second show and the muse-head

Sudsy's November 4th: Gig #2 for "Soul in the Shade."

Being a solo act (guitarist and drummer applications being accepted) is intimidating, but even more so when you're on a bill with rock bands who have loud guitars. First, Sudsy's had me billed on the slate as "Soul and Dark," a menacing-sounding goth name and despite being first listed to play, The Burning Sensations went on first. Those guys were polite for the most part except for the rhythm guitarist, who just glared at me in a drunken haze and seemed ready to punch me for even suggesting I play in the order the venue decreed. "We have our stuff already set up," he hissed.

"Right, I fully understand that. I only have a keyboard and vocals to check and you guys wouldn't have to move anything, I can set up around your stuff."

He glared, seemed to fish in his brain for that set of brass knuckles.

"No problem, I can go on next."

They played a block of nu grunge, and the aforementioned meathead was easily the weakest part of their act, having more pedals than talent, but perhaps I am biased because of his hostile inflexibility, and although I couldn't hear his playing, the songs sounded complete anyway.

After they finished, I set my keyboard up, turned on my oil projector, situated myself, feeling very odd on a stage alone, but very eager to perform. The nervousness had more to do with the fear of a batallion of drunk metalheads rushing me for daring to do something different. As I set up, Iron Maiden and Slayer kept playing over the house speakers, not exactly the best lead-in to my material. I began with "Novelty Rush," a kind of operetta that goes all over the map, with changes galore. Truth told, it's also a good warm-up for hands and voice.

Next I went into "Speciman," which I've recently arranged as a kind of accordion/piano sea shanty. The drumbeat is soft and I had a fear of losing time while I played and sang, but the monitor was right behind me and I could hear everything fine.

I rolled through "Sober Me Up," "What Are We" (with a computery patch that I couldn't really hear through my monitors), "The J. Necklace Rag" (which I made Big Jim laugh with by sliding down the keys and 'Brucing'). Next was my 'sad bastard' cover of "Self Esteem," which I messed up on during the chorus but then played it off that the audience wasn't listening, only to have them encourage me to finish. Sneaky. I ended with "70's Ballad," a cheeky Elton John-type track with a schizo Gershwin bridge.

I felt excitement, validation. Tom and Jenn both praised me saying what just transpired was "gutsy and ballsy." I told Jenn it was the belief in my own material that carried me. And I think that's what separates art from shadow: what you create has to reach you, because it damn sure won't reach your audience if you're not convinced of it to start. That's why we have so many bands that are useless. They're feeling around in safe-laid chord progressions, running in place, hanging on the word of their ape and not their muse. I've seen a lot of bands recently that should stay in the garage until they're

1. struck with inspiration

2. have a Salieri moment of clarity: (when it dawns on them that they'll never be more than mediocre.) then they can hang it up and get back in the audience where they belong

Perhaps I have an unfair advantage. I've had the benefit of playing music for over 10 years, able to evolve, adapt and generally experiment all over the board. A lot of what I've left in my wake has been mediocre or merely adequate. But now I feel I've reached a moment of "arrival" and this latest wave of songwriting is what I've been preparing for my whole life. And yet I also feel that I can't take credit for the songs. I am an antenna. I sit at the piano and they come out and all I do is iron the corners of these etheral handkerchiefs. Be they monogrammed by Irving Berlin or Freddie Mercury or George Harrison, the "it" essence is not from me. My ear is tuned to the muse-head, finally.