Liverpool singer-songwriter John Jenkins and is one of our “most compelling voices in folk, Americana, and country,” as his press accurately describes him. Having seen him play live with his regular musical partner, Pippa Murdie, in a pub in Bath some time ago, I can understand where the inspiration for this story came from. John tells us that his ideal image to go with this would be of Willie Nelson queuing up to see a Willie Nelson tribute artist. You can find his latest song, Too Many Roads, at the bottom of the story.
Just One of Those Nights
by John Jenkins
One of these days, I’ll get around to telling my story, the whole sweep of my life experiences. I won’t be telling it because I’m famous. I’m not. Am I known? Not really. So why burden anyone with the story of my life? A relatively unknown music artist, and more to the point, who would read it?
Well, I’ll answer the last question first. You may read it, as you’re reading these words right now, this very minute. Which goes to show that something I’ve written can find its way into the hands of the most obscure people. Don’t take that last bit personally, by the way.
So why write it? Well, I’m a writer, a songwriter first, and writing is what I do. “Three chords and the truth,” they say over here in Nashville. I know about ten chords myself, so sometimes the truth and imagination can blur.
It’s a strange old life, being in the music business, especially as an Americana singer-songwriter. For a start, I’ve never been any good at explaining what Americana actually is. People ask, I stumble through a description, and they look at me as if I’ve just tried to explain the NFL rulebook to a houseplant. Truthfully, they wouldn’t care even if I could explain it. Being a performer is a life of highs and lows. The lows are low enough to make you consider calling it quits, and the highs, when they do arrive, are just bright enough to convince you it’s all worthwhile. I like to tell people it’s “an even field,” but if I’m honest, my field slopes gently toward the sadder end of the scale.
I tell this story at shows, and it always gets a laugh, though I wish it weren’t true. Once, I put ten CDs out on the merch table. When the show was over, there were eleven. I still don’t know whether I miscounted at the start or whether someone quietly returned one they’d bought earlier out of pity. Either way, it’s not the sort of thing that builds confidence.
Confidence is a strange beast. I’m brave enough to put myself forward for events and opening slots, but the non-replies, the polite promises that never materialise, they chip away at whatever confidence I’ve managed to gather. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard, “Oh yes, Matt, I’ve got you down for a future spot,” only to never hear another word. Even musical friends who get bookings easily, the sort you’d imagine might think of me for an opening gig, never seem to send anything my way.
Am I lousy? Am I good? I like to think I’m pretty decent, but not everyone is honest. Occasionally someone will say, “That was wonderful,” or “Your songs are super,” and I cling to those moments. Then there was the time a friend held one of those “special” shows, an album launch, or perhaps a celebration of being sober for a month. He invited practically every mutual musician friend to play. Except me. Then he told the audience, “I was going to get Matt up, but he can’t sing.” Everyone laughed. I laughed too, though I felt like crying. He’s still wondering who cut his guitar strings later that night. You’d think he’d have guessed.
Every now and then someone tells me my voice is wonderful, and it confuses me all over again.
I went to see Shelby Breeden at a new venue just down the road from Henson County train station.
It’s called The Falls, and it’s a great place. I had the usual pointless conversation with the owner.
Me: I’m a singer. Here’s my card. Any chance of a gig? Him: How many followers have you? Me: In
Henson County? I don’t know. Him: Don’t know? You need a following before I can give you a gig.
Me: How do I get a following if no one will let me play here so people can decide they want to
follow me? Him: That’s your problem.
And off he went to restock the beer cooler. I stood there with no gig and no beer.
My buddy Dan, who loves young female country singers with a twang in their voice, just smiled at
my determination. “I don’t know why you bother,” he said. “They only want young, pretty girls in
cowboy hats and boots. You don’t fit the job description, the unwritten one.”
“But what if I were Willie Nelson?” I asked, still eyeing the beer cooler hopefully.
“Willie Nelson wouldn’t get a gig if he were starting out now,” Dan said. “Maybe in a nursing home,
but he’d have to play songs they knew.”
I pondered this. Would they remember the songs? He’d only need to play one all day. Dan was right.
If Willie Nelson were ‘Bob Stewart’ and wanted a gig at The Falls, he’d struggle. Good job he started
seventy years ago.
