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HappeningJune 17, 2006 Cashing in empties and picking up beer at Our Market on Thursday, I spied a poster. Well, it didn't take much spying, since the poster was on the pillar that stares you in the face when you walk in the door. Jemima James was playing Friday night at Aboveground Records. Jemima's an awesome singer-songwriter-guitarist; her style is bluesy with a strong dash of western, and her voice is husky sultry to die for. She lived here for years so I heard her a lot, but now she spends most of her time in North Carolina and I hadn't heard her in a while. Her younger son, Sam Mason, just graduated from M.V. Regional High School. Her older son, Willy Mason, is making quite the splash as a touring singer-songwriter in Europe and the U.S. Oh yeah, and her ex-husband, Mike, is in my writers' group. He lent me the guitar I've been learning to play on. All of which is by way of saying that I decided to go hear her. It didn't hurt that I'd skipped the Fred Eaglesmith concert on my birthday because 25 bucks was beyond me. I heard Fred and his stellar ensemble, the Flying Squirrels, this time last year. It was wonderful and I have a T-shirt to prove it. On the back it says "You're spooking the horses and you're scaring me." My ex-farrier loved it. He wouldn't be my ex-farrier if he hadn't retired. At least I think he's retired. When I wore the shirt at WisCon, I got a rise from a rather intimidating editor who seemed somewhat impressed that I was pushing Fred. Editor described Fred as a "Canadian redneck." I'm not sure that's just, but in recent years I've gone a little goofy about many things Canadian so I'm probably not the best judge. I'm hoping Fred &co. are planning to make Martha's Vineyard a regular stop and maybe when the squirrels fly by this time next year I'll be flush. Hah. Friday afternoon I consulted the Martha's Vineyard Times, looking for time and ticket price. The event wasn't even listed. Surprise, surprise, and yes, I used to run the Calendar and Community sections of the Martha's Vineyard Times so I have every right in the world to bitch. I called Aboveground Records. The opener was scheduled to go on between 7 and 7:15, said my informant; Jemima would probably go on around 8. There was no ticket price; suggested donation 5 bucks. Better and better. A little past 7 I finished closing at the barn, in grubby T-shirt, schooling tights, and paddock boots. I hate dissing the opening act, even when I don't know who the opening act is, so Rhodry and I got into the truck and headed for Edgartown. Aboveground Records is located in one of those slapped-together mini-malls on the outskirts of town. The outside is tacky, but the inside is downright atmospheric -- the record co-ops I used to patronize in Washington, D.C., felt like this before they closed for good, usually because they'd screwed up their taxes and gotten too far in arrears. The early evening was crisp and clear, and plenty of people were chatting outside. At first glance none of them seemed older than 25, but then I spotted Mike, who was talking with a tall woman who was closer to our age than 25. The music hadn't started yet. I caught up with some other people I knew and met some that I didn't. The opener was a young singer-songwriter, Elisha Wiesner, who obviously was well known to the audience. He had a nice way with his guitar, his guitar had lovely tone; his songs were a lot better than his jokes, but no one expected the jokes to be anything but sick. Jemima's set wasn't long, but I loved all the songs and knew most of them. Nina Violet sat (or stood) in on violin for one song. Sons Willy (vocals and guitar) and Sam (percussion) sat in too. I heard some pretty good harmonies back where I was standing; some of it was mine. No seats in Aboveground Records, by the way; you just lean up against the record or CD bins. I saw several musician types I haven't seen all that often since Wintertide Coffeehouse closed its doors for good almost 10 years ago. I told Nikki and Kim, both accomplished performers, that I was learning guitar. They gave me good advice. I drove home bellowing along with James Keelaghan, "Follow Me Up to Carlow," and wondering if in a future life I might be able to play like Oscar Lopez. I kept thinking of the two women in James Tiptree Jr.'s story "The Women Men Don't See." They tell their companion -- one of the Men who Doesn't See them -- that women "live in the chinks of your world-machine." Martha's Vineyard may have been occupied by aliens, but the music is living in the chinks of their world-machine. Glory hallelujah!
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