10 October 2002
New England Retrospective

(I'm going to have to get better at writing entries while they're relevant. The Nashville journal never happened at all; I'll give New England a shot before it's receded into history.)

"You mean I was supposed to get paid?"

This during a conversation with Michael Tarlowe of Virt Records on Sunday afternoon, September 29. He'd come down for the show on Friday night in New York, and had been pleasantly surprised at the filled-to-capacity room, and how quiet it had been during my set. He hoped, he added, that I'd done well enough by the tip jar to help pay my airfare. To which I answered: "Tip jar?"

But that was the only thing that went wrong all weekend. All other potential snags were quickly solved by complete strangers -- "new friends" is a better term -- who kept showing up as if by magic my entire time on the east coast.

First it was the New York law students. After the show I was hungry and too excited to go straight to bed, and dubious as to how I was going to get my luggage, keyboard and stand up to my friend's Kelly's fourth-floor apartment, where I was staying. But pretty much the entire front row of the audience came up to me at the bar, introduced themselves as new fans, and proceeded to invite me to dinner. "That'd be wonderful!" I said. "But there's the small problem of my gear..." Quickly they dispatched two from their party to get me a taxi and to carry my things. Shawei directed the taxi driver; Lawrence bravely lugged my Yamaha all the way up the zigzagging stairwell. I could hardly believe my good fortune.

To Chinatown next, and the downstairs banquet room where the group was just getting ready to order Peking duck with all the fixings. Introductions were made, and I learned how they had come to end up at the Living Room that night: one of the guys, Colin, had a west-coast fan of mine for a friend, and she had emailed him insisting that he go check out the Vienna Teng show in New York. I learned two other things that evening: one, that law school students are rarely at a loss for lively conversation; and two (to my chagrin and admiration), that it's possible to be fluent in Cantonese, Taiwanese and Mandarin when one is an American-born Chinese. I hardly noticed the time passing, but eventually it crept past midnight and we got up from the teahouse table to leave.

Ever the gentleman, Lawrence held an umbrella over my head as we walked to the corner in an early autumn thunderstorm, and directed the cabbie back to my friend's place on 3rd. When I turned my borrowed key in the door and peered in, there was a note lying on a stack of neatly folded sheets and towels: "Food on the 3rd shelf up is mine and you should help yourself. Here is a map to help you find the train station. Good luck with the rest of your tour! - Kelly"

I began to get a sense of the life a traveling minstrel might have led, when things were going well: perpetually grateful for the kindness of others, a first-hand witness to what is good in human nature. There was Jeff Wasilko, who offered to host a concert at his house without ever having met me or heard my music, and brought a most delightful group of people to come listen. There was the other Kelly, Jeff's friend, who came cheerfully to the rescue when I realized that there was no microphone for Saturday's show. There was Michael Curry and his friend Jen and Tabor and all the others, who welcomed me like an old friend as we laughed across a table in a Thai restaurant and later at the ice-cream parlor next door. There were the Wens, retired friends of my parents, who were more than happy to chaffeur me all over Boston, to give me a beautiful place to stay, and to observe with fascination the curious life of a full-time musician.

Whatever they say about slimeballs, jerks and creeps in the music business, I'm telling you I haven't met one yet. (In Nashville I stayed at a B&B where the owner Cathy would holler after me in the morning, "Vienna, you aren't goin' anywhere 'til you've had some waffles and orange juice!" My first dinner in town was at the producer's house, where his young son shyly offered me a very smooshed Tootsie Roll.)

The list keeps going: Andy, sound man for House of Blues Cambridge, the epitome of the laid-back professional; dear Michael, who I swear is going to give himself an ulcer from working so hard on our behalf, and who was responsible for the jam-packed house on Sunday; his long-suffering wife Dafna, who came along to help with merchandise. ("I'm sorry," I said. "Given how much he's at work, I imagine he's hardly around these days." "Well," she said ruefully, "I try to get him home for dinner at least.") Everywhere I turned there were people ready to make friends, eager to encourage, pleased to go out of their way to help. It was almost possible, almost, to believe that the world might always work this way.

Or maybe it just works that way in New England.

From the deepest places of the heart, thank you to everybody I met on that brief little trip. Oh, I got paid, believe me. Riches that only appreciate with time.

- VT