dollars for new live acts.
What made this all the more intriguing was the fact that there were only two people in the bar besides Daley, Frank, and me. She was looking at the promise of playing for an audience of two—who were halfway through their third and fourth beers, respectively. Which meant that in about twenty minutes, they probably wouldn’t even hear her.
It promised to be a fun night.
I was warming up my fingers, rolling through some scales, when she glanced over her shoulder again. “Want me to buy you a beer?”
I popped a Tums into my mouth. “I’m good.”
She raised both eyebrows. “Acid reflux?”
“Something like that.”
She eyed my guitar picking and smirked. “You ready or do you need more time to practice?”
“After you.”
She smirked again. “Oh, and we’ll be starting in the key of E. You do know where that is, right?”
My fingers rolled through the E scale, traveling up the frets. “Gimme a minute to find it.”
Without invite, without pomp, without attempting to calm her nerves with a bunch of excessive talking, Daley opened her mouth, and when she did I thought Janis Joplin herself had walked up onstage. After “Me and Bobby McGee,” she jumped straight into “Piece of My Heart.” Once she had us good and lathered and her voice warmed, she took a left turn at normal and three flights up toward impossible with Whitney Houston’s version of “I Will Always Love You.”
I stopped playing, the better to listen to her, prompting her to glance back at me and give me a What are you doing? look, but as my fingers touched the neck and the notes came up beneath her voice, I was thinking to myself, Who in their right mind attempts to sing Whitney Houston?
Word spread. Or maybe her voice carried down the sidewalk. Whatever the case, six songs in and we were staring at fifty to sixty people who’d been drawn out of neighboring restaurants or off the sidewalk. Many were wide-eyed. All were mesmerized. None were staring at me—which meant I was doing my job. By the time she closed the set with a sultry serenade, the door had been propped open and folks were sipping beers on the sidewalk, fogging up the window from the outside in. Standing room only.
Somewhere in the history of music-making there arose a romantic ideal regarding the life of musicians. How they’re somehow more authentic and truthful, more insightful into man’s existence and the deep mysteries of the universe if they ring out their song while silently fighting destructive urges and inner demons. This unseen inner conflict adds to the drama. In this whirlwind of soul-sucking angst, anger, and torment, the lone voice fights valiantly, ultimately deriving its power and culminating in a song.
Daley had none of this.
Daley sang out of something else. Something pure. Something she’d protected, despite the fact that no one had protected her. She sang out of a reservoir. No war. No angst. No demons. She simply brought her song to the stage, opened her mouth, and offered it. Because that’s what it was.
An offering.
Daley’s song spilled out of her like water. And those of us listening had been in the desert a long time.
Midway through the second set, one of the guys who’d been there from the start stood up and staggered toward the makeshift stage, his expression a mix of unbelief and puppy dog adoration. I scooted forward onto the edge of my stool, but Daley held a stop-sign hand behind her back. He reached in his pocket, fumbled through a few crumpled bills, then spilled them onto the ground at her feet. She mouthed, “Thank you,” and he returned to his seat—walking backward. Others soon followed. When we closed the second set, Frank brought us an empty gallon pickle jar and placed it at her feet. The bills filled nearly half.
Daley’s stage presence was polished like an act two decades on the road. She made eye contact, conversed with her audience.
—Where you from?
—You two been married long?
What made this all the more intriguing was the fact that there were only two people in the bar besides Daley, Frank, and me. She was looking at the promise of playing for an audience of two—who were halfway through their third and fourth beers, respectively. Which meant that in about twenty minutes, they probably wouldn’t even hear her.
It promised to be a fun night.
I was warming up my fingers, rolling through some scales, when she glanced over her shoulder again. “Want me to buy you a beer?”
I popped a Tums into my mouth. “I’m good.”
She raised both eyebrows. “Acid reflux?”
“Something like that.”
She eyed my guitar picking and smirked. “You ready or do you need more time to practice?”
“After you.”
She smirked again. “Oh, and we’ll be starting in the key of E. You do know where that is, right?”
My fingers rolled through the E scale, traveling up the frets. “Gimme a minute to find it.”
Without invite, without pomp, without attempting to calm her nerves with a bunch of excessive talking, Daley opened her mouth, and when she did I thought Janis Joplin herself had walked up onstage. After “Me and Bobby McGee,” she jumped straight into “Piece of My Heart.” Once she had us good and lathered and her voice warmed, she took a left turn at normal and three flights up toward impossible with Whitney Houston’s version of “I Will Always Love You.”
I stopped playing, the better to listen to her, prompting her to glance back at me and give me a What are you doing? look, but as my fingers touched the neck and the notes came up beneath her voice, I was thinking to myself, Who in their right mind attempts to sing Whitney Houston?
Word spread. Or maybe her voice carried down the sidewalk. Whatever the case, six songs in and we were staring at fifty to sixty people who’d been drawn out of neighboring restaurants or off the sidewalk. Many were wide-eyed. All were mesmerized. None were staring at me—which meant I was doing my job. By the time she closed the set with a sultry serenade, the door had been propped open and folks were sipping beers on the sidewalk, fogging up the window from the outside in. Standing room only.
Somewhere in the history of music-making there arose a romantic ideal regarding the life of musicians. How they’re somehow more authentic and truthful, more insightful into man’s existence and the deep mysteries of the universe if they ring out their song while silently fighting destructive urges and inner demons. This unseen inner conflict adds to the drama. In this whirlwind of soul-sucking angst, anger, and torment, the lone voice fights valiantly, ultimately deriving its power and culminating in a song.
Daley had none of this.
Daley sang out of something else. Something pure. Something she’d protected, despite the fact that no one had protected her. She sang out of a reservoir. No war. No angst. No demons. She simply brought her song to the stage, opened her mouth, and offered it. Because that’s what it was.
An offering.
Daley’s song spilled out of her like water. And those of us listening had been in the desert a long time.
Midway through the second set, one of the guys who’d been there from the start stood up and staggered toward the makeshift stage, his expression a mix of unbelief and puppy dog adoration. I scooted forward onto the edge of my stool, but Daley held a stop-sign hand behind her back. He reached in his pocket, fumbled through a few crumpled bills, then spilled them onto the ground at her feet. She mouthed, “Thank you,” and he returned to his seat—walking backward. Others soon followed. When we closed the second set, Frank brought us an empty gallon pickle jar and placed it at her feet. The bills filled nearly half.
Daley’s stage presence was polished like an act two decades on the road. She made eye contact, conversed with her audience.
—Where you from?
—You two been married long?
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