Garage Mahal

September 29, 2025

Greetings from the union,

I am not a musician.  I can’t read music, I don’t know tempo or flat or sharp, can’t keep time, can’t carry a tune.  I have never applied discipline to learn an instrument.  I come to music as a witness, in the same way I connect with nature.  There is some music I like more than others, but I am mostly an empty, willing vessel.

A friend invited me to a gathering at her house, which is a little misleading since it mostly was in her garage. The party was tucked into an old, charming neighborhood, the kind where the history of the place is worn in the character of the facades, the layers of paint, the aged brick and stone.

We walked up the driveway, felt the vibration from the garage, first the music, then the sound of laughing and talking, all of which told you that what was happening was more than a performance.  The gathering, dubbed ‘Garage Mahal’, was already underway.

The garage was what you would expect; snug room for two small cars, the usual yard accouterments, old signs, a workbench with miscellaneous tools.  All of that was pushed aside, lights strung, a series of extension cords and stands and musical instruments filled the space.  And of course, musicians.

A few folding chairs were scattered in the driveway, already filled with devotees.  We were handed fruit-shaped maracas, encouraged to be a part of the performance.  After my second beer my enthusiasm for percussion rose so high it was throwing off the trombone player’s rhythm.

The man playing the bass guitar called out a number, and the musicians flipped through tattered notebooks and found the music, and then they began the next piece.  It was a little like hearing an old car start up.  A little misfire, some grinding and whirring, and then something caught, and then there was a backfire, and then the engine began to run.  First a little unevenly and then, as each of the friends in the garage caught on, it smoothed out into something lovely.

And so, they made music.  It was more than the performance of the notes on the page, it was an expression of friendship, and of an unwritten partnership.

More musicians arrived, and I began to see something being built in front of us.  With each new instrument the ensemble grew stronger, the music filled out, smoothed out.  Soon there were a dozen musicians. Two guitarists, two drummers, a conga, electric piano, trombone,  trumpet, bass, violin, not counting those of us shaking maracas in the driveway.  And of course, singing along.

None of the music was written for this ensemble, but they adapted. The performers dropped in and out, wove into the music like a good conversation, adding something when they had it to offer, listening when that made sense.

The crowd grew in the driveway, people talking and laughing, eating and drinking, moving in and out of the jam session, connected like dancers moving on and off the stage, then back on again.  We sang Happy Birthday to our host, toasted each other.  There was no reason to think about the chaos beyond the driveway.  We were not hiding from the world but mending it, a note at a time.

There is something magical about seeing this happen in real life.  Artists performing for the beauty of expression, not for paychecks or praise or to be noticed on social media.  Just the simple, timeless act of living out a passion. 

Many years ago, I was lucky enough to be in the Sydney Opera House for a special performance of the symphony orchestra.  The champagne was served in crystal, the dress was black tie formal, the seats were luxurious.  When the musicians took the stage, there was a moment of intense silence before they began, and then they presented us with Ravel’s ‘Bolero’. It felt as if we were transported.  I did not have to understand music in any clinical way to be carried by its power.

I realize the contrast in imagery, but the music in the garage gave me this same feeling, the convergence of written music and the talent and energy of the performers, lifting us slightly off the earth, just enough to feel our magic, to know the beauty in us.

There was also this other thing.  The musicians performed at Garage Mahal with a sense of humility, a willingness to give way, to be a part of the thing without being the thing.  It was sweet and pure and beautiful and fun.  Even now, in the silence of my den, I can feel the vibration from the change they made in the universe.

Hope this finds you grateful for the gift,

David

Copyright © 2025 David Smith