open mic

One girl, about twenty or twenty-one, picked up her guitar and started playing "Personal Jesus" in a minor blues chord progression with a modified Bo Diddley beat, singing the lyrics the way Ani DiFranco would, in a clear growl meant to remind one of depression and anger. People around listened and thought about how nice it was to bridge the gap between conscious discomfort with the structures of organized religion and the misery of the blues, and talked about it with each other. One man came up with exactly, he said, what the parallel experience was-- that of slaves, turning away from the organized churches and making their own beliefs, but still being depressed-- and the people around agreed with him and dutifully quieted down, since it fit into their shared knowledge; besides, the song had changed, to "House of the Rising Sun," and the group had something else to think of, the revelation, or at least opinion for they were sure everyone's was different and equally valid, forgotten, as their attention shifted to the new lyrics.

Though no one's life had gone nearly so wrong as the protagonist's-- she went with a female voice-- people talked about their own mistakes. One had fallen in love with a boy from across the country, then fallen out of love, all between age sixteen and seventeen, and he'd been unstable, obsessed over her for months, then forgot about her as he found someone else. Another had been rejected from the same school his best friend was accepted into, and lashed out, alienating him to the point where he wouldn't respond to e-mails or text messages anymore. Another man took drugs, got caught, and was forced to admit to himself he'd been pursuing self-destruction ever since his parents died on the freeway. They commiserated, somewhat-- but all these were in the past, all remembered but like a trip to a foreign country that they would never see again and from which no one would emigrate.