Unwicked

Hope Nunnery, Me, and Devon Sproule

Back on October 7, I took the LIRR out to Stony Brook University to see Devon Sproule for the third time in a week. This might sound a bit obsessive, but it was nothing pathological or odd. Until you’ve seen Devon Sproule perform her music, you have no idea why it was important to me not to miss one of her shows.

My route to her music was hardly immediate or direct. I first came across her name when I was looking over Paul Curreri’s website. Back in May of this year I saw Paul play ahead of the Two Man Gentlemen Band at the Baggot Inn in NYC. I was early for the Gentlemen and saw about half of Paul’s set. It’s difficult to write about him without launching into hyperbole, but I have to be straight up with you: he’s incredible. He coaxes more out of a guitar than is possible, and his singing is intoxicating, stirring, and even a little mystical. Watching him perform was a blessing–eyes closed sometimes, music moving through him as if spirits possessed him, he brought his songs to life with subtlety and magic at his command.

I bought an EP that was a preview of his newest album The Velvet Rut. During the course of seeing what he was about on his site, I saw a picture of the artwork for his album Songs for Devon Sproule. It featured a picture of him and a woman. It occurred to me that this woman might be Devon, but I never took it any further than that, demonstrating a disappointing lack of imagination on my part. I never bought any of his other music. I just listened often to the songs on the great CD I bought at the show.

Fast forward to about a month ago when I created a MySpace profile to keep track of the performances I didn’t want to miss. I had recently thrown myself into the local music scene for enrichment. I was finally getting some of my passion for life back after a long bleak stretch. I moved to a new part of town and was thrilled with the change of scenery.

While reacquainting myself with some of the artists I had seen before, I noticed that Devon was going to be playing at Pete’s Candy Store in October. I remembered her name from the connection with Paul Curreri and looked her up online. Well, her music was astounding. She seemed like a perfect companion for Curreri. (I didn’t know at the time that they were married. I don’t dig around too much into the personal data of artists; I’m here for the art, not the gossip.)

Then came the night I saw Devon at Pete’s. It shocks me now that I never wrote about any of the shows she played here in New York. Tonight I posted on Flickr the picture that appears at the top of the post, and when I went back through my entries I found only one about seeing Devon, and that was a brief bookmark of a post. So I’ve had a big home-cooked dinner and now I want to get some thoughts down. [Note: When I wrote this, I forgot that I didn’t have routine access to the internet. Hence, little writing was posted online until recently.–TC]

I’m not a critic nor do I long to be one. I’m writing this stuff for me, and if anyone happens upon it while googling names and such, I hope you find something here to enjoy. But I write for no imagined audience. I write to keep writing, to give voice to certain thoughts and feelings, to document moments of bliss and sorrow.

Devon Sproule played on Wednesday October 3 at Pete’s Candy Store and she had a decent crowd for Pete’s. After her jaw-dropping set, a number of people lined up to buy CDs and say hello. I was seated at the front of the lovely little room and saw close-up the passion and joy that Devon engendered in those who heard her music. I bought a few of her CDs–Keep Your Silver Shined, Upstate Songs, and a homemade CD of duets with her husband Paul–for myself and for gifts and said goodnight.

The walk home was not quite the same as most of the other nights I walked home from Pete’s. My stroll down Roebling found me drifting in my head. I really got worked over by her songs and her strong and graceful stage presence. She admitted to suffering from jet lag following a flight in from a tour in the UK, yet I would never have guessed she was as fatigued as she acknowledged. When I was home, I popped her CDs into my machine and was hooked. She had two more shows in New York and I resolved to see them both.

Saturday night she played at Everything Goes Cafe on Staten Island. This was quite a trip to go see someone play for forty-five minutes or so, but I had already learned that Devon Sproule was not like most other artists. The set at Everything Goes gave me the chance to sit back and enjoy her guitar playing and her voice. I was not dumbstruck like I was at Pete’s, because I knew more what to expect this time, and I kept up with her. Still, by the time she finished the last song, “Old Virginia Block,” I knew I was witnessing a great artist early in what I hope will be a long and rewarding career.

One of the bonuses of taking this trip to Staten Island to see Devon was the ride on the Staten Island Ferry. It’s the best deal in NYC (free) and that night was gorgeous. It was shirtsleeves weather, even in the wind on the prow of the ferry, and the ride to SI during the sunset was breathtaking. We passed close to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, and watched the fat orange sun slide down into Jersey. The ride back to Manhattan at night was even more dazzling. I had never come back from Staten Island in the dark, and the view of the twinkling blue lights of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge hypnotized me for a spell. As we approached Manhattan Island, the tall buildings of Lower Manhattan looming ever larger as we neared the ferry terminal, I was entering what I call “I Love NY” mode.

A busker was teaching a very agreeable woman how to play his violin. The warm and calm night embraced me as I walked along Water Street. There was no way I was going to cheat myself of the pleasures of walking uptown at night. I was high from the music, floating a few inches above the ground from the joy of the boat ride, and singing inside my head some of my favorite songs. After about an hour of walking, my feet rejoined the sidewalks of New York.

The next day, Sunday, Devon was playing at Stony Brook University with Hope Nunnery and Steve Tarshis as part of Charlie Backfish’s program of concerts tied in to his radio show Sunday Street. Hope and Steve were new to me, but I was learning quickly that many things new to me were also now dear to me. I took the Long Island Railroad out from Brooklyn. I boarded the train at the Nostrand Avenue stop; this was very close to my previous apartment in Bed-Stuy. I was feeling a little worn out that morning. I had a terrible sinus headache and almost didn’t even get on the train.

