It's Always Sunny in Frisco

It's always sunny in Frisco - at least, it is, when I visit. "Have you been to Frisco?" I asked the gentleman who picked me up from the airport in Sacramento. "Yeah, I've been Fresno, once," he replied. "No, Frisco," I said. "Oh, is San Francisco called Frisco for short?" the photographer asked me. I nodded and shook my head somehow at the same time. Until earlier this evening, I had thought Henry* was younger than I was and I would have chalked up his ignorance to Bay-area-specific vernacular to his youthful naivety. But as he'd informed me on this balmy evening, he was 40 years old.

Henry took me to my hotel which doubled as a photo studio. I had one more photo shoot scheduled, early afternoon the following day, in Concord. Then after finding my hotel in San Francisco, and changing into my show clothes, I was to head to the venue, where I'd be putting on a different kind of show. The photo shoots usually paid for the trip and part of my monthly salary, and then any cash proffered by a venue owner would be just enough to buy me the rest of my drinks for the evening (the ones not covered by the two drink tickets most clubs supply us musicians with), or some late night food, or my last BART ride back to the airport. But this trip was different: my shoots did pay as handsomely as ever, but the club I was going to be playing at was going to compensate me and the other acts on the bill generously. But when it came time to head out of my hotel room for the show, I began to feel like an impostor.

When I had told my friend, Kim, who lives near SF, where I would be playing at, she responded that El Rio was "kind of a big deal". I had been excited but it subsided as I got back into the routine of doing other jobs until it was time to leave for the Bay. An uber driver picked me up the night of the concert, in front of my hotel. He saw my guitar and asked me if I was playing at the famous gay bar that he was driving me to.

"I am," I replied.

"Oh, then you must be good! That place is kind of a big deal!" he exclaimed.

Oh boy, was I feeling nervous now? I told him this, and he suggested in his thick accent, that I relax and have fun. "As long as you're having fun, the crowd will have fun"! he reasoned.

I thought about people who were technically skilled, getting up on stage to perform music, and sometimes being tired of touring, or maybe just tired of life, and they sing and pluck their notes flawlessly but they don't put out any magic. It is like they are on E. Not the fun kind of E, no: empty. They have no energy to give the crowd, and the crowd wonders what they came for and why they are feeling disappointed by a night of music that was presented without any flubs, simultaneously. So perhaps I'd be alright even if I flubbed some of the chords or lines in the songs, as I was giving out the right vibe to the crowd.

Renaldo, my driver, had changed subjects and was offering me suggestions for dinner. I told him I had been hoping to find tacos near the venue. He stated that the Mission was rife was Mexican food, and I told him that I'd written a song about the Mission because I love so many things about it, including all of the delicious Mexican food. He told me that he and his family live in the Mission district and that they were from Mexico originally. I was his last fare, he told me, before heading home. He told me he'd listen to my music on youtube, and asked if he could open the car door for me when we arrived at El Rio.

He held the door open for me and I climbed out, feeling electricity run through my veins. I took a picture of myself, guitar strapped to my back, standing in front of El Rio. And then I quickly left on my quest for tacos.

The taqueria didn't have any tacos I could eat, only a burrito, but I had no complaints. I dashed back to the venue after devouring half and placing the other half in my purse (carefully wrapped in tin foil first). My stomach went from full to tight as I entered the club. I found the other musicians on the bill fairly quickly, a couple of whom I'd already met. One was telling me he admired the way I did things, with my weekend tours. He already knew that I was also a model. But somehow I went back to that feeling of being a fraud, someone who'd eventually be found undeserving of decent pay and a regal stage. Musicians back home paid me similar compliments and spoke of how they longed to get out on the road and get paid for playing music. Every once in a blue moon, on a drunken night, I'd tell them, "It's easy, but you might have to let people photograph you in your underwear sometimes."

I am grateful to have my modeling to bring me extra income and to pay for my trips, but I would love to be able to say one day that it was merely my music that was enabling me to hop from town to town. I'd say I'm retiring that old corset and those treacherous stilettos in favor of folking up more bars -- but in truth I know I'd still be using the stilettos to climb up on stage and tap my tambourine beneath my foot.

The person who booked the venue had listened to my music, and had ostensibly enjoyed it. Why are you sitting around questioning your ability to rock? I wondered. I had not only booked El Rio, famous Mission-area dive that had originated as a bar for leather daddies in the seventies, but they had asked me to build the entire line-up for the night. It was to include other artists who were good, who were LGBT-identified, and who could bring a crowd. And the night would be a success. I could already tell that before the opening act even when on, as people began to saunter in during his sound check.

My friend Kim was one of the wanderers who wandered in. We got a drink and then I showed her to the back room behind the bar, where all of the shows were held. We caught up a little. I was so excited to see her. I told her that if all the people who had filed in to see Eli stayed and watch my set, I would pee my pants.

After Eli's solid set, I climbed up onto the stage and assumed my position in front of the mic. I started out with my popular song, Not the Girl Next Door, and the audience's chatter quickly subsided. I felt that rush you get from pulling from all sides of the room the eyes and ears of everyone. I mentally crossed out some of the songs from the set list and inserted some others. When you have them right there with you, you do your best to intuit how to keep them there.

The crowd stayed with me til the very end, when I slid off the stage, just a melted puddle of love. As I made my way back to my friend, people stopped me to tell me they loved my warble. I thanked them and felt appreciative of them, and of my warble. Someone stopped me and told me he loved the song I had sung which I had prefaced with a comment about my grandmother saying it was her favorite tune even though I thought it was kind of dark. He explained that he liked what I said about my grandmother, because she was also his aunt, and "my name is Tom by the way," he added. My long lost cousin!

"I've heard about you! I'm so glad we're finally meeting!" I exclaimed.

"Well, actually I met you once, but you were in diapers. You've definitely upgraded your wardrobe since then!" he said, gesturing toward my little red dress.

After thanking him, I introduced him to Kim and we watched the Sweet Trade play a killer set. Tom let me hit his weed pen. He bemoaned how watching Jeopardy with my grandmother, a card-carrying MENSA member, was maddening as he had never gotten any of the questions figured out before she threw out every answer. I nodded and laughed, told him I knew what he meant. We all got download cards for the Sweet Trade's enchanting album, "the Huntress and the Gardener". After getting paid and saying goodbye to everyone, Kim and I rushed off for a nightcap at the Royal Cuckoo. I had seen it on the way to El Rio, had looked online to find that its staff only spun vinyl, and I liked the name of the joint, so I had suggested it. Kim's eyes lit up upon entering the place: some players were blowing horns and pecking out piano notes and making jazz. "Dude! How do we always find the coolest bars?" I asked her. Last time we'd left a gig together, in Oakland, we wound up drinking Sazeracs at a New Orleans-themed bar. Jazz and the Bay Area fit together in my head romantically, as I had grown up reading Kerouac and Ginsberg.

Outside on the patio, we met a couple from Mexico City and a man who was originally from Alaska but now lived in the Mission. They asked me to play my guitar so I did, and then they never let me put it away. After enough drinks, I managed to cajole Kim into playing the tambourine for me. It was a lovely evening even as a chill set in. The winds picked up and blew us back over to the taqueria. Kim bought a burrito for herself and I ate the leftover half in my bag, while we made more plans for beatific adventures in Frisco. I'd been so many times, but this time, I let myself feel as if I'd really made it. And I knew that I'd be back.

*All photographer and uber driver names changed to preserve anonymity.