Songs For Your Mother

in a bar and whine. I keep it simple.
‘Not a line, I’m here for one night, and it’s been one of those days you want to forget. I want to play. That’s it,’ I say.
Josie turns to her friend and the two exchange another look. The virtual scales are tipping, and my fate is in the balance. ‘What do you think?’ Josie asks.
The brunette girl looks over her shoulder at me, and my heart runs away from me again. She appraises me, maybe looking for some sign that I am genuine. I have no idea what she sees. She offers a small smile and turns back to Josie. She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she shrugs as if she was sitting on the fence, and leaving it up to her friend.
‘Okay, we’ll say yes. Be good to it,’ she says.
I thank her and smile. I walk over to goatee guy, and I put my name down. I sit back down at the bar, nursing my beer, watch the other acts and fret over what I might play.
There are two people up before me. First, there’s a guy who sings a version of Outkast’s ‘Ms. Jackson’. This is when I start to worry. He’s got a great voice. Next is a girl who does a slow-achy version of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’. It’s another decent performance. I was expecting far less. I’m such an idiot.
I rub my neck. I worry that I’ll play a string of bum notes and that the guitar strings will cry in musical pain. It’s all a moot point, however, as the MC is calling my name. He’s telling people I’m British and here from London. I wish he hadn’t done that. It adds a weight of expectation. People will be thinking I’m like some travelling troubadour with a plane ticket and a guitar. That’s not me. I’m the random guy on a road trip sending a message to my idiot friend and trying to impress a girl who made my heart skip a beat. None of that, however, matters as my time is up and the one thing I cannot do is back out. Josie hands me her guitar.
I smile thanks and, as I turn, the brunette calls ‘good luck’ after me. She smiles, and it’s a bright sunshine smile that carries me on my short slow walk to the stage oblivious to everyone else around me. I sit down on a stool with the guitar on my lap. My throat is dry; this might as well be Wembley Arena. I have created my ghetto blaster moment, willed it to happen, right here in Santa Cruz, proving it’s not dead yet.
A hush falls across the bar, even the girl who has been rabbiting away happily as the other two singers played stops talking. This further unnerves me. A few people are playing with their phones. I want to tell everyone else to do the same. There’s no need to be quiet for the British guy. I sit there for a long moment looking at the small audience. They are watching me intently. I strum the open strings, and the tuning is fine. I look back towards the two girls and down at the guitar. I lean into the microphone, and my mind goes blank, and everyone is looking at me expectantly.
Finally, I say ‘Tangle’ as it’s the only song in my head I can remember how to play. It’s by a friend and it’s one of the songs we used to play. I run my fingers over the fretboard. It’s a lovely guitar. I reel my mind back in and focus on the song. I get it straight in my head, and then I start to strum a fast rhythm:
Love is a long-drawn fight.
It brings tears to the eyes.
It’s a disappointing drug…
As the words come out of my mouth, it strikes me that they are perfect for this evening and this moment. I could not have chosen better. I start to let go, and I sing the words out loud.
It’s over. I made it. I got up on stage in a bar in California, sang and played the guitar. A couple of bum notes aside, I feel like an acoustic guitar-star. It’s the first time I’ve played on stage in almost four years, since university. My performance receives a smattering of polite claps, for which I am grateful. Better than that though there’s generous clapping from my new friends. I walk back towards the bar, and I might be a jangly bag of nerves, and my legs are like jelly, but I did it. Not a serenade, but close and I’m feeling so much better. I carefully hand Josie her guitar and thank her for its use.
‘You wrote that, right?’ Josie says.
‘A friend did,’ I say.
‘I liked it. I’d love to hear it again. We had you down for something else,’ Josie says.
‘Yeah, Wailing Break-Up Guy,’ the brunette says.
‘If I ever go on the road, I’ll have to use: “Wailing Break-Up Guy”,’ I say.
‘You’re welcome,’ the brunette says.
‘It was written all over you,’ Josie says. ‘We were betting on “Love Will Tear Us Apart”. Or Chris Martin; I had a sneaking suspicion you were Mr Coldplay,’ Josie says.
‘The Smiths, maybe Elliott Smith,’ the brunette says.
It’s only then that I notice she has a soft southern accent in comparison to her friend’s vowels that sound like they were acquired from somewhere in the eastern United States.
‘Good call, I love Elliott Smith.’
‘So, you’re not break-up guy?’ Josie asks.
I shake my head, ‘Not that kind, no.’
The two glance at each other, and they exchange a look. I have the feeling that I may have already been a topic of conversation, as they discussed what my story might be.
‘That sort of sounds intriguing, I’m going to give you that. Intriguing is always interesting as a place to start, as you never know where it might take you. Why don’t you keep my friend company while I play my set,’ Josie says.
‘I can