After the Gig

Well, it's taken me a whole week to blog about the Pearl's gig, which went so so well. The last show on Sunday night was a lot of fun--we had had a good crowd for a Sunday night, but the second show was sparser, as expected. It was still better than I had feared, since I've seen bands playing to 10 people at the last show on a Sunday at Pearl's. I did my thing I had done at each show, dancing out in the crowd. Only this time, as I came back to the stage as a joke to crack up the band I dropped and did five pushups. The next morning when I told my husband about it he was shocked and said I should control my antics. Up till that moment I had felt rather proud of my silliness. I love feeling free on stage and at that moment I wanted to do something over the top though I hadn't planned it in the least. Anyway, I only got enthusiastic feedback from the audience, so ultimately I'm not going to censor myself in that way.

Once the show was over and the band was paid, we hung out a bit and chatted. Standing out in front of Pearl's proved to be a bad idea, as the "kings of North Beach" began talking to us and couldn't be persuaded to leave. "What's that you're wearing? Why does it shine?" said one of the homeless threesome. "It's a sparkly dress," I replied. We repeated the question and answer two more times, until I realized there was no escaping. I slipped back through the club door. The bartender and ticket seller were laughing. "That's the only way to get away from them," they said. Later, I walked up the street with two others and got an amazingly tasty burger from Sam's, which is a hole in the wall that has apparently been in operation since 1966. The owner told me he'd seen many jazz greats over the years at the now defunct Keystone Korner.

As we ate our burgers at 2 a.m., a series of crazy characters challenged the owner. A thin, fidgety man came in and slapped two dollars on the counter. I didn't turn to look at him but his nails were painted red. "Candy at the Imperial says it's two dollars for a hotdog," he said. The yellow 1970s-era sign listed hotdogs for $2.75. "Who are these pretty ladies?" he asked to our backs. "I know them. The one with the curly hair. I know her." We continued to eat our fries and ignore him. Suddenly he yelled: "That's it, that's the story of my life, always the anguish, always crushed and rejected by the opposite sex!" The owner quickly came out from behind the counter and led him outside. But he continued to fume and gesticulate, standing on the double yellow line in the middle of the street as cars rushed by him on either side.

I commented to my friends how the nightlife changes from a Saturday to a Sunday. Saturday I had left at midnight in hopes of getting a good sleep and preserving my voice. At that time, it was almost painful to go home, with the streets so packed with life and social energy, filled with nicely dressed young people going dancing and clubbing. On a Sunday night these folks were gone, and only the royalty was left--the homeless and the insane. I asked the owner of Sam's if the street had changed in the 30 years he had been there. He said that the crazy people weren't as polite as they used to be.

I drove home and watched a little TV. I lay down but, as usual, I couldn't sleep. It's been a few days of getting back on my diurnal schedule but I've got myself readjusted. Of course, more gigs are coming, sending me back into my nocturnal bliss.