A Change Is Gonna Come

August 28, 2008 - BILL'S BLUES, Evanston, IL

I met Bill, actually two Bills, at Bill's Blues. "Are you Bill?” I asked as I swung on to a stool by a man with glasses and a laptop sitting at the bar. "Yes, my name is Bill, I help book the acts, but the Bill you're thinking of is either in the office or taking a nap." Pointing at the website's calendar page he continued, "Describe for me 'Lively Folk-Rock'."

"It's Americana," I said. "Say Mid-70s California folk-rock, singer-songwriter stuff--all original," I add.

"Were you able to get an email out?” he ventured.

"Oh, yeah...well, I got a tremendous response. Lots of folks replied saying they were sorry they couldn't make it; they had other plans. What can you do? It's a Thursday ahead of Labor Day weekend. Plus, it is an historic night." I waved a hand in the ballpark direction of the TV pulling in CNN’s feed from Invesco Field in Denver. There's another TV playing sports. "Crowd might be a little thin, unfortunately." I was breaking it to him as gently as I could.

"You play with a fella named Kris, right?” Bill said staring at his monitor. "Is he here yet?"

"Nursing a sore throat," I said. "He'll be along in a few minutes. I'm gonna load in." I had a sore throat myself for the entire week prior—strep throat. Simply horrible.

When I got back there was another fellow sitting there with Bill, also wearing glasses. "Bill", he said shaking my hand. He was the owner.

I walked onstage and said hello in the mic to Norm "MadDawg" Seigel the soundman. Norm and I go way back to April. I may have well have known him for 30 year, or seems like. At least the folks we know mutually go back some time. The mic sounds OK. Norm is at the back of the room giving a frustrated stare to some errant piece of equipment. I venture forth to inquire. He has a Tascam digital recording rig and a splitter and a bunch of patch cables.

"You just wait. It's....FUCK! There IS a WAY to do this...we have signal...you're gonna shit yer pants."

Kris arrived wanting tea. "It is an historic night,” I offer. "Absolutely", says Kris. We chat.

I set up the congas waiting for someone to wander up and say, "I see you have some bongos." People always call them bongos. The family of percussion instruments is really rather small. Latin percussion you have bongos, congas, timbales, shakers, gourds, cowbell, triangle, and, if you are looking for a particularly authoritative hi-mid smack, congita. But there is no one here but the staff and one lone man at the bar named Jeff. I met him a month ago. Other than this, no audience.

Norm approaches eyes wide eyeing the congas. "You need a mic," he states.

"Got one; I'll put a 57 on it. 'Don't need it in the monitors, just out front with maybe an effect...."

His eyes arch and nodding he returns to the world of multiple discreet effects and return loops, lost in thoughtful kineticism.

I pull out the guitar and arrange the stand, the music, the tambourine, I check my tuning and swap out the vocal mic with my SH-55. Nothing comes out. "Norm," I shout.

"Wait a minute," he intones through the monitor. I wait five. I ask Kris if he has an opener. His guitar isn't staying in tune. He carefully adjusts strings. I sweat through my sound check after the lights come up, finally getting guitar, vox, conga, and tuning accomplished so I may at last head to the bar. I order a Harp and trot to the washroom to change clothes. In walks Jeff while I pull on jeans. "Why is there no one here?"

"30 years without a hit,” I answer. "We are a very unpopular act."

"Is it a hit you’re looking for?" he ponders while peeing.

"Sure. Who doesn't?"

Nancy, who booked us, arrived wishing to know how we would like to be introduced——only there is no one to introduce us to that does not already know us. Jeff begins pulling away from the bar saying he's gotta be going someplace. "Listen," I say. "You have a responsibility as the only audience member to remain fully audient. You have to do your duty as the chief member of our patronage tonight. Luckily, the door opens and my wife, my daughter, and Alice, our daughter's friend, all waltz in. I applaud-finally, people! Nancy immediately asks my wife for five dollars.

