‘House-concerts’ can suffer from circumstances, differing radically from events in more recognisable venues … the basement of a church, an upstairs room of a pub, the stage of an arts theatre, a bandstand in a park, or the ‘performance space’ of a community centre. I’ve performed in all of those, but presenting a show in the living room of an amateur organizer can present unique challenges. One such opportunity which came via an enthusiastic, would-be impresario; however, has left me with an invisible – but indelible - scar.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, is one of the small number of American ‘folk music hotbeds’; with a greater than average spread of folkies, in comparison to most areas of the U.S.A. In a roundabout manner, I had been offered a fill-in gig, to coincide with a tour carrying me through the Philly area. Todd (not his real name) had the idea that he would like to start up a folk concert series he could present from his reasonably spacious home; and made contact to offer me the opportunity of featuring in the debut concert of this putative series. An extra gig which meshes well with an already arranged sequence, is always attractive; so I had been pleased to accept.
On a Sunday evening, following the completion of a charming little ‘Kites and Seafood Festival’ in deepest southern New Jersey, I had a date with a folk music radio show host of national renown … Mr. Gene Shay – a true giant of the American folk movement. (Sadly; Covid-19 deprived us of Gene’s company, personality and talent, earlier this year.) Gene and his guests went out ‘live’, late on Sunday evenings, so Todd had arranged to meet me, and Lyn, at the WXPN radio studio immediately after the show. Mere minutes after having met him, in order to get us to his abode, Todd tersely instructed us to: “Follow me.” We boarded our elderly Dodge campervan, with Lyn at the wheel, whilst he got into his car and took off like a rocket. The traffic light he was approaching was just turning to red, but rather than afford us an opportunity to catch up with him, he just accelerated and jumped the light. The hour nearing midnight and traffic being almost non-existent; Lyn followed suit. Soon we were on a freeway, going at quite the clip, when Todd pulled into the outside lane, alongside an 18-wheeler. Barely having passed the big truck, he suddenly indicated, and pulled across the bow of the behemoth. With absolutely no knowledge of local geography, location or destination; Lyn fearlessly put her foot down and followed … occasioning a great and well-warranted hooter blast from the trucker.
Eventually, Todd pulled over in front of a low-set, darkened duplex; lacking only the lightening-bolts, the turrets, the bats and the theremin music of movieland foreboding. Inside, we were introduced to: “my Dad”; who seemed ready for a couple of hours of lively and diverting conversation … from me … not him! After the shortest possible polite interval; having had a fairly exhausting weekend; we enquired as to our sleeping arrangements and Todd escorted us to “my Dad’s half” of the duplex. We found ourselves in a sun-room with walls entirely of glass; its pitifully few curtains ragged and poorly hung. Wading through a sea of ‘dust bunnies’, we found our ‘beds’ comprised a pair of ex-army cots – with ex-army bedding! Introducing us to the ablutions, just along the corridor, our eyes stung with the aromas of generational ammonia of a male-only household. Before bidding us “Goodnight, folks”, Todd casually intoned: “If you hear screams during the night – don’t worry – it’s just my brother!!!”
Astoundingly; we slept deeply, for a while … but very little after the prophesied screams. Morning broke blindingly through the acres of glass and inadequate curtaining. The sparse breakfast was accompanied by “my brother”; dressed only in a bathrobe and (we hoped) underwear. We never saw ‘my brother’ in any other garb and his face gave no clue as to his age. Anywhere between fifteen and fifty was our estimate, and we never heard him speak.
As ‘curtain time’ dragged inexorably closer, we assisted in arranging every seat in the two households into some semblance of seating for my performance. I was pleased and hopeful, as there were seats for an audience in excess of fifty. Sadly; only nine people arrived; and the majority of those appeared to be relatives of our host.
I was installed directly in front of the television set; presumably so that my audience would know whereon to focus their attention. The ‘front-row’ consisted of one eight-foot settee … totally bereft of any posterior … as front rows tend to be. With what could have been an effusive welcome from the host (but wasn’t, it was non-existent), I introduced myself and made to start the show. Before I could do so, ‘my brother’ ran in – dressed as before – and sat ‘front row, centre’.
As is my normal routine: I commenced my performance with an unaccompanied song and, without interval, into a chorus song accompanied on button-accordion. The (few) audience members seated towards the rear could ascertain that ‘my brother’ was getting into the swing of things, as his shoulders were undulating to the rhythm of my song … they were deceived,
Immediately upon throwing himself onto the settee, this nearest member of my audience had groped in his lap, and produced his own member. As the chorus began, he joined in … rhythmically but silently. Whilst the rest of the audience, manfully and womanfully, attempted to compensate vocally for their paucity of numbers, my eyes were trying to ignore a situation for which all my previous show-biz experience had left me totally unprepared.
Todd, however, soon became aware of the circumstances and – in the middle of verse three – hustled to the front of the room and in thunderous tones bellowed: “STOP THAT! GO TO YOUR ROOM! NOW!” Hastily complying, ’my brother’ fled the scene; leaving the rest of the audience perplexed; and me concentrating on the mantra: The Show Must Go On.
As I said: House-concerts can suffer from circumstances, differing radically from events in more recognisable venues ... really!
No comments:
Post a Comment