Fiddler’s Dream

I took to the stage for the very first time last night at a joint in north Phoenix called Fiddler’s Dream. It was the perfect place. Eight performers signed up and there was a smattering of an audience, maybe four or five depending on who breezed in and out.

At first glance it appeared to be a unique gathering of old hippies and misfits. Each one though was warm, friendly, unthreatening, supportive and very talented.

Performing were Stan, Dennis, Larry, Will, Suzi, two Dons and me. We each took a four-minute time slot and then would go round again and again until about 9 o’clock when it simply seemed the right time to go home.

Don number one had a Neil Diamond appearance to him, played his guitar, sang sing-alongs and put everyone in a light mood. It was a warm welcome. Stan looked like he came from central casting, fit to play in either a western, Zorro or maybe Hawaii 5–0. He strummed his guitar gently and his voice, cracking a bit at times, was just above a whisper. His set included “The Boxer” and a Harry Chapin style song about a young man who fears his future has been ruined after getting his girlfriend pregnant and discovering over time that it’s been the opposite. His hearing aid had betrayed him. I’m not sure he could take in the deserving compliments that came his way.

Don №2 was an 80-ish beanpole who fought his tremors to strum out a hilarious anti-war tune about reporting to the draft, citing every possible ailment and in case none of those worked threw in being queer. He followed with a few Irish melodies that all bemoaned war. He had a look, sound and feel of Pete Seeger. He is a joy. Will is a Neil Young look-alike and also had a soft approach to his songs. He was accompanied by Dennis, the piano man of the evening. His fingers brought to life the old black piano that otherwise sits on a wooden dolly in the corner.

Larry plays the banjo and has a commanding voice. What it commands is warmth along with some order. He runs this weekly show and has for 36 years. He sang songs of tall tales and is immediately charming. I cannot wait to get his story.

I came next, lucky number 7. I started out with a short story about my wife’s eternal quest to find the perfect rug. The next was about my grandson. I finished with one I’d very recently written about a friend who had died. His passing a bit too fresh in my mind, I broke down a bit at the end, struggling to get out the final sentences of regret and promise. Not a dry eye in the place. The story, the place and those people gave me that moment to grieve. Tears of any kind, certainly not public, well, let’s just say I’m not known for doing it.

Last of the bunch was Suzie. She played a toy ukulele, could manuever through about a thousand words a minute. Her act was the beatnik type you might see parodied in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, but she was dead serious and when she wailed, Suicide! Suicide! Suicide!, I figured that to be the chorus because it came around a few more times. Yikes! I looked around to see if any of us were in need of CPR. Nevertheless, everyone was supportive for her lyrics were genuinely powerful, the ones you could catch as they flew by. Her others songs were just as wincingly dynamic. She announced she’d be returning on the 29th to debut and sell her new CD. My wife Marsha and I will be skipping that one, I think.

Still, it had been a delightful evening. The place only holds maybe 40 and that’s because Larry got his hands on a few pews that line the walls. I cannot imagine what it would be like to fill the place. But everyone would like it. $10 to get in. It’s a bargain.