The Long Line at the Bar

Oh that bleedin’ line to get in the bar.

It must mean the bar is popular, a good drinking hole to share a drink called loneliness. Easiest point of entry. You walk through a door or two and get hit in the face with all that sour tang of beer, sweetness of wine and medicinal aroma of whiskey. Or maybe it’s a dive and it’s just buckets of stale ale. Either way, it’s a place that you’re trying to get into if you can just get past the bantering line of people in front of you.

So what’s the hold up? And who the hell is that bumping against my leg?

I’m humbly sorry good maiden. That’s a microphone stand milady, nothing more, and I’d not meant it to bother up your fine personage out in the open. Still, I do need to get past your fair grace, for you see the band must get their equipment through the door and setup post-haste.

The place where live music once flourished and musicians wrestled to get through the line of people was the Flying Saucer Draught Emporium in Nashville, Tennessee. Those Saturdays there were most memorable, where you’d find a long line outside filled with first-time anxious drinkers, listless tourists and old regulars waiting to go inside as dusk set in. There past the double doors amidst the curiously placed foliage, artful chalkboards and cigarette machine was the door guy who waited patiently for you to fish out your ID and door money to get in.

This particular door guy was a crafty fellow. For at some visits you’d see him scanning your ID with a vigilant eye, the gatekeeper to this particular realm. Other times, he’d be helming the main bar with a friendly smirk and expectant eye. Sometimes you’d see him with a content face as he tirelessly worked the grounds. The best times I remember were when he’d sit in with the house band, ripping the guitar and singing to his heart’s content.

His heart.

The first time I met Alan Hall, I had no clue he lived with another person’s heart beating inside of him. I only knew him as that door guy. He would walk up to you, an approachable man with a kind face, boyish almost, and speak in a pleasant, intelligent voice. Then as the conversation continued, he’d throw in a silly jape that would set you into startlingly fits of laughter. Most surprising about Alan was discovering his virtuosic music ability. Why so? Because if you were that good, why would you be hidden from the world? Such is the lament song of many struggling musicians, perhaps.

I should have known he was kindred, a gifted musician that listened to the house band more often than naught – not so much as to criticize, but to revel with like-minded souls. I had the routine down with Alan whenever I played the Saucer. I’d point at him during a music set as he strode by toting empty bottles and spent pilsner glasses. He’d nod, his Beatlesque hair waving to-and-fro, and jump up on stage to relieve me of my duties as I relieved him of his (unless his manager protested on those rare occasions). What followed were usually impromptu moments of Georgia Satellites, Rush and smokin’ SRV: all of it unrehearsed, raw and completely brilliant. Those moments were rarely recorded, but all too well remembered, even in the haze of alcohol-drenched recollection. Alan played like a pro should, took every song in full stride and pounded through on gear foreign to him with ease.

After it was over, he would exit the stage to applause, especially from his co-workers and beer goddesses, and he would part with a smile and a nod of thanks toward the band. We’ll do it again, that nod would say. That happened pretty much every gig Alan played with me at the Flying Saucer.

Life is fleeting.

Alan passed away on Tuesday, November 4, 2014, his love of life incapable of being bounded within his failing heart. I only knew him through those carved bits of time playing out at the Flying Saucer, and even in those small moments I understood Alan was a special spirit full of many hats from scholar to warrior, none of it truly defining him in one term. He wasn’t just the door guy. He was a good man. A good man of many talents. And he was a good friend.

The line is long for many, the wait even longer. Sometimes you can cut through, the door guy giving you a wink. Eventually, we’ll all get through sooner or later.

Rest in peace, Alan.

Donations and condolences can be made to Alan Stuart Hall’s family at:


Listen to the words, man!

  “You got to hear this one song. It will change your life.”

That song by The Shins didn’t change my life upon my first listen, but it did remind me of a terrible thing that I do often when listening to tunes: ignoring the lyrics. My loss. That’s the problem with music. All that melody and beat. Who has time to dissect all that chatter? Save that for the insert, right?

Of course I deserve a slap on the wrist (or face if it bothers you that much) for not knowing the words or meaning to your favorite song, but go easy on me. I was nearly reprimanded once by a drunk audience after a live performance for not knowing all of Wobble Baby Wobble. I shouldn’t get off too easy, though. Right now there are sickly songwriters out there about to go insane trying to string two words together just for your listening pleasure. Plus, I am sadly out-spitted by my fellow musicians that can rap Snoop or Sugar Hill Gang on a whim, whereas I would be lost without that karaoke screen and liquid courage.

I do have an excuse, though, and it goes much deeper than just ignoring lyrics. For example, in opera a ’la a cappella where you’re left with no choice but to hear only the singer’s words, one can still get lost in melody alone. You don’t even need to know the language. Ellis “Red” Redding didn’t know what those Italian women were singing in the movie The Shawshank Redemption, and he didn’t want to. He just wanted to prolong that feeling of being set free by the sound of their soaring voices.

It’s the constant battle of music and words. On that initial spin, one wins (or loses) you over the other, and finding that balance between melody and lyrics is the songwriter’s perilous fight.

Wait just a damned minute, you say. It depends on what type of music you’re listening to.

True that. An instrumental is an instrumental is an instrumental. No lyrical deciphering necessary for pieces like Breezin’ or YYZ, unless you do hear subliminal messages in the background, which is another unsettling topic I’ll skirt here. While lyric attentiveness depends on the song, it also depends on the listener.

Listening to music can be like consuming food. I cannot tell you how to taste a choice piece no more than you can tell me. We may agree on the sweetness of sugar and sourness of lemons, but our chewing methods differ (pray you don’t have mine). So too does our approach to listening to music.

If you do hear music like I do, you first listen to the tonal content (if any), the percussiveness (if any), and then the chord changes (please if any). Basically, you listen to all the elements that make up the music. It doesn’t require a degree in music theory or years of listening academically. It may not even be possible or ideal to teach someone to listen this way. It’s more like making one aware to listen in this fashion.

It’s a simple process. Hear the music, the high and low. Hear the way it changes. Hear the melody. Hear how it fits against the changes. If you like it all, hear it again. Notice there is no hint of giving heed to lyrics yet. I’ve listened to music this way since the days I’ve first heard Freddy Fender as a child.

If you listen this way, you may have what is a called a “good ear.” You can pick up a tune fairly quick, imprint it in your mind and hum it back. This is regardless of whether or not you sing or play an instrument; although, this way of listening has saved me a number times on last minute song requests as a musician.

By no means should you feel superior to someone who does not listen to music this way. As keen and adept as your ear is, you are only listening to half of the story if you disregard the lyrics. You are not seeing all of Monet’s colors. Also, this type of listening is not applicable to all types of music; didgeridoo players need not feel threatened here.

I envy those, lyric-centered or not, that can hear a song in a pass or two and take lyrical meaning. My wife is still in awe whenever I stand ignorant to song lyrics I’ve heard a million times on the radio and have no clue about. It can also be hazardous to young ears when parents don’t pay attention to the occasional explicit word in that otherwise harmless pop song, as I’ve found out the hard way. First-graders will know all of George Carlin’s list of words you can’t say on television before you know it.

When you do finally pay attention to words of familiar songs, the payoff can sometimes be so profound that you have to stop whatever you’re doing and relish the mind-blowing or heart-wrenching experience. Things happen like The Flaming Lips having you realize that the sun isn’t really going down, Xavier and Ophelia inviting you out for fun at Chateau Marmont, or that The La’s were singing about heroin all this time, to list a few.

If you can listen and dig the words right off the bat, you’re on a better plane of existence.

 Keep listening. I’ll try to do the same.