![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Oak: Sessions
Aug. 21st, 2002 11:23 amMurphy's Third Law of Irish Sessions:
You go to a session to play music. But people come down to hear you play. You want to spend time with the people who come down to hear you play. You like those people. You're glad they're there. You want to be a good host. So periodically you get up, wade through the accreted layers of late-come musicians, do the combination waitress/Secret Service/NFL linebacker maneuver required to forge passage through the both entrenched and milling bar crowd, and stand there chatting with your friends.
At this point, no matter how carefully you planned your move to coincide with the turn of a player who tends to take solo turns or a player who usually plays tunes you don't know or don't care for, a great tune will come up.
It will generally be not only a great tune but also a tune you've long wished other people would learn, a tune you held secretly in reserve but never trotted out because you didn't think anyone else would know it, a tune you forgot how much you loved.
You look in despair upon the bar crowd, whose density and Brownian motion will defeat your attempt at an alacritous return even if you have actually served as a waitress, a Secret Service agent, and an NFL linebacker in your previous lives. Past them, assuming you can see, you look in despair upon the outer accretions of the concentric coral reef of musicians, and see that every potential approach is blocked by a sawing bow arm or protruding assemblage of flute and arms.
You listen in despair to your supportive friends, who've come all the way down here to appreciate the music, and are at the moment saying something very funny or interesting, or something so important that, no matter how understanding you know they'll be if you blurt "Oops, sorry, great tune, I'm gonna go play on this one, be right back," you know you really can't duck out on. Especially given the unlikelihood of "be right back" within the context of a packed bar and session.
You grit your teeth, or sigh, or laugh, and think, That's okay. I'll start that tune next week.
Murphy was an Irish traditional musician.
(I don't know what Murphy's First and Second Laws are, and the Order of Laws will be subject to change, but I'm sure they will reveal themselves during future sessions for future posting.)
You go to a session to play music. But people come down to hear you play. You want to spend time with the people who come down to hear you play. You like those people. You're glad they're there. You want to be a good host. So periodically you get up, wade through the accreted layers of late-come musicians, do the combination waitress/Secret Service/NFL linebacker maneuver required to forge passage through the both entrenched and milling bar crowd, and stand there chatting with your friends.
At this point, no matter how carefully you planned your move to coincide with the turn of a player who tends to take solo turns or a player who usually plays tunes you don't know or don't care for, a great tune will come up.
It will generally be not only a great tune but also a tune you've long wished other people would learn, a tune you held secretly in reserve but never trotted out because you didn't think anyone else would know it, a tune you forgot how much you loved.
You look in despair upon the bar crowd, whose density and Brownian motion will defeat your attempt at an alacritous return even if you have actually served as a waitress, a Secret Service agent, and an NFL linebacker in your previous lives. Past them, assuming you can see, you look in despair upon the outer accretions of the concentric coral reef of musicians, and see that every potential approach is blocked by a sawing bow arm or protruding assemblage of flute and arms.
You listen in despair to your supportive friends, who've come all the way down here to appreciate the music, and are at the moment saying something very funny or interesting, or something so important that, no matter how understanding you know they'll be if you blurt "Oops, sorry, great tune, I'm gonna go play on this one, be right back," you know you really can't duck out on. Especially given the unlikelihood of "be right back" within the context of a packed bar and session.
You grit your teeth, or sigh, or laugh, and think, That's okay. I'll start that tune next week.
Murphy was an Irish traditional musician.
(I don't know what Murphy's First and Second Laws are, and the Order of Laws will be subject to change, but I'm sure they will reveal themselves during future sessions for future posting.)
