Paean To a Church Made of Stone

Of the myriad rituals in which we humans partake, great and small, one of my very favorites is the act of coming together, often in the evenings, to gather and talk and drink and dine and take in a night of music and good company. I believe, at heart, we are communal creatures. Though we may not know it, we crave the presence of others even as we crave our solitude—in truth, though we go out for reasons known or unknown, many of us still prefer to be alone in a crowded room, to float in a little sea of strangers contentedly knowing no one, and, contentedly, keeping it that way. Some of us seek new friendships. Some, a respite from the day-lives we know so well. Many of us yet enjoy the experience of live music-making, the shared player/audience listening act that is older than time. In every tune, stories are woven, hearts lifted, and sorrows are given voice. While the music plays, we are, perhaps, somewhere else entirely, for it is in these little moments that we sneak in around the edges, these fine nights known to those who care to come out and play, that the old majik is stirred again. Life, if only for so long, is made so much the sweeter. To be sure, some heady force is at work here; some old and special why lays behind our particular habit of going out to public places at night and taking part in the spirit of the evening. I could guess at just what needs are filled by these certain, special nights. I could argue that we are more ourselves at these times, perhaps, than we allow ourselves to be during our day-lives. But regardless of the why, the fact is that every so often—sometimes more, sometimes less—out we go to take in the sights and so, our night-lives are born.

It is at these certain places, in the evenings, that we may observe others, and observe ourselves with them. Often we prefer instead to do neither of these, but just to be. The alcohol in our glasses lends a familiar ambiguity, softens some of the harder lines in our minds and on our faces, and, as with a clever artist's charcoals, begins to smear away the borders between our day-lives and our private lives. Oh yes, the lights burn low, and the dimness masks our features just slightly, as all the while we begin to wear ourselves with a greater confidence. We are beautiful, sensual creatures, who move under these lights. Slowly, our better selves are coaxed to the surface and suddenly perhaps, we find ourselves laughing, dancing, smiling, singing. We talk. We address those around us, about whom we know nothing. Our fears recede, soothed by the dim light and banished by the power of vibration. We become, inevitably and indelibly, our night-selves.

Just around the corners of our day-selves—the perfectly normal side of us that exists in a world of cars and offices and coworkers who habitually (and unapologetically) always seem to finish the last Greek yogurt in the break room, the real-world selves who stress and who worry, who bear the burden of all the cares of our busy day-lives—at the very edge of sight lies another, less concerned version of us. As we begin to open ourselves to the music and the wine, yes, in that dimly-lit room at the close of day, we let our cares tuck themselves away in some little corner of our minds, turning about several times before they finally come to rest in the comforts that our night-lives offer us. Here the tension is lessened, here the anxiety is put to bed; soothed are the inhibitions and the little fears that pick at our enjoyment of ourselves and our day-lives; calmed is the relentless fight-or-flight that steers our course through the day-to-day.

For here in the night-to-night, other gods hold sway.

I can tell you that I have known many such moments, been party to wonderful and sublime evenings that have taken my breath from me and restored my faith in myself and all my fellow earth-dwellers. I have played my way, as best I've been able, across every bar and club and restaurant, every dive, pub, and musical shack I've come across. Tonight however, on this beautiful thanks-giving evening, it would be my great pleasure to describe to you one particular evening, not long ago. The details, while important to convey my meaning and set the stage, as it were, themselves pale in the otherwise greater scope of the feeling, the breadth and the depth of an experience that was, at its heart, simply a warmness, shifting like liquid in color and tempo but always constant to the core of our own human natures. As is my preference then, I write to you with a style that sees the written word as little more than a can of emotive paint freshly opened, with each thought spilled out on the page offered to you, dearest reader, as a suggestion: an implication rather than a hard fact, a feeling rather than a hard understanding. For my experience is yours, on another night, and I write as one who speaks fondly of a dear friend, having spent the evening in their excellent company, that you yourself might know them. Theirs is the most treasured companionship, for though you may not see them with much regularity, still you know that a fine exchange surely awaits when you do. And so begins my evening.

