Host: Michelle Jalowski

Michelle: [00:00:02] Welcome to The Moth podcast. I'm Michelle Jalowski, your host for this episode. If you've only ever listened to the podcast or Radio Hour, you might not know that most of our shows feature a live musician. An instrumentalist opens each act and then stays on stage throughout the show, acting as a timekeeper, letting the storyteller and the audience know when the teller is over their time limit. 

We're all about storytelling here at The Moth, and music tells its own story. Our musicians help set the tone for our curated live shows, and we've been lucky to work with some incredible musicians over the years.

On this episode, we'll be celebrating how instrumental instruments are at The Moth, with two stories about learning how to play. Plus, stick around, we just might be sharing some music from a live Moth show. First up, we've got Alistair Bane. He told this at a Denver StorySLAM where theme of the night was Pride. Here's Alistair live at The Moth. 

[cheers and applause]

Alastair: [00:00:57] So, like a lot of queer kids in the 1980s, I ended up on my own pretty young. There were some harsh parts to that, but there were some awesome parts. Like, that Wednesday, when me and my best friend, Candy, were in a dive bar in New York City, 10 local bands for a dollar. Thanks to our new fake IDs. I was a little bit worried about mine that said I was a 40-year-old white man named Norman Schwartz. [audience laughter] But this was the kind of bar where it was like, “Eh, we're all human.” [audience laughter]

When the fourth band came on, the singer was the second coolest person in the world next to David Bowie. The awesome part was the whole set. He kept looking right at me and Candy. Now, because of our height difference, it's hard to tell if he was staring at her breast or my face. [audience laughter] But when the set finished, he came to talk to us, it was my face he was liking. He ended up writing his name and number on my arm, and he said, “I wrote that in Sharpie, so you can't forget to call me.” And Candy was like, “That's the most romantic thing. I think you guys are soul mates.” [audience laughter]

So, the next week, I met him in a different dive bar. We started talking. This bar was having a drink special, 25 cents shots of peppermint schnapps. I didn't know. [audience laughter] I had been on the street enough to be experiencing a lot of things, but peppermint schnapps, not so much. But Danny, the singer, ordered a dollar's worth. So, I was like, “Okay, we're about the same wage.” Sure,” I ordered a dollar's worth. We kept talking, and then this thing happened where the peppermint schnapps hit my skeletal system, - [audience laughter] -and it turned my bones into pudding and I fell on the floor, like in this big person puddle. [audience laughter]

I remember, like Danny saying, “Are you okay?” Being in a cab, maybe crawling on stairs. And then, it was morning. I woke up still fully clothed in a big, fluffy bed that weirdly smelled like Estée Lauder perfume. I looked to see if Danny was there, but instead, it was a 70-year-old woman. She was like, “Oh, you're awake, sweetie. I'm Danny's grandma. He was so worried that you might choke on your own vomit in the night that he asked me to watch over you.” And I was like, “This is not punk rock. I got to get out of here.” [audience laughter]

So, I found my shoes. I'm like, “Okay, thanks.” That's going to bolt for the door. But when I open the door into the main room of the apartment, there's Danny drinking coffee. He goes, “Good morning, Norman.” My fake ID’s sitting around the table in front of him. I sit down, and he pours me a cup of coffee and he says, “You know, it's really not cool you lied about your age.” I nod. He said, “You know, you were passed out drunk and not every guy would be decent about that.”

He was being so nice that somehow it just embarrassed me more and pissed me off. I was like, “I'm not some stupid baby you have to protect and lecture. I know people aren't decent. I've been knowing people aren't decent since I was 12. You could have done whatever you want to, because it wouldn't matter, you'd just be one more jerk in the world and I'm nothing.” 

I didn't mean that like just to sound punk rock somewhere there's some truth in it. He saw it, and I saw his face and then I just burst into these big, ugly, so un-David Bowie, so uncool sobs. [audience laughter]

I was sitting there crying, trying to get my other shoe on, and I heard him say, “You know what you're not to young for? Do you want to learn to play guitar?” I was like, “What?” He said, “I know. Like, I always thought if I had a little brother, I could teach him to play guitar.” And so, over the next year, I go over to their apartment, hang out with him and his grandma, learn chords. [audience laughter]

While the rest of my life had a lot of chaos in it, that was this one beautiful place where there was this friend that really respected me and liked me just for me. He moved to LA, the next year and we kept in touch by letters. But during those days of no internets, no cell phones, it was easy to eventually lose touch. The last letter I got from him was when I was 24, I'd ran to him to say I'd gone to rehab. I had three months clean, and I really saw a future for myself.

