Ex Parte

In 1999, the Internet, indie music, and craft beer were all fresh. And they all came together at the cd release party for Paisley and Plaid’s debut cd, Boundaries. VIP tickets were sold for the big night at a new brewpub on the Near North Side. For $75 a head, patrons got a reserved table, free appetizer buffet, draft specials, a copy of the CD, and a poster signed by future rockstar Charlie Bock.

The reserved area held a really long table that seated the musicians and their families and closest friends, including Charlie’s mom, some of her oldest friends, and Bertie.

Old friends and various love interests shared the room with Charlie’s stepdaughter, some former colleagues, and folks from the new girlfriend’s church. To keep it interesting, Charlie’s mom’s former boss had recently been tracked down by the 18-year old daughter she’d given up for adoption. When the new daughter announced she was gay, Charlie’s mom suggested she bring the kid along. Charlie would be deflecting the starstruck newbie for the next year. 

Hank had engineered the record and was now running sound and lights.  A year ago, he’d let Charlie move in when she was getting out of her marriage. Charlie had begun to date Hank’s ex shortly after helping to move her out of Hank’s. 

Charlie had tapped a college friend to open the show. When he sang with his wife she couldn’t get enough of it. This particular iteration - Redhanded - was the best so far. Their bass player, Sick Melon, was in Charlie’s band as well.

Since she’d started playing the guitar around 11, Charlie had loved singing and playing. She and her friend Bonnie had sung together throughout high school; they’d gotten together a short set list of pretty good songs. Charlie’s senior year in high school, Bertie had asked Charlie and Bonnie to be the entertainment at a professional meeting she was hosting; they made $15. Charlie’s mom told her later that Bertie had been quite impressed; she said she’d expected Charlie’s lyrics to be excellent, but was pleased to discover she had musical talent as well. 

At the university, Bonnie found Stu, a far better guitar player than Charlie. They’d procreated and divorced by the time Charlie started working on Boundaries. Both Stu and Bonnie agreed to work on the album and do the cd release show, but then Charlie would need to put together a new band moving forward. Bonnie’s new girlfriend had signed on to take photos.

Charlie was a bundle of nerves, of course, but her band was full of top-notch experienced players, and a room full of awesome people who paid to celebrate her accomplishment felt a lot like love. 

Somewhere during Redhanded’s second or third number, Charlie was watching from the back of the VIP section, enthralled as usual, if a little distracted by her upcoming performance. A hand grabbed her left arm, and Bertie, seated near the head of Charlie’s mom’s table, pointed at the stage excitedly. “These guys are great! Can you follow that??!”

Charlie stepped back, went for lighthearted. “Well, we’ll find out.”

After following that, Charlie played every chance she got, mostly solo. In addition to folk venues and tavern open mics, she had “women’s music” as an option (one of the few industries in which looking like a lesbian was a plus). It turned out Bonnie’s future wife was the Head Lesbian at the university so she got a great spot in their big Pride thingie. Obviously the holy grail in women’s music at the time was Michigan, but the Mountain Moving Coffeehouse in Chicago was a definite capfeather. She’d been hearing about it since she was a teenager, first from Bertie, then from everyone.

A couple years later, it seemed natural that Bertie would be excited about Charlie’s finally playing the MMC, and she was. She even made the drive down on the appointed night, though not without making sure that Charlie knew it was a Big Thing, and she was Not Young.

Charlie had made sure to explain that it was a variety show, and that the order of the acts - of which Charlie was only one of twenty - had not been announced.

When Bertie arrived, Charlie met her at the door. She let her know she still didn’t know what time she was going on. She filled her in on the available refreshments, restroom locations, what she knew about some of the other acts. She let Bertie choose the area she wanted to sit. The space was an old church, so there were wooden pews. Super attractive, affordable and uncomfortable idea, courtesy of the ancestors.

The organizers were not very, and Charlie was not a priority. Bertie grew progressively more fidgety, looking over her shoulder at the sound booth, making her scrunched-up forehead unhappy face every time they called a new name that wasn’t Charlie. 

“You should go ask them,” she urged. Charlie wished for a volume button. “Don’t you have a right to know? Don’t they know people come to see people they like?”

Charlie had already talked to the producer and knew when to check back. “I will when it’s time,” she assured her. Bertie shook her head unhappily. 

”I don’t know how late I can stay, though.” 

Finally, around 10:30, she made her apologies and left. Charlie didn’t play till nearly midnight; the handful of folks who made it that far were happy enough. 

Over the next few years, Charlie got away from women’s music, put together a more rock-oriented trio, did some regional touring and recorded another full-length cd. Not really enjoying bars, night, or rock and roll, Bertie didn’t see Charlie perform again till 2003. 

The band had broken up, Charlie’s mom had died, and Charlie was playing a lot of underground political and guerilla arts-type events: fashionable for the time, but no one ever seemed to get paid. Charlie had promised to let Bertie know if a gig matching Bertie’s specifications popped up, and a north side arts festival eventually checked enough boxes. There were three other artists on the program which started in the late afternoon and would run like a song swap. They had just started the sound check when she heard Bertie’s familiar boom in the foyer.

”Parking is awful! I thought we’d never find a place.” She and her wife came through the door then, Bertie still talking about parking. Charlie couldn’t remember Meryl ever having come to a show before. Charlie had known her since she was nine or so; Meryl had used her for a guinea pig when she was designing cognitive and psychological testing protocols for her doctorate. She’d hung out with Meryl’s kids back when kids did that. 

Bertie now addressed Charlie, who was seated on the stage in front of a microphone. “Where did you park?” 

“I didn’t drive.”

“Is it starting? Where should we sit? Are you ready? Do you know what you’re going to play?”

“We’re doing a sound check right now,” said Charlie, embarrassed. She did not know a person might just start talking to someone on a stage, seated, near others, even if that person seemed unaware of those other people. They took their seats as the sound engineer asked Charlie for a guitar check. She strummed a chord much like one from her opening number.

Bertie’s hands flew to her ears and she bellowed: “Loud! It’s too loud!” 

Since childhood, Charlie had been schooled in the customs and rules for comportment in a performance environment. By junior high she knew visible cringing was a sign of weakness. Once, when the band had been in NYC,  the sound guy and a guitarist from another band got in a shouting and pushing argument right in front of the stage during a song. Another time, she’d played solo with the home team in the World Series on the screen above her head, pretending that it made sense when the audience cheered in the middle of the second verse. Deep breaths help.

When the sound check was over, everyone went to stretch their legs or smoke a joint or whatever before the show started. Bertie tried to call her over. She waved and said she had something she needed to do before the show started. Bertie insisted “it’s so loud - can’t you tell them to turn it down?” 

“I’m not in charge of the sound, Bertie; it just isn’t up to me how loud it is.”

”What do you mean it isn’t up to you? Isn’t it your show?”

”Not really. Excuse me, I’ve gotta pee.”

In the back hallway, she ran into Edie Ray, a performer she’d shared stages with for years.

”Looks like you’ve got yourself a heckler,” Edie said, laughing. “Family?”

Charlie sighed, hoping it would start to feel funnier.

”Therapist.”