The Forgotten Circle of Dante’s Hell
Okay, so I am at the Paul Robeson Cultural Center in Princeton and....I know there is a subsection of hell that Dante never could have imagined: The Circle Where Souls Try to Overcome High School.
This place is WAY smaller than I expected after seeing the videos of it. There are 50 seats, 20 of which are vacant. A man is now onstage playing an (at least) $1000 acoustic guitar while wearing sunglasses. Having played an original song about two dogs he knew, he is now doing a solo version of “California Dreamin’”. A SOLO VERSION OF A PIECE THAT HANGS UPON MASSIVE BACKUP VOCALS!!!!! I did tell you that this was a circle of hell, right?
And, we all applaud....(sigh). Thank you, Pavlov.
This is a self important space. They matter to themselves. Now, are their intentions pure, that is to say, SELFLESS? I will say “no”, but it may be in a way that I cannot feel or understand. Maybe the contact high from the weed embalmed person who just sat down next to me will help? Not likely.
So, the “duo” of guitar and bass now is called “The Fingerprints” and they are doing a song about how the lead singer spent the night in jail for being drunk in public. Lovely. Fun fact! You cannot pull such a thing off unless you are Johnny Cash!!! PERIOD! You are not cool for getting arrested for being an alcoholic. You are just an alcoholic who is a lazy lyric writer.
They are doing another original. It is causing me deep pain as I try to listen. The pain being from my jaw just about breaking as it stretches to yawn from apathy and boredom.
This song is about being on Death Row and, well, being on it. AGAIN, YOU ARE NOT JOHNNY CASH!!!! STOP!!!!! You are NOT cool or edgy! You are banal and uninspiring at the very best!! And, let’s be honest, okay? You are a 60-ish white guy in Princeton. The death penalty being given to you as you are from the planet Neptune. Dear Lord, This sounds as shallow as a puddle in a mall parking lot and as self-indulgent as a teenager’s diary. It pains me. Literally. I am now ill.
Look, people need a place to perform. I get it, I really really do. And I’m all for it, as I needed them when I started out. But ALL open mics are tiny cults where the leader/organizer sets the tone. If they suck, then that will be the average of all those who pla. I’ve done enough of them to know, trust me.
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH! Now he’s singing a song about a warden while in jail! SHOULD I BE MOVED???? I am very much NOT. He sings in the same narrow range and his words do not have the power to engage. No real selfless surrender.
And now, the song ended and he did a Bible quote. I did mention that this was hell, right?
Look, I do not mean to sound like a judgemental prick. And I know I sound like one. Shall we cut to the chase? Yeah, let’s do that...(he is now doing a song about a gun and the Beatitudes.)
My Aunt Lois told me that if I wanted to be a part of the creative life, you MUST give it all at all times. And I’ve done my best at doing that . I busted my ass to be as good as I could. And I want to be around people who are REALLY AMAZING! This. Is. Not. It.
And now.... A POET...WITH AN ASCOT!!! YES!!! A SILK NECK ADORNMENT!!!! YES!!!! EPIC!!!
And he is explaining his process and his work and how it is a journey!!! YES!!! Tonight’s the night for...for...FOR.....nothing. Literally nothing but a waste of sacred and precious time. (awesome)
He is reading his own work and making mistakes 30% of the time. And, yes, his work is about trying to get laid. Please tell me you are not surprised.
This is amateur night. I did gigs and worked with some of the absolute best. And I am fine with amateurs, but not idiots who pretend and cosplay as professionals. And IF you are someone starting out, you MUST do a full Nietzche, okay?????
Give blood or give nothing! Period.
And I don’t mean cut yourself. Just OPEN YOUR SOUL. Period. Done.
The dude had one gray, no, decent, line and he trashed it with self-indulgent garbage that was cute. Ugh. Also, if you DO rhyming poetry , you had better bust your ass on your delivery. Your ability to use rhyme.com and the rhyme scheme gives you NO bonus points. By the way, I learned from Buddy Wakefield to get up there and preach and believe in what you say, a preacher without a church stating truths within God’s mystery in the human experience.
