DAKONDA Pt. 6

OKAY!  The next act up at the mic is an insufferably haughty, pseudo-hipster college kid.  He get ups there and importantly announces that he’s written a SPOKEN WORD PIECE that he would like to share. 

Interestingly enough - like our waiters - this dude also sports a fedora, altho' his hat is black and velvety-looking, a la` our fairly-recently-departed Jack-O.  He's going for a dapper, basic-black, streamlined look in general:  Black (Buddy Holly) horn-rimmed glasses, black pants and shirt with a black tie,  (ß Spoken Word Mafia???) what-has-to-be-dyed black hair and a matching teeny little black goatee. 

So now he's standing at the microphone, squinting at his iphone.  (ßI hate even typing this dopey word.)   What follows is essentially his self-intro, give or take a grunt or two: 

Buddy-Boy Black:  (Barely glancing up at the audience ‘cuz – you know - it’s all about HIM and the PHONE):

"Uhhhhhmmm, so yeah.  So HI.  This is… a little… well… I had a stressful TEST today.  I was up all night STUDYING with the RED BULL, you know… BURNING THE MIDNIGHT OIL.   So  I was PREVENTED from memorizing this BRAND-spanking-NEW PIECE to the best of my ability.  Which you must understand I have an AMAZING memory -  (??? We must?) – usually it’s CONSIDERABLE, my MEMORY – but… as REFERRED TO…I had this TEST… and I’d better have PASSED it…. feeling a little stressed about THAT as well… so you'll just have to DEAL with the fact that I’ll occasionally be referring to MY PIECE on HERE…"  He brandishes THE PHONE: "…but it should be fine, and…  I’m pretty proud of it, so...   Well, that's it.  I guess here goes."

Quite astounding that one could come off so offensively arrogant during a barely-mumbled speech like this, but BBB managed just fine.  And to top it off, the WHOLE "PIECE" is a halting, stunted ode to technological gadgets - ironically accusing people of being "androids" who can NEVER STOP looking at said devices, and who thus are using them as CRUTCHES to get thru life. 

Was it possible that this dude was being self-effacing and deliberately ironic?  Sadly, not a chance.  And he's no Ginsberg:  It is maybe 3 lines into this jumbled thing and he needs to look at his phone for the rest of it.  He fumbles the phone - catches it just before it hits the deck.  

Sigh.  Ginsberg and his little paper notebook: So much more dignified...but I digress...

BBB ( Squinting at the phone): "I…wait a minute.  Just a second.  This is the wrong  part!  Well, not WRONG but…(yeah, never THAT, right BBB?!) damn…there's supposed to be a whole 'nother section in here…this is too far ahead... CRAP!… Hold on…"

And he's pressing buttons, SCROLLING, shaking the damn thing.  Just your general iphone antics, it seems: Squints some more into the tiny screen, cursing mildly under his breath but it's coming over plenty loud because he's of course, doing it right into the mic.    

Everyone is sitting there quietly, watching this.  Gal Pal murmuring to her beloved Shaggy:  "It was SUCH a good PIECE, too.  What a shame!"  Shaggy nods dreamily, staring off.  He could care less, busy re-living his own performance, no doubt. 

And Dakonda is getting some more great iphone footage here.  But somewhat noteworthy: After Tranny Houston's big number, Dakonda no longer giggles weirdly while he's filming the rest of us performers:  He's brought it down a notch.  Not a huge improvement, but let's take what we can get.

Buddy Boy Black never does retrieve (or recite) the rest of his PIECE.   Does a little more muttering about today's TEST and also the challenge that is Being an ARTIST, before he up and leaves.  Nothin'  here HE wants to check out.

I like to think that his next PIECE will raise the dilemma of how technology failed him.   Hey, he can even incorporate the word FAIL into his TEST situation, provided he wound up failing that, too. 

Now THERE'S a PIECE I'd actually like to hear!  J

Up Next?  A  KOOKY  little act I like to call: THE CURSING MINSTREL…

TO BE CONTINUED….

 

DAKONDA Pt. 5

Okay, back at DAKONDA'S POSITIVITY-LADEN OPEN MIC EXTRAVAGANZA:  

So far, I've had an emotional melt-down/cover-tune-comeback-at-the-mic and Tranny Houston has left the building.  And before I go on, I just want to share some reflections I've since had with regard to cranky ole' Trans:  She was angry, she was deeply troubled and embittered. Obviously, this person had not had an easy life.  I can appreciate and sympathize, and will state plainly that I seriously have NO any idea of what it must be like to walk in her shoes - (or to drag around a giant bag of shoes,  for that matter).  She was belligerent, she was damaged and she was trying to make a statement at that open microphone.  She really was PUTTING IT OUT THERE.  She was BRINGING IT.

