Dec 1, 2023 4 min read

We decided to call ourselves The Log Cabin Guys- a nod to the home my singing partner-guitar teacher built, and also to the woodsy nature of the music we like. At the start of Thursday evening, we told the host our name and he added it to the list of musical acts that would be performing.

It was open mic night at a brewery, an event that invites musicians to step onto the space in front of the enormous, shiny fermentation tanks and sing or play a few tunes.

My trip up onto that stage began when I was in junior high and, hearing Joni Mitchell singing “Both Sides Now,” decided that I, too, could become a chick with a guitar. I would sit on my bed and sing along to the three chords I learned. But the strings hurt my fingers, so I gave up on the guitar and just kept with the piano and saxophone.

Fifty years later, it was time to try again. I bought an inexpensive guitar and began watching tutorials on youtube. I remembered those three chords and then added another five, enough to strum my way through most beginner songs.

I met a man who’d been playing guitar all his life. We’d listen to bluegrass and folk music on his vinyl records and then we’d practice. Although he’s a big fan of live music of all kinds, he’s a bit shy; when I suggested we play at the open mic, he was reluctant. But we practiced and practiced, and Thursday night would be the night.

The Log Cabin Guys were eighth in the lineup. The emcee walked onto the stage to announce us.

“And now ladies and gentlemen,” he said. My hand was shaking as I held my guitar by the neck as we waited offstage.

“Introducing, the Lumberjack Guys!!”

Wait…what did he just call us? Maybe it was the red flannel shirt my pal was wearing. Maybe it was the emcee’s confusion around “ax” being slang for guitar. Whatever, the Lumberjack Guys walked onto the stage and began.

First, a Dylan tune, which I sang and strummed as my partner backed me up with picking. I do sing in tune, but my voice is not pretty. Next up an old gospel song; he sang lead and I sang harmony. Next, a John Denver song (“Leaving on a Jet Plane,” obviously), and we rounded out the set with a festive rendition of “Feliz Navidad,” which was an octave too high for my alto voice.

I was certifiably putrid. My fellow lumberjack was good, but his skill could not outweigh my rank beginner fumbling.

And yet it was all so much fun, because the crowd was pulling for us. As I struggled to keep up with some tricky chord changes, I looked up to see two men clapping and singing along, as if to will me back into sync. It helped that we sang familiar songs, because people who’ve had a few beers do like to sing along. Or maybe those in the audience were thinking: lady lumberjack needs some help up there.

I now have a new appreciation for skilled professional performers who do this night after night. I’m glad nobody had to pay to hear me perform.

Will we do it again? I don’t know. It was nerve-racking playing in front of all those people. But once we got going my hand stopped shaking and I felt happy in the moment. For 15 minutes I was a chick with a guitar, and the crowd was with us.