jam band – The Hillhouse

This past Tuesday my band Nymbis made an audition video for NPR’s Tiny Desk series. The project came upon us all at once, and some of the challenges it presented were where to record it so last-minute, and if we could somehow perform for a live audience. Once we decided on The Studio, the event just kinda came together.

The floor is now absolutely wrecked due to an immense and almost overnight surge of moisture from below the slab (no, there sadly was no vapor barrier in place) and it is now on the market with a handful of marginally interested parties. But I’m not worried. It’ll sell. It will sell when it’s time, I know it. Somehow, that place has always been quietly magical. The Studio will not be rushed.

There was such wonderful energy in the room this past Tuesday; so many good friends came by to enjoy the space one final time, and to support the band. Our percussionist and bass player welcomed twin boys in October, and the babies were there too. There were fine bottles of rye, cheap cans of Labatt Blue, pizza and bagels with shmear. Two friends brought a little summer picnic setup, complete with wine glasses and tiny charcuterie plates. We had visuals projected onto the large slanting ceiling and our lighting designer had brought some large white balloons to catch the black light. Such a fun and festive vibe, despite the single-digit temps outside and the failing floor.

That week I had a bad cold, and on Tuesday it was at its peak. In addition, my back was horrible; I had to be very careful and conservative about movements. But I had gear to move. Chairs and tables to load into my car and into the room. The usual stuff it takes to put on a show. Up until tape rolling I felt a mess, eyes watering, sneezing, back sore. But somehow, when we played, my body shut it all off. I consider that a small miracle. We all know the show must go on.

As I was assessing the room from my post behind the keyboards, it occurred to me that I was in the exact same spot where my father had sat at his harpsichord so many years before. Maybe not a big thing, but still, a thing. And although the events of the night were moving fast and there was no time to linger in nostalgia, I was able to take on the beauty of the moment. I was on stage making music with my some of my very favorite people, in a room full of friends whom I love, and we were all fully present and enjoying the moment. It was a rare epicenter of experience. Even as I played, I was able to marvel over my good fortune. Imagine, one last concert, one final party in that space. It had been dark for two years, and now here it was brightly animated and filled with camaraderie.

Could anything be more perfect?

The following day I came back to clean. Something I’ve done dozens of times. Post show, post Airbnb guest. The big room must always be swept and mopped. As funky as that floor is now, I still had to erase hundreds of salty footprints the crowd had made. It needed to be realtor-ready. I spent about an hour on the place. When I was finished, I stood in the center of the stage area. Underneath the floor where I stood were two hairs – one of my father’s (he had just died a month before I had the new floor put in) and one of mine. I had laid them both on the slab before they were sealed up by the boards. It’s always been the spot where I stand when I reflect on this place and all that has gone on in that gorgeous hall.

I sensed some movement, and so I looked up and to my left. There was one clear balloon drifting down from the center of the room and moving toward the back wall of the stage. I’m pretty sure my mouth fell open – I do remember saying aloud “Where the hell did you come from?” I swear I had cleaned that place. Removed every last piece of detritus. It was empty.

I was compelled to follow it. The balloon came to rest against the stage wall, just at my eye level. “Really?” I asked it. I mean, this was crazy. I became still, I engaged with the balloon. I was there for it, witnessing it. I extended my palm and asked if it would come to me. It moved to the left, staying at eye level. I followed. We stopped. I extended my hand and it moved to the right. And there we rested, unmoving, together in an absolutely silent room bathed in the low-slanting rays of afternoon sunshine. A few moments passed, and I dared to speak my thoughts aloud. “Dad?” It seemed too poetic, too staged. Too too. We remained there for about five minutes, until I lost the staring contest and sat down underneath it, back against the stage wall, looking out into the large room.

After a few more moments passed I walked back to the spot in center stage. And I sang. I leaned into the stunning reverb of the room, oohing minor, medieval-sounding lines. Like Gregorian chants sent up into the tops of the snowy pine trees outside the balcony windows. I sensed movement again, and turned to see the balloon had moved to the front of the stage. It then leapt out into the abyss of the main room, did a small, slow circle in the air, and headed once again to the back of the stage. By now, I had adjusted. I was less surprised. I was under the spell of the balloon.

But there was nothing more to do. I had sung, I had communed with the balloon. I had sat in the purest and most absolute silence I have ever known. It was time to go.

I walked to the back of the stage where the balloon hovered, still at my eye level. I placed my hands on either side of it, and I kissed it. Then I left.

