Hole in the Wall, "Live Music" | by Robbie Pieschke

There was no cold side to any pillow that summer. The dusty carpet of our two-bedroom apartment, the shallow and musty cupboards, the blemished hardwood floor of The Lighthouse—everything felt sticky. Immediate perspiration lined the outside of every beer, which was refreshing for only a few minutes after being poured. An unusually long heat wave had extended well into September, just as the simple tasks around The Lighthouse lost their ceremony and we were no longer too preoccupied with the novelty of it all to notice. It was hot.

 “It’s all the rage, this climate change,” said Oliver, walking in several minutes behind schedule. He poured Bailey’s into his coffee and opened the Tribune. “While the rest of us sweat it out, these dumbasses sit back in their air conditioning and float in pools.”

“Never mind the deniers. How about the nuts who welcome global warming, expecting The Lord to return sooner if we burn the house down?” John was wiping down an already clean counter. He lit a cigarette and looked around our empty bar.

I sat in a booth, crunching numbers. I’ve never been a numbers guy, none of us were, but none of us had counted anything in the few months we had owned the bar. From day one, I felt a sense of responsibility that seemed lost on Oliver and John. They told women that they “owned a bar,” but neither of them seemed to take ownership of the bar. I was the first to break and become anxious and pay the bills, but barely, blissfully ignorant no more.

“What do you think about live music?” said John.

“I don’t think about live music,” said Oliver without looking up from the newspaper. He sipped his whitened coffee.  

“I’m not talking about some local yokel with a rooster’s voice.”

“I’m against it. Too many ‘musicians’ have ruined perfectly good evenings at perfectly quiet bars.”

“What about you, Len? Someone said Dave could carry a decent tune.”

“Will he do it for free?” I said.

“Maybe. Might do it for drinks.”

“Anything to get more people in here buying drinks,” I said.

“How about Friday?”

“Friday’s no good,” said Oliver, finally looking up from the paper. “It’s kids night here at the bar.”

“Two to one, Ollie,” said John. “I’ll call him.”

It was nice to see John take such initiative. He wore a collared shirt that Friday when Dave came to play music. Moving chairs and repositioning tables, he formed a small stage in front of the large window looking out at the oblivious, Chicago streets.  

When Dave arrived, there were just two elderly men drinking Miller Lite quietly in the corner. He carried his guitar in a raged case; it’s handle, who knows what happened to the original, was made of twine. It was the same consistency as his beard, which appeared bushy and looked like it smelled badly. Nevertheless, Dave seemed kind and unassuming.

“Guys, this is Dave; Dave this is our fearless leader, Leonard. He’s the brains behind the bar.”

We shook hands and I said something, but I don’t remember what it was. I was too fixated on John’s compliment. When had I become the leader? My smile back to Dave said, I am the leader. “Well, you know, the books can’t keep themselves,” I managed to say.

“Dave this is Oliver; Oliver, Dave.”

“What’s up, live music?” said Oliver, “You better not suck.”

“Look at him, Ollie! Look at that beard. He’s not going to suck,” said John.

“Just happy to be here,” said Dave.

Dave was soft spoken; that is, until he took the stage—he closed his eyes tightly after checking his levels and began to play.

He was brilliant. Even Oliver took notice when Dave first strummed his tattered telecaster. His voice was as deep as an ocean. It brought a certain color to The Lighthouse, and it was an honest color. Just into the first song and there was already evidence of sweat, even through his plain black t-shirt. Music—good music—has a way of breathing life into dead places.

The music, then, became a sea, and his words were a small rowboat, floating lonely and away from safety: “I still have so many questions,” he sung, “Like can I believe and still drink whiskey? / And did you have a sense of humor really?”

I looked at John, who was standing behind the bar with a wet towel crumpled in his hand. “Wow,” I mouthed.

“He’s good, right?”