Dear Lord...there are FIVE more people!!!! I’m gonna have to pace myself.
And now a pseudo-famous female singer-songwriter whose song about the Jersey Tomato gained her internet fame. No, please, by all means, read that last sentence again. Yes, a song where the narrative is about a t-o-m-a-t-o. So, by association of also playing acoustic guitar and writing songs, this woman and I are in the same field, within the same vocation, the same hold and sacred space called to by God.
QUESTION: Does sincerity translate into talent or vacation?
Answer: No, not as such. A child is sincere in every finger painting and macaroni thing they make. And It may be wonderful and a reflection of God’s love within a child’s creation, without a doubt. But it is NOT the same as someone who has given their life and sacrificed to work their God given gifts to bloom via their tears and hundreds of hours of hard work. Both are of God but very different, okay?
And wait......wait....WAIT!!!! What is THIS????!?!?!?!??! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!!!!!! THE NEXT ACT IS A MAN WHO MAKES IMPROVISATIONAL MUSIC! ON A PIANO!!!! GOD, WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!??!?!?!?
Okay, this is going to be a really full tour of this circle of hell.
He starts by saying he just does improvisational piano. Never make an excuse or apology for what you are about to show, okay? ESPECIALLY NEVER EVER EVER EXPLAIN IT TO THE AUDIENCE!!!! Shut up and fake it. Do not make excuses for failures you have not yet done. You cannot be absolved of sins you have not yet committed because they do not exist! You are pandering for mercy before you make an attempt and it does not make you look humble on any level, but selfish.
Well, the guy can play. Pretty well, actually. A bit heavy handed and way too dramatic at times, but linear for the most part. It would seem that...ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...OOOOHHHHHHHHH! I KNOW what this guy is doing! Windham Hill/George Winston/New Age Music style!!!!!
There is the idea of a wandering narrative and then there is just getting to the damn point! He is doing texturally moderately thin and going to romantic era velvet tsunamis. (“What's so hard about that first sentence is that you're stuck with it. Everything else is going to flow out of that sentence. And by the time you've laid down the first two sentences, your options are all gone.” -Joan Didion) You NEED a melodic theme to do this unless you want wallpaper instead of a painting! For Musical Improv: commit to the thread the second it is revealed to you! PERIOD! Never ever EVER be clever or cute! And he is meandering, being cute and clever. Just changing dynamics and tempo is ot enough. NOTE: Short stories are short FOR A REASON! Thinking that you are making a dramatic narrative arc by shouting does not count. And why the hell did you need this to go on for over ten minutes???? This is the exact same situation as when you have someone you know who will just not shut up.
Oh....
Oh, no.....
Oh no no no no no no no no nononononon nnnnnnoooooooooooo!
Four people just gave him a standing ovation. Kill me.
Oh! Wait! Is this an intervention from God? It has just been announced that someone canceled last minute and cannot play! (Cue Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus) Will we end early??????? Dear Lord, please deliver your servant from this punishment!!!!!
Next up: man with harmonica, feet, mustache, and harmonica.
Okay, this guy is doing something that takes a massive intensity and commitment. He is doing “songs” with just a harmonica, which he theoretically stomps to via his right foot. However, he must stop playing said reed instrument in order to “sing” and/or “tell the story”. And these stories are, what? Civil War stories? He can play harmonica okay, so there is at least that. I am just giddy to leave here early after talking to the tech people here to be sure they have what I need to play here next month. Had I gotten here 20 minutes earlier, I could have asked them, gotten the answer, and left several life cycles ago. But, no, I got here as they started.
