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⬅️ Previous capture (2023-01-29)
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I achieved the impossible, albeit with limitations.
I no longer possess any doubts as to the importance of confidence. My confidence in my ability to play at the lounge last week was so high, the manner in which I carried myself was so self-assured, that my set was an inevitability. I can now say, proudly, that I played live music at Colfax’s premier dive bar.
Of course, I was treated like a second-class citizen, and the rigamarole and headache of the event was hardly worth the fleeting ecstasy. I was escorted by the bouncer into a booth near the front, carrying my keyboard, my reliable foldable table, and a purse with assorted equipment, including the power supply and my harmonica. He told me I wouldn’t need to be X’ed, but that I would need to leave immediately after I played.
I was also ushered to the front of the open mic list. Playing before everyone else by default as a result of my exclusive status makes me feel selfish, somehow, even if the circumstances of my placement were entirely manufactured by the establishment. Sure, I get the highest crowd at the beginning, but I hardly see why I deserve the earliest spot.
I felt throughout as if I was Johnny Cash playing at Folsom Prison. The conditions are equally restrictive- you feel at all times under surveillance, as if anything you do at any moment could result in your prosecution. Prison shows, regardless, are a staple of musical culture, and an ongoing trend since the 60s. I had to play for the crowd, against all odds, I felt the need to introduce them to Denver New Wave.
A word on the crowd here- Lion’s Lair is ridiculously small, not at all what I had envisioned. Most of the floor space is taken up by the bar, which is rectangular. There is no room for dancing. I had envisioned at the very least some kind of modest dance floor, but the place is tiny. On stage, when I raised my hands, I could feel the ceiling.
The crowd that night was without much enthusiasm, mostly composed of washed-up derelict types and the occasional balding middle-aged gent. They did cheer after each song, a testament to just how bored they must have been. The few musicians I was able to spot- they stand out like a sore thumb with their gaudy costumes and acoustic guitars- were of a more rock-oriented strain than on Broadway, with much less of a hipster tinge. This is as close as Denver comes, I presume, to a hardcore scene. I couldn’t say for sure, what with how I was not permitted to listen to any of them play.
This system somewhat defeats the purpose of an open mic, which is of course to expose oneself to new ideas and styles of music. Immediately after my set, a fellow took the stage with a bizarre Irish stringed instrument- it was fascinating, had a rustic sound, yet the burly beefy bouncer came up to me and told me “Sorry, Bud, I’m gonna have to kick you out.” And I left, complimenting the establishment and the show and retaining at all times a resolute politeness, an affect of acceptance and reconciliation with my status.
While I have undoubtedly become more respected and well-known locally as a result of my legendary performance two nights ago, I can’t shake the feeling that I have sacrificed something to achieve this success. I am in awe of the strange rules and codes passed around in these dimly lit lounges, a culture of secrecy abounds. Of exclusivity.
I wonder why they didn’t simply reject me outright. Perhaps they saw what potential I had, with my green hat and plastic-wrapped keyboard. Or perhaps I really am just that persuasive, that cunning and that exploitative. That’s a terrifying and exhilarating thought.
The host of the open Mic was scrawny, with a tie and white shirt, and continually apologetic. There was barely any announcement, just a quick sound check. Their equipment was impeccable. Masses of tangled cords, festive lights, and a smoke machine which billowed during my second song of the evening, shrouding the entire stage in a fine mist. The wall to my right was coated in a sentient evolving mass of stickers, placed there by all the legendary bands of yore.
I managed to place a Nicolas Comics sticker in the bathroom on the paper towel dispenser, during a brief window of opportunity wherein I managed to ask the bouncer where the bathroom was. It was dingy, well-lit, with curtains and stone walls, an urban cavern. The entire place gave out an electric Colfax current. You could hear the life of the city from within those walls, the rumble of outdoor traffic and the murmur of the alleys.
Of course, I was allowed to be present for the band which headlined the night, and preceded me. They were an authentic rock band, one of unparalleled intensity, whose chords rang out, amplified and reverberated through that tiny grotto in tangible waves of insane guitar frenzy. I could feel the small leather booth I was situated in vibrating to the throbbing pulse of the drum set, and had to plug my ears covertly by leaning against my arm.
The booth was leather coated in plastic, undoubtedly to ward off wayward vomit and bodily fluid, and from it I couldn’t really make out the stage, which was located behind a wall from where I was located. It was close enough to make the music virtually unbearable, yet separated enough to make viewing the band in their full glory impossible. It was, simply put, a lackluster experience, and in a sense I’m glad I was kicked out immediately following my set, because I’m not sure I could have spent the entire night peeking timidly around a wall with no idea what was actually going on.
I ultimately managed to bump into the aforementioned rock band as I exited. They were, coincidentally, all standing around in front of the car they used to transport their equipment. As I passed, one of them complimented me on how insanely good my music was. I stopped for a moment, took in the scene, the sights and sounds of a Colfax which existed a world apart from my own.
“Any of you guys have a cassette player?” I asked. This was followed by a hasty chorus of agreement. I pulled out one of my custom cassette tapes from my purse, handed it to the lead singer, and made sure to mention that what I was bestowing upon them that night was far more than just a standard album- this was a tape of extremely rare demos, which I had brought to leave somewhere in the premises but that plan had ultimately been foiled by my premature departure. I felt this gift was fitting, as they seemed fitting enough as recipients.
They will, undoubtedly, be in for nights of dedicated listening.
You have a really nice way with words, and I hope you experience that front-stage ecstasy again!
Have you thought of writing? I can see and feel this place in my head!
Glorious: the imagery, the writing, the occasional abrasive yet playful contradistinction (e.g. "rigamarole and headache" v. "ecstasy").
The venue sounds (haha) as though a low-to-no tech bio loneliness amplification system.
I really appreciate your word homage to your experience, as I was never sufficiently cool (or is it confident?) to feel I belonged in such - never-mind *to* such. You brought me there.