- Published Oct 3, 2013 in The Scene
- Read time: about 2 minutes
Come one, come all. If you happen to be in the Poconos (and let's face it, why wouldn't you be?) stop by and sing a song or two. It'll be very.
Let's just say you wake up one morning with that feeling. You know the one we mean. The feeling that, even as you're just opening your eyes—even before that first cup of java—you have this mysterious and overwhelming desire to drive to the Poconos, put your name on a list, imbibe copious alcoholic beverages and, at some point in the evening, get up on stage and give to the world your best rendition of the song you wrote about how the maple leaves looked floating on the surface of your swimming pool one night a year ago after two more glasses of Pinot Noir than anyone should rightly have in a single evening.
But here's the thing: who's hosting this shindig? Just anyone? No, that won't do at all. You see, these kind of things can go horribly awry in the wrong hands. Long gaps of silence; a badly EQ'd sound system; the bartender's girlfriend onstage wailing into the mic, torturing a mandolin through the worst version of Katrina & The Waves' Walking On Sunshine you've ever heard in your miserable life. And all you can do is stare hopelessly into your subpar domestic beer and hope someone besides your blind date is still sitting in the audience when it's your turn to take the stage.
Stan will be your host for the best open-mic you've ever attended in your entire life. You will play better than ever; your sound will make you wonder if you stumbled into nirvana; and you will be discovered by an A&R rep from Columbia who just happened to get a flat tire outside the club, came in to use the phone as you were starting your first song and called the president of the label to say he just found the next David Lee Roth, minus the spandex.
At this point you're frothing at the mouth, begging for the salient details so you can begin planning the logistics of your journey. Well, here they are.