Whoisthis woman?
I scoff. “You. Are. Insane.”
“I know.” Harmony pops the trunk. “Get your guitar.”
The second we step in, the temperature shifts—humid with body heat, yet cooler somehow because of the brick and concrete.
A woman’s voice rings out, accompanied by the banjo player to her right and a man with a harmonica to her left.
The main floor isn’t packed, exactly, but it’s full, and so are the upper levels, where people stand next to railings on either side of the open center.
Steel trusses span the width of the ceiling, coated in chipped paint that works for the aesthetic, while industrial fans rotate slowly.
The stage sits at the far end, a wooden platform with corrugated metal panels on its front. Neon letters display the venue name behind it.
Harmony and I approach a booth where a staffer asks if we’re performing (since I’m holding my guitar case). Once Harmony tells him who I am and he looks me up, he provides us with special wristbands and directs us to a hallway that leads to the green room.
Inside the hallway, the music dampens. Bare, caged bulbs cast yellow splotches of light to guide us on until we reach what was probably a large storage room once. Now it’s filled with sofas and stools and performers warming up. Vocal scales and plucked strings clash with the music vibrating through the walls from the stage, but that doesn’t stop anyone.
We find an empty corner and I take out my guitar to tune it, still thrown by the fact that I’m surrounded by strangers and they’re all ignoring me. Is that really all it takes? A beanie and a change of clothes? I guess this isn’t exactly the demographic that would recognize a country singer, so that probably helps. It throws me even more that no one notices Harmony—at least not for who she is. She’s one who’d be recognized by people no matter what music they normally listen to. A couple of guys smile at her and one asks her name but she tells him “Marie.”
She sticks close to me, which seems to make them think she’s taken, and I can’t say I mind.
Apparently I’m on after the next act. I’m surprised to find my nerves buzzing in a way they haven’t for years now, like I’m starting over for the first time.
“What am I performing?” I ask Harmony. These types of venues don’t usually require a setlist, but maybe she had something specific planned for me.
“Whatever you want. Whatever you can fit into twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes. Pretty standard for a showcase act (I didn’t see signs for a headliner). That’s five or six songs. I should be able to come up with that many covers; I know plenty off the top of my head.
For now, I hum a few notes to warm up my vocal cords, and get my fingers flexible and deft.
In no time, the stage manager tells me, “You’re on in five.”
My adrenaline spikes.
Why the hell am I nervous?
Harmony gives me a reassuring smile and says, “You’ll be great. You always are.”
We go wait in the wings as the current performer ends his set. The audience claps and he says “thank you” into the mic before stepping off.
After a nudge from Harmony, I walk onstage and gaze out at the room and its shadowed rows of bodies. The people applaud me as well, in a polite and welcoming manner but without the enthusiasm they might have for someone they recognize. The glare of the stage lights keeps me from picking out too many details, like facial expressions or rough numbers as to how many people there are.
I clear my throat and go up to the mic. “It’s great to be here. I’m … James Eckhart. And I’m going to start with a cover of ‘Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise’ by the Avett Brothers.”
Another smattering of applause.
I flex my fingers and then play the intro—something I arranged myself once for fun, because this is normally a piano song—for about fifteen seconds before I come in vocally with “‘There’s a darkness upon me that’s flooded in light …’”
Little whistles erupt from the crowd.
The acoustic sound in a small venue like this takes me back, like returning to my old high school after having been graduated for a few years. How does it feel so familiar and so foreign at the same time?
During the next couple of lines, I’m stiff while I play, trying to find my footing again. It’s only when I sing “‘If you’re loved by someone, you’re never rejected,’” and I happen to look over at Harmony, that I begin to relax.
She’s watching from the wings with her hands clasped, grinning.
