Street Fright

I just stand there, staring into the trunk of my car as the minutes pass. I heave a big, heavy sigh and screw my face up. I argue with myself. “Do I really want to do this? What a stupid question, this is half the reason I drove all the way out here! Maybe I’ll just play after the show and hope I make enough to cover my ticket and my gas. That’s dumb. I’m here, let’s do this. What am I so afraid of? So people might judge me, so what? So they might think I’m stupid, a loser, crazy, weird… So what? Am I those things? Shit. Am I? No! I love music. This is my favorite band. This is a great way to make enough money to see the show because, really, I can’t afford to be here if I don’t. C’mon. C’MON!”

I take a deep breath. I grab my guitar and sling it over my shoulder. I grab my tip jar with my other hand. I slam the trunk closed, determined to follow through. As I walk around the block to the front of the venue, my heart races. It’s cold out, but I can feel myself starting to sweat a little. I try to take deep cleansing breaths. I tell myself it’s okay. No matter what happens, it’s okay.

I round the last corner and now I’m weaving my way past eager Indigo Girls fans. People are watching me. I have a guitar on my back. Why? I get about 20 feet from the entrance to the Orange Peel and I find an opening where I can set up. Now people are really watching me.

“What’s she doing?”
“Who is that?”
“Oh boy, what’s she up to?”

I set my little watering can tip jar out. It has a piece of paper taped across it that says “music is love.” I strum. Out of tune. Shit. I try to tune up quickly but it’s cold and damp and I’m having trouble. I get close enough though. I’ve been practicing songs I haven’t played in years. I take a few shots at the beginning of ‘Hammer and a Nail’ but I’m off. I can’t remember the chords all of a sudden. My nerves are shot. I switch over to ‘Peace Tonight’. No dice. I’m struggling. My inner manager kicks in. “Play what you know!” So I ditch my capo, and dig into ‘Land of Canaan’.

Now I’ve got their attention.

I try not to really look at anyone but I don’t want to shut my eyes. I mean, I want more than anything to slam my eyes shut and keep them that way, but you can’t do that. You have to connect. You have to be with these people if you want them to be with you. So I let my eyes wander over the tops of heads or into the street lights. This internal struggle to not fall inward is a very conscious one, but in the back of my mind, I can hear my voice belting out the lyrics that are so ingrained in my memory that I don’t even have to focus; I can hear my guitar as my hands instinctively float from chord to chord. I’m just witnessing myself.

I’m scared. It’s been almost an entire song and no one has ventured over to tip me, no one has shot me a smile, but there, about 10 feet back in the line, someone is dancing. I hit the last chord and as it rings out, a few timid souls wander over and drop some cash in my can. I make eye contact with them.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Thank you,” they reply.

I keep it upbeat and start into “Joking”. A few people smile and nod their heads. “Yeah! I love this one!”

I smile.

The doors are opening and the venue starts letting people in. The line is moving slowly. As I watch a new audience appear every minute or two, I’m growing more calm and confident. I’m brave enough to look people in the face. I make eye contact and give big smiles to the dancers and the singers. People are tipping me now. I have lots of dancers. When I finish, I get an applause. My heart rate evens out. My hands steady. I start making better decisions.

“There are Emily fans here too,” I think to myself. And so I play “Power of Two.”

Couples hold hands or hug as they move past. One couple breaks out of line and slow dances. My voice is tired and cracks on the high notes. No one minds. Someone tips me their leftovers. I usually don’t talk while I’m playing, I just say ‘Thank you’ with my eyes, but when this woman drops her to-go box at my feet, I audibly say, “Thank you so much.” I’ve already eaten, but the gesture is very sweet. (It ends up being shrimp salad and fries with goat cheese! It makes a great late night snack on my ride home.)

I’m really starting to feel the love. I’m singing “Devotion” and one girl is singing along so emphatically that I give my voice a rest and let her take the chorus. This is why I do this. Yes, some people in line are giving me the stink eye, a few even laugh at me, but the judgment is heavily outweighed by the joy and the connection.

Here comes a bouncer. Shit. Sure enough, he says that I can’t play this close to the venue and directs me either across the street or so far up the block that I’m beyond the line. I’m not happy. I don’t like that street performers get shafted like this. Especially when people are clearly enjoying it and there’s no aggressive tactics being used. It makes me want to move to Europe. I’m obviously disheartened, but polite. He shakes my hand and tells me to have a good night. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just doing what he’s told.

I pack it up and a few people actually boo the bouncer. I feel bad for him, but it makes me feel kind of happy too. I look in my tip can and that also makes me happy. It’s nearly full.

The show is sold out, but that has never stopped me from getting in before. I see a couple leaning against the wall and not going inside. I ask if they have extra tickets.

They have one.

“How much?”

“Um… It’s $30 if you can do that.”

I look in my can and smile, “I actually think I can.”

The younger girl stops me as I’m counting out the money. “You know what? Just give me $20. I can’t believe you just did that! That was awesome!”

I grab another fistful of dollars and shove them at her. “There, it’s worth more than $20. Thank you so much!”

The show is amazing and brings back a flood of great memories. They’re digging out old stuff that I haven’t heard for years. I just smile, smile, smile.

Just before they start the encore, I sneak out and grab my guitar again. I set up a bit farther down the block in the direction of the parking garage. The crowd floods out of the venue doors. I play for over an hour. People are happy. They stop and sing. They smile and cheer me on. And they dance. Oh, how they dance. I love it. If I didn’t make a single nickel, I’d be happy enough just to see them dancing. As it turns out, I make quite a bit more than a nickel. When I finally succumb to the cold and pack up, I have enough money in my can to cover my gas money, the two beers I had inside, and then some.

As I walk back to my car, I chat with some of the dancers. We hug. Then we go our separate ways.

My heart is full.

Courage and vulnerability have paid off tonight.

No what-ifs.

No regrets.

Music is love.