He wrote back in the last paragraph of the letter, he said, “I hope you're proud of yourself. I hope you make sure that the people in your life value you. And I hope you still play guitar.” “Yeah, Danny, yes to all three of those.” Thank you.

[cheers and applause]

Michelle: [00:06:46] That was Alistair Bane. Alistair lives in Denver, Colorado. And in addition to telling stories, he's a visual artist, quilter and clothing designer. In his spare time, he rehabilitates feral dogs from the reservation. He says, “It's a much more relaxing hobby than it might sound, as long as you don't mind a tiny bit of growling.” Up next is Mari Black. She told this at a Boston StorySLAM where the theme of the night was Denial. Here's Mari, live at The Moth.

[audience applause]

Mari: [00:07:20] So, at age six, I entered my first fiddling contest. It was the Skowhegan County fair up in May 1993. I know, right, the 90s. So, I had spent two weeks picking out my outfit. It was a very, very long process. A little skirt, shirt with a fish on it, fiddle hat, had to have the fiddler's hat with a weird brim. It's a taxi driver hat, really. I'd spent about three weeks learning how to braid my hair, myself in two braids, and about a week and a half wiggling furiously at my other front tooth, so both would be missing on stage. [audience laughter]

Details. They're important in the performing arts. What I had not devoted any time to was learning the three songs I would have to play on stage. So, details, apparently, are not that important. This was not something I did, just like being a dumb kid. My mom is a professional musician. She's a champion fiddler. She was playing in the same contest. I'd watched her, and her students, and her colleagues and everybody prepare for this kind of thing. I knew what preparation was. I just didn't need it. 

You have to play three songs, a waltz, a jig and a reel. I knew a jig. When my mom would ask me, “Hey, how are the tunes coming, because you can't play unless you know three tunes.” “Oh, yeah, no, it's great. It's great. I'm getting. I know. I'm good.” Total like just, “I was good.” That was the end of it. This state of affairs persisted all the way until we got in the car to go to the contest. There's my mom, her fiddle. Me, my fiddle. My brother, who is along for this rather dramatic ride. 

In the car, I'm reminded again, in a way that I actually hear it this time, that unless you know three songs, you can't play. “How many do you actually know, Mari?” “Oh, crap.” So, I didn't want to waste the outfit. I did have two holes in the front of my smile. So, it's like, in the car, I finally burst into the tears that should have come weeks ago and begged my mom, “Please, please, please, please help me.”

So, in the three-hour car ride, in the car, she proceeds to, while driving, teach me the reel. I don't know how we made it through. We tried to make it through the waltz. I only made it halfway, so I knew half a waltz. Awesome. [audience laughter]

But all this is fine, because when we get out of the car, there's the fair, and the fiddle contest. There's a big fair. We're talking rides, games, food, everything, everywhere. Hundreds of thousands of people. Counterfeit's a big deal up in Maine in 1993. The big main stage is the fiddle contest. There's the bleachers. It must have been a horse racetrack or something. And it's packed. Most fiddle contests, they divide everybody up by age. This was not one of those. It's just everybody all in together. 

All right, so let me put this in context. There's big prize money in this sort of thing. So, it brings out all the champion fiddlers, the 20-year-olds, the 50-year-olds, the 90-year-old fiddlers who have been playing their whole life and are amazing. And then, there's me, six. [sighs]

Again like, “I don't care. I'm good. I belong here.” I play about midway through the night. It was already dark. I get on stage, and the MC hands me my microphone. And so, here comes this big hammy intro to every tune. It was so great. The Hammy intro, talking all about, “Oh, this tune and how I loved it my entire life.” Nobody noticed it was half a waltz. [audience laughter]

[00:11:06] And I get to the jig, and I tell the story about how this jig is so awesome and I lean in and I go, “This is my favorite jig, you know?” My mother at the piano, to this day, when she tells the story goes, and I was thinking, “It's the only jig, you know?” [audience laughter] So, I get through this program. I brought everybody along with me. [audience laughter] 

Every single person in that audience was as convinced as I was of my dedicated preparation. They went nuts, and I loved it. That's probably why I'm still doing this. [laughs] We get off stage. My mom is not in denial. My mom is a pro. She knows what's up. And so, she very gracefully, even though she probably did place, she very gracefully ushers my brother and like, “Oh, it's late. We should go home.” And I said, “Absolutely not. We have to stay, because I've won a prize.” [audience laughter]

Oh, my poor mother. My God, someday I'm going to have a kid who does that as punishment. And so, she couldn't get me to leave. So, we get there, and it's late. 

