Against the Night
(c)1999 by Jason Webley
Hold on to these words,
I’d like to think that they may offer
Some protection,
Against the night.
Against the night,
Your life can feel transparent,
A reflection,
A trick of light.
So when sleep just won’t come,
And you’ve got no occupation,
But nibbling at the fruit
Of the melancholy tree,
Just hold on to these words,
Hold on to me.
Just hold on to these words,
They’re the best I’ve got to offer
At the moment,
As a lullaby.
As a lullaby,
You can lay down by the tracks
And feel the world
Slip by.
–
Eighty people, give or take, sitting knee to knee,
shoulder to shoulder as one man woos us with
his melodies; voice changing from gravel to choral
between heartbeats. He sits just in front of us,
raised up so all can see him but within arm’s reach,
nonetheless. He’s got long, wild hair, a beard;
looks like a true mountain man, the pure kind.
He starts with a happy song, and continues,
until asking, he realizes how many of us have never
seen him before. He asks us to forget it all, start over;
puts on a crazy mask and sings a wild song, dancing about,
seeking to impress upon us his audacity. With this
initiation, we are taken into the fold,
and the concert begins. He picks songs randomly,
asks the audience what they want to hear, begins to play
Michael Jackson’s Thriller, stopping halfway
to ask if we’d like to hear a ghost story;
or perhaps a story about russians, or his worst gig ever.
Setting down his accordian, he raises his seat,
abandons his microphone, and begins to speak. His story
lasts a good ten minutes, if not longer, but none of
us bore. He’s got a stage-presence that transfixes, onstage
he’s a giant, impossible to ignore. But he’s humble,
fun, quiet about it; you can’t stop watching him simply
because he may be the most interesting man you’ve ever met.
He finishes his story, begins to play music again.
He makes us dance, makes us sing along, plays a Russian
birthday song for the two people with birthdays
(who’ll admit to it) in the audience, and makes them skip
through the crowd. As the evening winds down, he asks us
all to lay, each with our head on someone else’s stomach
(it doesn’t matter if you know them), and relax, eyes closed.
He plays us two quiet, sleepy songs; slightly melancholy,
slightly happy, as we, an ocean of weary strangers, are
carried way by melodies, lulled by the rise and fall of
the breath of whomever happens to be our pillow.
He rouses us with laughter, lightens our loads and then
tell us The Story of Blixie Bimber and the Power of the
Gold Buckskin Wincher. He holds the book that includes
the story, a relic of the 1920s, but he rarely refers to it,
having memorized the 20-minute story eons ago. Having read
the story, we asked what a “wincher” is, he replies “Yes.”
and moves on, leaving us forever to wonder.
He ends with a rousing drinking song and a happy song,
demanding we sing along, loudly, and sway side to side,
trapped in long lines of arm-locked strangers,
transformed to friends through a night of singing.
After the show’s finished, we stumble out into the night,
all a bit aglow, ready to preach the gospel of
a kick-ass man named Jason Webley.
I’ve already bought tickets to see the last show
of his tour up in Seattle on the 30th. If you’re
in the area, don’t miss it.