Holly’s Diner.

Old Hank wasn’t gonna write about last night (Wednesday)—it woulda been a little on the self-indulgent side. But a song happened that made him have to. 

And I’m not gonna bullshit as to why I was at Holly’s. 

Let me try to frame this and start at the start.

Maybe you have a lot of time left on this earth. Maybe you don’t. When you get the lines on Old Hank’s visage, you don’t have time to sit back and debate things like, say, whether your shit is tight enough to put on stage. You just have to act. It’s kinda liberating, actually.

So, I slinked into Holly’s Diner Wednesday night to sign up and take my turn in the crucible of Open Mic Night.

I’d been there before. Liked the vibe of the room. The bartenders are good. Food’s good. Pretty chill, mostly local crowd. Holly’s is where I decided to put my money where my mouth is. 

What I found is that Holly’s has a seasoned host for their open mic, Nicole Averill, who runs the board, the sign-up and I think the bar. 

And she runs ‘em smoove as a baby’s butt. She calls the weekly event “Musicians’ Lounge”.

In terms of performers, there was the range you’d expect, everything from guitar or piano singer songwriters, a couple of guys on guitars soloing, some seasoned regulars. Some drum box and poetry. With Old Hank in there somewhere in the middle.

There is something so uplifting about artists taking the risk and letting it go for the first time in front of people. I love them for their huge stones and don’t care how “good” they are.

So I was uplifted but nervous as fuckity. I’d foregone any pre-set bowlage (don’t forget the flippin’ lyrics, dipshit) but swallowed an entire Guinness and waited to go on. Engaging with the crowd felt so dayyum good. They paid attention, got my shit, laughed when they were supposed to, sang along a little and yelled fun stuff. 

They gave me support. In return I gave them 3 songs that went about as well as could be expected.

But this ain’t about that. It’s what happened after. 

Post stage, old Hank made a fucking bee line for the bar where Amy pulled him a Guiness and a Jim Beam. We talked and she told him that she and Averill were gonna get up and play one more song to close things down. 

I was def gonna stick around for that because, well, bowl, and also because I just had a good feeling about it. And the left-over adrenaline still had Old Hank snappin and poppin like a down power line.

Nicole and Amy jumped on stage, we gathered in, then those ladies just ripped into a country scorcher that I think was named “Put out the light in my soul.”

Holy shit this song. 

Averill slapped the shit out of her guitar while Amy poured a foundation under the whole thing with that wood drum box you sit on. The emotion Avrill funneled into her song and the intensity of her voice as she pushed into a really gorgeous rasp was a thing to hear. 

It was a song you wished went on a little longer but it didn’t. So, humbled but ready to work, Old Hank called an Uber and went home.

The moral of this bedtime story? Go anywhere on any given night in this town and you just might hear a song or even a set that will inspire you and remind you why you do whatever the fuck art it is that you do.

Again, we are just so lucky, Charlottesville.

Now go to bed and do NOT come banging on the basement door telling Old Hank to turn down. He gotta practice.

Nighty Night,

Old Hank