When I got in my car, I turned for one final look, expecting to see the balloon forty feet away at the back of the hall. I might’ve gasped for the small shock if I hadn’t already been communing with the thing for the past half hour. There it was, like a child in the doorway, watching a guest’s departure. Until this point I had been fully in the moment – grabbing my phone had not even entered my mind. But now, now that I was in the car and the spell had been broken somewhat, I felt it would be ok to take just one pic. Were it not for the photo, I’m not sure I could possibly convey the surrealness of my experience. I felt I wanted some evidence, some confirmation of what had just happened. Still in a state of disbelief, I continued to shake my head back and forth as I drove the roundabout. And I was just about to leave the property, when I took one last look back at The Studio.

The balloon now hung in the large picture window; it was a powerfully poignant sight. Longing, but not. Sad, but not quite. Matter-of-fact, really. Just a balloon quietly saying goodbye to me alone. Goodbye, balloon.

I shared this experience with Elihu. Not a thing about it was unbelievable to him. But then my son and I have had a number of strange experiences, both together and individually. Now we share them as casually as recounting a funny overheard conversation on the subway. I was glad for his witness, and I was hoping that sharing it would pack it away neatly in my mind. But I couldn’t let it go. Had I done the right thing? Was it a missed opportunity? Was it dad? Was it a collective of energies? What had just happened here? I wasn’t satisfied to drop it.

Last night I decided that I would share this with my mom. That was a stretch, because she is not a believer of esoteric ideas (or so she says; she still prides herself on once learning how to perform Reiki) and jumping into such a conversation would need to happen at just the right moment. But that wasn’t going to happen. Her woodstove had cracked the night before, so that took up a good chunk of time of going over options and safety concerns. My vote – use the damn stove, it’s six degrees out. Next came the endless nattering and commentary on the news presenters. Last night her issue was with the glossy, blown-out and ironed hairstyles; she insisted that it was age-inappropriate on the older women. Here our country was, falling into a dystopian modern-era McCarthyism, and she was going on and on about hairstyles. Oh my god. This was clearly not the time to share my balloon story.

Curiosity, and the need for some kind of closure – something I could take as an answer – pulled me back to the darkened hall. After leaving my mother’s, I drove to The Studio and went in. I was slightly apprehensive, but reminded myself that there was nothing sinister here. Unexplained maybe, but not sinister. I flicked on the warm overhead light… The balloon had come to rest at the foot of the old roadside sign which we’d brought in for the show. There it was. The end of the story.

Confirmation. A single white balloon come to rest after its journey around the perimeter of the storied music hall. The definitive conclusion of an era.

Best ending ever.

Well, it’s here. The day on which Elihu leaves to spend the summer with his father, the day on which I am finally free of all obligations to others. No meals to prepare, no running to the grocery store three times a week, no nudging or cajoling, no reminding or asking, no picking up after…and a whole lot less laundry. And since Elihu is now eleven, I worry about him a whole lot less. He can speak up for himself when he needs (for the most part, that is, as he’s still not completely comfortable expressing himself fully to his father), he can make better decisions for himself, and he’s a bit more laid back about minor omissions in his routine than I am. If it turns out he’s forgotten something – he won’t fret or bum out about it, he’ll just keep going. Me, I’d stew for a while, ponder the ‘what ifs’, rebuke myself for being so stupid, that sort of crap. But thankfully, along with those slender, guitar-playing fingers of his, Elihu retained this easy-going quality of his father’s as well. So he can roll with things, and that’s good, cuz it looks like lil man will be spending a lot of time living out of a suitcase in the coming weeks.

There’s a trip to West Virginia on the itinerary, as well as a drive cross county to the famed hippie jam band fest High Sierra in California. Or, as those of the jam band culture prefer to say, ‘Cali’. Sheesh. My disdain for the jam band world may have been one of the many nails in the coffin of my marriage. In hindsight, I expect my husband only pretended to share my feelings for the culture at large; he and I enjoyed poking fun at the kelping (that flailing sort of pulse-less dance the hippie kids do), the accents, the attitudes, the personal filth in which they so easily lived… He, after all, has played in jam bands for decades now, and the guys in Garaj Mahal, for as dysfuntional a bunch as they were, they were our family, present for Elihu’s first few days, present for much of our marriage. I miss having those guys – and some of those goofy, groovy extended jam tunes in my life. However, that world itself is not a place in which I feel too terribly comfortable. I personally do not enjoy the scent of patchouli and simply cannot stand The Grateful Dead. It it not for lack of trying, let me tell you. In fact, as a thoughtful and intelligent musician I have many, many times tried to enjoy the Dead for myself, and when that has failed, I’ve spent time trying to at least understand what it is about them that has so inspired millions of fans. (I find it super-ironic that the one feature Dead fans cite at their most shining attribute is that they ‘groove’; because no, they don’t. As a rhythm section they are loose and sloppy, and melodically there is a meandering, never-settled quality which physically revolts me before long. I’ve tried to get over this; made many concerted, open-hearted attempts, but it just doesn’t work.) My kid will be living in the jam band world for a portion of the summer, and I am excited for him. It aint for me, but for him – it’s perfect. Lots of support, lots of opportunities to play with musicians, total acceptance and lots of love… a complete adventure. Glad he gets this amazing experience with his dad. Happier still that I don’t have to go along for the ride.

