Published Nov. 21, 2003, in the Kansas State Collegian

Column by Matthew Webber

At some open mic night, I open my mouth and stutter:

"This is, ahem, a song about a girl."

I say this to everyone, to anyone, to myself, as I stare at my hands or at a Budweiser True Music neon sign. My left hand forms an E minor chord. My right hand squeezes my pick.

What song am I playing? Almost all of my originals are about girls.

I'm about to play "The Letter Song," which often is the first song I play, not because it is my favorite but honestly because it is so simple. It is E minor, C then G, all the way through the verses and the chorus. Then it changes to A then C for the bridge.

Plus, the way I wrote it, the words don't begin for four bars. This gives me a reprieve of about 15 seconds before I finally have to sing in front of other people, most of whom are chatting and drinking cheap beer.

Gulp. I open my mouth, and a silly pop song spills out.

"Your hands began a paragraph/Your fingers were the words/When you reached the period/It was what I've always heard."

I'm not sure anyone hears it. All I can hear is my own voice from the monitor. I'm starting to think this song is cheesy, probably because it is about five years old.

I think I should have started with "Cruise Control," which is kind of about driving but is really about heartbreak, since some people have told me it is my catchiest song. But I'll have to save it for the end now, like I pretty much do every time. It also starts with E minor, but so does everything else.

So does "Katarina," which I think is what I'll play next. "I wrote this song about a girl I met in New York," I'll say, which actually is the truth. The joke is she's a stripper, so it is one of those precocious story songs. I'd rather you read it than listen.

"I mail myself to somewhere real/I mail myself to you."

Two other singer/songwriters chuckle at the bar. Outside, my friend tunes up. I'm singing to the backs of heads.

Does anyone care that I'm starting to get into this? That I'm starting to believe my voice isn't horrible?

Even if they're watching, they probably can't tell. I'm either standing still, or I'm perched on a stool like a gargoyle. I'm watching my fingers or the darkness behind my eyes.

Why do I play for the people playing pinball at Gumby's Pizza and Pub? Why do I play in the smokiness of Fat's?

"I mail my heart to someone real/I mail my heart to you."

Emboldened, impassioned, I pick someone to sing to. He/she might not know it, so I feign a connection. I sing, and I pretend he/she listens.

Sometimes this person actually compliments me afterwards. My favorite praise is always, "I really like your lyrics."

Whenever this happens, it justifies the times it doesn't. It justifies the reason I picked up a guitar in the first place.

It justifies why I ever wrote a song.

I play an arpeggio. The G chord fades to silence. The PA system hums. The hands of musicians and some of their friends clap.

"Thank you," I mumble, and I sincerely mean it. "This one's about a girl in New York."

Of course, I play E minor. More confidently, I sing. The first line of "Katarina" is, "Are you listening to me tonight?"

Nobody answers. In my dreams, though, everyone is listening.