And this harmonica guy likes imitating different types of trains. “Fueled” ? Via his...mustache. NO! I mean HARMONICA! NO!!! I mean BOTH!!!! Oh! Look, mama!!! He likes doing different car horn sounds too!!!! Ain’t that cute, mama!? He makes ‘em sound just like a car and all those trains! Mamma! I wanna do that when I grow up, Mamma! Can I do that Mama?!?! Can I be like him!?!
And now the bastard has crossed a severe line. Do not do a lame ass version of Red House (by Jimi Hendrix) and NOT ADMIT YOU ARE DOING A GODDAMNED COVER IN THE WORST POSSIBLE WAY!!! Write with your soul or leave the damn page blank and keep your mouth SHUT!
Am I guilty of aiding in Musica War Crimes because I am applauding as well?
Conclusion: There is passionate love making and there is onanism via another person. THAT is the equation here!
Oh, yes, and by the way, (cough...cough..leans in....) IF YOU SING ALONE WITHOUT ANYTHING TO BACK YOU UP HAVE SOME GODDAMNED PITCH AND KEEP THE DAMN BEAT YOU HORRIBLE PIECE OF JET TRASH!!!!
Okay, new guy is up. Is he the last guy? YES! Is he better than the others or is my judgment clouded by approaching freedom?
Hmmmmmmm. People are beginning to flee. The place is now two-thirds empty.
Note to self: Reading From a chord/lyric chart while facing an audience who is looking at you
is like dancing with a chair.
Question: If given enough press and praise in a different space, could/would any of these people be looked at as TRUE ARTISTS? And what does that even MEAN?! Does it even matter?!
This guy is making all the amateur mistakes: Same strum. Same lyric rhythm. No arc in any way. NO DAMN DRIVER FOR ANY SONG! NOTHING IS THE CENTER OF THE SONGS!!!
OH! More people leaving?! TAKE ME!!!
Oh, excuse me? Yes, and you are,....oh yes! The stage manager tonight! No no no, the seat next to me is open. Have a seat. You look both exhausted and so happy about tonight’s performances! Well,...yes,...I can see why, I suppose. And what is your name? Ahhhhhh, yes! Satan! And, yes, we have met before! Did you know I dated your ex-wife? Oh, you must go? Well, why? A surprise, you say? Ohhhhhhhhh...
He is done!! The last act is done!!!! I get to go.....
A SURPRISE ENCORE WITH EVERYONE PLAYING!!!! DOING A LITTLE RICHARD SONG!!!!! WITH NO DRUMS!!! AND THE NEW AGE PIANO GUY PLAYING!!!!! I CAN FEEL MY BLOOD PRESSURE DROPPING!!! THE ROOM IS SPINNING!!!! SPINNING!!!! I think I can see my beloved friends who have died smiling at me....reaching their arms out....telling me to.....just...let.....
THE SHOW IS DONE!!!!!
I run to the main tech guy, explain who I am and that I will be her next month. I need two DI boxes and something to play a backing track from an iPod. CAN YOU DO THAT??!??!?!?!??!?!! He says yes. I thank him and do something so beautiful, I cannot describe it.
I leave.
As I do, there is a group of people around the piano improv guy, praising him as if he were a Musical prophet. My mind fills with a single unified reality I almost blackout from the roar. “MY STUDENTS AND FRIENDS CAN WASH ALL OF YOU OFF THE STAGE WITHOUT EVEN TRYING!!!!!! AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHH!”
The harmonica/mustache guy is out in the lobby, but I just cannot say a single word to him. I just can’t.
I walk to my car and not even the stunningly beautiful Spring night in Princeton can assuage my boiling soul. But over and over again, A little voice is reading one question: “Why are you so pissed at these goobers?” I got in my car, turned the key, and drove home meditating on these matters.
I knew that I was only doing the show next month for the free video that I desperately need for grants and other things. And A memory of last November came into full view and would not move.