I shook my head in agreement and turned back toward the stage. A small group of men had gathered in the window outside, behind where Dave played. They were laughing loudly in the streets, and I hoped to God that they would pass by our bar. When they walked through the door, the first guy—who we would later refer to as Bro #1—attempted to hush the seven or eight of them by placing his pointy finger over a shit-eating smile. He closed his eyes tightly for a second, as if doing so would mask his incivility. 

“We’ve been drunk for, like, three days,” announced Bro #1, collar popped to the heavens and sleeves rolled up tightly above a barbed-wire tattoo. “I’ll take four beers. We’re celebrating my boy’s bachelor party.”

As I poured beer for Bro #1, I watched over his shoulder as Dave continued to play in spite of the commotion. He sang about God and about spiritual crises. I was genuinely moved by Dave’s sincerity and the fervor with which he played for such a simple audience—three guys, two old men, and some bros. I attended church when I was a kid, but never really understood what all the fuse was about. In some strange way, Dave’s songs were a sermon to our bar. At the end of his third or fourth song, the Bros applauded obnoxiously and toasted their third or fourth beer.

Their outbursts became increasingly bold. It started with snickering. They were sitting at the bar, the seven of them, facing Dave, their backs to John and I behind the bar. Bro #2 whispered a joke to a few others and they laughed loudly but with immediate restraint.

Throughout Dave’s set, however, their resolve weakened with drinks—a catch 22 for those of us worried about earning a living. I questioned critically which mattered most in that moment: our catharsis or keeping the bar in business beyond the month—art vs. commerce. What a strange problem for someone so suddenly worried about numbers.

 Bro #1 began strumming an imaginary guitar mockingly and John gave him the coldest stare I had ever seen come from those otherwise innocent eyes.

“Play Freebird!” called another Bro to unanimous affirmation from the bachelor party.

“Freebird! Freebird! Freebird” they chanted.

“I don’t know Freebird. Sorry, guys.”

“Boo!” said Bro #2 drunkenly.

“Let him play what he wants,” said Oliver, surprisingly, from the door where he sat defensively.

The Bros obliged, but briefly. Watching them was like watching children trying not to giggle through church. They couldn’t help themselves. Bros would be Bros, I thought. But I wondered to what degree we would let them be. Should we have cut them off? I would later wonder. As with magnifying glass, the Bros lit Dave like an ant, but what else could Dave have done but play? The Bros continued to heckle the poor musician through the rest of his set.

Bars are musical and full of color. Like any home, there is conversation and difficult questions and conflict. I thought about the bar as a space where gatherings such as these occur, and how, in such spaces, such gatherings cannot (and should not) be controlled. As the Bros continued to drink, I wondered what our responsibility was to Dave, to the community, and to our cathartic moment. They kept buying the Bachelor shots of Yegarrmister, trying to get him drunk.

It was late when Dave ended his set. “This next song is important to me—”

“Freebird!”

“It’s been one of my favorite songs for years and I end every set with it. Seems like an appropriate song to close out this evening especially.”

“Freebird!”

“I heard there was a secret chord / that David played and it pleased the Lord / but—”

Just then, one of the Bros threw an empty bottle of Rolling Rock towards John’s makeshift stage. It landed near Dave and shattered on the floor, making a crashing noise.

I saw the rest of the evening in slow motion: the Bachelor successfully blew chunks; Bro #1 and Bro #2 high fived and laughed in his pale, blue face; in a rare moment of physical exertion, Oliver threw Bro #1 out of the bar by his popped collar; and Dave started, once again, to play:

“Hallelujah.”

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Next time on The Hindsight Bridge: Paul Walter Hauser invites his readers into the kitchen of a newlywed couple, attempting to make a homemade spaghetti sauce for their relatives - but their struggle to mimic and alter a recipe speaks volumes on their relationship and the unspoken tension that hangs in the balance. Be sure to re-visit THB on July 30th for more! Also, be sure to like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.