The entrance to Bazaar Cafe Thursday Open Mic is like the wardrobe into Narnia: there's a magical world beyond the tiny opening.
Les and Makiko, the original owners of The Bazaar Cafe, began hosting an open mic the same year I launched The Bay Area Open Mic Calendar: 1998.
From the outset, there was a reason it felt different: it simply WAS different from other open mics, and not just because it was an original-material-only, no-microphone event.
The first time my steps creaked the wooden floorboards behind The Bazaar Cafe's 1907 shopfront was the year it began. Even when it was getting started, there was a palpable quality to its uniqueness, similar to that of stepping into a grove of redwood trees: the silence. When a performance is happening, ambient noise stops.
The room might be full of people, orders for espresso drinks and food going back and forth, but the second an artist takes the stage, everything goes still — the espresso machine clicks off, the crowd quiets, and all eyes and ears turn toward the moment about to happen.
Art is about the space made for it, and the songs played in The Bazaar Cafe are allowed to fill the entire room.
Being there for the first time, I recall glancing around to see the owner, Les, simply hanging out and intently watching the performers. It was unusual enough that I remember the thought it triggered: this is only one of two proprietors in my wide-ranging visits to open mics to do that. Frances Hughes (RIP, 2022) of the Starry Plough in Berkeley was the other who came to mind.
It's no wonder so many of the Bay Area's original musical luminaries have a soft spot for The Bazaar Cafe. KC Turner, perhaps the SF Bay's best-known — and certainly best-loved — concert promoter, has deep ties to the place. Drew Pearce (founder of Inside Lands), Megan Slankard, Deborah Crooks, and many other original Bay Area songwriters either came out of the scene around The Bazaar Cafe or have cited the cafe as an important part of their journey.
Current owners Josh Johnson (from Virginia, host of the open mic for the seven years leading up to the departure of Les and Makiko) and Rozanne Stroman (a songwriter in her own right, from South Africa) took the place over in 2018 and saw its open mic through the pandemic by moving it online.
The couple recently had the facade re-painted with a vibrant, playful pair of banjos undulating across a deep blue background above the front door.
So it was with a sense of nostalgia and no small amount of enthusiasm that I ducked down the iconic alleyway entrance (the Bazaar Cafe uses their side alley as a main entrance when performers are inside with their backs to the front door).
I was running about 15 minutes late for the start of the event.
Not surprisingly, the night I was there the place was absolutely packed.
Current open mic host Caroline Milowicki bustled about with her clipboard, verifying the acts. Seeing my guitar, she asked, "Have you signed up?"
"Yes," I replied, "last week via phone. 'Lightholder. 8:10pm?'" She scanned her list:
"Great. Listen for your name and be ready to go when you're called." She turned to call out loudly as the next performer took the stage:
"On deck we've got Bill Leigh! On double deck we have Ethan!"
Setting my guitar down, I sidled along the counter to snap a photo of the man in red Chucks onstage, Todd Tramblie.
Though I didn't realize it at the time, I would run into him again just a few days later when I attended the open mic at Swirl in Livermore, where we discovered we were both from Fremont.
Following Todd, Bill Leigh rose from his front-row seat next to his wife to deliver an excellent pair of songs. His first had a line that stuck with me:
"If there's extraterrestrial life here among us, how do I know it's not me?"
His second song was a lovely tribute to meeting his wife.
Following Bill was Ethan, originally from Nebraska. He shared that his first song, "Mannekin Hard Line," was just the second song he'd ever written. Ethan brought an intense, angsty punk aesthetic to his performance that went down well with the crowd.
The next performer, Little Oil, was also not a new face — I had seen him less than an hour earlier ensuring the house piano was functional at Simple Pleasures. He introduced his first song, "Fig Leaf Crown":
"Please sing along to this one...and I will be grading you on it, so no pressure!"
Following Little Oil was Brian P, hair pulled back into a bun.
"This song is about my ex-girlfriend's dog," he offered, and the crowd chuckled.
