Lost in Another Country, Sort of

Men on vacation who drink alone in a bar quietly cry out that their lives have been reduced to drinking alone in a bar while on vacation.  They hunch over their drinks like they’re about to jump off the ledge of a tall building, trying not to draw attention to themselves, staring deeply into their drinks while the laughter that snakes throughout the room is sucked into a black hole; these fellows cast no shadows, they’re constrained by their own singular mass.

Drinking alone devours time, the one thing that nobody can  afford to waste, yet these fellows piss it away like there's no tomorrow. They put on a brave front but stand like frightened wobbly lambs while creatures of the night howl for blood at crowded tables.

Years ago, I was back in Nepal, for the first time traveling in this country alone, and I wanted to confront this fear head on; what better way I thought, than to perform for the howling crowded tables center stage under a spotlight?

I left the Excelsior Hotel with my guitar searching for a sidewalk chalkboard easel advertising: “free live music tonite” and straight away, I found in the heart of Kathmandu’s touristy pub street district: the “The New Orleans Café”, a magnet for trustafarians and well-funded expatriate non-governmental organization organizers alike, and since I still considered New Orleans home despite having a well expired Louisiana driver's license, I thought, “Voilà! A twist of fate!” the stars had conveniently aligned themselves just for me. 

On stage tuning his guitar was a dread-lock Nepali.

“Namaste!” I said, and he smiled, returned my “Namaste!” and smiled again after I asked if he’d mind if I plugged in and joined him on stage.  

For the rest of the evening, I drank for free, sat just behind the local singer, adding lead fills and arpeggios while he strummed and sang a list of songs that I now simply refer to as “the set”. This set list includes Dylan’s “Knocking on Heavens Door”, Clapton’s “Tears in Heaven”, Dire Straits “Sultans of Swings”, the Eagle’s “Hotel California”, and a triptych of Bob Marley songs, “No Woman, No Cry”, “Redemption Song” and the backpacker’s international anthem that knows no borders, “One Love”. None of them bad songs the first ninety-nine hundred times you hear them. And I have for many years now backed many local "free music tonite" singers throughout Asia on many a pub street.

Last summer I went out once again with the guitar but I had made a decision that this time out I would do my best to avoid “the set” because for me, this is not really making music. Each song from "the set" is supposed to be played like the original, because to please certain howling crowded tables who on one hand seek adventure while on the other hand like to paint the unfamiliar towns a familiar shade of red, you have to approximate all those familiar notes which are eagerly anticipated by less adventurous ears.

Do what you can with whatever you have wherever you are, right? But where is the adventure in that? I have for too many years found common ground by filling in my own notes while trying to stay true to the spirit of the original. Last summer I went looking to reshuffle the deck. I wanted to play my hand with reckless abandon. I went on a blues safari. 

Death assumes many forms and one of them is predictability. The impulsive spirit of the blues creates possibilities that stand at the crossroads at the heart of midnight.  Go there, the crossroads at midnight and you'll find that infidelity to the original  may be heresy, but it feels so good, so very good. With the blues you can cast off loyalty to the unimaginative, create, and then set your course for the exceptions to all the rules.

Playing it your way is self-determination while conforming to the way things should be played is for me a ghost wandering the world forever feeling restless and unsettled unable to head towards the light. Fuck it. I didn't want to head towards the light. I wanted to play in shadows where my fingers could get lost then try to find their own path towards sonic redemption.

Getting lost is what I like most about traveling alone and it's what I like about the blues.