This was originally written in published in 2015 in JUXine, an idealistic artistic endeavor that I eventually abandoned.
Nicolas and I had just immigrated, and had ended up in downtown San Jose from a sleepy southern French town in November of 2011. We had begun renting a one-bedroom apartment in between Japantown and the Hensley District.
New to the area, we were on the prowl for nightlife, so we’d hoof it around town looking for a venue with a line coming out of it, or a group of smokers shooting the shit outside. I could always tell a potential happening spot by the amount of smokers hanging around outside.
I could always tell a potential happening spot by the amount of smokers hanging around outside.
If they were clustered quietly in a group silently puffing rather than making raucous banter, the better the club. Their reserve showed that what was going on inside had rendered them speechless.
San Jose’s bus station is on Santa Clara St. Like most cities, the main line in and out of town made that location a home for the homeless, the wanderers, and nomads. On this same strip of road is Johnny V’s. It is in the every sense of the word, a dive.
That night, as we walked past the small club, past a smell of urine, and clouds of cigarette smoke, I heard the sound of a cello wafting through the dingy curtains that masked the dark interior.
I tapped Nico’s shoulder, “Hey!! We gotta go in!” Nicolas looked at me and peered at the yellow sign above the entrance, “Johnny V’s? It looks…” He glances up and down Santa Clara before we make a beeline for the door. Nico has always been a sucker for a good dive. A local watering hole where you can meet the people in town who have something in common from way back. People who aren’t just starting up, but have memories of a place before it became a place (or maybe for SJ, memories of place before it lost its sense of place).
People who aren’t just starting up, but have memories of a place before it became a place (or maybe for SJ, memories of place before it lost its sense of place).
So we stand in front of the bouncer, a young kid in a denim jacket decorated with old punk rock patches and safety pins, and hand him our ids. He greets us with a raised eyebrow, from behind a cheap rolling desk where his cash box his. His eyes dart from us and then back to his paperback, a dog-eared and pencil-marked copy of Nietzsche’s collected writings.
“Hi. It’ll be $5,” he says, not looking up, still reading with one eyebrow cocked.
“Who’s playing tonight,” I ask as hand him a ten.
He begins to answer as he places the book down to stamp my wrist but is interrupted by the feedback ofa microphone, and the high-pitched falsetto voice of a singer. “Tip tip tip your barrrrrr — -ten — — der, tip tip tip, ten-der-ly!” the vocalist speak sings before launching into a full fledged jam with his four piece band.
I look at Nico and mouth, “What the fuck?” The philosopher/bouncer parts the red curtains and we enter a dingy David Lynch tableau.
The singer, with a wisp of an ashy goatee sits on the edge of the low stage, a dulcimer in his hands. On his right is a blonde cellist, wearing a beanie. Her dimples deepen with an intense smile as she bows her cello. She’s improvising as the singer continues his riff on tipping. I glance at her and smile the “I’m a cellist, too!” smile that demonstrates we are of the same pack. Her bright blue eyes meet mine for a second, and she grins shyly, pulling the beanie down past her eyebrows.
As the falsetto continues, she gets up for second, placing her sunshine-colored cello back in its case. With her bow in one hand, she steps off the stage and walks to the front of the bar to order a PBR.
The bartender and cellist chat for a moment. The bartender grabs a can of beer from a silver tub and hands it to her, gesturing, “Absolutely not! You don’t need to pay!” as the cellist hands her a wad of cash. After some back and forth, the cellist puts the cash on the bar and takes the can, walking back to the stage. As she departs, the bartender watches, a smile on her face. The money remains on the counter the rest of the night until someone finally places it in the band tip jar.
Nico and I have been sitting, sipping our drinks and listening to the jam band. When the cellist leaves the stage again, I watch her. She takes a couple sips of beer and then places the can behind her cello case, reaching for a pack of smokes stashed away in the same place. Grabbing her coat, she heads to the exit and leaves.
“I’ll be right back!” I say yell into Nico’s ear over the jamming of drums, dulcimer, and djembe. Nico nods, knowing I’m going to meet another member of the cello herd.
Outside again, I scan the sidewalk for the blonde-haired musician. I spot her instantly, leaning against the wall of the venue, fluorescent lit and smoking quietly. She has one foot on the ground and the other resting on the wall, her knee bent, and her head cast down, with a veil of ash blonde hair masking her face.
