I was bored and restless, and scrubbing the toilet wasn’t doing it for me, so I decided to arm myself with my bodhran (a.k.a. the Celtic drum) and go down to the local Irish pub. I learned to play the bodhran in Boston, where there are seisiuns on about every corner. At a seisiun, any musician can show up and play, no matter their ability. Some groups are more lenient than others and welcome literally anyone. Others have an unspoken rule that the people who join in have to at least be able to complement the music, or they won’t be particularly appreciated and would never be offered free drinks from the house. By the time I left Boston for California, I was good enough to play some of the more challenging venues. I was even imparted with a couple free Guinness’ by the end of the night, though I always knew my place .

It was a mild California evening so I decided to take my restlessness to O’Sullivan’s Pub just a few blocks from my house. I strapped my beloved drum over my shoulder and started walking. I arrived and found a seat - the one I usually get in the far corner at the back of the place. I ordered a Guinness from the fine-looking young Irishman I was fortunate enough to be assigned to. I asked him, “Who’s playing tonight”? I had hoped it would be Highland Way, because Brian and Paul, the members of the band, are always gracious and let me share their music in an impromptu fashion.

I was told that a new seisiun was to start on Mondays, and the player tonight was a musician who would be going solo. I decided I’d wait for the new seisiun and wouldn’t try to interject myself into his solitary routine, remembering that there is certain etiquette one must follow in music.

I stayed and ordered onion rings, so my cute Irish waiter wouldn’t go away empty-handed on my account. The table next to me was arguing about whether men or women make worse drunks. Three men in starched white shirts were at the corner of the bar, doing and talking about the things men in starched white shirts do on a Saturday evening at the pub. MTV was featuring "old" musicians on the large screen in front. There was no sound. While I waited for the night’s entertainment I stared at Steve Miller and John Denver, imagining what they were sharing about their high-times.

After an hour or so of this I wasn't willing to wait another hour for the lone player. While I'm sure the music would have been fine, I set out for home. As I walked down the block, I remembered that there is that little place around the corner called “Metaphor Café”. It offers open mike and music almost every night. I changed my direction and headed for the possibility of playing.

I arrived at the corner doors of the Metaphor. It was nearly empty except for a newly introduced couple sharing a bottle of wine, and two entrepreneurs setting up to sell T-shirts, sweatshirts, and CDs for the night’s attraction. I decided to stay and see who was playing, since I was told they would begin in less than an hour, and I really wanted to see what the Metaphor would turn into once the night began. A feeling that I was about to experience something unique to me turned restlessness into curious anticipation.

There was a small TV hovering over the poorly lit bar. Sports highlights flashed excitedly on the screen. Again - no sound. Not wanting to sit in another chair and stare at another screen, I decided to ask the man who appeared to be the owner of the T-shirt vending operation if he and his partner needed some help, "I’ve got retail experience?” After giving me and each other suspicious glances, the portable shop-keepers decided they’d be happy to have the extra pair of hands. I submerged myself in sorting by size, slogan, and shirt-style.

Here I was, neatly stacking T-shirts and sweatshirts on unbalanced card tables and old, sticky bar stools. I strategically placed metal auto-shop lights I had been provided. I hooked them up to chair backs and curtain rods, pointing them toward the arrangements. This crude lighting placement illuminated the collection in an effective way, resembling the bulleted lights of police helicopters searching for their prey, pinpointing the slogans: “F*CK YOU BITERS”; “TAXES: LEGALIZED ROBBERY?”; and other defiant messages.

After reading through all the shirts (of which there were only black with white letters), I was prompted to ask my new business partners, “What kind of music is playing tonight?”, and “Do you think I might be able to play my bodhran?” Stupid question but I had to ask.

The group performing at the Metaphor was a Hip-hop band called “C-RAYZ WALZ“. Hip-hop…I’ve listened to my kids’ CDs and have heard it in trendy clothing stores and commercials, but I’d never had the chance to be with the people who love the music and the musicians who give it to them.

My curiosity opened a floodgate of conversation about music. The T-shirt vendors were eager to share their feelings about “Biters” - wannabes who steal a good Hip- hop sound and commercialize it, making it ordinary. Not unlike any young people over the centuries, these people are struggling to be independent. They want to hear something they can identify with that is all their own. At the same time they want something that won’t be copied and its meaning to them diminished.

After sharing our mutual appreciation for music, my new friends were curious about my bodhran, and what kind of music it was for, and why in Hell I thought I could play it to Hip-hop? With what I‘d learned and heard of the music they loved, I told them my beloved bodhran wouldn’t be the least bit complementary. I decided not to pursue the idea. Again, musicians do have to follow etiquette, if not common sense.

I leaned against the beam that separated the over-twenty-one side of the place from the under and watched as a few open mike Hip-hop artists entertained the gradually swelling crowd. I was still feeling a bit out of place, which made even more eager to stay. Earlier while setting up shop, I was told by my new boss the T-shirt dude that I HAD to stay for the headliner. These guys were the real deal, he said. A fresh sound that has yet to be duplicated, and it would be a privilege to watch, listen and hear them. As we took in the primer acts, the boss bought me a drink for helping with the shirts, and I thanked him for turning me on to his music.

Once the real deal got on stage and started playing, I could hear and feel the difference between their sound and the "wannabe" stuff I’ve heard on the radio in the car with my kids. Just like the boss said along with one of his T-shirts, “YOU DON‘T HEAR HIP HOP ON THE RADIO“. It was fresh. It was exciting. It was raw. I could feel what the rest of the people in the room appreciated so much about it. It’s not “my” music, it’s theirs, but it is compelling music that stirs emotion. That’s what real, good music is intended to be.

It started to rain lightly and it was nearly closing time. It was time to go. I left the Metaphor but took the experience with me, and carefully tucked it into my memory like I do my bodhran into its case. Now whenever I take my drum out to play I think first of the joy that music has brought to me, and then the experiences I’ve had because of it. One day, I may just try to play to Hip-hop with that drum.

Valerie Stoddard