxtail.
Jeffy let out a laugh that started at the soles of his feet, rose up through his entire body and finally issued forth from his mouth as he arose from his chair and headed for the door.
“Boy, you could change your name to BooBoo the Fool for all I care. It ain’t going on the company letterhead or the family headstone.”
And with that he left the room.
V – Closure
Darius stood on the dock named for his mother – The Lizbeth Anderson Overlook. He watched as the wreath he’s just tossed into the lake slowly broke apart, its flowers floating on the water, just as he’d designed it to do.
Both grandparents were gone now. His mother, of course, long gone. Even old, ornery, Jefferson Boxtail III dead and gone. Darius was now 30 and still unwelcomed in Heightstown. Dalby was just as divided as ever. The main town still a peaceful, liberal bubble in an increasingly divide world, its sub-division, Heightstown, a cold reminder of the “haves vs the have-nots.” The Ridges was becoming the war zone outside their door, Lake Miracle the neutral zone. In short, despite his “line in the sand” gesture, nothing much had change in Darius’ world.
Oh the money had come in handy. Darius had gone on to graduate school and even studied law, although he never pursued law as a vocation. He was just an engineer who knew a lot about law. Interesting, but not overly useful.
Darius had filled out all the paperwork to change his name to Boxtail, but her never filed any of them with the court because the thought of officially being a Boxtail made his skin crawl. He thought of all he intended to accomplish in his life and didn’t want any of it attributed to that family name. Instead, he chose to honor the grandparents who raised him.
Jeffy, of course, never publicly acknowledged Darius. As far as Darius knew, that one meeting was their only interaction. But funding for the Lizbeth Anderson Overlook was anonymous, as was the infusion of funds to repair the banks of the lake damaged by erosion and storms.
Also, people stopped talking about Jeffy’s legendary drunken tirades as he got older. Darius didn’t really keep track.
As Darius stood there he thought about how he’d honored his mother’s dying request and how little difference it had made. He prayed her soul was resting in peace. He knew his never would.
2023 Year End Reflection
As we turn the final pages on another year, I think it’s quite natural to reflect on the year past, our accomplishments, our mistakes, our joys and our pains.
This year, as with most years in my life, I find I have few regrets. Not that I haven’t made mistakes. I’ve made my share, believe me. But I think I’ve learned from them and hopefully have moved on with more wisdom than bitterness.
Three concerns have remained constant in my life: My family, my weight and race relations.
I am so happy to say that this year my family is in a better, more harmonious state than we’ve been in for years. Even though for me that’s meant I’ve had to let someone go, those I’ve chosen to keep in my life and bring back into the foal have given me unimaginable joy. My relationship with my son is better than ever. My grandson has turned a corner of maturity and is making me so proud. My other grandson is finally starting to face the realities of the adulthood that is soon upon him. I hope I have given him the tools to meet the challenges he faces. My wife and I are at last on the same page. All this proves to me what I have believed all along, that faith is real and prayer works. I am thankful to God that my prayers have been heard and are being answered. As for the rest of my family, I have lost three cousins this year. I loved them deeply and miss them truly. But their loss only proves how strong a family bond we have and reminds us that we must hold fast the ties that bind us. The fact is, we are the older generation now and it is up to us to provide that stable heritage to this younger generation before we fall away, just as our parents did for us. I am on a mission, in this coming year to do that as much as possible. To connect with and stay in touch with the young folks. To hold tight the tether and not let them go so that they know they can wander far and wide, but always have strong ties to secure them to their roots.
Oh boy, my weight… I have been battling weight issues for years. This is nothing new. For years I have said that the diet/nutrition/medical community has entirely the wrong idea. It’s a long story, but the bottom line is I believe that people who have a lifelong struggle with weight probably have unresolved medical issues and the last thing we need is people wagging their fingers at us telling us, “all you gotta do is…” The fact is (and I’ll try not to rant here) every diet and dietary regimen I’ve been on I was told was right by one person but was told was wrong according to someone else. And you know what, they were both right, because there is no “one size fits all” when it comes to diet and exercise. I’m now hearing about medical developments that are looking at long term weight issues as a disease that has to be treated as such. THANK THE LORD AND PASS THE GRAVY! Finally, someone is listening. Now maybe instead of the insanity of cutting out 80% of a perfectly healthy organ in a procedure that is effective only 30% of the time and even then has horrible side effects another 50-60% of the time; instead of pills that make is comfortable for us to starve ourselves nearly to death, perhaps we can move to some common sense treatment of the disease of obesity that takes into account DNA, genetics and all the other factors that you can’t just diet, starve or shame out of existence. I am hopeful…
:Can you tell me if an X-ray is of a black, white, Asian, Latin-X, straight, gay, male, female, trans, Democrat, Republican, green, Martian, Vulcan? I really don’t think that you can. I DO NOT understand racism or bigotry at all. I do not understand how me living my life affects you living yours. I do not understand how or why one group of people feel they are more entitled to God’s good graces than any other group. I do not understand how people who live on what is essentially stolen land in a nation full of immigrants can declare that this is “their country” and that the boarders should be closed to immigrants. The pure illogic of these statements is mind boggling. “They’re stealing our jobs, comes the cry, when in fact these people are doing jobs most of us have no desire (or ability) to do. “They’re thieves and criminals!” Yes, a certain percentage of them are, just as a certain percentage of every community everywhere in the world. That’s pretty much the nature of man.
But before we even go there, how do you look at a 12-year-old boy and see a grown-ass man – a threat to the extend that you have to shoot him dead – just because of the color of his skin? Why do you think a black woman doesn’t feel pain and that if she claims she is in pain she is just drug seeking? Why do you assume a white man cannot love a white woman and the attraction is only for a taste of “brown sugar” and will fade with the morning light.
