Vanishing Act

You’re not supposed to go deaf on the first song. There are many ways to start a set, but that is not one of the recommended ways to kick things off. There was still chatter from the crowd at the bar when I first began, which I was fine with. It gave me an opportunity to ease into things, rather than the sensation that all eyes were on me. So, I crept in with my palm-muted guitar as Lemy swelled in with chords that floated above me. At the second chorus, a sudden, piercing feedback came through our monitors that I would describe as a combination of a boat horn, a car horn, and an air-horn rolled into one. I couldn’t hear out of my right ear. I would later learn, once walking off stage, that Lemy couldn’t hear out of his left.

With my hearing went the words to the second verse. In their place was sheer panic. Was it gone forever? Do I stop the show halfway through my first song? And say what? “Sorry, we’re going to take a minute. I may be deaf on one side now.” The mental spiral continued into the second chorus, but there’s only one line in the chorus, so I gripped tightly to that. We made it to the end, my hearing slowly starting to return as I said hello to the crowd, who may or may not have noticed the absentee second verse to the first song of the night.

I regained composure as I moved through old ones, new ones, and covers. I hadn’t played some of these songs in 5+ years, and some of them I’d never played. Earlier that day, I worried that I stacked the set with too much new stuff. I was confident in that decision throughout every rehearsal. Four hours before the show, it suddenly seemed selfish. I was proved wrong after playing “The Narrows,” a song I’d been working on for years. The applause was the kind that said, “We need to let you know we felt this one.” It was long and loud and not what you typically receive from playing a new song. Someone told me they’d cried during it—not what you typically receive from playing a new song.

After the set, Lemy and I nervously laughed about losing our hearing for a brief window of time and then went downstairs to mill about the bar. Many of the people in the room were familiar faces. These were faces I’d seen many other versions of, as they’d been coming to these hometown shows for 15+ years. They thanked me for coming back. I then promised not to disappear again. They nodded. One woman said, “Yeah, you said that last time,” with a disappointed smile. 

Photo by Amanda Baldanza

These conversations are brief, as there’s a crowd of people surrounding me who are also looking to say hello. But even in those brief exchanges, a lot is said. Just as we’ve grown older, so has the conversation. There’s an acknowledgment that life is hard and that we’re thankful for whatever beauty we find in the world that gets us through. Maybe those aren’t the words said, but that sentiment is sent and received in both directions.

I’m back in Los Angeles now. I’m fending off a new cold, or perhaps the same one that’s been clawing at me since landing in New York. I have a show here on Friday. It’s a different kind of hometown show, as this is not the place that birthed me, but it has been home for the last 8 years. It’ll be special in its own way. I’ll then venture out to Joshua Tree the following weekend to shoot a video for the song I have coming out this Friday. I’ll spend that next week editing that video, and then I’ll do my best to rest and be present with family for the holiday. But in that window between Christmas and New Year’s, my brain will grow restless. I will look into the mirror and worry. And I’ll sit down with my notebook and begin to lay out my plans for the following year. My plans on how not to disappear.

You can purchase tickets to my upcoming LA show here. I hope to see you there.

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THE RECORD CLUB

Last week’s selection was Billy Joel - Cold Spring Harbor (1971)

You can find my ramblings on last week’s record in the comment section below.

This week’s selection is…

Week #20
Justice - Justice (2007)