When I told a friend (actually our own moi) that I had just experienced musical transcendence, she asked if I had walked into my bathroom and found Phish playing in the shower. The truth, I told her, is not that far off.
This morning I walked to the CVS drug store and passed, as I always do, this skanky-looking hole-in-the-wall stuck between a dry cleaners and a storefront church, and known (to me) only for high-school punk bands and a talk by Ralph Nader a couple months a go. (I live in Takoma Park–it’s that kind of neighborhood.) As I passed by, I just happened to notice a sandwich advertising a concert. “Solo bass guitar” it says under the guy’s name. “Grammy nominated.” There are some lauditory quotes from various publications.
Now, thanks to Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, I’m familliar with Victor Wooten (who had his own thread here recently), so I know what a solo bass guitar can do. I thought this might be interesting, so I looked a little closer. March 10, 7:30. That’s tonight! I got nothing planned, I think, maybe I’ll check it out.
The guy’s name, by the way, is Michael Manring.
I got there in time to hear about 10 minutes of the opening act, which was pretty good. Only cost $15 to get in. I was sitting in a broken-down couch along the side wall, facing the folks in assorted folding chairs. By that time, I’d forgotten the poster said “solo” and almost wondered if I’d missed it. (The opening act had a bass and a bass-like insturment–see here.) During the break, lots of folks moved around and I lost my seat on the couch. I found one in the second row. When Mr. Manring comes out, he’s close enough to spit–not ten feet from me.
The man is amazing! You know those Victor Wooten tracks where he lays like three or four tracks of himself, so it’s just a torrent of notes? This guy sounds like that. Seriously. His fingers moved so fast, he looked like he was strumming when he plucked. He can make his bass do…things I can’t even describe. He played the last two songs on a “hyper-bass”–a guitar he designed with a friend to give him complete control over the tuning and to change it mid-song or even mid-note.
And the whole time he plays, especially when he’s going all out and the notes and sounds are piling up like snowflakes in a blizzard, and his fingers seem like they’ve detatched from his hands, he’s just standing there with a dopey grin and a laid back look on his face, like he’s goofing around in his garage, like he’s barely trying, just having fun.
And I’m watching him, and he’s so close, and the space is so small, it’s like he’s not even doing a concert, it’s like he’s just playing for me and a bunch of my friends, in my own basement. The whole thing is just blocks from my house, in this tiny venue, and the people I’m with are my neighbors, I’m sure (though I don’t know them). I’ve never felt a more intimate connection with a performer on stage.
After the show, he chatted (well, he listened to me gush), and signed the CD I bought. On my way to the door, I snagged a promotional poster, and he signed that, too, as friendly and easy-going as could be.
I’m still just awed by the whole thing. I thought I was lucky when Richard Thompson played a free show at my tiny little lib arts college in Arkansas. This feels even more amazing.