Yesterday we sped out of Maryland like a cat who’s just set their tail on fire because they’re dumb and because candles. And then we headed east and calmed down a bit and took a leisurely path wending our way through small and not-so-small Pennsylvania towns, making our way to Rudy’s Diner in Bethlehem, PA.
Bethlehem has a strange and sordid history with Heather and I – mine stretches back to my time in college, driving up and down in my VW bus to visit my girlfriend, writing music on the way, stopping to extinguish engine fires and recording cassette albums with my 4 track. Sneaking into the dorms and sneaking out again, Loving this old dead steel town because of how it’s grabbed Christmas by the balls as a marketing opportunity and re-imagined itself as an arts and music town, hosting incredible festivals in the shadow of the corpses of decommissioned factories.
We met up with our old friend Mike Duck at the diner and settled in for a night of decent food and decent music. There were gems served, both orally and aurally. A definite memorable performer being Nick Marks who walked a fine line between funny and uncomfortable, wailing away on an acoustic guitar. Imagine if Andy Kauffman had showed up at the local acoustic open mic after binging on Ween albums, except he can totally shred. It wouldn’t have worked except in-between drawling, wandering monologs (“I like playing here cause it’s right across from my chosen demographic, outside the ladies rest room I always get to play to chicks who’ve got to piss” – I shouldn’t use quotes, but that’s the gist!) and over-stressed G chords on an almost-in-tune guitar he demonstrated a soaring, incredible voice and jazz-scaling solos like I could aspire to if I actually PRACTICED and did so for the next two years… I mean this guy could PLAY… but he didn’t shut down and our shared bathroom experience was… uncomfortable.
Later Mike Duck went up and played his tunes and – I think I’d forgotten him a little bit. Not in a bad way, in a “I haven’t seen you play in close to twenty years” kind of way. The last time we were up here he was very focused on parenting and wasn’t really getting out to play much. I’d frankly been a bit surprised when he’d said he’d meet us there and play a set of his own. Back in the Jahva House days (late 90s / early 2000s?) as We’re About 9 coalesced and I was still playing with Audrey, Mike Duck was the folk half of a folk-hop duo called Dihybrid Cross. His voice was a frequent occurrence on whatever night of the week the open mic was, but I really haven’t heard it since, so I was shocked by the wave of nostalgia that hit me when he opened his mouth last night. His playing is still solid, and his voice is much the same except he’s added a layer of grit that really serves him well – and his songwriting has really crystallized. He threw down with four really nicely-realize heart-ache vignettes. Nothing fancy, but nothing at all half-assed either. I could see his roots and he owned them and owned them beautifully. I was frankly really impressed.
Afterwards we went back to the Duck house and played with his dog (Coltrane) and chatted and hung out till fatigue made us its collective bitch. We were staying in the kids rooms so there was an element of whimsy there. Heather stayed in the castle, Kristen and I got the Legos. There’s worse ways to slumber.
Today, after breakfast back at the Joint, we head north and further east to Kristen’s mom’s place up in Glastonbury, CT before heading further up to Massachusetts for a couple of gigs that are frankly going to ROCK. The wind is whipping at us as we arrow down the highway listening to Tool and Bass Box and Ani Difranco and Underfoot and whatever else the iPod poops into our ears. It’s a good day.
