The Call of the Mild

I went to an open-mike event tonight and knew the job was dangerous when I took it. You always run the risk at these things of hearing a series of mediocre strummers doing the same classic-rock and folk tunes you've always heard, interspersed with some very unoriginal originals. It's as standardized as the width of railroad tracks, I swear. It's all very sensitive and bittersweet, and sometimes the earnestness approaches what for me, at least, are dangerously toxic levels. Everybody has emotions, Strummer Boy. I'm not interested in hearing about yours nearly as much as I am in hearing some, you know, music.

It's not even that tonight was especially bad, it wasn't, but I was especially not in the mood for mediocrity, I suppose. Still, I saw something that was a new one on me—this guy sits at a piano with a book of Billy Joel tunes, and he's singing one and clearly needs a bit more practice, because at a couple of points he leaned in toward the book and peered at it, trying to figure out what he ought to be playing and singing at that moment, and slowing nearly to a stop. It's really not done in polite live-performer circles, actually, that kind of thing.

So at one point I've had enough and leave, and on the steps outside the church I suddenly stopped and just stood there marveling at this gorgeous planet, burning silver in the indigo sky. It was at the exact right angle—down on the street, you couldn't really see it—and clearly the exact right moment too, when the sky had enough light to still have a rich, deep color but dark enough to set off the planet (Saturn? I could check but can't be bothered). Just perfect. I felt lucky to have this weary, jaded, judgmental nature that sent me out the door at the perfect moment to see what I was seeing.

I got in the car, and to get the taste of mediocre strumming out of my ears (strummer, man! Quel strummage!) I put this very funky, jazzy sax tune on the iPod, and rolled down the dark country roads grooving to it. And then songs started coming on at random, which was fine, and one was Joni Mitchell's Little Green, which I've always found affecting. Then I came to a certain crossroads where there's a little run, a tiny wetlands creek. This is the first place I hear the spring peepers every year, and tonight was the first time I heard them in 2010. I rolled up to the light, caught the sound just faintly, and reached over and turned Joni down just as the poignance was coming on full blast. I rolled the window down and listened to the tiny, thumbnail-sized frogs peeping merrily. Birds will sing all year long, but when the peepers are going, it's really spring. And I stopped and thought—that was the best music I'd heard all night, actually.