It’s not that I wouldn’t enjoy seeing Mary Chapin Carpenter and Shawn Colvin at the Lensic in Santa Fe, or Gillian Welch at the Orpheum, or Taj Mahal, or Melissa Etheridge at Fort Tuthill—worthy performers all—but in the big balancing act of my wallet and the world, I want always to keep a 20 dollar bill ready for a tip jar.
If I too often buy the expensive tickets out there, as seductive as those shows might be, when I look into my fraying Kavu wallet I do not find the 20 there I keep ready to show my appreciation for the Spring Fed Band or the Knockabouts, Brian DeMarco or the Voluntary String Band, Aly, Matt, or a stranger on a street corner whose fiddling or tooting or strumming changes the course of my day.
This habit of tossing a 20 began in 2000 when I was trying to replant my life in Flagstaff. It helped my heart keep courage to know I could sit at the bar in the Exchange Pub and listen to Paul Karlsberger play his banjo through the evening. How many times did my midweek uncertainty about a job or an apartment or the future melt away into Friday sets from that kind man with the lovely bass voice?
I’ve known many musicians over the years, but I still don’t know quite know how they do it: Where do they find the stamina and the zest to set up and play for those listening and also be patient with those who are not? My inner shy gal shivers to imagine being that upbeat in front of strangers again and again. I can’t be that brave to give away my voice and words out loud to others in person and that’s why I am so very willing to show my appreciation for those who manage it. I especially savor meeting heart-opening music in intimate settings. Because I’m not in love with crowds, I relish meeting resounding sounds in small venues. I want to hear every syllable just in case that combination of chords and words will be perfect for putting the next patch on my heart.
One night walking along San Francisco Street with a sweetheart, a fellow unsteady on his feet lurched toward us and with upturned hand bid us pause. He looked me in the eye and said, “I don’t want to be alone. Can I go home with you tonight? I’ll give you good loving.” I was in kind company, and the plaintive note to his voice made his words sound like a song, so I didn’t feel put off. Fascinating, I thought, that he could state his needs so clearly. I don’t remember how we gracefully moved away from a man on street corner with an aching heart. We continued our night in a town where we felt loved and wanted and savored. Did we joke after? Hold hands more tightly? Feeling lucky to not be alone, did we step into a doorway to explore kisses?
I don’t remember, but his voice lingered and I wished that lone soul might find his way to the little tree on the sidewalk below the open window at Charly’s where a band might be singing a shape of lyrics to soothe or inspire. If he was going to find himself alone for the night, I wanted him to take into his heart a just-right song moaning on the bandstand at Uptown, or feel recharged by a rhythm caught in the alley by the Green Room.
Bless the marquee-less minstrels one and all. They heal us, these musicians around our town. When I put a 20 in a tip jar to thank that artist with an instrument and a voice and a soul willing to be seen, I do it for all of us. To keep having these bards among us, we have to keep feeding them with more than our attention and smiles, and I’m glad to do it. If that means missing the big shows that come along, I can live with that. I’d rather more frequently embrace a set by a local face than be briefly etched by the comet of a big name blazing through.
Maybe 20 years ago Mary, Shawn, Gillian, Melissa or Taj graced a small stage with a tip jar out front. Maybe counting the singles at the end of the night one of them found a 20-dollar bill in the pile and thought, “Sweet!”