That being said, when I complimented her performance, my intention was pure.  I was showing support.  The fact that it served to incite her and draw yet more hatred and loathing from the very depths of her soul was not something I'd anticipated, altho' I probably should have.  And had I not been slightly off my intuitive game that particular night, I believe I would have.  But I was going thru shit of my own, as all of us so often are. 

In retrospect, I realize that she was probably at a point in her life where everything and everyone around her felt hostile, and like a mockery.  Despite my best intentions, I would be no exception. 

I do think about her sometimes, and I sincerely wish her well if she's still mucking along with the rest of us.  And if not, I hope she went out easy:  Easier than her life looked to be.

* * * * * *

The next act up was the guitarist dude - the one who came in with his gal, lugging amps.  He had a folky-weary air, shaggy and 50-ish, the performer of the two.  Helpful Gal-Pal also had to be at least 50, was slightly more refined in pin-stripe dress slacks and a sporty matching vest, altho' whenever she bent over - however slightly - her entire ass fell out the back of her slacks.   I only know this because she sat directly in front of me and Chris, so this was indeed a treat.  Ah, show-biz. 

So he gets up and plugs in his acoustic-electric guitar which immediately starts feeding back. 

Rattled, Shaggy blurts: "FORGET THE AMPS, I'LL GO COMMANDO." 

Dakonda jumps up: "NO - NO!  Let me adjust it!"

Shaggy: "NO IT'S FINE."

Dakonda: "No, HERE - I got it!  TRY IT NOW!"

Shaggy gives 'er a tentative strummmmmmmm.  The guitar is completely out of tune.   I take another look just to make sure he doesn't have a couple of broken strings goin' on - it sounds that off.

He nods, grinning beatifically at Dakonda. 

Shaggy (Reverently): "As always, leave it to Dakonda - THE MASTER!"   

Gal-Pal (giddily clapping, child-like): "AS ALWAYS! YES!!!  Leave it to THE MASTER!!!"

Okay, so obviously Shaggy, Gal-Pal and Dakonda have a bit of a thing goin'.   Bit of a history, I'd say…

Shaggy strums a shaky, one-chord intro, eyes down-cast and dramatically contemplative.  Then, he slowly raises his gaze to STARE MANIACALLY into the eyes of Gal-Pal.   She raptly returns his ogling as he begins what essentially is a private serenade to her.

It goes on for a very long time, this song of passionate fixation and obsession.  Because it wasn't really a LOVE song, no - it was like: "I…..will never leave you…..and YOU….will never leave ME….and WE…can never know….with ANYONE ELSE….WHAT WE HAVE….WE EACH HAVE EACH-OTHER…WE NEED NO OTHERS….FOREVER….AND NEVER LEAVING…NOBODY LEAVES….DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT….LEAVING IS NOT AN OPTION…" 

It got pretty heavy, this little number of his.  And Gal-Pal squirmed and sighed thru it, her obnoxious ass flying every which way in the pure enchantment of being the object - nay, the inspiration - of such devotion. 
 

At one point, she proudly whirls around to tell us: "He writes songs about me ALL THE TIME…"

Right toward the end, his microphone started feeding back and I get the feeling that the feedback was the ONLY reason that he then quickly wrapped it up:   Feedback was a tough one for this guy.  

That and people trying to LEAVE him.

 NEXT~!

TO BE CONTINUED....

 

DAKONDA Pt. 4

So with the encouragement of my old man, I decide to chill at the DAKONDA'S OPEN MIC and sing a diddy.   But first, right after Tranny Houston, some woman got up - one of the poets.  I remember she recited an original poem called: "End O' The Road".   The only reason I remember this is because the line END O' THE ROAD was repeated incessantly within this 90-second poem.  Listening to it made me feel downright insane.  She bowed extravagantly when she was finished.  I do recall feeling pleased at her profound sense of self-satisfaction.  Ya sure don't see THAT every day.

And then I was up.  I played a song of mine called Warrior Of One.  It has a Celtic lilt, and its lyrics express courage and independence in the face of adversity.  I'd felt it a good choice, because I could play it on piano very well and I already knew (from our previous lunch-date with Dakonda) that I liked the piano in that room. 

So I sat down and played the intro and it felt good.  The keys sounded pretty - resonating sweetly, the piano was in tune and the acoustics were lovely - the room quiet and attentive. 

