It’s Tuesday night at Horsies Saloon, which means Carly Scena takes the stage. She opens her notebook, lyrics penciled in, and welcomes us all into “Tender Tuesdays.”
We’re lined up almost single file down the long, wooden bar.
In the hole-in-the-wall on 19th Street, with a certain equestrian hint.
There are horses crocheted over the door and oil paintings of stallions along the walls. Chili pepper-shaped string lights bathe everything in a red glow.
A person reads from a fat novel, at a bistro table, where notebooks are open. The next edition of a small newspaper is contrived from a pair sitting in the back.
By the register, a stack of invitations to the bar’s birthday party, and a corresponding set of flash tattoos that will be etched into arms that night.
Past the bar, a pair of chest-height, carved wooden doors swing open to Carly’s stage: a piano tucked into shelves of natural wines. A handwritten sign that says, “$10 corkage if you wanna drink it here.”
Across us is a row of rumbling refrigerators holding an assortment of imported beers. Justin’s at the bar pouring vermouth heavy. A group of four is at the one table explaining the rules of gin rummy.
Carly strikes the keys and opens her mouth; a song fills the space. It’s an old John Prine number, and I find myself mumbling along. It’s about finding oneself on a bus and sitting down for a while.
I’m taken back to the first time I heard that song, in a car going 80 through Nebraska, a day before saying goodbye to someone I loved. Then the time not so long ago, sitting cross-legged on the floor, guitar in hand, my friends voices echoing off the walls. It’s amazing how the vibrations of a song carry memories too—that twelve notes can offer the structure to express our shared humanity.
Tonight I’m sipping the last of the homemade hard cider sitting on half of a loveseat when a man, reddish beard and beanie with glasses, eyes the space. “You’re welcome to sit here,” I say. and he does. It turns out that he builds conference rooms, but in his heart, he makes video art. He shows me some of the things he’s made on YouTube, interspersing clips of places I recognize with flashes and jostles of a silent beat.
We talk about chickens to the cadence of the songs; Carly plays across decades but keeps the vibes “tender.” We tap our feet, following along.
As the minutes tick by, she cycles through Dylan, Mitchell, Young, Crosby, and Nash. I wonder if they could be songs of her childhood but I didn’t ask. To me, they are songs of gathering by candlelit mantles on blustery nights. And in a city of concrete, where sometimes one can feel so alone, walking the rainy streets, the familiar folk offer a friendly retreat.
Tender Tuesday at Horsies, a place where strangers meet.
Tender Tuesday at Horsies, where anyone can just be.
Catch Carly on any Tuesday at Horsie’s Saloon, 7:30-9:30pm.
Review and artwork by Christopher LeBoa
