Recently I sat down with Martin Rivas, a veteran of the New York City music scene, to talk about playing to drunks and his new album, Reliquary.
Martin has been playing in the city since he was a teenager so I assume he’s eager to wax poetic about the “good ol’ days.”
“It’s been a long, long time since my first show here.” He says gently, like he doesn’t want to risk waking the memories. “I’ve since played all over America and Europe, but there’s still nothing like playing in New York City.”
Like many young musicians, his first gig wasn’t exactly high profile. “It was on Staten Island, at a long-defunct bar called the Fairway Club in the summer of 1986. I was way under-age, as was everyone in my band.” He laughs. “The fans and the bartender were under-age too. Plus the place was falling apart.”
It is easy to assume there is a disconnect between those serving bar customers and those entertaining them. Both groups probably feel like they have it worse. But when hearing Martin talk about bar crowds, there are more similarities than differences.
“I think the best thing about playing in a bar is that you never know who you’re going to get to play for. It’s not like a ticketed concert in that the pressure is on for you to fill the venue. I’ve always thought of bar gigs as that you’re paid not to bring the people, but you’re paid to keep the people there.”
“At my shows in Greenwich Village in particular, I get to play for people from all over the world. That’s really fun! I sell plenty of CDs to folks from other countries, and more often than not it’s in a Greenwich Village bar as opposed to a venue that specializes in original music. I’d imagine that it isn’t quite the same playing a bar gig in, say, Kenosha Wisconsin… so a big part of it for me is that I get to play bars in New York City.”
It’s not all roses though.
“It seems that upkeep of equipment is near the bottom of the priority order in a bar. It’s more often than not a total crapshoot with the condition of microphone stands, cables, house drum kits, PA systems and such. Many times your microphone is held on with duct tape.”
You don’t spend years in all manner of bar without coming pretty close to eating a fist, so one would assume a guy playing music would occasionally run afoul of some ass-clown clamoring for Freebird.
After searching his memory bank, Martin smiles. “Never been punched while playing, but I’ve come mighty close. It seems the later the show, the greater the chance of you getting punched. I’m more than happy to let the bouncers get the satisfaction of pressing someone’s throat against the edge of the stage though.”
We all have our own individual “rock star” fantasy. In most there are groupies, endless piles of booze and drugs, and no consequences. So of course I attempted to live vicariously by inquiring about the craziest thing that ever happened to Martin while on stage.
“About a year ago my pal Craig Meyer and I were playing the night before Thanksgiving at a tiny pub on MacDougal Street. At some point a few of our friends joined us to make it a full-band romp, instead of our usual duo. Usually during these shows I’ll sit down when I’m playing, and call the songs and keys, so there’s a lot of eye contact. Near the end of the show, a girl jumped up onto my chair, and was dancing on my chair while I was still sitting in it. I looked at the guys towards the end of the song to call another song, and instead of looking at me, they were all looking at her with a very familiar glazed look. She had taken her top off, and I was the only one who couldn’t see because she was standing above me on my chair. She leaned down into my ear and said, “Hi! I’m Sandy from Kansas!””
Just in case Sandy decides to visit again I wonder if there is a place where one can find Martin every week. “Slane. On Macdougal. That’s where I have spent every single Tuesday I’ve been in town for the past seven years. Glenda is the most kind and genuinely friendly bar owner I have ever played for. She always has a smile and kind word for everyone. As long as they’ll have me, you’ll find me singing and playing every Tuesday night when I’m in town until I’m dead. And then they can bury me under the place if they want to.”
Martin may be a creature of habit, but I have to wonder how the changes in the music industry have affected a working musician.
“Since I started playing music things have changed dramatically. But there was music before there was a music industry, and there’ll be music after the music industry dies. I think the people who are truly meant to do it, do so for the same reason they breathe or go to the bathroom. It just happens. I’ll always be doing this, whether it’s for an audience in a pub, or listening to an album of mine… or even if it’s just me and my wife sitting on the porch.”
Speaking of albums, as a musical-invalid, I wonder if the inspiration process for Martin’s most recent work, Reliquary, is similar to the sitting around staring at people I utilize as a writer.
“Sort of.” He shakes his head in a way I know its not even close. “I’ve always felt that songs come as a by-product of living, and in the past year I’ve done a lot of traveling to play music. I did a month-long tour of the UK last summer, and on a day off I found myself in the British Museum in London. There was a special exhibit of religious artifacts, items that hold a bit of a bone fragment from a saint, or containers that hold bits of the Crown of Thorns and such. They’re called reliquaries. I couldn’t shake the notion that we’re all reliquaries of each other. With every interaction we have, we leave a little bit of ourselves with the people we’re with. And when we’re gone, we’re still with those we love as a result. That notion was the spigot that provided most of the songs for my new album, which is called Reliquary.”
Ugh. I’m feeling inadequate and in an attempt to like Martin less, I ask what he would buy if Reliquary were to blow up, hoping for something selfish and extravagant. Like a yacht. Or an Olsen twin.
“Without doubt, it would be a log cabin in upstate New York.”
Goddamn it!
Having worked in bars with cover music for a few years now, I have a few songs I wish would fade into obscurity. Then I remember; they already have. But drunk people won’t let them go quietly into that good night. I assume it’s even worse for the guy with the guitar in his hands.
“I can’t believe how many people ask for “Sweet Home Alabama”, especially people from outside the United States. Hate is such a strong word to use for playing a song, but that might be the one I like the least. Or “Margaritaville.””
Before I let him be on his way, I ask Martin what he’d tell himself as a kid if Doc Brown pulled up one day in a Delorean. Not because I have any interest in the psychological implications of his answer, but because in the last hour he’s earned my admiration, and I want some free advice.
“Don’t be over-obsessed with goals; don’t be so fixated upon what you want to accomplish that you miss the moments that happen along the way, because they’re the most magical part of the whole ride. Be true to who you are, and never lose touch with your imagination.
Amen, Martin. Amen.
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Martin Rivas’ album, Reliquary, which I’ve been listening to for days, can be found on iTunes, at Amazon, and all the other major digital outlets. Or you can visit, www.martinrivas.net to hear his songs. Or, should you be a lazy sort, here’s a video!!
Bored and Thirsty 