Lansing — Sitting alone in an art gallery of strangers, the photographer and a couple of scattered friends, I prayed Creole Gallery's Meegan Holland wouldn't embarrass me in front of these supposedly hip cats.
Please don't single me out for being with the press with all these poets and blues musicians looming in a place where the cast of "Rent" would love to hang.
I knew she would.
I did nothing to stop her at this gathering of curious MC5 fans, wandering bohemians and tuned-in cats looking for something to do on a Tuesday night.
OK, she's on the tiny stage with the Motor City Blues Scholars, who all looked like they were on vacation — guys with Hawaiian shirts, baseball caps and jeans.
She's got the microphone and is thanking everyone from the media for promoting the John Sinclair show.
I had never seen the Creole Gallery, 1218 Turner St., this full or a crowd so energized.
Holland cited a couple of names from other publications, but then I heard my first name and then something that sort of resembled my last name.
She mispronounced my last name.
I sort of blacked out.
The next thing I knew the Motor City Blues Scholars were jamming with an ultra-cool demeanor and sound.
Rubbing my eyes, I was confused as to where Sinclair was.
Maybe it was time to go home and tell my editor that there was a death in the family.
No, what would Kolchak: The Night Stalker do? I had to press on.
Then an imposing figure in a black T-shirt, camouflage cargo pants, fanny pack and long, skinny, red-beaded necklace slithered in front of the tiny stage like a snake after a big meal.
Is that really him?
It must be him. Nobody else has a white chin-beard like that.
But jeez, I would never have thought a poet could grow to be so tall.
Well, maybe Charles Bukowski was just as tall.
But why was Sinclair pacing in front of the stage instead of jumping on.
Ah, he was waiting for an introduction. Drummer R.J. Spangler did the honors. Sinclair made his way to the stage with a woman wearing a black flowing gown with a towering green headdress. She was to sing backup.
My hands were sweating, while Sinclair dictated to the band the style of blues he wanted.
Guitar-player Jeff Grand informed the band in which key they would be playing, and off they went.
Notebook in hand, Sinclair's raspy voice beautifully delivered poetic story after bluesy tale with unrivaled wit and humor.
Bob Baldori was rocking the keys and Chris Rumel was banging the stand-up bass.
It was a blur of musical spontaneity and lyrical brilliance.
Before I knew it, the band was taking a set break, and Sinclair was outside smoking while signing books and taking pictures with fans.
I gave Sinclair the article I had written about him, and he called me Zack. I corrected him, and he apologized.
When Sinclair hit the stage for the second set, he waved my article in the air.
He mentioned he liked the article but wanted to correct one of the facts.
I had written that he was the self-proclaimed "hardest working poet in show business," but he informed the audience that a journalist in San Francisco had given him that label.
Well, at least he got my name right while correcting me on stage, and I was able to experience one of the most artistically engaging shows of my life.
