besides performing for the support group or at the memory center, there are just a few other locations where it makes sense for me to play my music in person.
the vinyl shop a couple of streets over from the apartment is one. I get to play full sets there. the owner is nice. whenever life gets heavy, I go to the record store. this is a place that accepts me with no strings attached. customers are digging in the crates to discover new music, and when I play some of them pause to really listen.
there’s also this comic book store a few subway stops away that has an open mic night. o, and there’s this one bar with a tiny stage, they also have an open mic. I like the way the bartenders there take care of musicians. they refill our water glasses. they clear the empty glasses from the ledge near the mic stands. some will tell the crowd to quiet down and listen when it’s your time up there. they will even remind people between sets to tip.
but the people in the bar aren’t ever really that interested in me. I’m typically drowned out or totally ignored. some people also seem to feel it’s okay to say mean things.
here’s what I’ve learned about live performance so far: it comes with surprises and no guarantees. it’s an entirely different way of being in the world.
it’s like writing in pencil on a small postcard. it’s transient. most people won’t be into you at all and will forget you right away. but a few might remember how you made them feel for weeks or maybe years after. those people are your audience.
there’s some sort of luck involved in playing live, a kind of spirit that informs you and brings something in you to life. it’s hard to place my finger on it; I don’t really want to. but there is that mysterious thing that makes for a pleasant night.
the worst seat in the house belongs to me. I am as a mockingbird on an antenna on the roof of a Brooklyn brownstone. I feel the pain in my fingers, the rawness of making sound. at the same time, it’s the best seat in the house: what I experience is something so unbelievably pure.
it’s difficult for someone who’s lo-fi confession-booth quiet and not a show-biz entertainer — like, at all — to land a live gig.
but when I have that chance, even on nights when I’m playing to practically empty seats, I want to be water and bread for everybody.
cookie nieves 
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