Brazil

Listen, kid, we're all in it together.

A few weeks ago, I received a letter from my bank which began, "We've been listening to you." The letter went on to tell me that henceforth, I would be subject to a monthly service charge of 15 dollars on my checking account.

I'm pretty sure I never said I wanted that.

I went in to the bank the next day to tell them that they needed to work on their listening skills. They thought that was pretty hilarious. I spoke to a Personal Banker about my situation. She told me that to get rid of the service charge, I would need to switch to a more basic type of account. But when she tried to change my account, she was unable to do so -- The System wouldn't let her. She spoke to the Bank Manager, but the Bank Manager was powerless to intervene on my behalf. The System had spoken.

The only option available was to close my old account and open a new one. Easy Peasy, right? But, before I could close the account, it had to have a zero balance. That meant no outstanding checks or holds or payments pending. Thus spake The System. It being the beginning of the month, I had just written a rent check. So I would have to wait for that to clear. Plus I have several recurring automated payments tied to the account, including a couple on PayPal. And not all of them conveniently take place at the first of the month. So I had to find a time when all my payments had cycled through The System, and then quickly pounce.

Meanwhile, I signed a bunch of forms so that my Personal Banker could set up the new account in readiness for the Big Switcheroo. Then I waited.

But I did not wait idly. Each day I went online to check the status of my old account: rent check - cleared, Visa card - cleared, PayPal - cleared. So far so good. Just for kicks, I checked the new account as well. There I found a negative balance of 59 dollars: 19 bucks for new checks and a 40 dollar overdraft fee.

What the...?

I went down to the bank and spoke to my Personal Banker. She told me that The System had automatically charged me for the new checks, even though it shouldn't have. Then it hit me with the overdraft fee just for good measure. She graciously removed the charge and the overdraft fee and apologized for The System's overly zealous actions.

I told her that the time had come for El Switcherino. Close my old account and transfer my money to the new one. The window is open. The time is ripe. All ashore that's going ashore. Etc., etc.

But wait... What's this? The System says I have an outstanding hold on the account and it cannot be closed. I asked my Personal Banker what the hold was for. She said she did not know. I asked her who would know. She said that only I would know. "How would I know?" I asked. She said that I would know because I was the one who had made the transaction. But I pointed out that all of my transactions were accounted for. There was nothing outstanding. Please close the account now. She shook her head sadly. The System will not allow it.

At this point I was becoming a little agitated. Also, I was late for work. My Personal Banker seemed to sense my mood and suggested that I come back on Monday to close the account. With any luck the missing hold will have cleared by then. Instead of leaping across the desk and strangling her with my bare hands, I suggested that she figure out exactly what the hold is for, leave that amount in the old account and transfer the rest to the new account. Then, when the hold clears and the balance zeroes out, close the old account.

My Personal Banker agreed with my plan and promised to call me with an update. I went into work, where I spent most of the morning obsessively monitoring my account status online. I saw that most of my money had been debited from my old account, except for about 12 dollars to cover some Thai food I had picked up the night before. This transaction had already appeared on my old account, but for some reason was still on hold. What I did not see was any money whatsoever having been transferred into my new account. I called my Personal Banker and politely inquired: "Where the hell is my goddamn money?" She became quite flustered and promised to call me back right away. A few minutes later, she called and assured my that my money was being transferred into the new account right away and that as soon as the hold cleared, the old account would be closed.

Of course she was lying.

I spent the weekend trying to switch my automated payments to the new account, only to find out that I had to wait for the next billing cycle to do so. In the meantime I had to schedule one-time transfers to keep from missing my payments. The System, you see. At one point, I checked my old account and discovered that the hold had cleared, but there was now an overdraft on the account in the amount of the tip I'd left at the Thai restaurant. I called the bank's 800 number and transferred that same amount back into the account, so that come Monday morning, it would zero out and my Personal Banker could close it down. Be done with it. Once and for all. And good riddance, I say.

But that, as I'm sure you have now guessed, never happened.

I did not get a call from my Personal Banker on Monday. I did not hear from her at all. I received my statement in the mail and saw that I still had a positive balance on my old account to the tune of Three Cents.  Three measly cents. Interest. Automatically credited to me by: The System. All-knowing. All-wise. All-getting-on-my-very-last-nerve.

