Juliette Miranda

(NOTE: While dredging my archives, I stumbled across something I wrote a while back. It’s part love letter, part fan mail, and something I probably should have said long ago.)

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I suppose this happens to every band. You book a show on a random weeknight in a random bar in the city. It’s summer, you figure the warm weather and lure of $2 frosty PBR specials will entice your friends and fans to make the trek to see you. But the unfortunate truth for most bands –at least, for the bands I know- is that your mailing list, though robust, is comprised mainly of working folk with loftier tastes than PBR. They prefer the comfort of their suburban back porches to the crunchy stools at a Lincoln Park pub, and for the most part, you do, too.

You’re not overly shocked then when 10 p.m. rolls around and the pub, which has actually turned out to be less crunchy than you anticipated, is populated only by the bartender, the band with the later time slot, and The Girlfriend.

The bartender, who is also the sound guy this particular night, waves you to the stage. It’s a surprisingly large stage with bright lights and neon signs that actually work. As you begin your first song, you find that even the sound is good. It’s a shame there aren’t more people to hear, because tonight, the band is better than good.

To you, this night becomes a paid rehearsal. But to me, The Girlfriend, there’s no better time to see you.

There are no self proclaimed virtuosos in the crowd tugging on your guitar between songs, asking ridiculous questions about your gear. There are no drunk college boys in the background yelling, “Freebird!” not because they like the song, but because they think it’s expected and cool. There is no threat of a large woman in a tank top drunkenly spilling her beer on your mic stand.

I realize that these are among the things that make a rock n roll show. But on nights like this, whether it’s conscious or not, the band lets down its guard. By the time you roll into your second song, you’re in your element and it shows.

Although I’ve said I never want to be that girl – the Yoko who must infiltrate every aspect of her guy’s musical career, I can’t help but envy your talent and band. I’m fortunate in that I’ve been allowed to be as much “in” the band as I can without actually picking up an instrument. I suspect it’s understood that my passion for music possibly exceeds even your own.

I’ll never know exactly how much of me has wound up in your music, but I hear you distinctly in nearly every note. The one privilege I have as The Girlfriend is to know you better through your music. And on nights when it’s just me dancing in the stands, I feel brilliantly lucky to be a part of your talent.

This particular show, reduced to just an hour, for you may only have been one in a string of should-have-been-mores. But for me, ranks as one of my favorites.

You will always be my finest hour.