The song landed solidly, even when he looped back on one line: "I wanna try that part again, dang it... at the poolside picking persimmons."
Bazaar Cafe songwriter-in-residence EG Phillips could be spotted before he even took the stage — his visage appeared on posters near the back advertising his 2nd Saturdays showcase. His powerful tight vibrato filled the room as he sang the line, "you can't just lie there now, they've outlawed the dead." EG teased his forthcoming album, Takes From the Dark, before leaving the stage.
Given that I was next and wanting to be respectful of the event, I ducked out as Dean (the performer before me) took the stage to tune my guitar in the garden behind the cafe.
When I emerged, he was just finishing his song on the piano. The room applauded, but Caroline was indisposed. My good friend Ian, who had come with me to the open mic, called out from the front of the room by way of announcement:
"Seán Lightholder!"
Figuring it best to just roll with what was happening, I went to the front of the room, passing Ian and pointing toward him as I started:
"This guy right here is my brother. I made a music video just after the pandemic and he sang it on camera for me...and he looks amazing in it." The crowd laughed. "This is called, "All On Me" (click that link to see Ian giving it socks in the music video).
I followed with a newer piece, "Empty Circus" which seemd to go over well.
Playing in that quiet, wooden-floored room to a packed house of completely silent listeners is an incredible experience. I have goosebumps now just remembering it.
Following me onstage was Flora ElmColone, her introspective lyrics drawing the audience in.
DC transplant David Midkiff, performing as Me & My House, was next. His song, "Blue Angels," reflected on how some people can be awfully careless: "if you hit a man like you hit my driver's side mirror, that man would be dead."
Coincidentally, the next performer also named David introduced himself as also being from DC: "I would say it's just for the night, but it's been a week," he told the crowd, which laughed in recognition. San Francisco has a way of doing that to people — pulling them in and not letting go.
The next performer was Max, followed by Meela.
Meela's performance was remarkable. Swathed in a puffer coat with a lanyard around her neck, she hefted a large black binder onto the music stand and invited the room into her personal, vivid world.
"This song is...is how it goes in my imagination. It's like the tune of Frozen, but it's about Johnny Depp."
As she sat on the stool singing a staccato melody with her own unique words, her hands moving in intense, repetitive patterns in her lap, I was struck that we were witness to something intimate: a rich inner world that had manifested for its author as music.
Catching the tail of a familiar melody, she had found license to author a piece of fiction that explored in song a fantasy stemming from a beloved piece of cinema.
Meela's piece brought to mind the T.S. Eliot/Stravinsky/Picasso adage: "Lesser artists borrow, great artists steal."
Next onstage was Sam Hirst, followed by an abortive appearance by an artist whose name I didn't quite catch. Jack, perhaps?
He (Jack?) took to the stage with his canine companion, saying,
"This is one of those songs — everybody's got a couple — I can't remember the words, it's not a linear song, the verses can get mixed up, so if you hear me singing the same thing twice..."
But before he could get too far into his second piece there was an ominous huffing sound from the stage.
Looking down at his dog, he said quietly, "Are you okay?" — then to the audience, "maybe just one song tonight," and took his leave to look after his companion.
The last act I saw during the evening was Saya, whose song in 6/8 was powerful and elegiac, asking at the chorus: "What was your favorite part of your time: the fear of death or the being alive?"
In the wake of such an earnest performance and past the hour the event had ended, a late straggler staggered onto the stage, fumbling with his guitar and apologizing:
"Sorry I'm drunk. Anyone got a thicker pick?"
It was late. After a glance between us, my companion and I relinquished our spots in the front row and headed out into the night.
Even as we left, I found myself wondering at the respect accorded to that last, unheard performer as he took the stage.
Bazaar Cafe Thursday Open Mic is a perfect open mic for writers of original song, especially those with friendly canine companions, who think an acoustic performance before a crowd of truly invested listeners in a turn-of-the-20th-century wooden-floored room sounds like heaven.
Click on any photo in this post to see the full, uncropped version.
