A few weekends ago, we threw a bash. We contrived a reason for the party -- celebrating bell peppers, invited many of our friends and family and reveled in the details. T-shirts were created to signify in matching coordinates that we were Team Just, purveyors of all things
capsicum. Our guests seem to have enjoyed the off-beat theme.
I enjoyed more than anything those few minutes of singing alongside my dad and some dear friends. Anyone who has known me for any real length of time knows that I seriously enjoy music. I seek it, and during my younger days, I drank it. I swallowed up those lines and chords, those riffs and backbeats. But, I have been a shy performer until recently. And boy does confidence do something for one's soul (which in turns does something for one's voice, I think -- well, of course, it does metaphorically, but I'm talking 'bout my pipes here).
When Paul laid out his many harmonicas before us, I knew we were in for a good jam. Of course, I know all my dad's tricks. I knew we'd be attempting to harmonize on Gram Parsons' "Sin City" or affect a British accent on The Kinks' "Waterloo Sunset." But, what was fun for me was playing "Frankie and Johnny" on my B- rated Martin (yes, Martin has its low end, too) and having folks chime in on the lyrics. Why that surprised me, I don't know.
Each year, I throw a party or two, and each year I wish for a dynamic, spontaneous outpouring of great live music. People humor me by bringing their instruments, but few actually play for long. I can see their awkwardness as a shadowy aura. I refill their steins and plastic cups with hope. Then, there is always that one ruddy-faced guy who seizes the guitar with fervor but who races through his song in a frenetic mimicry of a modern pop-rock "classic." I'm happy that he is validated but I long for a quiet evening with some serious folks who will have the patience to work on those harmonies with me.