But then as soon as I sang the first line, ("I am just so angry... I am overcome...") I was astonished to feel my composure completely disintegrate.  And to my utter mortification, I found myself helplessly emotional:  I could barely get thru a syllable without bursting into tears.  Nothing like this had ever happened to me before.  I had always been a FEARLESS PERFORMER - shit - PRIDED myself on it!  But then, I had never performed for an audience in the state that I was in here, at this particular point in my life.  I hadn't taken into account how affected I actually was - had taken for granted that SINGING and PLAYING was something I could always fall back on.  Not so,  once your heart has been scraped raw and all illusions of safety and security ripped away:  Just not so anymore. 

By sheer force of will, I finish my song.  I am aware of Dakonda filming throughout, and I'm uncomfortable about it, but it's like a runaway train:  I'm in it for the long-haul, and what was I going to do?  Stop cry-singing mid-song and demand that he stop filming?  In any event, the room was gracious and they applauded generously and after my first song, I quickly segued into a cover of Tracey Ullman's "They Don't Know" - a luscious little pop number.  I'm able to sing and play it easily, get thru it quickly, receive some more nice applause and with a bow I head for my seat.    

I'm a little freaked out and to make matters worse, as I head over to my seat THERE'S TRANNY HOUSTON - sucking his/her teeth bitterly and glaring at me again.  WHAT THE FUCK!!!  I glare right back at ole' Trans, thinking loudly in my head: "Do not even THINK about fucking with me, bitch.  I am not having YOURS or ANYbody's shit right now.  "    

And as sure as hell, Tranny Houston stands up - a little unsteady, but determined - grabs his/her bag of nasty-ass rotting sneakers, and lurches for the door - whoomp - slam - gone.  Out into the night. 

Okay!  Open mic night! 

WHO'S NEXT?

TO BE CONTINUED…

 

DAKONDA Pt. 3

Okay, so back at the OPEN MIC, courtesy of our new pal DAKONDA.   We left off with the Whitney Houston-spewing, strung-out tranny glaring around the room in an intimidating, post-performance lather. 

But first…

A brief overview of Dakonda's deal, from what I can tell:   He's a tad older than us, late 50's?   Little hard to say exactly, but then it's always that way with musicians and other lunatics in general:  That quasi-youthful vibe tends to permeate regardless of actual age.  So The D-dude is an accomplished multi-instrumentalist who has apparently played with some very big names.  But seems he's not playing with those anymore.  Not sure exactly WHAT he does at this point, aside from wrangling people for OPEN-MIC exploits at the local vegan teahouse that's run by a handful of young Krishna fellaz.  Which is fine, it's SOMEthing to do in between vitamin infusions.

Dakonda certainly seems a kind-hearted soul.   Also, unconventional: He wears these really huge, metallic-aqua, roundish, Mickey-Mouse-style running shoes.  Pretty striking, those things.  And remember, Chris met him at the vitamin-therapy place, so my first impression when I saw them standing together on the curb as I pulled up was: "WHAT is with those fuckin' SNEAKERS, MAN?"  But ya got used to them pretty quick, as they actually suited his personality in an uncanny way the more you got to know him.

ANYWAY… So, Dakonda wasn't in the same boat as my husband.  He was being treated for something else at the holistic vitamin place.   Not cancer, but he was having some vitamin-issues and it's frankly not my place to go into that.  Regardless, he was FULL TO THE BRIM with energy.  I wondered if they were shooting him up with TOO MANY VITAMINS at that freakin' place.   Manic is a good description, yeah, he had the mania-thing going:  Talking non-stop much of the time, switching topics with lightning speed so that your head would be spinning and you got the feeling that his brain-cells were careening like a pinball machine around the inside of his head:  His THOUGHTS were, most definitely.   Somewhat exhaustingly lovable with his overwrought enthusiasm,  he'd be right in the middle of a rapid-fire diatribe about Carlos Santana and - BAMM - switch gears: "…AND…AND…life is long…and we must…there's enlightenment to be found…if we are OPEN…"  I'd be like: "Huh?  Oh, okay…new topic I guess."   But it was fine, and me and Chris had been thru so much trauma in recent months - with more uncertainty ahead - that the diversion of just being around all of that positive fervor flying offa Dakonda was oddly healing.  At first…

* * * * * *

So yeah, also milling around the café` are the KRISHNA BOYS, the ones who run the place.  Not what you'd expect when you think of Krishna dudes.   Nobody was bald and no single red roses, no tambourines.  THESE young'uns are quite mod.  A half dozen of 'em in their early-to-mid-twenties - some quite handsome and all with full heads of hair, sporting identical straw fedora hats.  Like a tiny army of mini-Indiana Joneses boppin' around the joint in aprons, wielding trays of herbal tea, hummus and pita chips.   