It would take about two hours to get out to Stony Brook. I love riding on trains, and I had some writing to do for my NY Neo-Futurist workshop, so while the headache didn’t go away, it did fade down. There was a transfer at Jamaica and I found myself feeling blue (from feeling ill) and I almost talked myself into going home. I came close to convincing myself that Devon probably thought I was a freak for following her all around NY, and I tried the rationalization that I’d already seen her twice, and I had her music on disc, so why go see her again. I looked across the platform at the train about to leave in the direction of Manhattan, and that’s when the little voice I trust spoke up.

The little voice got very loud and said something to the effect of…What the hell is wrong with you? First of all, what does it matter if Devon Sproule does think you are something of a freak? You’re going for the music. It feeds your soul. The music makes you happy, downright ecstatic. And you want to walk away from that? You have no idea when you’ll have this opportunity again. And you’ve never been to Stony Brook. Go explore! Be bold!

The voice really did say that. And that’s when the train arrived on my platform and I went off toward Stony Brook. I got some good writing done and enjoyed the rhythmic motion of the LIRR. The train pulled into the Stony Brook station earlier than I needed to be there, but the next train had me missing the opening act.

I’ve learned something else from my recent journeys into musical discovery:

SHOW UP FOR THE OPENING ACT

It’s just plain polite. Too many times now have I stumbled upon someone great who was opening for the act I intended to see. Little surprises are everywhere, but you have to be there for them to reveal themselves.

A nice long walk around the main campus drive took me eventually to the student union and the University Cafe. I entered and met Charlie Backfish. Devon was there working out some pre-show details. She recognized me from the other shows and we said hello. I went back outside to wait for the doors to open and did some more writing. Charlie came out a few minutes later and thanked me for making the trip out from Brooklyn. He told me about the radio show he does on WUSB and how thrilled he was with the interview with Devon from that day’s show. This was a man passionate about music and generous with his enthusiasm. I was pleased to meet him, sincerely. Eventually the ticket taker took a seat by the doors to the cafe and I paid and went in.

I selected a seat in the middle of the room based on the feeling that I’d seen Devon twice in a week, up-close and in intimate settings, so I was not about to hog a table up front when someone else should have that pleasure. When it came close to time for the opening act to take the stage and the little table at the front of house left was still unoccupied, I thought Screw It, I’m sitting there. And I did.

Charlie introduced Hope Nunnery and Steve Tarshis. There began one of the best couple of hours I’ve had in a long time. Hope and Steve played with an intensity and sense of purpose that was electric. Many times during the set, Hope made eye contact with me. It was an intense experience. Afterward she thanked me for being such a good listener, and said that she hoped it was okay that she made such direct eye contact. It was fine by me. The power of her music, the touching give-and-take she had with Steve…man, it was just fantastic. Mystical, lyrical, gut wrenching, inspiring, devastating, sweet and funny and truthful and soulful…

When they left the stage, I thought about the decision I made on that train platform to continue on my way to Stony Brook and I told myself, See what happens when you go places?

Oh, and then came Devon Sproule. This set was different from the others. She spent extra time between songs talking a little about her songwriting process, acknowledging from whom she borrowed this or that, telling us more about her husband and life in Virginia. There are few things sweeter than listening to someone in love speak of her beloved. When Devon spoke of Paul, she seemed taller and more shiny than she did when she sang. She radiated love and hope and happiness.

And when it was all done, and I spent a few minutes chatting with Hope and Devon and Charlie and Rich the sound man and the others there who had treated me with such warmth and neighborliness, I decided to try to catch the train that was leaving the station in about six minutes. I rushed along. As I passed the athletic fields, I heard the train whistle and knew then I would never make that train.

Back before I decided to rush off, Hope had mentioned that Rich was giving her a lift to the train. I turned down the original offer, but now I practiced a little humility and went back in and asked if I could go along for the ride, and Rich said of course. Before everyone went their separate ways, there were some photos taken of Hope and Devon. I wanted to snap a couple but my batteries had died. Just then I wanted something I never wanted this much before. I wanted a picture taken of me with the artists. I bashfully asked Hope and Devon if they wouldn’t mind, and of course they were both very gracious about it. I asked Bart, one of the fellows with a camera, if he would be so kind as to snap a quick picture of me with these two amazing people.

The ride with Rich and Hope to the train station in Hicksville was a quick education in the folk scene. Rich is very plugged in and every time he said another new name, I jotted down in my notebook the name of the artist. I soon had a long list of people to check out. The rest of the afternoon was very touching. Hope and I chatted waiting for the train and on the train ride back to Penn Station, and we covered a lot of ground. Most of it was very personal. By the time we said our goodbyes, I was feeling a little raw, but thrilled to have spent this time with Hope. She’s a remarkable person.

Much of my recent writing has dealt with my wife Siri’s death and the war I have waged with my own grief. The writing for the workshop was very much in this vein, and so I was pretty raw and exposed by the time that Sunday concert at Stony Brook University came around. (Thinking over it, I was pretty raw before I saw Devon that first time. She snuck in under my defenses.) Because of the sincerity and grace of these two women, and because of the incredible music I heard that day, I was feeling better than I had in a long time.

So this photograph of me sitting with Hope and Devon will always remind me of that day. And it will remind me of the rewards found when I jump on a train and let it take me to where I need to be.

Thank goodness for Charlie Backfish!