I realize I don’t know what to say. I just want to meet her. I am standing awkwardly in my oversized wool coat that is better suited for a November in Denver than in the Bay and just look at her. As I muster up the courage to say, “I loved your cello playing!” she begins studying my face.
“Hey!” she says, “Is your cello’s name Cordelia? Are you Freya?”
Mouth gaping, I say hesitantly, because I’m totally startled, “Yes… my name’s Freya and I do… play a cello named Cordelia. How do you…know…??”*
“Know that? Know you?” she finishes my pause, stamping out her cigarette on the bottom of her shoe.
She grins a huge grin, shrugs and says, “You live in France, but you’re from Colorado. What brings you here?”
My eyes widen in shock. She senses my utter disbelief and quickly says, “We were Myspace friends! Remember?! We added each other in 2005 because we both have cellos named Cordelia!!!!”
A flash of remembrance!
Time warp back to 2005 in Denver…
I am an undergraduate at MSCD and recently begun dating Nicolas after meeting him at a goth club in LoDO called Rock Island. At the time, I had just begun renting an apartment with my best friend Maria and would spend an inordinate amount of time piggybacking on my neighbor’s Wifi.
I distinctly remember the day that I added Natasha ( her name revealed!!). I was pursuing cello related things online (still a favorite pastime) and looked up all the cellists I could find on Myspace. Natasha’s screen name was Miss Fortune, and I remember her profile photo was a red tinted picture of her in a bobbed-haircut playing cello in front of an out of focus band behind her.
Clicking through her profile I was fascinated by the pictures of her with what looked like a hiphop/circus/rock band in full costume makeup. In one particular photo, she sat on a bench by herself, her cello next to her. Her head and eyes were cast down the same way she looked when I saw her at Johnny V’s, leaning against the wall.
The caption on the photo read, “Me and my cello Cordelia.”
It happened that my cello had the same first name (It’s just a thing that most instrumentalists do, we name our axes). Excitedly, I commented in all caps, “My cello is named Cordelia,too!”
That began an exchange of messages on Myspace that continued up until the point when the bland, white interface of Facebook took over. By the time we actually met in 2011, we had been following each other’s lives online for years.
Natasha used to keep an updated concert listing on Myspace that gave recommendations and shout-outs about local concerts she was either involved in or thought were worth going to. The sheer number of successful projects she participated in was staggering, and her excellent taste in local music was a curated delight on Myspace’s message boards (God! Facebook is not a place for music, is it?)
Time travel to 2011
Natasha and I stare at each other before finally squealing, “HOLY SHIT!” in unison, bursting into laughter. We hug each other hard the way old friends do and then go silent before an onslaught of get to know you’s begins.
We hug each other hard the way old friends do and then go silent before an onslaught of get to know you’s begins.
As we chatter we learn that we are neighbors! Separated only by a few blocks!
Nicolas walks out of Johnny V’s and looks at us, surveying the scene. Before he can introduce himself, we pull him into our chatter box and update him on the Absolutely incredible coincidental MAGIC that has just happened, six years in the making!
As we venture back into the bar, still hurridly talking, Natasha approaches the stage where Cordelia awaits her, a spotlight of blue lighting the varnished instrument.
“Can I play her?” I ask without speaking.
Tash undoes the Velcro strap that holds her baby in place and says, as she hands her cello over, “I don’t let anyone play her. But you have a Cordelia, too. I know it’s okay!”
I sit down, and Tash pulls the endpin out, and I situate the instrument as she hands me her bow. “We’ve both got Cordelias! They’ve gotta meet.”
I play the opening of the prelude to the 3rd Bach suite.
I am totally startled by the sound. I didn’t notice the amp next to the case, and the ¼” cable plugged into the cello’s pickup. It’s the first time I’ve ever played amplified. As the descent of the C major scale crescendos to the open C string, the fat sound fills the bar.
We both look at each other and laugh. She knows exactly how good it feels to play a moment of Bach in a dive bar.
She knows exactly how good it feels to play a moment of Bach in a dive bar.
Everyone turns, surveying us on stage. They smile into their beers, quiet for a moment. The reverb of the open string is still present.
I hand Cordelia back as Tash’s band mates return, signaled by the cello. I clear out, as I exit, Tash and I silently acknowledge each other.
Nico and I walk home along 2nd street, past St. James park toward Japantown. I grab Nicolas’ hand, hurrying him along. I want to go home to play. Cordelia is waiting.