R, a guy who works for me, is in a band that is slowly making a name for itself here in Portland. R is young, maybe 26, and is a classically trained pianist. And I don’t mean “classically trained” the way 90 percent of pop stars say they’re “classically trained” in a pathetic bid to enhance their rep, when by “classically trained” they really mean their mom forced them to take piano until they were 13. “Classically trained” to R means he can actually play classical music—Chopin, Debussy, Bach, you know, classical music—and not suck at it. My friend C and I once heard the sound of him playing on the upright piano in his classroom, making our normally dim, depressing corridor resemble something you might find at Julliard. C and I took our lunches in and got a free classical recital for the next 40 minutes. Sometimes my job isn’t the worst on earth.
Meanwhile, my book is lurching along toward completion. Naturally, with multiple drafts behind me, I figured some research was finally in order. R allowed me to watch his band rehearse tonight in a warehouse-like venue under the Morrison Bridge. They worked on four songs from their new album, made even cooler by the addition of a 19-member choir, which they plan to have rise up out of the audience tomorrow night and join in as the band starts to play. Not only did R answer all of my questions about life in a band, I decided that maybe the idea of a choir might, itself, play into my book somewhere. My climatic final performance scene needs to be rewritten, anyway. Why not throw in a choir?
Another little bit from tonight—me being me—was a more than passing interest in some of the performers. Yes, the women. The members of R’s group come from a predominantly religious background, though they don’t play religious music at all. Still, for lack of a better term, there’s a wholesome vibe in the room whenever they perform. R idly invited me to his Christmas party last year, and I kind of surprised him by showing up. They had booze at the party and things were pretty loud. But standing by the kitchen were the wives, imploring the band members to put down their beers and Guitar Hero and join in for some Christmas caroling. It was Jesus’ birthday, after all. The month before, the first time I went to one of the band’s performances, I arrived late. I asked someone in the crowd how she liked the show, and she kind of wrinkled her nose. “I’m getting kind of a Bible camp feel,” she said, and began heading for the door. Seeing as how I really respect R and his musical ambitions, I kind of took offense at what she said, even though I have next to no personal investment in the band at all. The music was good, the lyrics thoughtful, the bar packed with people having a good time. What was her problem?
I’m not religious. But I don’t hate religious people. I just can’t do it, no matter how easy they can be to hate, and no matter how much social pressure I get in this town to ridicule anything and anyone of faith. In fact, I rather admire the religious people I meet who happen to be young and smart. Not everyone who was raised in a church acts like the fat chick in Jesus Camp. It’s always nice to see young people indiscriminately doing something other than pot, chaos, and each other. After a year in Portland, I still love this city. But the tattoos and the piercings and the “fuck everything” ethic are starting to get on my nerves. Every time I see R’s band, I’m reminded that being in your 20’s doesn’t have to mean abusing your body or dressing like a stripper.
Tonight, I felt a curious mix of emotion leaving the rehearsal. R is leaving my school to start his teaching practicum at the end of the month. I’ll miss having him around. The music itself was ethereal and triggered a lot of sad memories. The performers were so talented, and so attractive, and so young. So it wasn’t hard to feel something else as I left the venue, just a trace of that most sinful of emotions: envy. Envy at R’s band for their talents and more than a little envy at the lively, beautiful women and their friends who joined their husbands on stage. I do hope that 90 minutes with people very unlike myself might actually enhance a story as personal as my book. You might call it a minor miracle.
