Honey Brown Blues

On Friday, I made my way over to my local coffee shop for my usual weekday ritual, which involves ordering a large cup of coffee, doing a little bit of writing, and then spending the remainder of my time reading. Once the coffee is finished, I head on home. Sometimes, if I’m feeling risky, I get a refill before leaving. The coffee in this place is fairly strong – after a second large cup, I swear I can run through a fucking wall.

As always, the coffee shop was fairly full. Like every other coffee shop in town, it’s not large enough for the crowd that it attracts. The problem, of course, is that if they were to expand and make room for all, then the place would lose its quaintness, which is what keeps us coming here to spend exorbitant amounts on coffee when we could be making the same stuff at home for pennies. It’s not too bad this time of year, when the weather is nice enough to permit seating on the four tables they keep outside. On some winter days, though, it can be difficult to find a seat, especially when the Vanderbilt kids need a place to study.

Because of the nature of the town and the nature of its location, this particular coffee shop is regularly patronized by various singer-songwriters. Some are relatively well known around town, some happen to work there, and some (*cough, cough*) toil in anonymity. If you were to eavesdrop on conversations here, you would pick up plenty of chatter about music: talk of studio sessions, upcoming shows, and whatnot. Usually, this talk is restrained to the tables and booths in which these folks happen to be sitting. No one is conversing about this to brag – they’re talking about this because it’s what they love. For the lucky few, its their career. The only time that I’ve noticed people bragging about their musical achievements is when they’re talking about touring Europe. People here seem to speak extra loudly when they’re talking about touring Europe. It’s exotic, ya know?

Unlike other coffee shops, this place doesn’t book any shows. I like it that way. No one has to worry about coming here to study, then having some dolt show up and start playing Radiohead covers. There’s no fear that a writer’s night – which, in case you’re unfamiliar with them, are worse than death – is gonna start when you’re reading the last amazing chapter of a new book by your favorite author. There’s plenty of talk about music, but the only music you end up hearing is whatever tunes are coming out of the barista’s laptop at a low, innocuous volume.

But this is Nashville. And in Nashville, you’re never totally safe from some prick with a guitar.

On this particular Friday afternoon, I think there were at least 5 singer-songwriters in the shop, all minding their own business as usual. On a booth in the back, though, there were 3 people talking about music. One guy was more animated than the others. I was sitting across from them, busy writing some rambly story about my bicycle (deep!), when I heard the animated guy say, “hold on”. He left, then came back with a guitar case.

The collective thought amongst those in the coffe shop was as follows:

“He’s not, is he?

He wouldn’t.

Oh God, he is.”

He opened the guitar case, took out his guitar, started strumming hard, and began singing at the top of his lungs. Sensitively, of course, as is the singer-songwriter’s wont. And with just enough of a twang to make sure that everyone knew that his little tune could also be recorded as a country song.

Again, this place has some seats outside. And the weather was nice. He could have done his performance out there and no one would have cared too much. But no – he believed that his song was so good that he didn’t need permission to play it as loud as possible. He thought we would cheer once the song was over, egg him on to play some more, offer to buy his CD’s, and – if he didn’t have a CD – offer to pay for studio time so that he could make a CD, then we could buy it, and finally – FINALLY! – have the privilege to listen to his majestic tune over and over again, in the comfort of our homes, where we could lose ourselves in the orgasmic glory of his voice and his music.

He thought wrong.

I poked my head up from my notebook and its interrupted bicycle story. Everyone I looked at had the same look of horror. We were all jolted from our work by the bland warbles of this fucker. No one was happy but no one seemed to know what to do. We were too shocked by the brazenness of the act. Either that, or we were too pissed and afraid of what fantastic bit of violence we’d do if we were to react. I think most people were the former. I was definitely the latter.

I caught the eye of the barista, a wonderfully nice guy (also a singer-songwriter) who did not deserve to have this happen on his shift. He looked as shocked as everyone else – didn’t know how to make the guy stop. As the song kept going and going, I looked at the barista and did the only non-violent thing I could think of doing: I formed my left hand into the shape of a gun and pretended to blow my head off. This seemed to spur him to take action: he nodded his approval, then walked over to the guy and told him to stop.

It was over. Our torment finally ceased. Though only a few minutes had passed, we had suffered greatly. It would take some time, and tears would be shed, but we could once again get back to whatever-it-was that we were doing before being so cruelly interrupted. I could resume my bicycle story, which wasn’t great to begin with (at least, not great enough to recite loudly without permission), but was good enough to warrant further attention.

But I couldn’t continue. I was still confused, angry, and – yes – a little scared that it could happen again. My bicycle story lay there in front of my eyes – wounded, incomplete. At the booth across from me sat the thief of my concentration. There was no doubt in my mind that – in his version of this story – he would tell his friends about the time he played a song unannounced at a coffee shop and won everybody over.

What a piece of shit.