By 9am I had already finished my second cup of coffee, read a few poems, and tried to write a few reasonable lines: something about a Carolina moon, the warmth of late September, drinking wine from mason jars on a wooden porch. The lines went nowhere. I read six or seven poems from my draft folder and was bored with all of them. I could see it might be that type of day.
Prior to the poetry and the attempts at poetry, I was revisiting the concert I went to last night: Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals, Fox Theater in Oakland, went alone. I had an extra ticket, but didn’t feel like inviting anyone, so I sold it for a slight loss. I was thinking about the three or four other times I’ve seen Harper. I looked up some of the old shows to get the chronology correct. The first time might have been in 2017 in Atlantic City also solo, also in late August. I saw him a year later in June in Philadelphia when he was touring with blues legend Charlie Musslewhite. I met two women at the show, we bought each other drinks. I exchanged numbers with one of them, she had just moved back to the area from California, or maybe she was moving out to California – school teacher or counselor or something like that. I don’t think we ever talked again, but might have been Facebook friends. I remember on the drive home, my duck-taped rear bumper came loose. I had gotten hit by a drunk driver a few nights before while driving home from a different show in Philadelphia. In my side mirror, I could see the bumper flapping in the wind. I also remember having a first date in the city later that week and parking near the concert venue because it was one of the few areas where I knew I could find parking. It was ridiculously far from the beer garden where the date was and I showed up slightly sweaty from the brisk walk in the late June heat. I don’t remember if I drove her home or if we walked to my car and she ordered a cab/uber, but I remember telling her about the accident and the concerts and I think she said she liked Ben Harper and would have loved to have gone with me. I saw him again a year later at Parx Casino in Bensalem/Philadephia – again late August. I took my daughter to that show. I remember Trombone Shorty opened and brought more energy than Harper did.
I’m not sure what I’ll remember or associate with last night’s show. I might remember being lucky enough to snag a standing spot against the railing just above the floor (maybe 50 or 100 feet from the stage). I’ll probably remember that the opening act, which included his kids, didn’t do it for me (or for any of the people around me). I remember when he came on, I had a sensation that I have at a lot of shows, which is to say to myself, “this is what life should be about – good soul-fulfilling music.” I remember fighting off the temptation to take videos or pictures in favor of being in the moment. I remember thinking that Harper has a kind, loving, and generous approach to performing, yet also has this strong thread of social justice, protest, and activism that runs through many of his songs. I’ll probably remember the story he told about when he was a little kid riding in the back of one of those late 70s cars where the fabric on the ceiling would peel and snow on them when they hit bumps. His dad had turned down an ally and another car was coming in the other direction. Neither of them would budge, and they inched passed each other. The man in the other car called them every kind of racial slur and when he was done, Harper’s father calmly said, “I hope you don’t take that attitude to your grave.” – which later became a song for Harper. Years from now, I’ll probably have to look up the date and the set list or this blog post to recall some of the details.
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It’s later now and I’m waiting for the sun to break through the August gray. No sooner do I write that, the sun makes a momentary appearance. I’m thinking about lunch and some more coffee. I have some “I shoulds” lined up for the day and am already cancelling a few of them: exercise, groceries, maybe a load of laundry. The “I wants” include sitting somewhere and trying this reading/writing poetry thing again – maybe I’ll grab a beer and sit in the ally outside of City Lights. I’d like to get a new notebook and maybe get back to writing by hand a bit more. The “I wants” will almost certainly win out.