Boulder, CO – “Sibling Show” – Trilogy Wine Bar – January 14, 2000

I’d booked the gig months ago without considering two key circumstances:

• 1. I’d be in the throes of preproduction with barely enough voice to laugh with let alone belt out a solo acoustic show with.
• 2. I probably didn’t have enough material to cover a two-hour set by myself.

As the days approached the opening of Boulder’s newest nightclub ‘Trilogy,’ my limitations, both vocally and mentally, became painfully apparent.

Pre-production was wearing on me. It was wearing on all of us. 11-hour days spent on our feet, basking under fluorescent light bulbs, strapped like mules to our instruments — it was grueling. The worst part was that there were times we’d be approaching the completion of an arrangement only to realize, four hours in, that we’d been moving completely in the wrong direction. Michael White, our producer, has the patience of a monk—something the rest of us lack. We’re moving at a rate of 1.5 songs a day and I’m so saturated by my music it’s hard to bear another listen. I wear my jammies to save myself time when I return home late at night. I eat health store sugarless gummy worms between takes and drink yerba mate tea. I try to keep my voice from slowly disappearing but there’s no doubt about it, it’s going; and now… this gig.

Realizing I’d need help filling a two hour set, I called my brother Ben, who happened to be in Boulder for his own show. “Wanna play a gig with me this Friday?” I asked, I’ll be fun,” I promised but didn’t know exactly what to expect myself. He agreed and a great pressure was lifted off my back. I was truly jazzed to play with him. We’ve never really done anything like it before. I mean sure, he’s come up to sing backups at shows, but we’ve never actually co-worked a room. I was looking forward to it.

It snowed the day of the gig. Big chunky flakes landed and stuck like velcro to my sweatshirt as I walked, head bent, guitar in hand, toward the venue. Sound check was smooth in the spanking new theater. Pedicured red velvet curtains kissed the hem of the stage and candles, shackled in iron sconces, tripped and bounced their light against black, high-gloss walls. I asked the manager, Josh, if there was a backstage Ben and I might work on some harmonies. Josh looked worried — a ‘left my keys at home’ worried, not a ‘the venue forgot to create a backstage’ worried. Then he remembered ‘the storage space’ and directed us to a large-ish closet furnished with partially unpacked boxes, an overhead bulb, and a couple of low stools, which no doubt had been recently set up for us. We were grateful for the privacy. The storage room’s pine shelves were lined with jumbo jars of garbanzo beans and stewed tomatoes. Bottles of foggy, blue-grey, clam juice stared down at us from the mezzanine as we took our seats.

We worked up a set list and some loose harmonies in that little storage room. As friends arrived, they joined us in our closet. It was a comedy of errors as we packed ourselves in like sardines, hung snow-covered jackets on broom poles, and knocked drinks out of each other’s hands with rogue shoulders and elbows.

The sibling show was a success. Our harmonies were effortless and our banter was playful. We slipped in and out of songs like old familiar boots. The crowd was energized and somehow knew the words to some of our songs. By the end of the night, I realized I’d managed to hold on to most of my singing voice even though my talking voice was completely gone. I sold some CDs and even traded one for a massage. When the candles were blown out and the new Boulder club stage had been christened, Kipp escorted Ben, Brian Mcrae and I back out into the storm and up to the Fox Theater to watch Carl Densen’s Tiny Universe. We funked out to in proper form into the farthest reaches of the night.

One more day of preproduction. Oh please, tiny voice, hold out.