Holding the house and with little else to do, I dig out some finger cymbals and hand them to Abby instructing her on their use. I start heading out the front door. "What are you going to do outside?" she asks trailing behind. "Find an audience", I say hopefully.

"Can I come?"

"You can help."

Outside at the door I start a ring: "No Cover! Live Music!", and then I cue Alice who has the finger cymbals, she claps them together and holds them out, letting them ring.

"No Cover!", I intone.

"Live Music!", hollers Abby

Ching! go the finger cymbals. People walk by while we continue. "No one is coming in," observes Abby.

"It can take a while," I mention scanning both sidewalks. An old man with a cane wanders up taking it all in.

"There live music?", he asks.

"No cover," I reply. Ching! goes Alice. He tucks his way in the door for a beer and a bump. Laura's friend from work Lizzie is making her way up the street with her nine-month-old Greta in hands. We do our ring.

"Hi!" says Lizzie eyes grinning. Greta looks like a small boy. "Hey, little fella!" I say.

"You are the only audience, Lizzie,” I confess. "Laura's inside, we are trying to draw the crowd." Ching! goes Alice. I quickly run down my theory of the approaching holiday weekend, Obama's anticipated speech in Denver, beautiful summer night, etc., et al adversely affecting turnout in Evanston, Illinois. I'm somewhat convincing my self in all this. I have Abby and Alice escort Lizzie and Greta inside and I duck out to grab some forgotten guitar stands. Kris joins and when we return Jeff is asking the bartender to turn up the volume. Stevie Wonder is coming to the stage in Denver. Stevie swings his head locating the downbeat and the song starts up. He's got a male vocal sextet with him and, although I don't recognize the tune, it is expertly arranged.

"A male chorus. " I observe to anyone. "Stevie's got a male chorus and 75,000 people and we are just two guys with no crowd."

"...And two sore throats", adds Kris. But given that Jeff, Laura, Abby, Alice, Greta, Lizzie, the man with a beer and a bump, and now a full complement of seven staff members are on hand that it is no longer accurate to say there is no audience, so we go up.

Bending over to Kris as I strap on my guitar, "Got an opener?"

"Criminals?" offers Kris. I drop D and say Hello to the folks, mentioning that given the circumstances we are looking to retire this first tune. Kris kicks off "Criminals From Texas" indicting Mr. Bush and Mr. Cheney for all that they did way back when. The song is probably six or seven years old though at this point. Mr. Bush and Mr. Cheney have done so many obvious cons and inside jobs since then it ain't even funny. It sure would be good to see them called on it at some point, I suppose.

A few more people wander in, there are people looking through the plate glass in front. Al Gore is onstage in Denver saying something. His suit looks great. We feel along an impromptu set list trying to stay in pitch. I sing into the mid distance where there are no people. It would be awkward to look at these people closely, I know them too well—too intimate. Dick Durbin is making his way onto the podium with blazing lights going off atop Greek columns. Flashbulbs sparkle and the shot goes out to the Air Cam. It is a dazzling night in Denver.

Abigail bounds to the stage and whispers to me that her Mama wants her to sing tune. I wave her over to Kris' mic and she grabs it as it comes into reach and waits for me to kick off a tune. We do "In The Highways" and she confidently hits the melody and whooshes her free hand into the air a la Celine Dion. She and I rarely rehearse and it's too bad. I can get easily flustered if I let myself worry over her when she's on. Is the boom stand stable all bent over? Are her feet free of the cables? Is the delay in the monitor going to make her go up on the beat? Does the audience scare her? Once, when she was five a roomful out in Downers Grove did kind of get to her. A few other times folks have ignored her nearly entirely. My thoughts can stray and I'm apt to lose the accompaniment. It has happened. But she is clear and confident on the mic and the tune goes well.

"That's Abigail Rose St. John everyone,” I shout. "…and if you don't like her, I'll come down and wreck the room. If you have a problem with her, meet me out back." It's true. I mean it. A few times I have asked myself why I let her get up, folks can be dismissive and on occasion even rude. I'm prepared to wring a neck or two if I hear a discouraging word, but she is well received. Family still holds a consensus stirring vote in the room.

