Quinn Coleman

This is a little different than my typical posts; I could easily talk about the three or four projects that have begun to pester me into working on them ahead of the queue. I could talk about how a local author commissioned me to do some artwork for her books, or how she’s also said I could go out to ride her horse later this week. I could talk about how it feels to have four books published and somehow still feel rocky and amateur and ill-prepared for…literally anything.

However, something magical happened last night that made me fall a bit more in love with my city.

As someone who’s been on the fence about living here for over 3 years now, this was surreal, and most needed. So, I’m writing about that.

Let me set the scene.

It’s sundown, summer of August in southeast Texas; the wind that’s blowing isn’t hot, but calm, a relief from the typical heat. It’s heavy enough to brush the leaves overhead and tempt napkins on tables to fly away, but it’s not torrential to the point of discomfort.

The massive tree outside the local coffee shop has long since been decorated with strings of twinkling lights, wrapping around the trunk and limbs like a glittery hug. Above head, there’s more lights—Edison lights, criss-crossed and stretched from tree limb to the porch of the coffee shop. 

I should mention here, it’s not a typical coffee shop, but an old refurbished Victorian style home. Two stories, stuffed with eclectic and vintage furniture inside, gray on the outside, besides the dancing pink and green and purple stage lights, where the stage is actually just a porch.

Years and years ago, I imagine the old house was a hot spot even then; with its incredible architecture, inviting tree, and wide space out front, no doubt it was the place to be. Last night, it definitely was.

Because last night was open mic night. 

I had been around this event a few times; I always stayed inside doing work, enjoying the occasional rush of acoustic sound or poetry that would float in and out of the doors as patrons came to get drink refills and went back outside. 

This time, I had invited a friend to join me inside. Except she says, “I’ll be outside for the mic night,” so outside I go.

Initially, things start as I expected: talented singers, songwriters, the master of ceremonies booming that we aren’t excited enough—of which, I do my best to lift the volume. I grew up in a city where loud = proud at football games, so I’m all too happy to channel my inner ‘woo girl’, as my mom would call it, and cheer at the top of my lungs for each participant.

At one point, as the sun is nearly set, and we can’t tell if the darkness of the sky is from the last of the twilight or storm clouds rolling in with that building breeze, a little girl steps onto the stage, armed with a light blue plastic recorder.

Naturally, we cheer for her; as she pops up on her toes to look at all of us, the MC asks if she would prefer to stand on a picnic table in the center of the open area; she rushes down the steps and leaps up there, confident as ever.

Her and the MC exchange some questions about ‘which version do you want to play’ as he types on his phone, and she shifts her feet and prepares her instrument.

Then from the speakers plays Bobby Helms and ‘Jingle Bell Rock’. In August. In Texas.
And the sheer joy that explodes through the group is both hilarious and wonderful.

Those who know the lyrics struggle to not sing along, myself included; beat by beat, the audience begins to clap in time with her song. She hits the first verse, the chorus, and we’re all grinning and rearing for the finale—and then right near the end, the speakers falter. 

The music crackles in and out and then stops.

While she continues to play her recorder, she looks at the MC, slightly panicked.

But all at once, the audience fills in for Bobby, signing together, ‘That’s the jingle bell!
That’s the jingle bell!
That’s the jingle bell rock!’

Of all the acts—the incredible florist who belted Paramore and sent me back to high school, the comedians who were getting up on a stage for the first time, the slam poetry written and performed right then and there, the random group of rollerblading and skateboarding pirates that came by not once, but twice, demanding sea shanties, my amazing friend that sang and played on an ocarina, making many in the audience tear up—

Honestly, the Christmas song in the late summer was by far my favorite. 

Thank you to Freddo ATX and Convergent Arts for bringing together such a wonderful experience. I felt as if I was walking through a scene in a book; while I wished I had recorded the moment, I’m also glad I was able to just be in it for the time.

Sometimes, Austin…you get it right.