Dakonda has brought a bright blue solid-body electric guitar and a flute, so we have that to look forward to.   I should mention that during Tranny Houston's performance, Dakonda giggles furtively and begins filming the performance -  along with the room's reaction to it - on his iphone.    If Tranny Houston is my first red flag of the evening, THIS little move on Dakonda's part is my second.

OKAY!  Pretty much up to speed here.  Tranny Houston has finished her big number, and the place is starting to fill up with some magical characters:  Couple of college kids with guitars, staring at their laptops or iphones.  These kids today.  The techno-zombies.  A middle-aged poetess or two.  Me and Chris of course, and I'm heartened to see another couple in our age group enter with guitars and amps. They spot us, too, and we greet each other tentatively, hopefully.  Oy vey, always hopeful…

So after I've complimented Tranny Houston on her performance, he glares at me like he wants to smash me over the head with his large plastic bag of putrid, decomposing sneakers.   I look at Chris, who sits beside me smiling and nodding pleasantly up at Tranny Houston.  Jesus - How does he DO it?  My cheerfully stoic partner in crime. 

Tranny swings his head from me to Chris: There's obviously some kind of inner debate going on in his poor, shattered, QUEEN OF THE NIGHT psyche.  And then sanity (or most likely, apathetic exhaustion)  prevails. With a disgruntled HARUMPFFFFFF, Tranny turns away from us and plops a noisy squat onto a rickety stool, dust and possibly  some moths poofing up all around him/her.  How utterly charming.

I look at Chris: "Should we just leave?  I'm feeling…weird about this…"

He is positively incredulous: "No way, baby!  This is our night out!  Now get up there and do your number!"

TO BE CONTINUED….

 

DAKONDA Pt. 2

Dakonda invites us to an OPEN MIC.  He declared it would be a free-forum, where positive energy would be paramount.  Fine.  Sounds good.  SOUNDS LIKE WHAT WE NEED right now.

Me and Chris get to the OPEN MIC right on time.   I sign up.  Being A CIVILIZED MUSICIAN,  I have a song prepared.   Nobody else seems to have this going for them.  A couple of other people there seem to be TRYING, but it's still a little sketchy and - whatever.

Right off the bat, I sense trouble.  There's this tranny dude holding court, very belligerent - has a grudge in general.  He's dragging a shopping bag filled with filthy sneakers, his eyes are rheumy and bulging and the VIBE he is giving off is JUST NOT COOL.

He stands up, loud and proud, in the middle of the room and starts belting WHITNEY HOUSTON'S  "THE GREATEST LOVE OF ALL"…  honestly, what a debacle….

And as soon as he finishes his astounding rendition of this song, he GLARES around at the room - a CHALLENGE.

So ME - why the FUCK am I always game to take this shit on???? - I say to him: "Wow!  You really BROUGHT IT.  You dug down deep and you BROUGHT It!"

Now, you'd think this fucker would be PLEASED that I had this to say.  But no.  He just stands there, SWAYING…all blood-shot-eyed and miserable.   Staring me down like he has a right.  THINK AGAIN.

You know what?  Let the GAMES BEGIN…

 

 

DAKONDA

Chris was going for vitamin infusions because he had cancer.  He was really struggling.  I was struggling, too.   Everything felt frightening and vulnerable.

I would drop Chris off at his vitamin infusions three times a week. I'd go grocery shopping, or just read and wait, or have Herman our dog with me and we'd just pass time until Chris was done.  Chris was so thin then.  He looked like an 80-year old man sometimes.  His cheek-bones jutted, and his blue-gray eyes were sunken and I'd hold his hand, or clasp his wrist, and it felt like he might blow away.  Just blow away.

So one day, I drove up to pick Chris up from his vitamin therapy.  And he's standing there out in the street on Union Turnpike in Flushing - next to some weirdo-guy.  Some guy who looks  like Opie or Howdy Doody or some shit.  Sorry, don't mean to be judgmental, but whatever.

So I pull up and Chris goes: "Hey, Honey - this is DAKONDA!  He likes VEGETARIAN FOOD!  We were thinking of grabbing some lunch!"

Well, I have no idea what to make of this.  I just know that lately I'm in a constant state of shock because my husband looks like he's about to collapse.  So I go: "GREAT!"

So Chris and Dakonda jump in.  I drive, as directed, down Parsons Blvd. to THE UTOPIAN CAFÉ`.  We find a spot and head on in.

We sit down on these little stools in this vegan tea parlor.  There's a piano in the corner - nothing fancy, but a cute little upright.  Dakonda orders us tea and I go play a song.

I play an original song about love and loss of trust.  Dakonda starts crying while I play.  It's a little surreal.

He invites us to an upcoming Open Mic.  We accept. 

The Best Is Yet To Come.

 

To be continued...