Once more unto the breach...

I go to the bank. I show my Personal Banker my statement. She tells me that I can't close the account if there's still money in it. I tell her that I know that. Fix it. I do not slap her with the back of my hand. She promises to take care of everything. I give her my paycheck to deposit, and I leave. Later at work I check my status and I see that the three cents was transferred and the old account is finally, mercifully closed.

What I don't see is a credit to my new account in the amount of my paycheck...

The Last Waltz

One summer, when I was home from college, I went to the Alpha 3 Theater, where I used to work, to see a concert movie called The Last Waltz. Directed by Martin Scorsese, The Last Waltz documented the farewell performance by The Band at the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco. At the time, I knew very little about The Band. But by the time the credits rolled, I was a big fan. I went back and saw the movie several times, soaking in every detail, memorizing every moment, savoring every note.

Although I didn't know much about The Band, I certainly recognized the guest performers who appeared with them in the film: Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Eric Clapton, Van Morrison, Muddy Waters, Neil Diamond and others. But even among such stellar company, The Band stood out. They were five very different personalities who came together onstage to create some of the most interesting and influential music during one of the most interesting and influential eras in rock music. They stole the show. Unfortunately, it was their last one.

For some reason, throughout their career, The Band often seemed to be behind the scenes, admired by other musicians and connoisseurs, but never really breaking into the mainstream. Their biggest "hit" was a cover version of The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down sung by Joan Baez -- who didn't even know the right words.

Of course, one reason The Band seemed to be behind the scenes is because they often were. They started out as the Hawks, the backup band for Canadian rockabilly singer Ronnie Hawkins. After leaving Hawkins, they were recruited by the newly electrified Bob Dylan as his touring band -- only to be reviled by Bob's hardcore folkie followers. After the tour, Dylan and the Hawks settled down near Woodstock, NY where they recorded over a hundred songs together in the basement of a pink house shared by three of the Hawks. Bootlegs from these 'Basement Tapes' sessions became legendary among aficionados, but the material was never officialy released until years later.

When the time came for them to record their own material, they chose the name The Band, because that's pretty much what everyone called them. Their first album, Music From Big Pink, named after the house they shared, became a favorite among critics and influenced musicians like George Harrison, Eric Clapton and Robert Plant to adopt a more back-to-basics approach to their music. Dennis Hopper included one of the songs, The Weight, on the soundtrack to the movie Easy Rider, but a cover version was used on the soundtrack album due to contractual issues. The Band toured in support of Big Pink, appearing at Woodstock -- the festival named after the town they'd helped make famous -- but their performance was omitted from the tremendously popular film and soundtrack, once again due to legal complications.

They were fast becoming the most succesfully unknown band in history.

Fortunately, their second album, The Band, achieved a level of commercial success that matched their critical acclaim. After ten years, The Band was finally a headline act. But success and touring quickly began to take their toll. The title of their next album, Stage Fright, kind of says it all -- performing music in the circus-like atmosphere of the rock music scene wasn't conducive to keeping your sanity:

Your brow is sweatin' and your mouth gets dry,
Fancy people go driftin' by.
The moment of truth is right at hand,
Just one more nightmare you can stand.

Following their next album, The Band took a step back from the limelight before teaming up with Dylan again for a studio album and a tour. Eventually they relocated from the east coast to Malibu, where they built themselves a clubhouse/recording studio dubbed Shangri La. They recorded one of their finest albums there and followed it up with a summer tour, but the end was already in sight. By the conclusion of the tour they had announced that their final performance would take place on Thanksgiving at Winterland.

Of course all of this was history by the time The Last Waltz hit the screen at Alpha 3. By that time, the members of The Band had pretty much gone their separate ways. Guitarist and songwriter Robbie Robertson continued his association with Martin Scorcese, creating music for Raging Bull, King of Comedy and The Color of Money. Drummer and singer Levon Helm embarked on an acting career, beginning with roles in Coal Miner's Daughter and The Right Stuff.

The Band reformed in 1983, without Robertson. They toured for a few years, playing smaller venues than in their heyday. In The Last Waltz, Robbie Robertson says, "the road has taken a lot of the great ones... It's a goddamn impossible way of life." His words rang eerily true when pianist and vocalist Richard Manuel was found dead in his hotel room following a show in Florida. Bass player and vocalist Rick Danko, who had continued playing and touring both with the reformed Band and various other combos, died of drug-related heart failure in 1999 just days after the end of a tour.

