Hippie Phil

The night Hippie Phil “found his bliss” is remembered by many, but in different ways. He was hosting Open Mic at the Roundabout Cafe, completing his solo warm-up set, riffing hard when he snapped a string. Undeterred, he tore it off, unwound and cast it aside, still picking with abandon while re-tuning, to cheers from his devoted crew. Finishing, he stood smiling and announced a special surprise guest, returning former regular, folksinger Lyrissa. Lyrissa had been MIA since becoming locally famous. She was now playing hipper indie rooms and house concerts. Strikingly beautiful, with reflective black hair, sharp edged makeup and “dark tunes for somber times,” she’d hit a Zeitgeist with millennials. A rising star, we wondered why she was back, and she told us.. She’d just booked a West Coast tour with no return plans, making this a farewell visit to the Roundabout Cafe, the place her songwriting journey began. Some might think “victory lap” too, as she made no secret of her bigger plans. Hippie Phil beamed brightest as she began the first soft fingerpicked ballad. Phil hosted Lyrissa’s first Open Mic, two years ago, even accompanied her once. Lyrissa’s second tune was a departure, a jumpy, uptempo rocker that her tour promoters requested, to vary the dreamy atmospheric vibe. Lyrissa could play, showing off her big chops on the blues, demonstrating why she was moving on. As a closer, she dug deep, with her dark slowburn hit, “Come Into the Earth,” an ode to death eternal. As the tune began, Hippie Phil, at the soundboard, raised his Taylor acoustic into the air and plucked a high harmonic note. The ethereal note rang out, shaking coffee cups. He added a delicate downward riff, and horror overtook Lyrissa’s signature wry smile. Panic and excitement filled the Roundabout. She had forgotten Hippie Phil liked to jam with Open Mikers, impromptu and spontaneous, and how wrong she thought it was. The hirsute club owner, Kinglsey, known for his “eagle eye,” knew she didn’t want backup, and started damage control, distraction techniques to catch Phil’s eye, loudly steaming milk, pumping the turbo sprayer and rattling saucers. But Hippie Phil had found his bliss, eyes closed, playing passionately and dreaming of touring with Lyrissa. The dynamic was odd, two sound sources, one amplified, one unplugged. Lyrissa now remembered why she always hated Open Mic. She stared blankly for a moment, then looked directly at me for some reason. We had tried a piano-guitar duo briefly, and I had the obligatory crush on her, but it was not to be. She started improvising to Hippie Phil’s guitar, using slick vocal acrobatics and existential slides, sharp playful excursions, like staccato birds on a wire taking flight, more proof she deserved her victory tour. They finished in an overwrought unison and Phil translucent eyes opened, certain he’d be asked to join her tour. He envisioned the two of them on the Pacific Coast Highway, top down, guitar cases in back side by side, his white wispy hair in the wind. Lyrissa never cared much for Phil’s dusty Sixties vibe, and pitied him a little, but now felt quiet rage that he had hijacked her moment. As she left the stage, her suede boot snagged Phil’s broken, discarded, guitar string. She snatched the string up and, as she passed him, held it firm with both hands, pretending to wrap it around his neck. He laughed grandly, a big delusional laugh.. But IF she had she had started to strangle him, no man nor beast could have stopped her, such was her ambition. Instead she brushed past him, like the Pro she was, with a flutter of her gypsy dress. And in that moment Phil felt fame. Fame like Lyrissa might never know. Fame in a hippie’s dreams. Maybe the only kind. She ignored his calls for an encore, and slipped out the side door. She was off to play tech events in Silicon Valley and conquer the world, while Hippie Phil went on living the dream.