The Terminal Tavern
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By David Wilcox
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Ah, what a beautiful place.
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It is so lush and quiet in these walls.
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It’s a place where the sound really stands a chance of finding its way.
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And I’m grateful ‘cause, man, there are a lot of gigs that’s just really hard.
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The sound doesn’t stand a chance.
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A lot of times there’s a gig that’s between somewhere and somewhere else.
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You really wouldn’t go there to play it, but the booking agent says “Well you’re on your way. Why don’t you stop and play, you know, the Terminal Tavern.”
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As my friend Gamble would say, “What a skull orchard.”
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I mean imagine straining good, fine art sensibility through that veil of chicken wire.
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It’s the kind of place where you gaze about you at those walls of pecky Cyprus and pine wood adorned with frontier memorabilia and mint-condition tire tool sets.
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And the ceiling under slung with fish net encrusted with detritus and streaming down through the steaming midnight air, a million shattered dreams that dangle like declensions of despair.
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And the daily drunks just line the walls like lemmings in repose.
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The festering booze assaulting their entrails, like time-release suicide.
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They’re stuck to that sticky floor and they’re not moving.
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And you think, “What do they need?”
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Well, I don’t have that.
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What have I got?
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I’ve got an acoustic guitar, it’s not enough.
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I’ve got words.
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I wonder if they stand a chance to be heard.
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Maybe music doesn’t stand a chance.
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I mean, I can make sound.
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I have vocal chords.
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I have strings.
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I can make sound.
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Who needs sound?
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We need music and music is much bigger than that.
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Music is timing with a capital “T.”
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Music is hearing a song that sounds like your song, ‘cause it’s just what you’ve been dreaming of or thinking of, or praying for.
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Suddenly it’s speaking right to you.
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And sure, there’re all these other people here but they’re just superfluous.
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It’s your song and it was meant just for you.
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It hits home and it’s real, ‘cause it’s coming from some place much bigger.
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But in that place you look around and you think, “Oh man there’s no chance for this to happen. There’re so many distractions.”
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There’s always distractions.
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All you can do is send it out.
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I think Sting’s analogy of songs is a great one saying, “It’s a message in a bottle.”
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You take all your best hopes and dreams and send it out in a bottle.
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Toss it in the ocean.
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Whoever gets it and when they get it, well it has more to do with the ocean than it has to do with you.
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That’s good, the ocean can be trusted, if the timing is right.
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Send it out as best you can.
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The Terminal Tavern
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| David Wilcox |
