Good Enough

It was a good night. One of those places that doesn’t try too hard because the regulars show up regardless, and they like it just fine like it is. We sat at a table in the back corner and Jimmy got us a couple of beers from the bar.

A mismatched couple—middle-aged woman dressed and groomed and older man in a ZZ Top t-shirt—were singing “Two Tickets to Paradise,” and they really meant it. When they finished, people clapped and cheered them by name. The emcee asked, “How many years you been singing together now?” “Three, in March,” said the woman. “Maybe in another year, we’ll even talk to each other offstage,” said the man, and everyone laughed and hooted.

The emcee introduced a woman, fortyish, a little nervous. “You got it, Sharon,” “You go, girl,” coming from around the room. “Piece of My Heart” started, and, by the third measure, she had her Janis on, and the crowd was with her. You could see her cracking open, letting it all out. She finished to whistles and thumping of beer mugs. I kept watching her while two more women took the stage and laughed their way through “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.” She sat down at a full table, got a couple of pats and thumbs-up, and faded into her beer.

I hope she sings in a karaoke bar every night.

A man, probably fifties, was up next. He took a ballad stance, his pals jeering in an encouraging way, and launched into “Wonderwall.” Unexpected, and he had a decent voice, some training. A couple of tentative singers followed, forced up half-willing by friends. Then two thirtyish women who were more interested in choreo than singing, but everyone joined in on the first chorus and sang along.

There was a lull when they finished, the host trying to cadge a few more volunteers. No dice.

“You know what that means,” he said, “it’s the searchlight,” and he picked up a small spotlight and flashed it around the room.

Before I could turn away, the light caught me full in the face. I put up an arm, but it was too late. 

Near silence. 

“Well,” said the emcee, “I think we’ve found our next singer. What do you all think?”

Everyone cheered and thumped their beers. “Come on,” they said. Pleading.

Jimmy was raising his arms and shaking his head “no,” but it was a foregone conclusion. If somebody acts entitled to an autograph or photo, I let Jimmy handle it, but these people had shared their music, so I owed them. I stood up, and it got quiet again. I nodded and headed to the stage and stood there a minute, trying to decide on a song. “Go, Marty!” “You got this, Marty!” “You can do it!” People smiling at the joke, laughing, already with me. I gave the tech guy a title and told him I needed a minute.

Sharon looked down when I walked over. I leaned in close and whispered “Bobby McGee,” and put out my hand. She looked full in my eyes and, like I had her hypnotized, gave me her hand and followed me to the stage. Everybody cheered. The opening chords of “Me and Bobby McGee” played, and the crowd cheered some more, then shut up. Sharon looked me in the eyes the whole first verse, then she let herself go and we tore it up. A few phones came out to record or text, but, mostly, everyone was here and now. Without asking, the tech guy went right into “Stop Draggin’ My Heart Around,” and the dancing pair jumped up beside us. We were in the zone.

By the fifth song, everybody was singing, me moving through the tables holding the mike up to this person or that. A lot of flats, some sharps, a lot of wrong notes, some lost beats, but it didn’t matter. No performers, no audience, just music. And more music. We sang any damn song anyone suggested, passing the mike around the room. 

Then Jimmy grabbed me and said we had to go. I didn’t want to, but my voice was almost gone, and we had a show the next night. People clapped me on the back. Some hugged me. Photos allowed. Sharon thanked me and kissed me on the cheek. I thanked her and kissed her on the cheek. It was a great night.

In the studio, I’m chasing the sound in my head. The band’s my instrument. Maybe they come up with something different than I’m hearing, but it’s on me, they’re feeding me. 

We might get near the sound, we might catch it, we might even surpass it. It’s as close to perfection as I get.

On tour, I try. I give notes after the show, reminders before the next show. Not the most popular guy when everybody wants to get on with it. But it keeps the sound tight.

The night after karaoke, we’re in a big arena. It’s almost time, and everyone waits for the reminders. I say my piece, they look puzzled, and we’re on. We play our opener, and then I step to the edge of the stage and make eye contact with a guy in the third row.

“Hey, you in the striped shirt. How you doing?”

“I’m great,” he says.

“What’s your name?”

“Gene,” he says.

“Anything you’re hoping to hear tonight, Gene?”

He names an older song, then a new one.

“Okay, we can do that.”

I turn to the band. “What do you say, guys? Which one first?”

We go with the new song, and it feels loose, like we’re playing with it. It feels good. We take requests off and on all night, and we’re all good with it, and the guys in the band make requests, too. It feels a little flabby, but I lean into it and relax.

After the show, I don’t have that adrenaline high that’s exhilarating but hard to come down from. I don’t think any of us do. I give a few notes. The next day, the reviews are mixed. Some people say we played fewer songs than usual, too much chat. Some people say it felt like a house concert, and they liked it or didn’t. Some people say it’s the best concert they’ve been to.

I ask the guys if they missed the adrenaline. They pretty much all shrug, say it was fun for a change. They’re leaving it up to me. I don’t know. 

The next night, the next city. Another big arena. We do sound check and gather for reminders. Afterward, I say, “We may not stay with the set list tonight. Let’s see what happens. That okay?” Every last one of them grins. Mark riffs with his drumsticks. I have my answer. We’ll work the crowd, let them help shape the show. Stop chasing perfection. We’ll have fun, recapture our amateur status. At least on the road.