Jun 21, 2024 4 min read

In a move both delusional and courageous, I walked with my six-string down the cement stairs into a church basement one night last week to play and sing. This would not be a public performance so much as a semi-private chance to play for a few other people.

It was a song circle, and I was the last to take my seat. Surrounding me were seven men – a few professional musicians but most not – who had come to serenade the group. We would go around the circle, each playing and singing either a cover or an original tune.

“I’m a rank beginner,” I said. I’ve been playing guitar for only a year or so; I’d only recently developed my finger calluses.

“I know eight chords,” I said.

“Three chords and the truth is all you need,” said one of them.

I’d been looking for opportunities to play and sing folk and bluegrass music with other beginners. The song circle is more a solo group, but any activity that sharpens my skills is worthwhile. Besides, knowing I’d have to play and sing in front of someone other than my dog would motivate me to improve.

“Here’s a Dylan tune,” I said when it was my turn. I played “If Not for You,” mangling the chords in the first verse and some words in the second. My palms were sweaty and so was my head, and I was shaking my knee the way I’ve always done when nervous. I was certifiably terrible. The generous group cheered and applauded, and with that, I was off on this brave endeavor.

I think people should do the things they are not very good at – the things for which they have no natural talent; things that are beyond their athletic abilities; the things that no sane person would pay to watch them do.

The second time around the circle brought a few lovely and sad original songs and a good blues tune. I played “Edelweiss” from the Sound of Music, which landed with a corny thud. Again, the group cheered me on.

I’d only prepared two songs, and the night was still young. As I waited my turn, I shuffled around in my brain to come up with something I knew, and decided I could fake my way through the Graham Nash song, “Teach Your Children.” This was not helped by my guitar being so out of tune that the man to my left reached over and handed me his tuner. I’d forgotten mine, embarrassing, and his gesture felt like he was handing me a Kleenex to wipe something from my nose.

There was a fourth go-around, and I was fresh out of songs. As the man to my right was finishing a really lovely rendition of Joni Mitchell’s “Circle Game,” I remembered I knew most of an old Irish folk song, and played it. Otherwise, I would have made a desperate move and played “Happy Birthday.”

The circle meets again in a month, and I’ll be ready with four new cover tunes. The group encouraged me to try writing my own, which seems ambitious, considering.

“When you perform your own stuff, you can’t do it wrong,” said the blues player. He – and all of them – were so encouraging, and also possibly somewhat hard of hearing.

We humans are so hemmed in by our inner critics and external expectations that we miss some real fun. I realize I’m not even close to being good enough to play and sing in front of other people. I almost didn’t go that night. I’m glad I did.