Just a Little Patience
Book Asylum performance, circa 2012
Before Jersey Calling regrouped in 2020, I used to play a lot of open mic nights in Philadelphia & South Jersey. In those days before kids or a career, I’d stay out until 1 AM on a Tuesday, waiting for my turn to play or chatting with the other musicians. Whichever venue I was visiting, I’d always see the same general cast of characters: seasoned musicians who are dusting off old favorites from years past, young kids still learning their instruments, over-confident singer-songwriters & shy newcomers who are thrilled to strum their way through a couple tunes.
One night at Fergie’s in Philly, the performer immediately before me slouched his way onto the stage, sat down on a small stool, and slumped onto his guitar. Maybe he was drunk, or high - no judgement, we’ve all had those nights. He strummed disjointedly, without rhythm, through poorly-formed chords as he slurred through his own material. There was never a verse, or a chorus, or even a break in songs. He just kind of slid from one progression to another, each clumsier than the one before. The respectful attentiveness of the audience quickly gave way to conversations, and I kept checking my phone to see how much longer he had left in his set.
His 15-minute allotted time ended, but he kept on droning low and gravelly into the mic. Each time it seemed like he was wrapping up, his strumming hand jumped to life and he launched into another strange turn. The audience, now realizing they were witnessing a train wreck, began to take notice. So did the host, who I could see moving in slowly to the edge of the stage, looking for an end-point to move to the next performer.
But the man doubled down, leaned close to the mic, and began the foul schoolyard chant: “When you’re sliding into first & you feel you’re gonna burst…”
And that’s when the host cut him off & called me up.
I’m sure everyone in attendance that night still snickers from time to time at this disastrous mess of a performance - I know I do. But in retelling this story, I’m thinking more about the host who interrupted the performance.
He wasn’t rude, he didn’t scold or offer backhanded admonishment by reminding everyone to keep their sets within their allotted time. The host offered the performer the same warm pat on the back & words of encouragement he gave to everyone else. In doing so, the host offered grace and set expectations for the evening. It was an act of leadership, and respect.
Those qualities can be in short supply at open mic nights, when everyone is anxious for their turn to perform. It’s easy to get impatient with the students who are so nervous they can barely whisper into the microphone, or with the pros who treat the corner bar like it’s Wembley Stadium. The nerves, the noise, the alcohol or the caffeine flavoring the blood - it’s so hard to be present & watch what’s happening.
But the host also set the tone for the duration of the night - this man got onstage & performed, just like the rest of you. Let’s at least give him the respect of that.