No One Showed Up

The Fool is a Muse.

The sacred is awkwardly closer than you think. 
- Bayo Akomolafe

The Godmother of Rock and Roll, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, c. 1930s

Last night I went to a bar in Manhattan to perform a show, and guess what?

No one showed up.

That’s right. Not a single soul.

Now, on one hand, I could look at this through a certain lens and scoff. How pathetic!

On the other hand, I couldn’t help but chuckle. Of course no one showed up. Behold, the work of the first Tarot Card in the deck dancing its dance right off the cliff.

Behold, The Fool.

Okay wait, let’s pause.

Let me walk this story back a few frames.

Last night I had a show at a series called Mike Geffner’s Inspired Word; Mike is a sports writer and journalist that’s also been running an incredible series for artists in New York City for 17 years.

17 years is a long ass time, ya’ll.

It’s more than a decade of hosting poets, singers, comedians, bands, and other artists in New York City; its also a labor of love that makes zero money.

In other words, Mike Geffner is a real one.

He’s an OG who’s been holding it down in the Big Apple for a long time, and he’ll go to bat for the artists under his keep if he feels venues are screwing them over. He’s seen a lot, has earned his stripes, and he’ll say exactly how he feels whenever he feels it.

If he’s annoyed with an artist for not bringing in an audience or frustrated with a venue, or verklempt over the nation’s politics, he might let you know even if you don’t want to. Being a sports writer, he connects with you through his pugnacity. (There’s a boxing metaphor somewhere in there, I’m sure.)

He can become easily irritated when things aren’t turning out well during a show and he can have a prickly attitude without really meaning to hurt you with it. Mike is turning seventy soon and, in his own words, he’s got a “crusty exterior”.

I’m really grateful to him for giving me a platform all these years. He’s really believed in my talent and my gifts and Inspired Word has been a beautiful platform for me to try my hand at live shows, mini concerts, and stages. I’ve learned a lot and I’ve grown as an artist.

Through the small concerts I’ve hosted, I’ve become more used to the stage and the nervousness that inevitably rumbles in my belly whenever I’m on a raised platform; I’ve become much more comfortable with playing acoustic guitar live; I’ve learned how to adjust to the sound of my voice on the mic, a sound that initially surprised me at my first concert.

But last night, as my time slot approached and no one arrived for the first feature act, and the first open mic arrived to an empty room, and my friend texted to say she wasn’t going to be able to make it after all, all while I was in the middle of the What The Fuck is This Grief Portal I’ve been moving through lately, Mike’s prickliness ended up being too much for me to hold.

So I left.

Somehow, I knew I needed to get out of there and be among people. Not on a stage, not on a platform, but with people.

which is really funny because I’ve been thinking I might start busking in NYC soon.

Anyway, Union Square was nearby so that’s where I went. I sat by a fountain and took in the hustle and bustle of New York City.

It’s summer now, finally, so people were out. Rollerskaters everywhere, vendors selling their wares, grown folks playing chess.

It was loud.

It was chaotic.

And it was magic: the noisy, messy, yet-somehow-still-sonorous sound of the people come alive in Summer.

One vendor played various songs like ‘Everyday I’m Hustlin’, Up by Cardi B, you know, tunes with percussive soundscapes that motivate you and boost the confidence of everyone passing by.

I settled in by playing harmonies with those songs, percussion patterns on my guitar that were in both melodic time and rhythmic time, so to speak. I did this for about an hour, maybe 90 minutes. I was struck by what others might disparagingly call the riff raff, but which was actually the beautiful diversity of the people and the panoply of sounds they made when they walked by.

The great singer songwriter Trevor Hall says that all of his lessons come in the form of sound, and in an interview with the Emerald Podcast, he and Josh Schrei spoke about how all sounds are sounds emanating from the Divine Mother of the Universe.

Like the simple conversation of humans leaving work and heading to the subway, or the phone calls bikers made as they rode through or the laughter kids shared as they danced to a song playing from the bluetooth of a skateboarder sailing by.

All of this is Her, an affirmation of the Vedic teaching of Nada Brahma: The World is Sound.

There was something trance-like about it all, something both liminal and enduring.

Next to me, two MTA workers who seemed to be on break were chilling, just talking. I walked past a man with gold chrome roller skates that were so cool. A woman yelled for ten minutes at the top of her lungs, just, hurling curse words at one of the vendors.

As I watched, I had to laugh even as I braced for conflict to burst out. This, all of this, is the magic of New York.

