We met at the Newark Valley Railroad Station at 3 o’clock. Ours were the only cars parked on the open grass field across the tracks. The trains have not traveled along these worn and rusty rails for many years. The building that once housed a ticket office and passenger waiting area is now a threadbare museum, with a long glass case holding wooden tools and other artifacts, along with old maps and several black and white photographs of people wearing stern expressions and outdated clothes. We introduced ourselves to a man in coveralls who was setting up folding chairs. Otherwise, we were alone.
Bob had arranged this job for us, and we did not know what to expect. Newark Valley (pronounced Nerk Valley, as we would learn before the night was over) is a rural community that is located nearly 20 miles from the closest mall, movie theater, or McDonald’s. To date, we had played only clubs and bars. This place served popcorn, hotdogs and soda, no alcohol. There was also no dance floor, just row after row of chairs facing the front of the room where we were setting up our gear. These people would not be here just to listen to music. They would be expecting a show. If they came out at all.
We learned that the local Historical Society sponsors an entertainment event at the station every Friday night from late June till September, that we were the first performers of the 2009 season, and that they could not anticipate whether or not anyone would actually show up to hear us. Performing musicians feed off of audience energy – the stronger that energy, the easier it is to perform at a high level. After three jobs in a row playing to no more than a handful of listeners, I was working hard to keep my enthusiasm from waning.
Once our soundcheck was completed, we went to the only restaurant in town, a pizza and pasta place just a couple of blocks away. At about 15 minutes before our start time, we gulped down the last few bites of food, paid our checks, and hustled back to the station, When we pulled into the grass lot, there were only a couple of spaces left. Inside the open doors of the building, we could see people, lots of people. A few more were milling around outside. This is just what had always wanted – a full house. Then our sound man, Kevin, pulled me aside and said, “We might be in trouble. These people will probably be expecting country music.” And suddenly I visualized the scene from The Blues Brothers movie, where the band rocks in front of a hostile crowd in a country and western bar.
Unlike Jake and Elwood, we did not have to duck any flying beer bottles as we played. Once we were into our first number, we realized that this was going to be a good night. They tapped and clapped and sang along. When we took a short break, they hung around and ordered (soft)drinks and dogs, and when we started up again they were all back in their seats. When we thanked them and said goodnight at the end of the show, the applause rose higher, and the woman in charge of the event spoke up from the refreshment counter and said, “That means they want an encore, you know.” Yes, I knew. But I was in no rush to start up again. I wanted to savor this moment for as long as possible.
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