Every Wednesday Night at Modern Dave’s

I wrote the following almost ten years ago. Since then, things have changed. Dave’s Modern Tavern burned down a few years ago, but new ownership had made it a less hospitable place even before that happened. The art gallery Graffiti is also gone. Still, there was a time when they were special places, and what follows is a hymn to what they meant. The text has been slightly edited and updated.

“Come sit in with me, Fiddle Player,” says the singer as she takes a pull on a beer bottle.

A tall young man with a short-cropped sandy beard turns his attention from the blonde in the loose-fitting green dress to the woman on stage who has just finished the first song of her set. She tried to get his attention before she went on, but that time, the charms of the blonde won out. This time, he ambles over with his instrument and begins a quick tuning.

“Fiddle Player? You don’t know my name, do you?” he asks.

“Didn’t catch it. Guess it’s like ‘Piano Man’, only you’re ‘Fiddle Player’.”

She tells him she’s going to cover Springsteen’s ‘Main Street,’ which he acknowledges with a simple nod. As she starts singing, he begins playing quietly, ambiguously, letting her set things up. She does the song more slowly and melodically than Springsteen. The approach works. She’s a decent guitar player, and her voice is pleasant and strong, low in register, rough enough to work with the lyrics. Soon, the fiddle player takes a more prominent role, still backing her rather than taking over the song. The violin contrasts nicely with her voice. Both musicians seem pleased with the result, and the applause is genuine. They do another song before the singer returns to her seat, and ‘Fiddle Player’ returns to his blonde. A heavy-set man wearing shorts and a ball cap tucked tight on his head takes her place. He begins an indifferent song he’s written. A fresh beer arrives at my table. Later, a poet reads his work accompanied by a guy on a bongo drum.

In a world given to passive entertainment, the people who take turns at Modern Dave’s mike are heroes.

Wednesday is open mike night at Dave’s Modern Tavern, or Modern Dave’s as the locals call it. I don’t know where the ‘modern’ part came from. There is an atomic symbol on the sign outside, the one with electrons whizzing around a nucleus, that was common in the 1950s. I’ve never asked Dave about any of these things.

In the front is a proper restaurant, and in the back is a bar with an open deck. Something approaching 100 kinds of beer are available if you’re feeling adventurous, and Modern Dave’s serves a good burger. The place is a perfect spot for an open-mike night.

So what does all this have to do with art? Quite a lot, actually.

In a world given to passive entertainment, the people who take turns at Modern Dave’s mike are heroes. They are there to perform, to share themselves with others, to try—either with newly written material or with new interpretations of others’ work—to offer both entertainment and insights into our common life. They play for the love of their art. No one is waiting for a famous Nashville producer to walk through the door. They pay for their drinks.

Graffiti, a gallery where I show my artwork, has a reception on the first Friday of the month. Naturally, there is always new art on display. Just as important, performers from the theater group Wide Open Floor come to entertain before they perform at Barking Legs Theater. We’ve had belly dancers, poets, singer/ songwriters, and modern interpretive dancers, to name but a few. Some are brilliant, and some need work. I love them all.

Thanks to photographic reproduction and audio recording, the excellent has become the enemy of the good. The talented amateur is seen less and less frequently as audiences flock to the highly touted few. A hundred years ago, it was common for young women to learn to paint in watercolor, and many developed a high level of skill. Children were expected to learn a musical instrument. From an early age, people with varying musical abilities entertained friends and neighbors.

Today, we play the stereo as our instrument of choice. I’m as guilty of that as anyone, and I wouldn’t like to give up my sound system to make a point. Still, too many of us are passive watchers and listeners. The notion has crept into our lives that only the truly excellent have anything to say. Why compose music if you aren’t Mozart? Why bother to paint if you’re not Monet? Why write books if you’re not Mann or Melville?.

It’s not easy to become proficient at an art form. Self-doubt runs rampant, and there will always be someone who is, or was, superlative, Someone whose work utterly dwarfs one’s own. I will never have the facility as a painter that John Singer Sargent possessed, nor Rembrandt’s depth of soul. My first novel, An Uncertain Peace, has been well-received, and I’m proud of that. But I don’t have to look far to find wordsmiths whose skill I envy. It begs the question: given the achievements of the past and present, why even try?

I believe the answer lies at Modern Dave’s and with the performers at Wide Open Floor. It lies with the unsung heroes of creativity everywhere. When people engage in the creative arts, whether as musicians, artists, or writers, they change as human beings; they think about things differently and with a different perspective. I vividly remember the people and places I sketch and paint. Writing has led me to analyze and think hard about my fellow human beings. It is easy to look at the world and see nothing, but art does not allow that.

Furthermore, art, in any form, is social in nature. It requires a performer and an audience, even if that audience is tiny. When we reach out to others and ask them to share our questions and perspectives, we deepen our relationships. With good timing and a little luck, we might change, challenge, or deepen how our viewers and listeners see the world—if only just a little. Every honest, heartfelt creative act is fraught with possibility. Every honest statement has its own power, however imperfect it may seem to its creator.

In the words of Leonard Cohen,

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack in everything.

That’s how the light gets in….