The open stage:

A retired accountant arrived with a Martin guitar and sang a ballad about his wife of forty-three years. His voice wandered in and out of tune as though searching the room for permission to continue. By the final chorus, no one cared.

He was followed by a nineteen-year-old with a laptop who informed us he made “post-industrial ambient glitch.” This involved pressing the space bar every thirty seconds while recordings of refrigerators, dental drills, and City TV’s weather report collided.

A bluegrass duo appeared next, impossible tempos with smiles. The banjo player moved his fingers so quickly his hands appeared to be arguing with physics.

Then a poet who insisted her work was “not performance poetry,” immediately followed by ten minutes of performance poetry.

An elderly blues singer forgot half her lyrics, invented new ones, and this somehow improved the song.

A band of three high-school students and somebody’s aunty, delivered two songs, each about capitalism, acne, and betrayal.

A woman born in Iran told the crowd they should be afraid of the same fanatical Islamic takeover happening in Canada that happened in Iran fifty years ago. Then she performed a Persian love song so beautiful any conversation throughout the room ceased without anyone being asked.

Near the end a man carrying an accordion announced, “This is an original polka about municipal zoning regulations.” He received the loudest applause of the evening before playing a single note.

Every performer climbed onto the same small stage carrying the same unreasonable hope. That tonight, for three or four minutes, strangers might become listeners. This was the miracle of the open stage.