I know I come across as getting the short end of the stick, but it’s difficult not to. I’m a glass-half-empty
empty kind of guy, and this business seems designed for the glass-half-full crowd.
We performers can play to an empty room and wonder why no one will pay five dollars to hear
original songs. Meanwhile, some half-assed tribute band sells out every night. You imagine a
Fleetwood Mac tribute would pack the place, but if the real Fleetwood Mac were starting out today,
no one would pay five dollars to see them.
“I doubt it,” Dan said. “They’d probably be doing boring blues instrumentals.”
He can be sarcastic, that Dan. If he were a guitarist, I’d cut his strings too.
“There’s no spirit of adventure,” I rambled. “People don’t want to hear new music.”
“They need to know the songs,” Dan replied.
He says I’m a whiner, and maybe he’s right.
“Is it wrong to play only original songs and no covers?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “They need something familiar.”
“If they came back a second or third time, they’d know my songs,” I muttered, though with less
conviction than before. The beer cooler was finally restocked, so we shut up.
Not all my friends follow Americana or country or folk. One friend, Cal, who moonlights as a rodeo
rider, loves Steely Dan and Joni Mitchell.
“But Joni is Americana, Cal,” I said. “No she isn’t,” he replied.
He loves good lyrics and appreciates that Nashville writers care about words; though not,
apparently, about chords.
“C, F and G have a lot of mileage,” I told him. I don’t know why we discuss music; he hates
Springsteen and the Beatles, which should disqualify him from any musical conversation.
Ben, who loves Joni, tells me not to worry if Cal doesn’t like my new songs. “I’d be more worried if
he did,” he says.
So the three of us were out one night at a bar downtown. There was one of those writers’ round
events, four people doing a song each. Ben was already halfway to oblivion; I can’t remember the
last time I saw him sober. Cal wore his signature cowboy hat and shirt. I, meanwhile, am a man who
tolerates his reflection but hates his selfies. I have no signature look. I’ve tried hats, caps, suits, shirts
tucked in, shirts untucked hanging down near my knees; I still feel like an impostor.
Since COVID, I wear glasses instead of contacts. Once, at a gig, I wore sunglasses. I wanted to look
cool. I played a new song, and because I needed the lyrics and chords in front of me, halfway
through verse one, I realised I couldn’t read a thing. I had to stop mid-song and run backstage to
change my glasses. Totally unprofessional. I apologised afterwards, though the audience had
switched off after my first song, so fortunately no one noticed.
I could relate the rest of our night’s misadventures, as they seem fairly typical of my music nights,
but I’ll save that for another time… if you want. One thing I will say is that I went home that night
with a spring in my step, and it wasn’t just the beers giving me light feet.
Despite all my moaning about the industry, I got a message from Brent Brenton; you may
remember he was the songwriter who won Grammys four years in a row for his songs. Somehow,
on social media, I’d been listed as one of his top fans, and as this appeared on both my profile and
his, he messaged me to thank me for being so loyal. Completely out of the blue, too, as I was
flicking through my phone whilst, er… watching the support act.
Yes, I’m terribly guilty of being one of those people who endlessly scrolls through his phone when
he should be focused on the artists performing in front of him. I might actually learn something if I
did.
Out of the blue, as I’ve said, he got in touch to say, “Thank you for your loyalty.” I thanked
him for thanking me, he thanked me for thanking him for thanking me, and so on. Somewhere in
the exchange I must have mentioned that I’m a songwriter and performer, and he came back later
saying he’d check me out.
As the beer flowed, I got more adventurous, and in a fit of madness I asked if he fancied writing a
song together. By closing time, he’d replied: “Yeah. I’ll get my manager to contact you over the next
few days to set something up.”
Dan was impressed, the barman was impressed, the manager was impressed, the performers were
impressed. Everyone I spoke to was impressed. Yes, I had boastingly passed around my saved
screenshot to everyone with a pulse in the venue. Walking home, I had a very high opinion of
myself. The glass was now half full.
It didn’t take long to bounce back to earth, though. Brent Brenton put out a message saying his
social media had been hijacked, and fraudsters had been pretending to be him.
Life goes on. I’m still here, trying, waiting for the next misadventure, looking to get my glass half
full again.