Levon Helm, whose Arkansas-flavored voice imbued many of The Band's best songs with country soul, died last week after a long struggle with throat cancer. One of the reasons The Band never fully reunited was because of a long-standing feud between Helm and Robertson over songwriting credits. When The Band was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Levon did not show. Up to the very end, though, Levon kept on playing music, both on tour and in Woodstock, where he held his celebrated Midnight Rambles, featuring a wide array of guest performers, including Elvis Costello, Donald Fagen, Kris Kristofferson, Norah Jones, and Phil Lesh. The proceeds of the Rambles helped to defray Levon's mounting medical expenses.

A few days before Levon died, Robbie Robertson visited him in the hospital one last time. Thirty six years have gone by since they shared the stage at Winterland. That's a lot of history. Band members don't always get along so well. There's almost always a clash of egos. What made The Band so special was their ability to put the egos aside when it came to making music. Their differences became fuel for creative combustion. But there comes a time when the differences overwhelm the creativity. Sometimes the best thing to do is just walk away.

But at least we still have the music. Those moments will live on forever. And in The Last Waltz, there are many of those amazing moments, where five very different personalities combine to form one very distinct sound. The sound of a band totally in the groove, tight as a snare drum but loose as a barrelhouse whore. Heavy with the weight of history, but light as pickpocket's touch. Chugging down the line like a mystery train heading across the Great Divide. That was The Band.

And it always will be.

Open Mike

My folk-singer phase began, more or less, about the same time everything in my life seemed to be falling apart. My girlfriend and I had begun a series of break-ups and reconciliations that would eventually lead to my utter destruction. I had quit my well-paying paralegal job to try and make it as a free-lance writer -- in other words, I was unemployed. And to complete the trifecta of ignominy, my band, The Charismatics, had split up, leaving me with no outlet  to express my woes.

There was only one thing left to do: Go solo.

I'll never forget my first appearance in front of an audience all by my lonesome. It was at an open mike night at a pub in Cleveland Park called Gallagher's. At the time I only had one or two original songs, so I played a Talking Heads tune called Heaven and Woody Guthrie's Worried Man Blues. I was so nervous, I could barely remember how to form an open G chord. My voice sounded foreign and distant, like the strange croaking of an alien reptile. When I was with the Charismatics, I had played and sung in front of plenty of people, but without the rest of the band there with me, I felt naked, alone and terrified.

But I got through it. Fortunately,  the audience was kind. Most of them were performers, who knew how hard it was to bare your soul onstage. They applauded my effort, if not my talent. When it was over, I felt a tremendous wave of relief and accomplishment. And I couldn't wait to do it again.

As it turns out, I was in pretty good company at Gallagher's. There was a regular group of talented musicians playing there at the time. Many of them were dyed-in-the-wool folkies, who finger-picked their Martins and Gibsons with mellow precision and sang with smooth sincerity. I was kind of a misfit, banging away on a cheap plywood guitar and squawking rockabilly Woody Guthrie songs. But they made me feel welcome, and I became a regular, too.

In those days, the host of Gallagher's open mike was Mary Chapin Carpenter, who was pretty well-known to just about everyone but me. She had a solid voice and opened each session with a few of her Joni Mitchell-esque "confessional" style songs. I didn't really care for her songs that much, but she was an excellent performer. I found out later that she had gotten a record deal and was working on her first album, Hometown Girl. Some of the songs on that album were probably first heard at Gallagher's open mike.

Meanwhile, I was working on my own songs. I was steeping myself in the folk tradition, collecting records by Muddy Waters, Jesse Fuller, Leadbelly and the like. Learning songs from the Alan Lomax collection, reading books about Woody and Dylan and Elvis. I tried writing a few songs for the Charismatics, but I never really had a rock'n'roll voice. I'm not sure what kind of a voice I had, but that's the great thing about folk music: Anybody can sing it.

I started writing a new song every week. Then I would go and play it at Gallagher's. It was a great way to learn the craft, because you really get to know what works and what doesn't when you try it out in front of an audience full of singer-songwriters. But I needed more time on stage. Playing two songs a week just wasn't cutting it. I started looking for other open mike nights. As it turned out, I didn't have far to look.

