I was sitting in Lawrence University’s very own Kaplan’s Cafe, doing what one typically does in Kaplan’s Cafe. I had my cute little outfit on and an iced coffee in my grasp, which was promptly absorbed into my body at speeds which can only be described as maximal. However, I began to wonder to myself, “Who is this ‘Kaplan?’” Well, right as the thought crossed my mind, a lanky, genderless being with indistinguishable features materialized in the seat next to me. I knew immediately that this was Kaplan. Whatever the entity was, it certainly had full control over this cafe. It was encroaching, and I had the urge to slink away deeper into the booth, but it was as if my muscles had atrophied. Kaplan’s ambiguous mouth was an inch from my ear, and let out a rusty drone of a whisper that sent shivers down my spine. “Go to the bluegrass jam sesh at The 602 Club on this day, April 23,” it said. I knew what I had to do.
I informed my fellow bluegrass connoisseur and dear friend, first-year Clara Lyford, of this command I received. She agreed to assist me, and we met at the bus stop on Lawe Street. We headed north. Chuck Berry generated from my back pocket and mysterious numerical equations followed us on our journey. We came upon Jacob’s Meat Market, and we knew we were close. The street sign read Pacific, and from across the road wafted conversation and a little smoke on the shy April breeze.
We approached a group of folks surrounding a picnic table. I accused them of being at a bluegrass jam session, and they confessed willingly before encouraging us to enter the house. The 602 Club feels like someone’s home. I’m honestly not sure that it isn’t. Growing up, my father held traditional music sessions in our living room into the darkest hours of the night. My childhood sounds like trying to sleep while old hippies go absolutely buck wild in the other room. Walking into The 602 Club felt like stepping into those memories, but this time I was willingly awake.
The musicians were gathered in a circle, as the creatures of the jungle do, at the bountiful watering hole. We were delighted at the hustle and bustle of the room, with bluegrass already growing from the center. The flow of people into the club was consistent. Some brought instruments, some just watched, but nearly everyone had inspiring hats and head decor. Clara and I noted that the culture of head accessories has dwindled in our modern age. I think we should all do our part to keep the dying art alive, and put something atop our domes, for old times sake.
I was exuberantly invigorated by the sheer quantity of mandolins in that room. I have a deep passion for that little instrument, it’s just such a whimsical mischievous creature. We were blessed to have six entire mandolins in the session, along with four guitars, four fiddles, three banjos, a harmonica, an upright bass, a jaw harp and a handful of singers. What a riot!
Each tune started with one person shouting out “Does anyone know this one?” followed by a clamor of answers. Usually, someone would just yell out the chords, and everyone would just start playing. After they ran through a tune once or twice, they’d start to “pass the solo” around the circle. The beginning of each song would start off a little discombobulated, but after a minute or so everyone would find their place, each musician doing their own thing. The jam would end and everyone would clap. Between tunes, witty jokes shot across the circle, and it was clear that many of them had played together for years. Then, someone would ask about another tune, and the improvisation would clamor out once more.
Most players were incredible on their instruments, but there were beginners there as well. I had considered bringing my mandolin along for the ride, but I refrained out of sheer cowardice. I should’ve just gone for it, and thrown myself into the abyss. I think that was the beauty of the bluegrass jam sesh at The 602 Club, and probably the lesson Kaplan wanted me to learn. Just throw yourself into whatever you’re doing. The chords aren’t too complicated, and the world doesn’t end if you mess up.