The night was cold, seasonably so for late November in New England. It was dark, as nights are, lessened little by a nearly-full moon. The moon mostly ducked behind clouds as I drove myself across brownish before-winter fields beside tall, piney trees. As is my habit, the windows were down and the heat was on full-tilt, as I made my way behind Lulla's fair wheel to the place where I would spend the remainder of my evening. The place—the Stone Church in Newmarket, NH—was exactly what you might think, and more. An old church perched atop a hill, now a place of beverage and of music. Through peaked windows came light, and through them I saw the bottles of spirits arranged with care on shelves. I pulled in to the lot, parked, and with my dark red leather flute case slung over my shoulder, walked to the door, and through it.

Inside were people at tables, gathered in groups of twos and threes, and people not at tables, scattered about the various corners of the place. And being a church, it was a fairly large place at that. I looked around. There was the familiar dim light, the bar, and at the far end, the stage, upon which a good 10 or 15 players now were having a fine go of it. It was bluegrass night at the Stone Church, and I a stranger, though the lay of the land itself was familiar to me. I had, however, but rarely been to this place, and not in some years. To my left, a young woman was engaged in a bout of pinball, intent on her game. To my right came a loud conversation having to do with day-lives, something about taking off work to go on a trip. Above me hung a great broad sign reading TERRAPIN STATION, which I did not notice until sometime later in the evening. A friendly pair checked my ID and smiled at me. “What's that?” asked one, gesturing at my flute case. “Oh, it's my flute,” I say. “Oh!” she says. “A flute, oh ok, yeah, I thought it was like a pool cue or something. Cool.” “I thought it was a camera case or something,” says the other. I offer my ID, return their somewhat quizzical smiles, and satisfied I wasn't some oddly-matured teen out to test their patience and their knowledge of musical instruments, they wave me ahead. My first stop, naturally, was the bar.

It is very important now that I describe to you the bar. Of all the things that define a place that offers up the purveyance of fine spirits, the bar—more than the tables and chairs, more than the pinball machine and the pool table (of which the Stone Church lacked), more than the jukebox and the posters on the walls—the actual bar is the soul of any joint, I don't care where you are. This bar, specifically, was wooden and long and old and familiar. I smiled at the young woman behind the bar, and ordered an organic ale brewed with maple: a fine choice! I would later learn that Megan, the bartender, was celebrating her birthday that night. The beer was cool, sweet, and with a fine frothy head. Seeking a place by which to observe and plan my next move, I leaned, sipping my beer, against a supporting beam. I listened. The band—a fine assortment of players from all walks of life—made good on the promise of bluegrass, newgrass, old time music, new time music, and then some. Songs passed. Around me folks toasted, sipped their beers, talked and cheered for the music and the musicians. I sipped too, and applauded, setting my drink on the old bar when needed to show my approval. The cheer of mandolins sparkled in the air, and the sounds of other strings: guitars, fiddle, and bass; even Dobro, to my delight, twanged and offered up its distinct voice. It was about 9:40 just then. The jam had started at nine, would go till after midnight. Presently the girl at the pinball table came by and ordered a drink. Inspired, the lull of rocky mountain-music and maple-brew beginning to calm me, I approached with a hello.

“Hello,” and a smile. “Hi,” and a slightly subtler smile. “How's the game going tonight?” I ask. “It's fine,” she says, a little distractedly. “Maybe not my best night.” I ask if the sounds of the crowd could be to blame. No, she says, she's used to it, in fact she counts on it. I toast her to a new high score. She looks, perhaps, a little amused, but I do not falter in my sincerity and she smiles, a touch broader this time. “Are you from around here?” she wants to know. “Yes,” I say. “I'm staying about an hour and a half away, in central NH.” “That's not around here,” she says, and then, by way of explanation, “I live down the street.” She points, down the street. “Aha,” I say. “No, I do not live down the street. But it's a small state, and I like listening to music, so I don't mind driving.” She agrees about the music part but still seems doubtful. She is distracted, perhaps wondering a little at the strange man she's never met who's so intent on her pinball game. I introduce myself; she does as well. We talk like this for a moment. She's recently graduated from UNH, where I studied some 10 years past. She gives me a look then, that might fit, dare I say, in the “you're a little old” category. It's a look I'm not used to receiving, and I find myself a little amused, too. I smile again. There's lots of smiling going on, but finally I offer that I'm a musician, and here to play. “Great...” she thinks, seeing an opportunity to not be rude, and says, “well it's been nice chatting with you. You better go get up there,” and gestures to the stage. “I'm gonna go talk with some friends I have here, so...” she trails off. “It's nice chatting with you,” I agree. I feel a slight desire to take a formal bow, but I just smile again and take my leave, instead. First introduction of the night down, now onto the good part. I approach the stage.

