Reservoir Songs

In praise of real-time meetings in the dark with friends

RBW at Ashokan Reservoir, 11-6-24 pic by Mor Pipman

On the evening of Wednesday, November 6th, 2024, I gathered with a group of friends at the Ashokan Reservoir for real-time fellowship. We were all devastated by the results of the 2024 presidential election, and what it revealed about American voters’ lack of concern, even contempt, for what we care most about. Among this little group were writers, teachers, a chef, a medical professional, and a musician/writer – me. Parents. Grandparents. Oldsters. The cardinal impulse we share is to create, to foster connection, both to others, and to ourselves.

These are my people.

I’ve never used this platform to express my politics, but I reckon most of my subscribers ascertain I am among the minority of voters who did not vote for a convicted felon-misogynist-racist, an authoritarian whose policies will, to put a fine point on it, hurt people I love, and empower a vision of my country I passionately disagree with. I’m not going into that here. I just want to share what my friends and I did, which helped us. I recommend it. While I’m wrestling with uncertainty over the future, one thing I am betting on is more real-time gatherings to come – intimate affairs like ours, and tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, in the streets. I will be there.

Before I share a bit more, I am compelled to point out that our District 19 went blue, which was a bit of a surprise. We are surrounded by Upstate NY red. District 19 going blue is a significant development in our local political landscape, and reason for celebration amid the genuine horror of so much else. (NY State is also blue, but the districts surrounding mine – all of us rural – are mostly red.)

The invitation went out early last Wednesday: come howl at the star-strewn sky over the mighty Ashokan. We ultimately did collectively howl, but although unspoken, we understood we were also there to mourn, to rage a bit, and, most important, to tap into each other’s goodwill. To be present for one another. We sought soul sustenance from contact with friends in a beautiful – albeit weirdly warm – setting. We would defiantly wrench pleasure from one of the darkest days of our lives.

I would arrive after my heaviest work day. On Wednesdays, I teach preschoolers in the morning, and Rock Academy youngsters – mostly teens – in the late afternoon/early evening. Of course the preschoolers were blessedly clueless. I reveled more than usual in their exuberant singing and shouting and wrapping their arms around my legs like I’m a tree they aim to climb. The teachers’ faces were ashen but, as ever, focused. I’ve been coming to this school for eighteen years, and in the past ten or so, the number of Central American and Mexican immigrant children has significantly increased. Indeed, I am helping them learn English with the songs we sing together. I looked at them, and will continue to look at them, and many of my neighbors, with deepening concern.

But I was there to sing with them, and sing we did. And dance and laugh. These things have never felt more important.

Later, as my six Rock Academy students arrived to my little practice room for their forty-five-minute bass and guitar lessons, I did not mention the election. Thankfully, none of them asked me about it. All of them have a lot of work to do getting ready for the shows they’ve been cast in, and, as I’ve written before, it is my job to prepare them as best I can, not to talk about politics, or overshare my existential dread. A couple of my students are Hispanic. I am not sure of their status, but I’m deeply concerned for them, and their families, too. I did not voice this. Thanks to the ingenious and challenging Earth, Wind & Fire tunes I’m teaching them, I was able to avoid dwelling on it.

My fellow teachers and I exchanged some heavy looks, and I heard one expressing his intense dismay to another, but for the most part, the bustling school was its usual cacophony of rock and roll and kids laughing, running, and hanging out. Parents coming and going, all of them consumed by their caregiver tasks, some kibitzing. I was reminded of how satisfying that phase of my life was, not least because the focus I put on my son drowned out quite a lot of noise – some for ill, but mostly for the good.

Again, I was glad for all of this. I was also counting the minutes until I could get away from the fluorescent lights and be with my friends.

As I made my way to the Ashokan Reservoir, a bright crescent moon was descending over the Catskills. I arrived last, around 8:30, as the stars were brightening the sky over the reservoir, the surrounding mountains shadowy sentinels. I parked, and was greeted by a reconnaissance party walking with their flashlight apps ignited so I would see them. I pulled my acoustic from the car and followed them back to where everyone was gathered. Once we hit the paved path by the water, they all turned off their lights, and we walked in the dark to more friends. About ten of us in all.

During the day, the pavement on which we met is used by joggers, saunterers, bikers, dog walkers, young parents with strollers, and sightseers. Last Wednesday night, it was just our little group. The walkway is not lit, so we couldn’t quite make out each others’ faces, but of course we could hear one another, and everyone’s presence was felt. Wounded, exhausted voices, scared, angry, but all seeking the company of others. We did not speak directly of what had just happened. We hugged, laughed. A couple lay down on the pavement and stared into the firmament.

Although I couldn’t quite see the fretboard of my guitar, I have been playing so long – about forty-four years – I did not really need to. I played “Blackbird,” “Mr. Tamborine Man,” Neil Young’s “I Am a Child,” Townes Van Zandt’s “Pancho & Lefty” and “To Live’s to Fly,” and Leonard Cohen’s “Sisters of Mercy.” I played a little of The Cars’ “Just What I Needed,” but it didn’t feel right, so I cut myself off after the first chorus.

Folks sang along when they knew the words, and we were briefly joined by a coyote howling in the distance. As the autumn dark deepened, we tended to each others’ inner light. How to do that? Show up, be fully present. After about an hour, the communal energy dipped and folks began to peel off and head for the their well-lit, warm homes, their automobiles and media sources. Their televisions, phones, and their internet.

Some of us were reluctant to re-engage. I, for one, could have stayed there for hours, playing songs, singing, and hearing my friends’ voices, feeling their love, all while not being able to see their faces. Walking back to our cars, we realized the meeting had alleviated some of our pain and worry, at least briefly. Pledges were made to do more of this going forward. While we were no less devastated than when we arrived, our fellowship, and the music, had given us a reprieve. In the parking lot, we howled, hugged, farewelled.

I am always glad to be a musician, but especially so in times like these. The many disappointments of my own life occasionally still needle me – the election, and an unholy host of haunting shit – but with my friends at the reservoir, I was free of all of that.

It is difficult to do what I do when vexed with a worried mind. Often the only times I’m not anxious or regretful or poisonously ruminative in my waking hours is when I’m writing or making music. (I’m working to improve those numbers, believe me.) When I can deliver others to the moment with song, no matter the venue – club, theater, reservoir walkway – I feel I am doing good work. The work of my life, evidently.

The next four years will require work as well as occasional reprieve. I am ready, willing, and able to help with both.

Lastly, if you’ve not gathered with your friends in a quiet place of natural beauty, by all means do what you can to make that happen, and soon. If you have a musician friend to lead everyone in song, and deliver you to the precious moment, all the better.