a rose is a rose.

Walking toward the cafe, after a slow traffic drive sound tracked by the lyrics of Bob Dylan in my black convertible bug, I stain my lips a deep red, check my bag for an extra camera battery, and unwrap a piece of Orbit wintergreen gum that I promise myself to spit out before entering the venue. The air is dry, nearing about one hundred degrees at eight-o-clock on a Tuesday evening.

            The Rose Establishment, which usually closes at five, has an odd sense of life and smiles decorating the outdoor patio. Bicycles are lined against the wooden fencing and the faint "clink" of coffee mugs and PBR beer cans greet each other. The handshakes are sweaty and warm as I introduce myself to the people amongst the stairs. Awkward exchanges of false compliments are heard between jealous girls in neon lipsticks and the men discuss a new brand of mustache wax that isn't sticky or female repellant. A drink is placed in my hand as I connect with a familiar face.

            Chuckling at a recent joke about Reese Witherspoon and stating my feelings on the change in the climate, I follow the fashionable crowd to the rooftop. The climb, taking three flights of wooden stairs, passes by flyers for events around the city next week. Taking my seat in the scattered second row, I breathe in deep, notice the sunset to my left, and begin to disappear from reality as the introductions of the first act begin to take pitch on the microphone. 

            Seated on the wired framed chairs is a couple. Genevieve Smith, a young girl with soft makeup and pin curls in asymmetrical positions. A light sundress hides behind the large cello that lies in her lap. Her partner, James Miska, a man who seems around the same age, is dressed in a grey vest with what I believe is a butterfly pin hanging over his heart. He cradles an acoustic guitar in his hands gently. The couple introduces themselves as Wing and Claw, the voices already harmonizing without a melody. Their sound is an intoxicating mix of moonshine and mason jar glasses. Instantly I am transported to countryside, sitting on a white chipped porch, the sun setting in the background. The crowd around me is taken by the same swoony romance as I am, our bodies swaying as our toe taps in the rhythm of the James’s foot. Unique lyrics traveled through each song starting with “freight” and ending with a rebel Bonnie and Clyde-esque “Criminal.” As they say their goodbyes, giving a shout out for future shows, a slight moan from the group echoes the desperate want for more.

            By this time the sun is hidden behind mountains and empty office buildings, the only light is given through a string of red LED lights that snakes through the chairs, microphone, and speakers stands. A foreigner takes a solo stance in front of the eager crowd. He tapes a book lamp to the microphone, pointing it like a spot light up to his face. He is well dressed, his leather boots pointed at the tip. Thick lips speak his name, Vikesh Kapoor, followed by his origin, Oregon. As he begins to play his acoustic guitar his personality shows through. Stories of snowstorms and famous contributors book end each song. He is humble. Nerves shake his hands slightly as he stumbles over words addressing the large foreign crowd. How hard it must be to stand before an audience without knowing a single person, but he treds through the passion of music translating through large smiles and closed eyes as his head throws back gently with the chorus. He finishes strong, wishing the crowd fair well in a tone that speaks happiness with a touch of relief.

            Without notice, the crowd stands up and begins to head downstairs. Lucky for me, I am more of a follower than I leader so I gently stepped down the wooden planks to the main floor. The lights of the little café have been dimmed and in the corner, nestled under the windows, is the final act. 

The Circulars, made up of Maxwell Ijams, Sam Burton, Cathy Foy, and Dyana Durfee, are positioned with their instruments. They are local band, made up of faces from familiar other groups. The laughter the members as they take their positions, collecting their instruments, and combing back their hair with a few fingers, highlights that they are strong friends, coming together to do what they are passionate about. Without introduction or even the slightest hint of a beginning, the bass and drums take off. Must different from the previous sounds, The Circulars evoke a sense of sadness hidden by the synth of the piano and the up beat cords of Sam’s acoustic guitar. The only source of light is the snake of red crawling beneath their feet. The band never stops to introduce a song. I believe at one point I heard them announce their name, but the sound of cymbals was still echoing against the wooden frames so I was left hesitant. The crowd is scattered through out the café. Seats are found upon countertops and floorboards.

            The evening comes to a close with their final number. It was a softer song, easing us all into goodbyes and exchanges of phone numbers. Many “thank you’s” and a few “come home with me’s” were heard through The Rose as I exited back onto the deck that began my adventure. The air was cooled by the night’s whisper as I walked to my car, the tune of local talent ringing in my ears.