The few days before the great parting are always a strange mix of things for Elihu. One minute we’re laughing like dearest friends, the next he’s in tears over some tiny slight – but before long, he himself will identify it as related to the upcoming change. He loves being here, and part of him dearly just wants to stay at home all summer doing nothing special, playing with his friends and doing summertime things, but then he misses his daddy like crazy. He wants to see his baby brothers too. Sometimes I’ll find him weeping by himself in his room over the whole mix of feelings. Sometimes he clings to me like a four year old and tells me he never wants to leave. Some times he yells at me that he can’t take me any longer and needs his father now. And other times he shouts to the sky that it’s not fair he can’t have both of us at the same time. Yeah, this time is always a bit difficult to navigate, it takes sensitivity on both of our parts. Reactions and feelings that appear to be about one thing are often about something altogether different. But by now the process is familiar to us, so we get through it ok.

For me, my rough patch will be the ride back from the airport and then the first few hours in the house all alone. While I’m invigorated by the work before me this summer, it’s never as easy as I imagine it’ll be in those first few hours after Elihu’s gone. There’s just something about knowing someone’s in the house – no matter if they’re within sight or not – that just gives the place that extra certain bit of energy. Like the kind our dear Madeline brought to our place. We now call it the “Madeline sparkle”. And when I’m alone in the kitchen, no young boy just around the corner, counting out his Pokemon cards on his desk, I’ll be able to feel it. The Madeline sparkle will be gone.

That’s ok, this summer in particular. I’m faced with a lot to take care of; a body to get back into shape, a healthy way of eating to re-learn, a building to repair, a summer camp to guide into the new space, a cellar full of moldy crap to assess, a garage full of the same (swapping mold for mouse poop here), gutters to clean, weeds to pull, small carpentry repairs to make, painting and assorted other domestic projects plus the very daunting task of marrying the new chicks with the older flock – all this is before me. Me, alone. A plumber and an extra hand to do what I alone can’t, but the rest is mine to do. And I can’t forget the piano too – I need to keep playing, lest my job in the fall become like starting over again. I have a few difficult pieces that I need to start on now, so that by fall they’re in my muscle memory. I have archiving of blog posts, filing and the mundane and dreaded business of taxes and food stamps to face. In some ways it helps to see it all in print like this, but in some ways it just makes me want to polish off a bottle of wine and a tub of spicy hummus in front of an entire season of Gilmore Girls.

Elihu’s in the bath now, singing to himself happy little songs about nothing in particular. He is adding his Madeline sparkle to the place, and I can feel it taking up space, filling the air with joy. Tomorrow morning at this time he’ll be nearly a thousand miles away, and the sparkle will be gone. The house will be completely quiet. Still such mixed feelings. It’s just that little bit of transition time that’s the hardest. But my to-do list and my personal goals will keep my eyes fixed on the horizon, and there’s tremendous promise for some greatly positive results on the other side. That makes it easier to dismiss the familiar yen for food, booze and reruns.

I haven’t measured Elihu against the wall of his closet in months. We’ll do that today, before he goes. And then he’ll put on a white oxford shirt and jeans, lean against the kitchen doorway, and I’ll snap a picture of what he looks like at the end of fifth grade. He and I are both keenly aware that this is the beginning of a time of great physical change for him, and we both want to document it. We mean to take the same picture over the next few years so that we can see the change up close. I sense we two are each at the doorstep of a brand-new era in our lives, as he approaches middle school and I begin to see the birth of a new business in the Studio… I still have some trepidation about what’s in store, and I think I probably will until my project is well underway. No matter what happens, we’re both about to do a lot, and to learn a lot in the process.

Yup, there’s an awful lot of life coming up, so guess we’d better finish packing and get underway. It’s going to be a very interesting summer.

Me and lil man on our last morning together for a while.

The Hillhouse

The Journey of a Mother and Son

Tag: jam band

The Story of a Balloon

Parting Time