I'm half a pint down as I catch the band between tunes. “You guys know 'The Blackest Crow'?” I ask. A couple players closest to me shrug a little, but then I hear someone, a mandolinist, bless his heart, start to pick it out. It's a fine old ballad, a love song, something that I guess you'd call “old time” music. Most of the bluegrass tunes I've heard are either love songs or “life-sucks” songs or, often, both. Generally on account of said love leaving/cheating/dying/all of these.

“As time draws near my dearest dear when you and I must part How little you know of the grief and woe in my poor aching heart Each night I suffer for your sake, you're the girl I love so dear I wish that I was going with you or you were staying here

I wish my breast were made of glass wherein you might behold Upon my heart your name lies wrote in letters made of gold In letters made of gold my love, believe me when I say You are the one that I will adore until my dying day

The blackest crow that ever flew would surely turn to white If ever I prove false to you, bright day will turn to night Bright day will turn to night my love, the elements will mourn If ever I prove false to you the seas will rage and burn And when you're on some distant shore think of your absent friend And when the wind blows high and clear a light to me pray send And when the wind blows high and clear pray send your love to me That I might know by your hand light how time has gone with thee”

I laugh to hear the melody. “That's the one!” He grins at me. “You play?” he asks, unsure. “Sure do.” I hold up my case: still unsure. “It's a flute,” I offer. There's a pause, a little beat. “...Oh, a flute! I thought it was some kind of a small fiddle or something. Right, well...you want to jump in?” I look around at the group, at the people in the bar, and I smile. I do.

Setting my drink on a table occupied by a trio of college-aged women, I give a smile. “Do me a favor and let me set my beer here for a minute,” I ask. “Sure,” they say. They want to know what's in the case I'm carrying. “It's a flute,” I say, taking it out. “Oh, right,” says one young woman. “I thought I was a tripod or something.” “I thought it was a purse,” says another. “It's nice, I want one.” “Thanks,” I say. “I like it. Much snazzier than those black plastic cases.” They agree, they like the color. I take off my coat, roll up my sleeves, shuush some warm air down through the mouthpiece of my flute and take a last sip of beer. The maple really hits you just right, I think. Not too much. Then I'm on stage.

The band's started up again, and I clamber up to the large carpeted floor of the stage in my cowboy boots, listening. I'm getting some looks now from a few people, and everybody's plucking away. Front and center stands a mic, up on a stand about shoulder height, and as one and another folk take turns singing and soloing, they trade off, coming to the foreground to play into it. I've never heard the tune they've called, but it's definitely bluegrassy, and I play to myself for a second, get the key right, and then somebody gives me a look. It's a hopeful, slightly anxious look that says, “go for it man, and I hope you know how to use that thing, whatever the heck it is.” I nod and then hop on up to the mic.

Now there's always a moment, each time you play with a new group of players, when for one reason or another they've offered you the opportunity to play and you're just about to start making your noise on their music. The moment basically boils down to a deeply-felt desire on the part of the musicians you're stepping in with that you don't suck. If you do, then not only is there something of a pronounced disappointment there—“and after all this guy's swagger and cool leather case and cowboy boots and all, what a pity!”—but then also the inevitable awkwardness that comes from “how do we let this guy down easy and get him outta our music?” And I can appreciate that a lot. Now you know I've sat in with a lot of different people over the last ten or more years, and I can tell you that's it's an honor and a privilege to do it, I don't care who you are. Chances are, on any given night you'll meet a band who sizes you up, and decides, for one reason or another, that they like you or don't, want to give you a chance or don't, and most times it's one as often as the other. To be a musician in a group (or solo), making your sweet brand of noise with your fellow musicians (or alone), is a fine thing. There's nothing else like it. Chances are pretty good that any given player you meet has worked hard, to whatever degree, to get things just the way they like it. They know the chords, the structure, the time; they have practiced. They know that they know it, and they feel confident, to whatever degree, in their own ability. But you, this strange, rogue element who they've never met nor heard, you who claim to be like them, a player, a purveyor of fine noise and finer groove—you, they know not. And so for them, there is a risk involved. Could this person aid them in their quest for great music? It's an unknown, always an unknown. You, the stranger in that so-familiar land, are an X-factor. And so you offer yourself up graciously, humbly as you can, and learn to live with whatever outcome you're given, caring neither more nor less which way the wind blows. Mostly. Unless they outright just won't even consider you. But you deal. Just part of the gig.

