There were more people than usual at the first
neighborhood paella gathering of the spring. The living room and adjoining
kitchen, warmed with wood flooring and dark wooden furniture, were packed
with people, plates of food, and bottles of wine. I walked through the crowd,
claustrophobic by the time I reached the counter, where I set down my jug of
fresh apple cider. New and old friends mingled, laughing loudly, catching up on
local news, and debriefing the previous night’s dance party as they downed
their first glasses of wine.
“Laura,” a warm voice called out of the chaos, “Get your
fiddle. My guitar is downstairs.”
“No. Surely these people don’t want to be subjected to such
a thing. It would….”
“Oh just get it. We can practice a song or two downstairs
first.”
After a quick walk home to retrieve the fiddle, Mel and I
sat down to our first attempt to play together. She looked up the fingering to
a D chord and, now with a guitarist capable of all three chords in an Old Time
G tune, nothing could stop this duo. Mel felt ready for an audience after a
couple rough run-throughs. I wasn’t convinced, but we plodded up the stairs
with guitar, fiddle, the salivating bulldog Foucault, and Mel’s coffee mug of
frothy beer.
We re-entered the party and made our way to the back of the
room. Perched on the narrow stairs leading up to Dinah’s loft, we could look
down upon the whole party, and had just enough elbow room for bowing. When I
began playing, I could hardly hear my own fiddle above the conversations.
After the first tune, a smattering of applause. After the second,
a few warm compliments. After the
third, Brian Donnelly, a legend in the Salem music scene, wandered over with a
harmonica and set of jaw harps to join the band. After the eighth, a man with a
French accent picked up some spoons and politely inquired what the rhythm was.
Now our band was four musicians strong. Partly through the ninth tune, the
dancers began to bounce and sway, and so did the floor. The tenth tune brought
a move they were calling “the guerrilla” across the dance floor. Too may tunes
to count flowed from our fingers and breath until we finished a rollicking
rendition of “Cluck Old Hen” and Brian leaned over, crushing me with a hug.
“That was amazing!” he shouted. “If there is a God...”
Brian’s proclamation soared over the merry din of the party “If there is
a God above that brings good things, then He is music!”
