I am driving a big silver car from New York to Miami, making periodic stops to eat pancakes and play songs. The ratio of pancakes eaten to songs sung is reaching unsustainably dizzying heights. I am on a more or less non-stop syrup high. The I95 is irredeemably etched into my waking and my sleeping.

I have just set out on US27 from Charleston, meandering my way down to Savannah as I try and seek out a place to rest my weary head. I’m gunning for something on the spectrum between Econolodge and the Bates Motel. I am always on the lookout for thrifty danger. As the rumbling headlights of night trucks sweep by my bleary eyes, I compose this prose in my head, thinking back on the evening I just had the pleasure to live in.

By a happy coincidence, my targeting of the early evening Open Mic at the BakeHouse on East Bay Street leads to the discovery of the later and entirely wonderful ‘Bean Night’ at Kudu Coffee House. A space that blends gourmet coffee, craft beer, unfailingly friendly staff and classy ambiance is always going to wend its way into my heart with ease. Throw into the mix a loose affiliation of poets, musicians, activists and students and you have yourself the recipe for a very special evening. Bean is the brainchild of Charles Carmody, the charming and gracious host of the night who originally spawned the concept in his home last September. It was welcomed with such splendiferous support and scintillating success that the venue has now transmogrified into the more public and spacious Kudu. (Apparently this way Charles’ house is no longer trashed by marauding musicians on a bi-weekly basis. I have every sympathy with this position.) The atmosphere and space is unique; an outdoor courtyard in the heavy night air replete with a simple wooden stage, clusterings of patio furniture and sprawling youthful optimism. Fairy-lights twist with vines up crumbly walls and across the open night sky. The chattering of the crowd is excited and sparkling with anticipation.

The night begins and I am afforded the luxury of playing 3 songs, along with the greater mystery of an audience that is entirely attentive, sincere, generous, warm-hearted and without cynicism. I worry not about my grimy bedraggled appearance (I have taken to spilling industrial quantities of glutinous American food on myself these past days. With gusto.) Bright eyes look up at me from the warm night that is bespeckled with twinkling light and the distant chiming of church bells. It is a lovely treat to play here. Evidently I am not alone in feeling so. The stage is later peopled by a cocktail of first-timers, laconic poets and confident minstrels. My personal highlight is the talented Mr. Steven Fiore. And not just because he had recently returned from playing a gig that counted Mr Belding (of Saved by the Bell fame) amongst its audience. It is because he has the sort of effortless soft voice and immaculate melodies that can both electrify the night and warm a soul. Accompanied by his own deft acoustic guitar playing and the most subtle of snare-drum-playing-sidekicks, his tongue in cheek cover of Teenage Dream is hauntingly beautiful. Should you ever have the chance to see him play, I cannot recommend the prolific performer highly enough.

On leaving Bean, I pick up a copy of the limited run debut EP from singer songwriter Becca Leigh who played the prestigious feature slot of the evening having recently returned from France. The CD is one of only nine pressed up, created with love and a simple wood block hand printed cover. The $5 strikes me as a snip for such a collectors’ item from a performer who earlier delivered such clear and lovely music in the heart of the South Carolina twilight. However, when I load the CDR into the player, I am taken aback by the 4 simple songs that make up The Atlantic EP. The production is on one level what is to be expected from a first foray into the world of recorded song; stark and understated. But there is something else here. Something that makes me listen straight through the EP 3 times without stopping.

The immediate and unexpected comparison that springs to my mind is Sufjan Stevens’ Seven Swans. This is high praise indeed. I find something subtly special here. Something spiritual perhaps. It is the perfect soundtrack to my midnight drive. Particularly the final track ‘Andy’ which closes with heartfelt a capella harmonies woven on a simple riff that fuse into my marrow and bone. This is music as it should be. Real and beautifully imperfect, humming with life, honesty and grace. By the third run through I am singing along with abandon, my caterwauling harmonies abounding and resounding inside this cavernous silvery cocoon. I am a lucky old bean to have picked up this little gem. In such discoveries is the joy of life found. That, and in not getting murdered in one’s sleep by a psychotic motel owner. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.