Mia Mia Mia

And so it happened that I noticed an SF show, while checking in with Mia Doi Todd on MySpace. She'd been lurking in my top friends for some time, though I hadn't listened to or thought about her music in months.

The Make Out Room on 22nd is a kitschy bar known for its dance DJs. I'd never seen a live performance there. Bart Davenport had a sweet voice and charming stage presence, though still I managed to distract myself at the bar.

Once again, just as at the last show, I swirled around in my stool and was looking straight into smiling eyes. I - naturally - quickly looked away only to lose that gaze to the stage. Luck resumed with a chair opening up at a front row table, and the show began.

Mia pumped her harmonium with her foot while fingerpicking artfully on a nylon string guitar accompanied by a bookish fellow in orange-button-up on congas, cajon, and other hand percussion. The setup was exceptional. Warm and rich tones, good balance between rhythm and melody. Mia is a good song writer, intellectual yet open hearted, I tried not to stare.

I thanked her and her accompanist more than once, but still yearned to dig in with my will. How could I ask a stranger to join me for something personal? But music, with her. What a communion. Aren't people looking for that? I certainly stand by what I could offer, and yet I don't know her, she's on stage, and this is the kind of mentality that drives people mad. But is it? I mean, continuity is the path of existence, and shouldn't people find ways to interact, and pass along their ways, and wares, and arts?

And so I left quickly, annoyed by my own arrogance or peculiar sense of ambition. I don't know what it's like to be immersed in music as a profession. To create and get by with it. To accept it as your identity and be accepted by a public who offers presence and attention.

Perhaps in that state, musicians abound, and opportunities for collaboration or concert are neverending. But from where I sit, the music swells in me and stretches to grab the next pool of support like droplets combining as they drip along glass. Mia Doi Todd, won't you sing with me. I'll wrap your voice in the sing song clicks of my fingertips and pull at your melodies with the gentle harmony of timidity.

Or maybe I'll just show up for another show the next time you're around. Thanks in advance for the entertainment.