NORWOOD :: FIELD REPORT :: ROUTE 1 PROJECT :: SONO :::

by Asa Brebner
Sunday, October 22, 2017

Sunday has come.

The Route 1 Project Pit Stop Party: Chuck White, promoter; the David Bieber Archives, on display. Here’s a postmortem on the gig we played last night.

Pat Wallace—my friend and co-conspirator in musical conspiracy—and I share a language we speak to each other. We compile a thesaurus of the day-to-day. Whenever we have an impending job fraught with anxiety and uncertainty—unrehearsed boobs about to enter a sonic nightmare of random contingency that could deliver us into the realm of very publicly displayed embarrassment—the consolation prize is forgetting. There is also the promise of funds: funds promised by, according to our experience of history, some very dodgy characters. Funds that, though promised, may never materialize.

The gig is here. Bring me my brown trousers. Never fear: “Sunday will come.”

Every freelance musician or self-employed adventurer who has never punched a timecard knows what I am talking about. When I first gazed upon the venue, a cavernous warehouse on the outskirts of Norwood, Massachusetts, I knew it could—and most likely would—be a disaster. More echo than a reverb chamber. Those savagely unrehearsed souls, misconstruing a mismanaged chorus or verbal cue, could be forever cast in doubt while counting choruses, verses or vocal cues. Not forever, perhaps, but the horizon of the end of a song can seem like forever—especially in front of an empty house.

But people showed up. In Norwood.

People I had not seen in years and barely recognized beneath the accumulating crow’s-feet and baldness. Some were disappearing into their parents; some into their grandparents. But I digress.

The phrase Pat and I have often trotted out to soften the anxiety of an impending musical catastrophe is: “Sunday will come.” Sunday is here. Rowers are on the Charles River, sweating and feeling anxieties of their own.

By the way, the gig went impossibly well. A group of people, many of whom had never met one another, pulled it off. It was Spinal Tap meets Waiting for Godot.

Chuck White, the promoter and originator of the cast—who has collected musical oddities from the musical world like P. T. Barnum collected freaks—held court. He managed to throw together a show that worked. Was it the intervention of nature spirits, determination, lack of care or the opioid crisis? All of the above.

The misfits. The rejects. Those who define the best of musical humanity through the absolute singularity of their generally ignored visions.

Marsha Mellow opened the proceedings with her Delta blues stylings. I stood in the wings and tried to add but not subtract. Emily Grogan, looking prettier than she did at nineteen, stole the show. Freddy K was soulful and riveting. Maureen Leger was wonderful. Natalie Flanagan pulled out a great performance. Wild Bill Firehands was sublime. Jeff “Well Babys” Gagnon was awesome on banjo and then returned to his old incarnation as a hardcore screamer. Joey Mars displayed his great art on the walls. Righteous Babe was somehow involved.

Who have I forgotten? I apologize in advance. There were simply too many players.

Dave Tree closed the night with a stirring rendition of “Hard Drivin’ Man.” Back to the roots. Throughout the night, Charlie played guitar, mandolin and harp. Forged anew on the smithy of happenstance, we were brethren again.

I hardly cared that I didn’t get to trot out my meager musical scribblings. This was a monolith that didn’t end up in the trenches with the rejected, moss-covered faces on Aku-Aku Island.

I am told that it was recorded and filmed. Please don’t show it to me. I want to live only with my self-engineered memory.

I was not only relieved. I felt gratitude—to have been part of this impossibly unpredictable bonfire of our vanities.

David Bieber, archivist and general all-around mensch, was one of the authors of last night. I hope to high heaven that he had a great time and that we made him proud.

Sunday is here, and I find myself wanting, just a bit, to go back in time.