We go through some more numbers. Kris and I do an abbreviated version of his song "Guantanamo". "I'm lost," Kris states flatly.

"You want to take a break?" says Norm through the monitor mix. "Maybe watch a bit of the speech."

"Yes!" I say.

"Maybe do one more and break?" asks Norm.

"No", I say lifting the guitar off.

The volume goes up on the TV and Barack takes the stage to thunderous applause.

"This is history, girls", mentions Kris to Abby and Alice at the table behind him. He's right. It certainly feels historic. The Speech starts and our small crowd offers enthusiastic applause and huzzahs. It is a good thing to feel American sometimes. It is a good thing to feel we can say certain things out loud in public and not be condemned by authorities and censored. It is a good thing to feel change occurring—to feel we are taking part in the change, and to have the sense it is the right thing to do. An American thing to do; keeping with a tradition of an American character that has willed into being indelible truths that will last always. We forget how good it feels sometimes. Obama is speaking and, Lord help it, I get a tear caught in the corner of my eye. My wife squeezes my hand. But, shoot; I'm not the only one. The Speech is building and finding marks.

Norm darts up from his stool and starts eyeing the outputs on the TV. Holding a finger up he says, "Wait'll you see this."

Nodding I ask if he needs an eighth inch to quarter inch adaptor, but he is striding to the sound desk hurriedly. He patches in to the house sound and Invesco field sounds like it stands before us. Obama intones a blistering attach on McCain's ties to the failed Bush regime. Glasses pound on the bar, voices are raised, spirits lifted. Norm carefully adjusts the CNN feed and the roar of the crowd is held aloft by the JBLs hanging from the rafters of the joint. More folks stroll in.

There looks to be a full house in Colorado; here there are maybe twenty odd souls, but The Speech is doing its work. We are quite a lively bunch at this point, and we are prone to bar talk and exclamations of contempt for the current Administration. Given there are girls at the bar who are nine and seven, I attempt to wave off the bar talk, but everyone is feeling good...feeling like we want to win an election. Obama mentions "The Preacher" and we all go still, staring awestruck at the screen knowing that we are close to seeing, perhaps in our generation, a promise kept. A debt retired. The race is about a great deal more, but the moment is provided here and folks seem more than willing to warmly accept it.

With The Speech ended but talk of the speech still continuing, we head on back up joined this time by a piano player who happens to wander up with us. He says his name is Paul Nebenzahl and I mention the key of F. We do "What a Wonderful World” then Kris goes into a song of his called "The Walk".

Just put one foot in front of the other
take one step, and then another
pretty soon you will discover
that the walk was worth the mile...

The second set trails out and the place starts filling up. A hip-hop act is going on next and they’ve thought to bring their own crowd. I lean into Kris trying to think of a tune.

"It's that call and response thing...you know..."further down the road?" You know what I'm talking about? We fumble about. Suddenly remembering--"As We Roll", another song of Kris'.

We don't talk much anymore
but you've been on my mind
please remember me, my friend
with a word that's kind...as we roll
as we roll, as we roll on down the line...

I try a last gasp rave-up of one of my oldies "Don't Keep Me Guessing", and then we thank the folks and start to tear down. Packing up we have a live recording, thanks to Norm, with probably five good cuts, ten dollars each, and a nineteen-dollar bar tab. Biz-wise the night was a disaster. In terms of history, the night is one for the books. Later on I learn that 38 million people had tuned in. Playing our small parts, the twenty-or-so of us in the room had done likewise. Kris and I played our tunes; Abigail did hers. Stevie Wonder, John Legend, and all the rest did theirs. Obama is singing a new tune. A Change is Gonna Come! It's not the Sam Cooke song. It has different lyric. It doesn’t have the minor key. It is a new momentum, and I like the words. It is an indisputably American song. It is about a new place we can call home.

Vote Obama. God bless.

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