And so, with a smile to the other folks on stage, I take my own first few notes into the mic, get the sound right, gauge the level in the room. I look up; folks are wincing. Does this handsome devil have ANY IDEA how to play the flute?, I can see them thinking. And then, as easy as the breeze, graciously and humbly as I can, I let it rip.

The instrument in my hands feels like it's always felt. Full, easy notes streaming out, and I can feel them through the holes in the keys against my fingertips. I give my first octave, the one mostly on the staff in G-clef, a few flourishes. Still works. I take it up a bit, second octave—this is the one that sounds like what most people think of when they think of how a flute ought to sound. But there's a full third octave waiting in the wings above that, and then some. I flick the keys, the flute sings, dances a little, we're having fun now and I look up for a second. Relief and delight paint the faces of my fellow players-at-arms, and now things are starting to groove. I get the look, “take another one, keep it going,” so I do. Notes fly out in time, 16ths, triplets, I'm bending the hell outta 'em and doing my best approximation of a bluegrass horn that I can think to do. I'm thinking the blues, I'm thinking the greens of Ireland, traditional music, you know, mountain music, I'm tying off little runs here and there and landing on “1” and bouncing back on “and” and hittin' on all sixes. People start to cheer; I'm happy. I can still taste maple and I toss a few more twiddly trills in there and land hard on the tonic: did it. Ladies and gentlemen, we have made contact, and now it's time to have some fun.

I step back off the mic, folks are clapping, they dig it. I look at the band, they dig it. There is no more instant or more true a connection than the knowing that you are accepted by your fellow musicians, that you are for them and they you, all of you serving the music together on this carpeted stage full of new friends, most of whom I haven't even spoken with yet. Doesn't matter. I've got it; we all do. I get a thumbs-up from the Dobro player as he steps forward, taking it up where I left off, filling up the night with slide and the resonating sounds of All Good Things. We finish the tune, to wonderful applause and cheers. I get the look: “stick around, man. That was O.K.”

Tunes come and go, I'm on and off that mic, and it's fun, fun. Trying not to trip over my boots on the crowded stage, I begin to soak up the evening. Dim lights bathe the audience in splendor. I step down for a moment, grab my beer. “Hey, that was really good, great job,” say the women at the table. They're smiling and I'm smiling now, and it's all sincere. I'm not here to hit on them, I'm not here to strut my stuff, I'm here basically for about one reason only, and I've just explained that to the whole joint without having to go around and qualify my ass in any way. I'm known, now, to whatever degree, and I belong. Familiar in a familiar land, I sip my beer and turn to talk to a woman in dark glasses, the guitarist. I would later hear her sing as well, in a fine clear tone, and she would later inform me, after I cited the Dead and Terrapin Station specifically, that there was a gigantic sign hanging over my head that read exactly that. I would later then stumble about looking for it, perplexed, until, with much gesturing on her part, it nearly hit me in the face. What a place, I thought.

The sound was warm and tinged with strings, the beer flowed, the time melted away until no one cared what time it was anymore, and there was talk and laughter and the tunes kept on. People switched it up, too; to my surprise the guy on Dobro took a few on bass, the bassists and the fiddle and the guitarist and the mandolin all seemed to have a pretty good working feel for everybody else's axes. No one else offered to trade with me, of course, which was good, because the day I go ahead and start to learn mandolin or bass is gonna be a pretty obnoxious day. I played and I drank, people came and went, friends poured in in their winter clothes, took off their coats, hit the bar, hugged one another, and on it went. We played bluegrass “happy birthday” for the bartender. I ordered another round. Players came and went, tons of us on this great, fuzzy stage; I stepped on and off in the corner with the ease of a man whose mind is at rest and the grace of a man who's working on his second beer and whose boots had just a little more heel than expected. I spoke with many people there, here with the two guys who work as contractors sitting at the back table, there with the young man and his friends who go to school for forestry, over there with the charming women graciously watching my drink while I played. I met a girl and her guy, who invited me up to the blues jam the following week. They asked if I played blues flute. I replied in the affirmative: you bet I play blues flute, baby. They ask what else I do, I say I play sax and clarinet too—to which they reply fondly, asking me to bring my sax to the gig. “No, what do you do for work?” they clarify. Ah, I see. “I sharpen and sell vintage chef's knives that I restore,” I reply. They give me a look, look at each other. “And you play blues flute.”—they offer. “Yes,” I confirm. “Well alright then!” they say, “come to blues night!” And we hug, and it's happy travels for Thanksgiving, and just like that, new friends, an invite, and another step in the right direction. I'm really beginning to like it here.