I lived in a row house in Mount Pleasant that started out as a group of guys with quasi-government jobs who liked to play live rock music down in the basement. One of the reasons I moved in was because they need a drummer to fill out the house band. Over time, the original guys moved out -- on to better paying quasi-government jobs; the band morphed into the Charismatics -- with a much better drummer; and the house became a kind of haven for those who favored 'non-traditional' lifestyles. And most of them worked at a restaurant called Food For Thought.

Food For Thought was an institution that defied institutions. The last hippie, left-wing vegetarian restaurant left standing -- even though nobody I knew who worked there was a hippie, or political, or vegetarian. It was a good place that served good food and had a stage with an open mike night.

I started showing up at FFT every week to try out my new material. The open mike was run by a guy named Phil, aka "Philvis." Philvis was a far cry from Mary Chapin Carpenter. About as far a cry as you could get. Philvis opened up the sessions with a few of his darkly sardonic post-punk tunes, accompanied on his hand-painted electric guitar. The audience was a mix of idealistic proto-yuppies, old guard burnouts and assorted malcontents. There was a whole different set of performers at FFT, not a lot of folkies, some rockers, some poets, some punks, and one pretty crazy homeless guy named Robert Adams who wailed his deranged rants while slashing away on a battered guitar that hadn't been tuned since Jimmy Carter left town. But he was amazing.

I became a regular at FFT, playing my growing repertoire of original modern folk tunes. Eventually, I even got to play regular gigs there. They weren't exactly paid gigs, but you got to pass the hat between sets, so I did make a few bucks here and there. One night, I was playing one of my scathing political protest songs and I saw Martin Sheen sitting at a booth with legendary homeless activist Mitch Snyder. Sheen was playing Snyder in a movie about Snyder's battle with the Reagan administration to create a homeless shelter in an abandoned Federal building. To me that moment kind of captured the essence of FFT. The Hollywood actor and the militant crusader having dinner in the most low-key setting, going almost completely unnoticed by those around them. Between sets, I stopped by their table with my tip basket. It seemed a little weird to be begging for change from Mitch Snyder, a guy who'd spent half the eighties on hunger strikes. On the other hand Sheen was doing alright. He tossed me a couple of bills.

It was while playing at FFT that I started to find my voice as a performer. Part of the experience of playing original songs in front of an audience was discovering exactly who I was as a writer and as a singer. Folk music is about authenticity. I didn't have the talent to fake my way through a song. The only thing I had going for me was honesty. If I could tell the truth in a way that sounded like I actually knew what I was talking about, then maybe I could make a connection with the audience and capture their attention for a minute or two. Playing full sets to an audience that was generally more interested in their stir-fry than the caterwauling emanating from the stage forced me to find out exactly what it was I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it.

After a while, I added two more open mikes to my agenda, bringing my total to four a week. Every week. With new songs every week. It was a crash course in paying my dues. I learned to play harmonica to add a little showmanship to the program. I was writing, rehearsing and performing all the time. One night, at the Tucson Cantina open mike, I was the only person who showed up to play. I ended up playing the whole night by myself. Eventually, I ran out of songs and started taking requests. I was amazed at how many songs I had learned. I had come a long way since that first night at Gallagher's. I was now totally at home on the stage, playing song after song without a hitch. It was a blast.

Those open mike nights really kept me going through those difficult times. After my relationship ended for good, I tried to stick around DC for a while. But, finally, I had to get out of there. I moved to Brooklyn, where I played at an open mike in an unheated, condemned building on 7th Ave. in Park Slope. The audience would bang coffee cans filled with bottle caps on the tables as a kind of makeshift percussion section. One night Mandy Patinkin showed up and tried to get me to accompany him, but we couldn't get the guitar and piano in tune.

These days I don't get to the open mike as much as I used to. There's one at the Kibitz Room at Canter's Deli on Fairfax, which I've been to a few times. But you only get one song, and it seems like a lot of trouble to go through for that. It's easier just to make a video and put it on YouTube. Which reminds me. I've got a whole bunch of songs piled up and I need to get them recorded. And, who knows, maybe I'll wander down to the Kibitz Room at some point. I'm starting to feel the need for a smelly old mike, a bad PA, and an audience who couldn't care less. There's nothing else like it.