THE QUEEN OF HAIGHT STREET

One of our very first shows in San Francisco was at a bar on Haight Street. Jason and I had just moved to California, and even though we knew the club kind of sucked, we were still excited.

When it was time for us to play, Jason was nowhere to be found — I looked for him in the basement, in the boys’ room, but it was like he’d been beamed into space. Finally, he appeared, and we played our show for three people: the bartender and the two friends we’d invited. It was a deflating end to weeks of excitement about the gig.

After the show I asked Jason where he’d been beforehand, as though his disappearing act was responsible for the disappearance of our audience as well. Jason told me he’d been out on Haight Street, chatting it up with a crowd of friendly bums and bag ladies

A while later I went outside to get some air and an old woman pushing a grocery cart filled with junk approached me.  She had tears in her eyes. She explained that she’d been hanging out in front of that club for years, listening to different bands play. “Usually it’s terrible and I go about my business,” she said. “But tonight, the music was so beautiful that I cried.” She said she would’ve paid to get in if she’d had the money, and I told her I would’ve made sure she’d gotten in, had I known she was standing outside listening.

“I want to give you something,” she said. She dug through her cart for a few minutes, tossing things over her shoulder like a mad scientist. At last, she produced a tiny purple crystal the size of a dime. “I found this years ago,” she said. “It’s very important to me — it’s my most prized possession — and I want you to have it and keep it with you wherever you play.”

I felt tears spring to life in my own eyes. The notion that our music had connected so powerfully with this woman stirred me deeply. I took the crystal, and thanked her again and again.

I still have it, of course. It’s the most valuable treasure I own.