This is the comforting sight that greeted me from the window of the guest bedroom in Kim's apartment outside Asheville, North Carolina. Her apartment is nestled in a wooded area just removed from the hustle and bustle of the highway. With every day that I got closer to the familiar hills of Athens, my heart soared with joy as I found more hills and more trees that sing in their own special way. Asheville is high up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and the alpine atmosphere permeates the region. I felt strangely, surprisingly at home.
For dinner last night, Kim and i chose a cute little vegetarian cafe. The Green Leaf Cafe is tucked along the main drag of this hopelessly hip hamlet. Composed of two small main rooms, I was again reminded of home, Oregon-home and Ohio-home in some unique olio. A counter ran along the front of the humble kitchen, and a big man in a green shirt sat atop one of the few bar stools. aA dimpled young man, certainly no older than us, and probably many years younger, stood behind the register. His skin was a light copper, and his hair was hidden in a large round hat perched on his head in such a way as to indicate a pile of dreadlocks beneath. He motioned to us to sit anywhere we liked. We sat in the far room in a booth that was built into the window. We were the only ones in the room. The boy brought us two menus, then with a sheepish grin informed us that their server was out for the evening and he would be cook and server, letting on that he had little experience by way of the latter. He ably brought us waters and informed us of the specials, tolerating our many requests.
As we munched, a group of musicians filtered in. A young woman with smooth, caramel skin carried a guitar. Others followed after, carrying guitars, various hand drums, amplification. They began to set up in the back room where we were seated. Kim and i looked at each other in giddy anticipation. This was a surprise! What would happen next?
A duo of stocky, older black men - perhaps uncles or cousins - approached us and began raving about the young woman's talent. Dressed tonight in a neatly buttoned blue plaid shirt, she is the group's frontwoman and lead singer. The group is called Lyric, and I never quite catch the girl's name, so I refer to her as Lyric in my head. Tonight, they play an "acoustic" set, and only three members of the band are present: the young woman, another guitar player, and a man providing percussion accompaniment on a hand drum or two.
We finish our meal, and the chef/server clears our plates and patiently refills our waters. The back room of the cafe opens up into a wine bar and art gallery. We buy a glass of wine and sip, happily, excited about the music we are about to see. Lyric plays one song to lure us in, belting out a soulful tune while strumming on her guitar. The room fills with her passionate spirit and musical talent. We hum along excitedly, though the tune is unfamiliar to us.
After this teaser, Lyric stops and makes way for the opening act. Roberto is an energetic young man. His toned chest shows through his tight-fitting tee, and his Peruvian heritage shines through his face. He writes poetry and puts it to a beat - and what a beat! Roberto sets up a collection of hand drums; I don't know how many, but judging by the symphony of sounds he was able to evoke from them, at least five. Roberto's poems are of the usual angsty sort, but follow a clever and enticing rhyme scheme. Coupled with his frantic, able drumming, they take on a musical character. He is aware of his audience, and engages us with a "c'mon" here and there as he launches into the "chorus" verse of his poetry. He plays five or six charts, and we are dancing in our seats, grinning broadly, aware that we have stumbled upon something special here tonight.
Lyric then retakes the stage. The girl's youthful enthusiasm leaks out from behind her oversized plastic-framed glasses; we gauge her to be no more than 22 or 23. She tells of meeting Lauryn Hill, who recently performed in Asheville. They play song after song - some covers, some originals. In some, she raps, and others have a distinct soul, r & b feel. The night grows late, and my weariness, lingering from my early start with the sunrise and Atlantic ocean, shows. Lyric is still playing when we leave, and the uncles try to persuade us to buy one of their freshly-cut CD's. Even as we drive home, the energy of the night courses through us. Roberto was a treat, but this girl is going somewhere. I wouldn't be surprised if she crosses paths with Lauryn Hill again. Asheville is becoming known as a thriving spot for up-and-coming musicians, and this night showed it right to us!
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