A little more than a week ago, I was at a small gathering. I would call it a Halloween party, but “party” seems to imply a raucousness that was definitely lacking. At some point, I ended up standing in the kitchen talking with singer/guitarist Justice Naczycz, a former member of the great Memphis band the Secret Service and a nice guy to talk to at parties.
We chatted about songwriting, guitar, the Flyer, and other things, and it took me a little while to realize that I had seen his band perform a half-dozen or so times. (Look, it’s been a while since the Service disbanded.) When, at last, I did make the connection, I told him I had been a fan, that the band’s live show had been one of my favorites back in the day. Then, I confessed I had seen a different group at the old Hi Tone on Poplar (now Growlers) by mistake, and I thanked Naczycz for inadvertently introducing me to a different group.
A friend was visiting, so my friend Michael and I thought we would take him to see a real Memphis rock-and-roll show. The Secret Service, with their rockin’ riffage, seemed like just the ticket. And, those being the days of $5 covers, for local acts anyway, it wouldn’t break the bank either.
So we went to the Hi Tone, stood in line (longer than I expected — maybe the Service were breaking big?), and paid our $7 admission. Wait — $7? Yes, the Service must be hitting the big times. Oh well, it will be worth it.
Milling around before the show, we noticed a well-stocked merch table and thought we might as well go talk to the person working it. An increased ticket price, merchandise, and someone who’s not a band member to tend the merch table — it looked like one of my favorite Memphis bands was making moves. Well good for them.
So we told the sandy-haired young man behind the folding table that we were excited for the show, that our friend from the middle-of-nowhere was in for a treat, and we asked how fortune was favoring the band. When he opened his mouth to reply, we were met with a melodious Scottish lilt.
“We’re just so excited to be here. I mean, Memphis, right?” he said, or something along those lines. “To be here? Aren’t you from here?” I remember thinking. “Didn’t I see these guys at the New Daisy about a month ago? Where else would they be?”
Then I did a little mental math. A little sleuthing. (Okay, I admit it should have been obvious, but I was under the influence of no little bit of alcohol — and the powerful urge to look like I had some idea of what was going on.) The increased cover charge, the Scottish accent, the multiple items of merchandise (much like what a band might bring on, say, an international tour) — it all began to add up. These folks weren’t from around here.
Reader, we were not at a Secret Service show, but rather, had misjudged the date. We were something like 24 hours early to see the Secret Service, but right on time to see Scotland’s indie-pop darlings, Camera Obscura.
Though I was prepared to have my face musically melted by Naczycz, Steve Selvidge, Mark Edgar Stuart, and John Argroves, I loved the dreamy, jangly pop of Camera Obscura. It should come as no surprise that a band named after an art history term and who draws comparisons to Belle and Sebastian was not in the business of melting faces, but they were wonderful. I will never forget the first time I heard “Country Mile,” accidentally on a Memphis night.
All this is to say that, in Memphis, it’s easy to be spoiled. There’s a good chance you might bump into a musician you like at a party, art walk, or the grocery store. I could list every local legend I’ve met at a concert or interviewed for work or bought candles from or sold a movie ticket to, back in my college days, but why bother? I’m sure you have your own list. And that’s just in the music world. We have a vibrant arts community that would be the envy of any peer city. But we shouldn’t let that fact desensitize us to the unexpected.
Magic can come along and surprise us, and for that I’m thankful.