Talk happens, and dancing. I look around and realize that people are free, free to be themselves with one another. Yes, the booze helps. Yes, the lights and the music are an essential part. But there's more, more that is not here, more that has been banished by this night and its revelry. I see people hugging, high-fiving, shuffling around on the floor together, and I don't see the day-selves of these people anywhere. There is no frustration, no irritation, no anxiety—none—no fears, no hurt, no impoliteness or rudeness, no insincerity any-which-where. Around me are the men and women of my state, my country, my time, here they all were on this one little Tuesday night, in one little corner of the whole world, and I think of all the other little corners, so much like this one, and I think that I know why I'm here, and I think that I understand something somehow. And then all at once, it happens. There has been a change in timbre and someone has produced—impossibly!—a fine old keyed accordion, ancient really, mother-of-pearl and cracked leather, that smells of must and old gin-joints from way down N'awlins way, and he's warming up the bellows and the crowd and I like this very, very much.

I scramble back to the stage, axe in hand. Oh, baby. This one's gonna be a little different.

“My grandma and your grandma

Sittin' by the fire

My grandma told your grandma

'Gonna set your flag on fire!'

Talkin' bout, hey now—hey now!—hey now—hey now!

Iko Iko, un-day

Jack a-mo fee-no ai na-ne

Jack a-mo fee-na ne!”

Ho-ly blue, baby, this is it, this is why I'm here! And there onstage, it's not possible to stand and not dance, not boogie down to the vibe being put out by this fantastic soul, and boom, boom, boom, we stomp out the beat and clap and strum, an honest-to-god bluegrass “Iko Iko” like you wouldn't believe.

“Look at my king all dressed in red

Iko Iko, un-day

Betcha five dollars he'll kill you dead

Jack a-mo fee na-ne!”

I can hear the scrape-sound of the picks on the strings all around me, I can see the joy on the faces of the audience. I step up to the mic and blow away. Laughter comes out, the sound of a parade, the playful sound of a good joke at your expense that's so funny you can't help but roll over laughing. “Hey now!” says my flute, “how YOU doin'?!” and we step our way in circles around the stage, one after the next of us taking turns throwing down whatever their heart feels like saying. Suddenly, the accordion player, who's singing the tune, steps out off the stage into nothingness and lands on his feet, rocking out the beat of this great and awesome tune, and without thinking about it, we follow him.

“See that guy all dressed in green?

Iko Iko, un-day

He ain't a man, he's a lovin' machine!

Jack a-mo fee na-ne!”

To say we rocked out doesn't do fair justice to the vibe...man we tore the roof off that joint. That night, in the dim lights, parading around the tables and dodging chairs and singin' patrons alike, we sang together, we grooved, baby, we stomped round that great big room to the tune of a thousand New Orleans marching bands, pickin' and strummin' and clapping, and me flutin' right up to the top of my range, and I tell you right now I hit that high D with all the force of a Jack a-mo fee-na ne! Which is to say that 4th octave D gets written in treble clef with 6 hash lines above the staff, baby. And that's about as high as it sounds.

“Talkin' bout, hey now—hey now!—hey now—hey now!

Iko Iko, un-day

Jack a-mo fee-no ai na-ne

Jack a-mo fee-na ne!”

We made it back to the stage, to the acclaim of all present. And we had that sucker nailed to the wall, you know we laid it, and it stayed laid, and between you and me I'm going back again, and soon. Because it doesn't even matter where you are, who you are, what time it is, hell there IS no time when you're there in the joint, with new friends, new joys, and the artist's chalks hard at work blending everything in-between the lines. There inside that old church, built who knows when, we smeared away the old lines and downright drew our own that night, colored it in any way we pleased and called it macaroni.

And you know, there inside that old church, for the space of just a few hours, it was, baby. It was.