The Residual Effect: A Night of Firsts at JamWel

JamWel Garden Party #11, the last of the season, a little oak ukulele and the feeling that stays

The day had been unusually warm for late October, the kind of day that tricks you into thinking summer might stay. By evening, people were gathering in the garden at Jim Welsch's home in Westmont, New Jersey, for JamWel Garden Party #11, the last of the season.

JamWel is a long-running open mic, and it is something rare. Longstanding musicians, many of them playing for decades, take their seats, tune their guitars, and take turns, with Phyllis, our MC and an accomplished musician herself, keeping the evening flowing. No stage lights, no screens. Just songs played in the open air, in front of real people who listen.

And what songs. The whole evening was a gift. We heard original songs written by people in that circle, and old classics played by hands that have known them for decades. I sat there listening, aware of how much I still have to learn. I've been playing for not even two years. In a circle like this, my newness is on display, and I feel it. It's humbling, in the best way.

As the night went on, a breeze came through. The evening turned a little chilly, just enough to cool the fingers, and cool fingers make every chord a little harder.
When my turn came, I walked up with a little oak ukulele, the newcomer surrounded by all those guitars. The visual must have been interesting.

Three songs into the breeze

I opened softly with "Something" by the Beatles, a song I had never played in public. A little finger-picking to set it up, a light strum on the C chord, and then the first line: "Something in the way she moves…" I felt the power as it echoed through the audience.

In practice, I had been self-conscious about this one. It's such an epic song, and a few spots still weren't polished. But I decided to go for it anyway and trust. I hit a couple of rough spots, and in those moments I could feel the whole circle pulling for me. Seasoned musicians know what it takes to stand up there, and they lift you when it counts.

Next came "Once in Love," a song so new that it had never been played in public. The breeze had my fingers fumbling a bit, and the picking wasn't perfect. But the chorus carried it, an autumn song on an autumn night:

But the leaves did fall And the river saw it all Red, gold to amber, gray

I closed with "The Feel Better Song," and couldn't resist adding a line for the moment: "I'm at the last JamWel, and my life feels better. We'll be back before you can tell, and we'll all feel better!"

The bridge

Afterward, Jim said he enjoyed my set and shared something I keep thinking about. He could see music like this, the songs so many in that circle have carried for decades, being passed on to a younger generation. I've seen it myself, from Italy to the USA: younger listeners are hungry for the old-school sound.
That's what JamWel does. Jim makes room for all of us, seasoned and new, and the songs keep traveling. Before the night was over, he even called out from the back for me to tell everyone about my poetry book. That's the kind of host he is.

What stays

Connecting with people in person lifts you while you're together. But what I've come to notice is what stays after. The next morning, I woke before the sun, no alarm, still carrying the night. It's like the glow after a good run: one evening can build momentum for days.

If there's something you've been practicing alone, a song, a poem, anything, find your circle and share it before it's perfect. The people who have been doing it longest are often the ones pulling hardest for you.

Thank you, Jim, for opening your home. Thank you, Phyllis, for bringing every one of us to the circle so well. And thank you to every musician who braved the chill to close out the season together. Until the next JamWel "Feel Better."