I wandered into your open mike around 9:00 PM. Now it's a hell of an open mike when it can start around dinner time and still be cooking pretty hot at a school night bedtime. I'm afraid that by that time, I had to walk around and find out what had gone down by talking to people. I met C.J. of the Milroys, and learned about their award winning Americana music. I also touched base with the better half of Bone Orchard Revival, who had just delivered a booted head kick, pulled short thank goodness, to a maven on one of the barstools. She asked me, "How do you know I do music?" Well, landsakes, she was around the open mike, so how much evidence did I need? Actually Mrs. Milroy had pointed out all the musicians in the house, an activity that required a lot of pointing.
Your cast of musicians kept me busy on MySpace for a spell, and for some reason, I think I've gone back in time and place to Winchester, Kentucky, where I caught a bluegrass festival a few years back. One of those festivals where the bluegrass playing preacher puts his daughter on the stage for a few songs before delivering the gospel truth, just to put the boys in mind of the virtues of a Godly life with a christian wife who keeps a songbook in her heart. One of those music festivals where men and women alike stand on the hill playing bones as the music rises up the bluegrass covered landscape. Yes, I thought I was attending the programming at the Laurel Music Festival again, on the hill made famous by James Agee, who immortalized that enclave in the song, "Knoxville Summer 1915". Well, ok, it was Sam Barber who put Agee's words to music, but my meaning I hope is clear. At the Laurel Theatre's music festival, two of the fiddlers had been declared national treasures by the American Goverment. Mr. P, I had no idea that Detroit had this much authentic roots music, and you drew them all to the same shotgun shack bar.
A fellow named Robert Del Valle, arts writer for Real Detroit had tipped me off to your Sunday evening extravaganza, posting this status on MySpace: "I'll be breakdancing at Gusoline Alley's. Open Mike this Sunday". But that was a Sunday in December, so it took me a whole month of waiting before I could hear Gusoline Alley's open mike in all its glory. For some reason, I had forgotten it was the first Sunday, but blessed be the tie that binds, I saw my buddy walking by the Starbuck's window towards the Alley and had a moment of insight, and thus I made haste so as not to waste the remainder of the Sabbath bereft of music.
After all that raw and impromptu musicianship, and this is the beauty part of your open mike, in stumbles this ingenue who is finally and forever twenty-one, who actually leaves her merch behind in her car, who brings down the house by belting out the copywritable line, "If I wanted cock, you'd surely know by now". Not only did I admire her frankness, I'm giving this troubador points for apologizing for her lyrics in advance. I'm betting that she comes from a long line of outspoken women, and deep down, her grandmom is mighty proud when she hears her granddaughter sing that line. She promised me she had a site on MySpace to keep her fandom in the loop, but do you know how many righteous guitar babes by name of Emily Rose have a page on MySpace? More than the stars in a sky above a West Virginia hollar.
Thanks for taking two moments to draw me into the evening. First, you correctly reproached me for slacking by not bringing any literature to share, but just as I don't try to keep up with a conversation between two women, I don't try to compete with steel strings and Americana lyrics. Second, you kindly pointed out that many songbirds equal and greater to Ms. Rose had taken their turn before the house. So that set me out to find out who.
Consider me your fan and admirer,
Wandering Wilbo
Wilbo Wonders: Why Does An Open Mike Rarely Mean An Open Bar?
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