Daydreams — not delusions — of rock stardom

By Catherine E. Toth
Advertiser Staff Writer

Illustration by Martha Hernandez • The Honolulu Advertiser Open Mike Night Anna Bannanas, 2440 S. Beretania St. 8:30 p.m. to closing Mondays Free 946-5190

That's how I reassure myself when I think about what I did two weeks ago, not entirely against my will, but definitely against my better judgment: I performed at Open-Mic Night at Anna Bannanas.

I've been playing guitar for only two months. What made me think I could get up in front of a room full of strangers — a dark room, which helped — is something I still wonder about.

Urged by friends to share with the rest of the world two songs I had been singing to them for weeks, I packed up my guitar and headed to the well-worn bar in Mo'ili'ili, feeling a lot more confident driving there than walking in.

It's not like I'm some guitar prodigy, a talent in hiding, waiting for a big break. I play guitar like I golf: A hacker who loves the game.

My obsession with playing guitar hasn't yet crossed over into a delusion of grandeur. I don't think I'll be a Rolling Stone cover or turn into a "Behind the Music" topic any time soon.

But anyone who's ever strummed an entire song — and sung along — will understand how simple the leap to stardom seems: I can do this. Play guitar, make money, cut tracks, make videos. I'll be famous.

Daydreams, not delusions. No cause for concern.

Oh, I have no problem power-strumming in my bedroom, wailing lines like "Baby, go to sleep now," my left foot keeping time in true "MTV Unplugged" form.

But getting up on stage, with overhead lights singling me out, making escape impossible, well, that's just way out of my comfort zone.

It's not that I'm shy, either. I could stand in front of a thousand people and talk about anything, comfortably, no problem.

But playing guitar — and singing — in front of a crowd that mostly consisted of open-mike regulars, well, that would make any extroverted multitasker nervous.

We arrived just after 9 p.m., wanting to slip in during the first sets. To my horror, we walked into an empty room. No other guitar-lugging wannabe rock stars. Just me — and I wasn't even carrying my own guitar. (I begged a friend to walk in with the evidence. Just in case I backed out.)

We took a table in the front, quickly ordering a round of beer (for them) and tequila shots (for me). The house band was tuning guitars, checking the sound, getting ready for yet another night of unpredictability.

Most people have at least two songs to perform, often solos and almost always originals. Blues, poems, stand-up comedy skits — you can do just about anything on Anna's stage.

Some people come every week, adding lines to their ever-lengthening songs. Some people never come back. But everyone who shows up waits, watches, worries and winces, contributing in some way to the overall experience.

And to round out the rock-star experience, there's a house band that can back you up — or cover up your mistakes. It's so much easier to screw up a chord when you've got pounding drums and a wailing saxophone drowning you out.

It was a strange feeling, sitting there, just waiting for my turn. No amount of verbal encouragement — "Don't worry, people screw up all the time" — made me feel any better, or any more confident.

What if I screwed up a chord? What if I forgot the words? What if I suck worse than I think?

The music stopped. People clapped. My turn.

I clutched my guitar, wondering, even after shots, what made me think I could do this.

"I'm not doing it," I said, shaking my head. "I can't do this."

That's when my best friend Shannon grabbed my shoulders, swung me around and used them fightin' words: "You don't just own summer, you're going to rock it."

She's right, I thought, feeling a bit of confidence rise up from my queasy stomach. It's summer. I own it. Get me on that stage.

I nervously fumbled through my first song, a sappy ballad that sounds better in closer quarters. I didn't want to look out at the audience. Part of me wanted them to walk away, leave me alone on the stage to sing for the table of friendly faces I came with. The other part of me couldn't stomach watching people order beer, flirt with the bartender, do anything but listen to me.

I strummed the last chord and looked out into the darkness, bracing myself for the inevitable criticism that typically follows an oral report in history class.

Silence.

My eyes squinted, I searched the darkness for any sign of acceptance. That nanosecond of quiet freaked me out. Get me off the stage. Get me out of here.

Then, applause, ranging from polite (other performers) to hysterical (friends who needed a ride home).

Fear subsided.

But it'll probably take more than three tequila shots to get me back up there. (I could use some positive encouragement and guitar lessons.)

But hey, at least I did it.