(Btw, nothing happened. The yelling came to a fever pitch then dissipated, just like the rest of the crowd which began to fan out as the sun started to set.)

Around 8pm, as the crowds died down, and I switched from playing notes to playing chords, I felt comfortable enough to sing.

I can’t recall what the first song was but at some point I started singing Love Runs Out by One Republic and something began to stir. The energy shifted; things became still.

I'll be your light, your match, your burning sun
I'll be the bright in black that's making you run
And we'll feel alright, and we'll feel alright
'Cause we'll work it out, yeah, we'll work it out

I'll be doing this, if you have a doubt
'Til the love runs out, 'til the love runs out 

Now, I don’t know about you but I think this song is FIRE. I fucking love it, it stirs so much in me; and One Republic’s version is fast. It’s foot-stomping, hair raising gospel and I sang it on acoustic guitar which made for a more raw, stripped down version.

There’s a sorrow in these lyrics but there’s also a triumph and a power that I hear; it’s something that sounds, at least to my ears, like redemption.

The wind of the people quieted. It slowed down. The street lights in Union Square Station turned on.

And I began to belt.

That thin, illusory veneer of separation I sometimes feel exists between me and my fellow human being, that trick of my mammalian biochemistry, began to peel away.

Sorrow does this to you, I think. Its a kind of psychedelic all on its own. It really drops you to the root, the axis mundi, the pulse at the center of the earth. I am beginning to taste the nectar of this natural acid, even as it washes me over.

A woman stopped and sat nearby. She was white and probably in her early fifties and she kept a considerable distance from me. It was clear she was troubled. She would occasionally mutter to herself, almost as if she was having an inner conflict with herself.

I’ve learned to notice troubled spirits; I know how to recognize my own. The Nigerian poet Bayo Akomolafe says that if you see a person troubled by something, know that what you’re witnessing is a Force inside them, a living energy, “the passing of a wild god."¹

Many of the teachers I’ve sat with have learned protocols for how to be in the presence of wild gods. They’ve learned from indigenous wisdom keepers how to guard themselves and protect the space.

As I took in the scene, I felt in awe of the spectacle of this as well as the quiet truth of it.

Whenever we are troubled by hard times, malignant spirits, or weary currents, each of us receive a measure of healing, even if just a spoonful, when we listen to the sturdy medicine of good music.

More than just entertainment; more than a good time; more than a way to escape: Good music is medicine, and a spoonful is often enough.

Eventually, I sang an original song, a prayer I wrote last Fall to help me work with the warp and woof of my tears. Afterwards, I sang a song by Dido called Some Kind of Love. Then came Get Up, Stand Up by Bob Marley. Next was The Cave by Mumford and Sons.

My eyes began to dampen. Some part of me was praying through the singing. I haven’t bawled my eyes out in a long time. I didn’t last night either. I am still trying to. I’m finding that singing helps my tears make the journey.

Soon, a black man, maybe in his late thirties, sat across from me. I could tell he was hesitant to come close. I liked that he respected our distances. I sang and he sat across from me and just watched. And then, another woman who appeared to be of Indian heritage, probably in her early twenties, sat right next to me and just…listened.

The stillness of that was what maybe moved me the most?

There was no fanfare, no loud whistles or bells, no words of interruption, no requests for songs. There was just a simple moment in time with humans from different walks of life, each one carriers of the divine, just like you and me, who must make the trek from birth to death just like you and me, who yearn and fear and love and cry just like you and me, maintaining their respectful distances, sitting in sacred ceremony, and listening.

I set up a Partiful invite weeks ago to bring people to my show tonight at Mike’s. I titled it Music Meditation with Chloé Simone.

Even though no one showed up at the bar, I left feeling full.

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Upcoming Offers 🪩

1. Sunday I’m DJing in Brooklyn at DLNo9 from 5pm to 8pm. Come say hi and dance with me!

2. Next Wednesday, I’m running a 2-hour virtual workshop called How To Sing. Come learn improv techniques and the fundamentals of Nada Brahma: The World is Sound. Get your tickets here.

3. I provide one-on-one spiritual counseling to individuals through my program Inner Light Counseling. If you’re interested in working one-on-one, leave me a message in the comments or DM me!

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Thank you for reading and for the gift of your attention. 🌸

1. Bayo Akomolafe. Kyah’s Courage. Web: https://www.bayoakomolafe.net/post/kyahs-courage