Pencil Storm has elected to bypass this week’s installment of our Saturday Night Special series to commemorate the anniversary of the lockdown that put an end to life as we know it - at least for the last year. We’ll be back next week with a new Saturday Night Special. Until then, please read this account of what it was like one year ago, just as things were closing down. PLEASE - be safe, protect yourself and those around you, and wear a mask! - The Pencil Storm Staff

As March 14th, 2020 approached, everyone was on edge. People were being asked to work from home when possible and there were rumblings that March Madness would be cancelled - which seemed unthinkable. You were just starting to see people wear masks in public – an anomaly in the U.S., except for the occasional tourists from Asian countries in airports.

We played the Hamtramck Music Fest on February 29th. Hamtramck is a small, mostly Polish city surrounded on all four sides by the city of Detroit, with an unusually high quantity of music venues, or structures that could at least pass for one on this weekend every year. Talk that night was of the virus, though no one was concerned enough to stay home, socially distance, or wear a mask. I wasn’t worried. It was the news of the day. It would pass.

Two weeks later and things had escalated. I texted John, the owner of The Village Idiot in Maumee, Ohio, and asked him if he still wanted us to come down. Most, but certainly not all, bars were closed or had cancelled live music for the weekend. “We understand if you want to postpone, but we’ll be there with bells on if you don’t. Thoughts?” I sent. We never cancel. Ever. He replied that they were prepared to “continue on” but warned that the situation was fluid. The show was a go.

Things were business as usual in the Village Idiot that night, for the most part. There was some extra effort put into spraying down surfaces. A good friend of mine, Greg, who often makes it to those Maumee shows, had set up camp in his usual corner of the bar. He’s a hulking figure of a man with a lumberjack-level beard and a handshake that will unintentionally crush every bone in each of your fingers, but a friendly, teddy-bear demeanor that’s all smiles. His wife “Queenie” was in tow this night. I welcomed the new social protocol to bump fists rather than shake hands, saving my digits from his clenching fist more present in my mind than not spreading a virus. I had three sets to play after all. We talked about who was working from home and how crazy everything seemed.

Kevin, another good friend from decades past, was pouring drinks from behind the bar and came over for quick catch-up, ill fitting jeans hanging low, exposing the waist band of his boxers, wet bar-rag hanging comfortably from the back pocket. The other bartenders who’ve had the pleasure of over-serving me through the years shouted hello’s too. “Hey Jeremy! Welcome back man - good to see ya’ again. What’cha need?” Justin hollered, as if he didn’t know. He was reaching for the Bulleit Rye before I even answered.  

It was great to be there, with friends and co-workers (for the night at least), anxious to plug in and see the tubes glowing, and ready to play for the people there who came to hear the music; those on a bar-crawl who may just stay for a couple songs; the ones who are only in it for the amazing pizza; and even the drunks who pour in as last-call approaches and demand to hear us play some godawful Van Morrison cover (we won’t). Oh, and it was impossible to miss the green foil hats, neon glow-stick straws, and tight-fit “Kiss Me I’m Irish” shirts the co-eds were wearing. It was St. Patrick’s Day after all, or close enough to it for some of the people working their way up Conant Street, choosing to schedule their hangovers for a Sunday rather than the following Wednesday.

Five hours later, the gear was in the van and we were headed north towards the Michigan border. Those “localish” one-offs are some late nights, but the Idiot is one of our favorites, and there’s no substitute for your own bed. “This is a drag, but we’ll be back it at in a few weeks,” I thought confidently, as the clock on the DVR showed 4:15 am and I tried to fall asleep despite the adrenalin come-down from the gig and the ever-present hi-pitched ringing in my skull.

We had a Canada/Upstate-NY run booked for April – some nice rooms and potentially bigger shows. We were heading south & west in the Spring, and in the fall we’d head back to the east coast for the first time in a couple years – hitting those big markets that can be so hit-or-miss for a band like ours. Within a couple weeks of the Village Idiot show, the dates started getting cancelled. Most of the places were just closed and incommunicado. Some reached out pro-actively and some at least answered queries about the status. By May, everything was lost. Some of the southern states still wanted us to come, but without shows on the way down and back to justify the miles, it just wasn’t feasible. They understood.

I can’t believe it’s been a year since that night in Maumee. A year since I’ve heard “Hey Jeremy – welcome back man!” from behind the bar. A year since I’ve Tetris-ed my amp and guitars into the back of the van. A year since I’ve seen Greg camped out in his corner of the bar, pretending to be mildly annoyed at the cute, tipsy, townie girls who like to play with his beard between gulps of Bud Light. A year since I’ve strummed some chords against a backbeat.

We’re talking about getting together to fire up the tubes again. To dust off the PA and take the moving blankets off the drum kit. The vaccine is here and we’re in varying degrees of eligibility. It’s gonna be great.

Jeremy Porter lives near Detroit and fronts the rock and roll band Jeremy Porter And The Tucos. Follow them on Facebook to read his road blog about their adventures on the dive-bar circuit.
www.thetucos.com
www.facebook.com/jeremyportermusic
www.rockandrollrestrooms.com
Twitter: @jeremyportermi | Instagram: @onetogive & @jeremyportermusic