When I was doing my last gig in Trenton all I thought was, “Okay, last gig for the year, maybe forever in this spot. Let’s just do it like the last 16 others.” Period. But when I parked in the deck and began to grab the guitar and amp, something odd came over me. Not bad, just very unexpected. I became transported to being a student on the last day of class, that feeling one gets when watching the clock and knowing that once that bell rings, once you walk across that stage and get that diploma, your life is changing and you cannot go back. Again, this is insane, as it was just a small gig on the streets of Trenton that I had done two dozen times before, not even taking into account the hundreds of gigs I have clocked in over the decades. It was nothing special in any way, but here was this feeling consuming me.
The performance did have some unique moments. It was a beautiful Autumn day outside and I never did a gig outside in the weather. A homeless woman I got to know who, at night, slept in the space where I performed. She was sweet and it seemed like it was just her and I and the world outside that didn;t matter. Still, STILL, nothing explained why I had the feeling I was waiting for the bell to ring at the last day of the school year and run out those doors into the future.
I did the gig, said goodbye to the homeless woman, and walked to my car. When I crossed the street to the parking deck, I felt like I was walking out of the school’s main doors and into the Summer sun. I threw my stuff into the back of the car and said out loud to the expanse of emptiness that was the parking deck at that time, “So,.....I graduated?” And it did feel that way as I drove down US 1 towards home in the Autumn air. But I could not place where I had graduated from.
That open mic showed me the place, and people, I had left.
It may seem obvious, but it is not, at least to me. I spent decades driving home from gigs within an abyss of depression for either not doing good, no one showing up, and, most of all believing I had failed, never reaching the point of being as good as I could be, as good as my heroes and friends. All those gigs of giving everything I had for apathetic and or non-existent people listening to what I did. But I refused to quit, though I promised I would ten thousand times over. I kept going, kept waking on regardless of the failures, the betrayals, the massive debt, the countless hours alone writing and working, coping with the broken promises, and worse of all, the shattered hopes. But I did it and kept going.
In Trenton, I despised those gigs in the beginning because it was humiliating to my fragile little ego. To play to no one, to have people pass by and not care. It was, in many ways, my worst nightmare as a performer. Then, over time, the magnetic North of my soul completely changed. It dawned on me that I was getting paid, GETTING MONEY, to go somewhere and play ANYTHING I WANTED! Such creative freedom is beyond rare. And I got it. And I began to just open up my soul in any tuning and just make stuff up..AND GET PAID! I had even more freedom than a restaurant gig because I could do whatever I wanted. I realized I was really blessed. Sure, I am not playing a sold out show at Madison Square Garden, but I am willing to bet a week’s pay that, if you were to poll the artists who actually have that gig, many would relish the freedom I have to do whatever I want and get something to pay the bills.
The people at the open mic I had just fled from had people who were, to be honest, something like me when I was younger. Maybe. (Even then I gave 200%, but that’s already in the book.) In the end, their actions were ungrateful, selfish, and disrespectful. None of my friends are like that in any way. And, as they say, birds of a feather flock together. We have all worked hard and put the work at the center of everything. These people were cute and not pushing themselves. They thought they were rock stars and you could see it. It was exactly like when all the actors from the community theater shared the stage with my aunt, an Emmy award winner. The distance between professional and believing you are professional seems very small, but is massive.
As for me, I am not a rock star, not a world famous poet. But I have busted my ass to be solid at the odd things I do, Mike Kovacs Music. My Visa bill still scares me each month and the boxes of unsold CDs mock me every single time I pass by the closet where they sit collecting dust. My artworks are in boxes in storage and the large canvases are in a spare room. I am unknown to the world. But, if you ask me to do what I do, I will either deliver or die trying. I do not, and never have, done “cute”. It is either everything or nothing. And that paradigm has dangers to it, but I prefer it to having any questions left at the end of the day.
I got home and tried to decompress. I sorta did. Wine helped. Some time later, I went to sleep still thinking about what I had experienced just a few hours before. But I was sure of one thing.
I had graduated from there and would never return.
― Joan Didion
