There’s a certain ritual to pre-gig prep – a routine of little tasks that I’ve come to depend on. Tonight’s show is close to home, in Newport, just a quick drive away. The set is only an hour long, but the checklist feels longer. First, it’s the equipment: piano, guitar, stand, mics, tuners, cables—a small mountain of things to check, pack, and double-check. Then the set list, with notes about arrangements and reminders of which capo setting and tuning to use for each song. And, of course, the merch: CDs, download codes, card reader and the phone that connects with it… Finally, there’s the outfit and warming up my voice, all the details that make it look like I just walked on stage as if it were effortless.
But I’m not chasing perfection. I don’t want to just replicate a recording. What I want is to create something unrepeatable, something that lives and breathes right there in the room with us, like a shared breath. And maybe that’s what makes this whole ritual worth it—because in a world that seems so carefully curated, where every image, every word, every thought can be polished, posted, and controlled, these moments of live music offer a rare honesty, a space where both the music and I are allowed to simply be. It’s almost countercultural these days, to offer something so vulnerable, unedited.
So this afternoon, as I check off each item on the list, I find myself praying – not just for my voice to hold, or for the cables to do their job, but for the people in those seats. For open hearts, for the right words, for each note to land where it is needed. For that unguarded moment of connection that might be just what someone needs tonight.