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Tour Journal Revisited
"Mr. Whoopie"
by Katie Doyle (doyle@millbrook.org)

February 5, 1999: We found ourselves three - my sister, my dog, and me - sliding up eastern seaboard to see our oldest and best friend Kristen McGovern ("Gov"). We found her living near Camden, Maine, with her beautiful boyfriend Mike in a one-room cabin, all belongings where one could see them, a wood burning stove for warmth and comfort. We went to sleep the first night looking at a depth of sky that showed us millions of stars dancing on a black curtain, millions of stars winking at us, wailing at us to move your feet! Calm your mind! Ease your heart so good...

And that we did. February 6: We are now six and travel north to a little town called Belfast. We are going to see a band called "Mr. Whoopie." The name makes me skeptical, but Gov assures me that there are horns and that seems to make everything alright. The venue is the town dance studio and the first thing I know is that I have to take my shoes off. The sign advertising Mr. Whoopie points up, so we ascend wide wooden steps and as we do, we get closer and closer to the sound of bluegrass, to the sound of jazz blues, to the sound of good ol'fashioned rock and roll.

As I step through the dance studio door into the world of Mr. Whoopie I know instantly that all inhibition has been shed with the footwear. I have stepped into Narnia, I have stepped into Oz, I have stepped into heaven on earth. Marveling at the shoeless scene (even the band has lost their shoes in the quest to preserve the wooden dance floor), I felt magic and got my own groove on in no time. Easy to do with smooth horns, grounding percussion, funky bass, commanding guitar, and silky sweet keyboard. Once I had that feeling that you get in your chest when you know something good is on the way, I began to look around and oh so happy. Wonder dripped from me, awe seeped from every pore, and I could not contain myself.

I saw skinny woman up front tapping feet just right, I saw two old women dressed in long flowing black dancing face to face, touching fingers so gingerly as if they were at a Catilian.

I saw little gnome-type dude in hemmed jean shorts and white sweat socks with a grin down to his knees making star jumps with mouth wide open on every extension of his arms and legs, I saw white-haired father/husband hold his arms up as if waltzing with an invisible beauty and showing her off around the room, I saw young hippies join with silver haired lesbians in the most free and vivacious train that you have ever experienced, I saw ballerina glide slowly and gracefully in yoga movements, I saw determined tap dancer in the back of the room discovering his beat with every toe-heel combo, I saw confident dancer up front doing her own rendition of flashdance.

I saw big-bellied bearded mountain man swaying to a familiar rhythm that he kept safe in this head, I saw Gov in the back sweaty with shirt pulled up bare stomach and going nuts, I saw Polly and friend Bruce twirling around in a hectic mass of limbs, and I saw Mike's smile spread wider than all the universe, cheeks aglow, pure happiness radiating, and I saw seven musicians loving their instruments, loving each other for just playing, and loving this crazy lucky eclectic audience because it grabbed onto their sounds, embraced them, and made them look oh so fine.

There are times at Phish in Limestone or Worcester, there are times at Disco Biscuits in New York City, and there are times at Bela Fleck in Hartford: these are big momentous times - times you dream of, times you plan for, times for which you save your ticket stubs and look for reviews and setlists on internet web pages. Then there are Mr. Whoopie times, little times when you understand you feel the true unabashed reason why we all do it - why we stress over FedEx, why we drive 17 hours straight, and why we spend all our money - and you understand that it is not the gas mileage and it is not the dinero.

It is simply a group of human beings uniting in a room, in a hall, in an arena, in a field, and all hearing these musical notes that somehow transcend our sense of hearing and hit somewhere deeper. It is feeling those notes resonate deep inside and knowing that those same notes are resonating in the same way in the person next to you. It is sharing those vibrations with 10 people or 20 people or a thousand or a hundred-thousand people. It is knowing and understanding that those people - whether tap dancing or swing dancing or waltzing or spinning, ballarinaing, or flashdancing - those people are feeling what you are feeling. And that feeling is that right now, because of this note, this riff, this beat, this jam, right now everything is right with the world.