Two A.M., Under the Overpass
This is the story of a moment. A point in time that all
these years later I can tell you where I was, how I came to
be there, what happened, and why nearly forty years later it
still echoes. A moment which occupies a point in my life
that is in between "before" and "after." Everything changed,
is what I am saying.
I was in my fifth or sixth year of learning to play the
fiddle. I had started going to these week long music camps
I have mentioned in other articles. They are places where
one can learn a lot in a short time by immersion - Berlitz
fiddling, you could call it - and then come home and practice
to digest it. Frequently a one-week experience would give me
several months' worth of material to process.
I found out that one of my absolute idols was going to be
teaching at this place the week of New Year's Day. Plans were
made. I had to drive through the mountains in a snowstorm
to get there.
When I got there I found out that everyone else seemed to be
looking for the same intense experience as I was. The first
night everyone was up into the wee hours, playing music and
looking forward to days of instruction and nights of blowing
off steam.
You can imagine what a person would be like after three or
four days of that. If, for some reason, you can't: tired.
Deeply, profoundly tired. Knackered. Spent. Exhausted. Wiped.
Running on fumes.
Our fiddle guru (I'll have a later article with more details
about this person) had given us a lot to think about already.
My brain was starting to fill up with new stuff.
And so it was that on the third day of classes we came back
to our room after lunch and he sat down. He did not even take
off his jacket, just started talking. For over an hour he
waxed rhapsodic about the life of a fiddle player. About how
he'd come up through the ranks, about things that motivate
him and keep him going. Deeply personal stuff, spiritual at
times, all of it. It was someone talking, at length, about
the very thing they'd devoted their life to. And I was hanging
onto every word.
After an hour or so of this he realized he needed to get back
to something we can actually work on in our own playing. He
opened the floor for questions and the first question was...
I know what people mean when they say "there are no stupid
questions," but this one pushed the boundaries. And I got
the giggles. Could not stop. I think I left the room for
a minute. I know I curled up on the floor for some period of
time (I was in between pews in the chapel, and it was carpeted,
thanks for asking). I think the record will show that I didn't
make enough noise to cause a distraction to the other less
hysterical students. I think.
And for the rest of the day I felt like I had been knocked
off a horse. All that momentum I had developed in the first
couple of days was gone. This exposure to a lot of new
information combined with three nights of hardly any sleep
was a real one-two knockout. The silly (to me) non-sequitur
question had been the last straw. I think when marathon
runners talk about "hitting the wall" this must be what they
mean.
I went to a quiet room to just go over some of the things
we had done in class and found that I couldn't play. Literally.
I was scared my brain was broken.
I took a walk. By the end of supper I felt better. After the
evening program - I don't even recall what it was - people
were starting to play tunes, again, and there was talk of
going to a bar in town for a change of scenery.
Directions to the bar were simple: "It's under the overpass."
People started leaving. Whatever was about to happen under
the overpass, it was going to be well attended. I watched
until almost everyone else was gone. I was still kind of
reeling from whatever-that-was earlier in the day and, frankly,
I was not sure that I needed to go into a chaotic environment.
Then I pivoted to "No one is going to drag me down there. I
can go or not go, but I will not know what I'm missing..."
I think the kids today call that "FOMO" ("fear of missing
out") It was nearly midnight. Just the beginning of prime
time for this crowd. I found my way to the bar. Still unsure
as to how I got there. I kind of hope I did not drive. But
I think I did.
A few minutes later I was ensconced in the middle of a crowded
bar with a boisterous music session going full tilt. These
music sessions have a life of their own and it is possible
just to allow yourself to be pulled along by the current like
a piece of flotsam. After an afternoon of worrying that my
brain was broken it was liberating to engage in an activity
that was driven more by instinct and habit than by intellect.
The tunes people were playing were all in my repertoire, so
I had no difficulties there. I found that my playing was
different, somehow. After that whatever-it-was that had
plagued me all afternoon I felt that I was ... I don't even
know the right words. I felt more on top of things than I
had been as recently as the night before, when my brain was
unbroken.
There had been big, boisterous sessions much like this one
every night. The only difference on this night was that we
were in a bar. Under the overpass. And I had spent the
afternoon in a fetal ball on the floor of the chapel. Now,
everything felt different all of a sudden. I think all that
stuff which I had been cramming into my brain all week was
starting to solidify into something useful.
Somewhere along the way, the teacher/guru had made his way
into the thick of things and was right next to me. By this
point in the week he and I had had a few conversations and
we had been in these nightly music sessions for countless
hours. What I did not know was that he had been reading me
like a book.
In the middle of one of the tune sets he called for a tune
that he and I had talked about, one that I was finding to be
a challenge. I think he had spent some class time on this
tune as well. I had come to believe that this tune held the
secret and that if I came to an understanding of this tune, my
playing would go to the next level as a result. I believe it
was around two A.M. when this happened. And I am very sure
that he called that tune for my benefit. It was no coincidence.
We launched into that tune and it was as if the universe
shifted somehow, in that instant. I felt like everything was
suddenly different. I felt like I was suddenly different.
The music session must have come to an end but I do not recall
many details. We must have all filed out of the bar. It was
probably getting light out by then. Pretty sure I made it to
breakfast - I never miss breakfast at these things. There
were two more class days, I think. Those last days are a
blur.
I do remember the drive home. The long, tortuous drive home.
Snow from the previous weekend's storm was mostly gone but
this time I was facing a different challenge.
I had not slept all week. Seriously. As I was driving I
recalled each night and added up the number of hours I was
actually asleep. It barely added up to one night's worth. At
one point I stopped at a rest area and ran up and down the
steps a few times to boost my circulation and stay awake.
That got me through the last hour or so and I arrived home
safe and sound.
And when I got home I went to work. I began practicing about
3 or 4 hours a day, every day, sometimes more. I kept that
up through the end of May. It took that much work to digest
those things that had come together for me in that lightning
strike at two A.M., under the overpass.
I have never had an experience quite like that one, before
or since. Tell you the truth, I am not sure I could survive
another.
True story.
Here is Irish fiddle legend Michael Coleman.
The last minute or so of this recording is the tune I am talking about.