Why do we still… STILL need equal opportunity LAWS in employment, housing, education, law enforcement, voting, EXISTANCE? Why are we afraid to teach the true history of our nation or even the world and show that we have learned from and progressed beyond the mistakes of our ancestors? Why, in all our thousands of years of life on this planet, have we not progressed beyond the notion that anyone is better or worse than anyone else simply because of the evolutionary biological developments required to exist in certain environments on this planet. HOW STUPID CAN WE BE? If a woman can create an entire being out of her body, how could she possibly be lesser than a man? I mean, these are just questions of logic and reason that simply do not add up in my mind and I will be forever befuddled by the way we act contrary to what is so obviously true.
I’m committed to celebrate and enjoy cross culturalism where-ever and whenever I can. I hope never to judge anyone by their race gender, sexual orientation, religion (heaven forbid!) or any “ism”! This, I recognize is, has been and will continue to be a constant battle. It’s not a declarative statement you can make one time, then rest on your haunches. “Ism” must be fought day by day, step by step, encounter by encounter. I am determined to do so, and I hope my friends and associates will keep me on track without judgment or rancor. A gentle nudge, “Melanie, your isms are showing” hopefully will be all it will take to get me back on track and get me to reflect on where I went wrong.
Okay, enough chatter. 2024 is almost upon us and what I want most of all is for everyone to have a wonder, joyous New Year filled with much love and beautiful music! I have been blessed in 2023 to have shared music with wonderful musicians and found a whole new community of local talent that I’d only dreamed of. I hope to continue fostering those relationships and build new ones as well. I’ll see you all in 2024 and beyond… Lord willing and the crick don’t rise. 😊
Happy New Year!
LOCAL MUSIC IS GOOD MUSIC! ~~~~~ 6/10/23
As I prepared to write this little blog entry, I decided to do a quick check of concert tickets in our area (NYC metropolitan area) for some of the most popular artists today. Several hours later I’m just now able to pick myself up off the floor. Tickets ranged from a “modest” $97 for the cheap seats to see the resident at a central downtown location, to $1,213 to sit right up front to see a more colorful artist at an outdoor venue. (Yes, I’m deliberately avoiding names, in case you were wondering. I ain’t trying to get sued.) Are these artists’ performances worth the crazy price of admission? Well, the only one who can make that determination is the individual buying the ticket. But here’s my point of view… (Oh boy, here it comes…)
Typically, I have not been much of a fan of live music. I usually like my music studio produced down to perfection. None of that “winging it” nonsense. I get annoyed when I go to concerts and they speed songs up or slow them down or add or subtract elements. I don’t even particularly like live recordings. That said, performing at open mics has given me a new appreciation for live music in a particularly intimate and personal setting. It’s an opportunity to not only hear really great music, but to also interact with the artist in a way that is completely impossible at a concert for a national or international star. As an artist, it’s an opportunity to connect with the audience on a very personal level. I’ve been on plenty of stages and believe me, when the lights go up, you can barely see the audience, let alone connect with them. Much has been made of the way Freddie Mercury could connect with his audience, citing particularly the Queen concert at Wembly Stadium. I get that. He was fantastic! I’m a fan. But let’s face it, it is highly unlikely that Billy Joel is going to go out for a beer with you after the show or that you and Pink are going to meet for a burger to discuss the meaning of one of her songs. (To be clear, I’m not calling these artists out for any wrongdoing. They’re great! I’m a fan. I’m just talking about the nature of the business. Again, not trying to get sued.)
But it’s not just open mics. SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL MUSIC SCENE! Seriously! Not everyone wants to live the rock star life. That doesn’t mean they’re not just as talented as any of the rock stars you’d pay an arm and a leg to see. I happen to be in the Northwest Bronx/Southern Westchester area so if I walk into, say, An Beal Bocht Café or Mr. Viggs, Bronx Burger House, The Alibi, Pete’s Saloon, The Starving Artist or any of the other venues that sponsor local talent, I might stumble upon music, comedy and even spoken word as good as any heard on the national or even international stage. The likes of Mike Golden, Johnny Seven, No Rent, Contra Band, Smoky O, Guy That Guy, Custo-Mary Covers and so many more that I’m forgetting, bring you professional, and more importantly, enjoyable music right to your community. Whatever your preferred style – jazz, blues, rock, R&B, country, bluegrass – you can usually find it within just a few miles of your home without the crush of the subway, the expense of cabs or downtown parking and for nothing or next to nothing. Most places, if they charge a cover at all, it’s under $20. Some have a drink minimum, usually 1 or 2. Other places pass the hat to pay the artists. Please be generous! And at the end of the show, you get to chat with the artists about the music or anything else people might want to chat about. What a treat!
My point is, if it’s good music you’re looking for, you often need to go no further than your local bars or cafes. If they happen to be within walking distance, you a have a cocktail without having to worry about getting behind the wheel. And wouldn’t it be nice to go to dinner and see a nice band without having to budget for it months in advance for a change?
Look, I’m not trying to dissuade people from seeing their favorite artists on the big stages of the world. (Can’t say it often enough, not trying to get sued!) What I am saying is there’s a lot of really fine talent right in your own backyard. Some might be retirees who finally have the time to devote to the musical career they put on hold years ago. Some might be young folks who will be the next big act on the music scene and you will have the opportunity to say, “I knew them when…” Either way, you are almost guaranteed to get a great show at a great price right in your own backyard.