The Bluebird was a nightmare. It falls into the category of “places with a huge and entirely undeserved reputation”… or perhaps “places with open mics that are like a form of aural torture involving wire-brushes, out-of-tune guitars, and sharpened guitar picks.”
We got to the Bluebird Cafe yesterday at 5.25pm to find a line of musicians and audience members wrapped around the building in the 90-somethin’ degree heat. We finally made our way in and filled out our ticket and placed it in the “first-time” basket… they have two baskets, see, one for people who’ve only tried to play there once, and one for people who’ve failed to get on the list, and are foolhardy enough to try again.
So, when all was said and done, we got slot #45 for our trouble. Our friend Ali (who’s in Nashville visiting colleges) got #39. We calculated that we’d be going on close to 12 or 1am, and deemed that to be possible, and settled in to be amazed by the talent that has flocked to this most famous of open mics.
And we were amazed. We were amazed at out-of-tune voices and out-of-tune guitars and a sound system that couldn’t decide if it was going to feedback or simply make everyone’s voices inaudible. In an uneasy compromise, it decided to do both. There were a couple of good performers, but they were few and far between, and – well, very much like our experience at Club Passim in Boston. So, we waited, and we waited… and when they told us at 9pm that performer number 22 was the last person to perform that night and that they were shutting down, I was pretty fucking furious. Waste of a damned Monday night.
In any case, we headed out and got some dinner with Ali and her Dad and eventually went back to hang out with Treva Blomquist, who’s been putting us up in Nashville. Had a good time swapping stories long into the night (I’d feared that we’d completely miss one another the whole time we were there) and just generally had a nice evening avoiding thoughts of the Bluebird, and fending off occassional “I told you so”s.
Pleck.
