Ron Pope is a musician, and if you haven’t already heard his music, I can say without reservation that he writes passionately, honestly, and unapologetically. Not only is he a talented musician, but if you’ve ever been to one of his shows, you can tell that he is a genuine person. He manages to remain elemental to the core reasons he began his career as a musician, yet dynamically displays his talents for the world to hear. He is kind to his fans, humble in the face of the spotlight, and has yet to turn into the fame monster that many musicians in today’s music industry fall victim to.
Seven months ago, I entered The Middle East in Boston. Blake had surprised me with tickets to a sold out Ron Pope Show for our one year anniversary. I stood, Jack and coke in hand, five rows back from a stage so small, that you couldn’t do a cartwheel on it. Only a microphone, a piano, and a stool rested on the stage. The way music should be.
The opening act was Alexis Babini, a previous attendant of Berklee College of Music. He sat comfortably on stage, free of a guitar strap, with a six string acoustic resting over his right knee and a scarf draped loosely around his neck. Between songs he spoke to the audience, cracked jokes, and spent a few minutes teaching us one of his new songs so that we could sing the chorus with him. After a personal and charming performance, his set ended and he exited the stage to meet his fans by the merchandise table.
It was also at this time that my Jack and coke had miraculously emptied. I made my way to the bar for one more drink, when a swarm of teenage girls, who couldn’t possibly have been any older than eighteen, crowded the merch table in front of the bar. I could have sworn it was a twenty one plus show, but I would also be lying if I said that I didn’t have a fake ID during my freshmen year of college.
Guilty as charged.
“Hey, would you mind taking a picture for us?” One of girls asked asked me, while forcing a camera into my hands before I had time to answer.
“I’d be delighted to.” I counted down from three, told the girls to say cheese, and returned to my Jack and coke mission after snapping two or three pictures for the star struck teens. By the time I had ordered my drink, Alexis stood alone at his table.
“So many girls…That must be tough.” I joked.
“Definitely,” he laughed. “Who are you here to see?”
“Ron Pope.” I answered.
“Ron’s great! We’ve played together for a long time. So where are you from?”
“New Hampshire.”
“So you drove all the way down here to watch him perform?”
“I sure did. It’s only about an hour away with traffic.”
“That’s dedication. How long have you been listening to Ron Pope’s music?” Alexis asked.
“A while. I fell in love to Ron Pope.”
“I’m intrigued. Tell me more.” This caught me off guard. It was one of those times where I had said something I wasn’t even aware of. Inexplicable word vomit. I hadn’t thought to say something else. I could have said two years, and ended there. I humored him regardless. Ron Pope wasn’t coming out for another twenty minutes and I had always liked conversing with new people, so I told Alexis Babini my story without reservation that me might think I was absolutely crazy.
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