It won't be long

Last night, I went to hear some friends play at The Hemlock.

Hudson Bell, Stoo, and Brian are the latest touring incarnation of Hudson's band, and this show was the first in a two-week ramble across the U.S. for the boys and their wondervan. They kicked the adventure off right with a great set of guitar madness. Snaps all around.

Between bands, I stepped outside for some air. It's a sketchy neighborhood with the usual crowd of homeless folks wandering by, so it was par for the course when one of them stopped to chat.

"Can I serenade you?" he asked. Everyone has a gimmick. Really, to the point where you expect it. Just asking for change is old. If you want my money, give me art.

"Sure," I said, empty-handed, "but I don't have any cigarettes or money for you."

"I don't smoke," he said, and launched into "Lean on Me" in a rich tenor.

Back in 1995, my first summer in the Bay Area, I had a coworker and friend named Sarah. We used to kill time between houses (canvassing door-to-door for a nonprofit) singing that tune and another soul classic, "Son of a Preacher Man." We must have put on a thousand curbside shows of each one in a dozen neighborhoods between Bernal Heights and Woodside.

So the harmonies are embedded somewhere deep in my music brain, to the point where I think it might be physically impossible for me not to sing along. I did. The guy didn't seem to notice or care, but it sounded pretty good in the end. He mumbled something I didn't catch and then shuffled away.

No profound conclusions here, epiphanies about a universal language or the brotherhood of man. It was just a breath of air and a little night music, and I appreciated them both.