It's really late. Everybody's been waiting for the results, and they announce third prize and it's my mother. She's just like, “Oh, yeah, smile. Okay, good, we're done. Let's go. Let's go home. It's late.” Oh, boy. I said, “No, we can't go, because I've won a prize. We have to wait for mine.” They put me second. [audience laughter] And now, I'm embarrassed by this. I'll tell you what to this day, I still don't know the second half of that waltz. [audience laughter] 

Every now and then, I go and take a look at my brain, see if it's there. No, it's still gone. The even further epilogue to this is, the one thing that was great about that night was not only the huge prize money and the big, fair, crowd in the microphone was they were supposed to give us trophies. And that, to me, was like, “[sighs] the greatest thing in the world.” But they didn't have them that night. They said, “We're so sorry. Something got mixed up in the mail. We'll send them to you.”

Now as a pro, I know that in the music business, when they said, “It's in the mail,” you're never going to see that thing. My mom knew this, so she's like, “Oh, it's fine.” For weeks, I checked the mail every day. I was waiting for the postman, “Do you have my box? Do you have my box? Do you have my box? Do you have my box?” It must have been six weeks, and my mom could not believe I wouldn't give up. 

Finally, one day, much to her huge shock, but not to mine because I knew, huge box shows up. It's addressed to both of us. Inside, there are two gigantic trophies. They are purple, they are gold, they're sparkly. They say Skowhegan Fair 1993. And at the top is a golden fiddle. They are identical except for one thing. One of the trophies has the neck of the fiddle snapped off. It got bumped in postage, and it turned to my mom and it's totally serious. I said, “Oh, mama, I'm sorry. Yours is broken.”

[cheers and applause] 

Michelle: [00:14:12] That was Mari Black. Mari's a professional, multi-style violinist who was raised by a mighty clan of dynamic storytellers. Through them, she inherited a passion for living the kind of life where anything can become an adventure worth retelling. And so far, she's succeeding. Find her music at mariblack.com. 

 We wanted to end this episode by featuring some of the music from a recent Moth Mainstage. Mazz Swift has been performing their improvised violin pieces with The Moth since 2006. And they've become a beloved part of The Moth family. This is from a Moth Mainstage in Harlem, where theme of the night was Back to Life. Here’s Mazz.

Mazz: [00:14:48] [Back to Life track starts]

[Back to Life track ends]

[cheers and applause] 

Michelle: [00:17:55] That was Mazz. Mazz Swift is a Juilliard trained violinist as well as a composer, conductor, singer, bandleader and educator. They engage audiences worldwide with their signature weaving of improvisation and composition. They've performed with The Moth countless times and their ongoing work, the Sankofa Project, is centered around protest songs, spirituals and the Ghanaian concept of Sankofa. Looking back to learn how to move forward. 

A special thank you to Mazz Swift, along with all of the musicians that have performed at Moth shows throughout the years and throughout the world. If you'd like to see one of those musicians live accompanied by some great stories, go to themoth.org/events to find more information about our StorySLAM and Mainstages. That's it for this episode. 

Remember, if you like the stories in this episode, be sure to share this podcast with a friend and tell them to subscribe, so they can take a listen as soon as it comes out. From all of us here at The Moth, have a musical week. 

Marc: [00:18:51] Michelle Jalowski is a producer and director at The Moth, where she helps people craft and shape their stories for stages all over the world. This episode of The Moth podcast was produced by Sarah Austin Jenness, Sarah Jane Johnson and me, Marc Sollinger. The rest of The Moth’s leadership team include Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Jenifer Hixson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Klutse, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant-Walker, Lee Ann Gullie and Aldi Kaza. 

The Moth would like to thank its supporters and listeners. Stories like these are made possible by community giving. If you’re not already a member, please consider becoming one or making a one-time donation today at themoth.org/giveback. 

All Moth stories are true, as remembered by the storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org. The Moth podcast is presented by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more public at prx.org.