An article I recently wrote for North Shore Art Throb about the Salem Old Time Jam:

http://www.nsartthrob.com/2012/12/old-time-jam/

The melancholic couch potato

I live as the happy fiddler and tend to remember and tell stories about all of the joy that I find myself immersed in as a novice fiddler. I would normally sit down today to write about my recent joyful adventures: the finale of Northern Roots in Brattleboro, where a fiddle concert ended with a curtain opening to reveal forty fiddlers of all ages beaming with joy as they played “My Cape Breton Home”; or the No-Superbowl potluck jam I attended at my neighbors’ home, where the evening ended with repeating “Coleman’s March” until it became more like a prayer than playing a tune.

But today I am going to go off the grid.

For the first time in months, perhaps since I acquired my fiddle seven months ago, I did not play any tunes all day. I did not even open the case. Furthermore, for a few moments, I allowed myself to not be happy. I allowed a deep, satisfying sort of melancholia to creep through my whole body, to the point that even my limbs, which are endlessly walking, running, hiking, and fidgeting, got so tired, I could do nothing but spread out across the couch for hours--a rare phenomenon in my world. I sank deep within myself, began to breathe more easily, and embraced all of the love and joy resting in my soul, but also the sadness and pain.

I tend to be joyful and move so vigorously through life that I don’t notice that I, like everyone else, may hold sadness and pain. A wise and beloved friend recently suggested that perhaps I avoid facing the challenging situations and inner fears that we need to face in order to grow. I tend to see it more in this light: I seek out joyful people and situations, so that I can foster positive energy within myself and share that light with the world. But I have taken my friend’s point to heart and have been wondering where the line lies between seeking joy and avoiding growth. Tomorrow I may return to both fiddle and joy with renewed vigor, but tonight, plunging the depths has been delicious.

A bass in the living room

Everything was in place tonight for the Salem Old Time Jam. Our new restaurant host, Howling Wolf, seemed to be pleased with us two weeks ago and had welcomed our return for this evening's session. I had sent out an email to our group, reminding them of the day and time. I had asked a strong player to choose and lead a "tune of the week" and had sent out a recording so that members could practice it. Half an hour before the jam began, a friend stopped by my house to pick up a fiddle bow she had left behind earlier and mentioned that Howling Wolf looked a little dark. I jumped in my car, raced over to investigate, and found a scribbled sign on the door: "Closed for renovations." As luck would have it, my upstairs neighbor is away on vacation, so I figured I could get away with an impromptu jam session at home. I taped a note to the door of Howling Wolf, stating that the session had moved to my home, and darted back to pick up the living room in the hopes of accommodating our growing jam in my small condo. Maintaining a healthy sense of priorities, I also stopped on the way to procure some white wine, of the cheap boxed variety.

Seven folks gathered in my living room and the jam went on as usual. The instruments ranged from mandolin to stand up bass, which we somehow squeezed between my piano and coffee table, and the snacks ranged from stale animal crackers to caramel popcorn. Sadly, I realize that others did not see the note on Howling Wolf's door or could not find my home and I feel terrible for the inconvenience.

Now, I enjoy journaling and from time to time. Sometimes I read over my old entries and am always intrigued to see what I wrote in years gone by. Recently I read something that I wrote four years ago, when I had just moved to Salem. I had tried some sort of cheesy exercise where you are supposed to imagine things that you wish you had in your life, no matter how outlandish they seem, and list them freely. Just writing about them, the author had assured, is the first step to manifesting your dreams. Right. The hidden dream that revealed itself upon my page that day was a vision of a room full of all sorts of acoustic instruments, knowing how to play them, and having tons of people to playing with me. At the time I played classical piano and had no plans to pick up another instrument or learn traditional folk music.

So thank you members of Salem Old Time Jam, and thank you to the Howling Wolf managers for planning renovations without informing us, for a lesson in flexibility and for filling my home with all sorts of acoustic instruments and the beautiful people to play them.

Salem Jamlet Becomes a Jam

When the weather became too chilly for the Salem Jamlet to meet out on the ocean, I convinced the owner of a nearby restaurant called Scratch Kitchen to host us. A few days before the first Scratch Kitchen jam, the two most regular players let me know that they could not attend. One by one, the usual suspects from our miniscule pool of players suddenly became unavailable and nightmarish images began to churn through my mind--one not-so-happy novice fiddler attempting to play alone while diners look on, some horrified, others mildly annoyed. Tomatoes hurled across the room, splattering on my beloved fiddle. The day of the jam, I frantically emailed or called everyone I could think of, including musicians from Boston that I had met at various workshops. I begged and I pleaded, but no one seemed to be available.

I arrived at Scratch, prepared for the worst. Shortly after the jam was scheduled to begin, a highly skilled fiddler I had met at Rustic Roots hobbled through the door, armed with crutches, guitar and fiddle. And I knew that all would be well. Over the next ten minutes, several other unexpected players appeared, the jam went smoothly, and we were invited to continue meeting at Scratch Kitchen.

In the new year Scratch will not be open on Monday nights, so tonight marked our first jam at Howling Wolf--a much larger, heavily populated Mexican restaurant. When I arrived, several newcomers to the jam were already seated, carefully applying rosin to their bows. Musicians proceeded to pour through the door until we were spilling out of the alcove Howling Wolf had allotted to us. Thirteen players. Several professional musicians or teachers. Fiddles, guitars, banjo, standup bass, uke, even a hammered dulcimer.

Before me was a mass of friends and strangers, all better musicians than myself, and somehow I was supposed to lead it. Couldn't someone else take charge? Anyone but the girl who got her first fiddle six months ago. I didn't even know how to get everyone's attention so that I could welcome the newcomers. I quietly asked a friend to start "Over the Waterfall" with me and by the third time through, everyone had jumped in and we found one another through the beat and melody of an old familiar tune. We played it over and over and by the time the tune ended, the beast before me had become one body and we played together as such for the next two hours.

Come join us at Howling Wolf on Monday, January 16, 6:00-8:00.