Artist Story: Erick Deshaun Dorris

I arrive an hour early to the show. I have to set up equipment and merchandise and schmooze with the bartender for extra drink tickets. My ensemble doesn’t usually play with other bands, so the room is quiet this early in the evening. I’ve intentionally stopped playing at bars. Instead, I’ve been making my own venues: studios, lofts, cabarets. The idea is to offer an “intimate, boutique” experience. That’s the established marketing model for singer/songwriters, I think.

I’d like to say my music is a cross between Ray Charles and Tori Amos. Baroque. Soul. You might think that’s strange, but I am a product of my ’90s experience: Neo-soul, Lilith Fair, Kirk Franklin. The result is Saturday-morning music—the kind mommas play when cleaning the house. Music that mixes well with Murphy’s Oil Soap and Pine Sol. Spontaneous-dance-moves-in-the-living-room music. In 1992, I busted a few moves to my dad’s Marvin Gaye, Clark Sisters, and Anita Baker cassettes—music like that.

It’s now 45 minutes before the set. I ask the bartender about reservations. Typically, it’s a number less than 10. “A couple under the name Stewart and some girl named Kathy,” he responds, without needing to check the books. I am sure he’s thinking, I’m not making tips tonight!

My drummer is setting up. My bassist is talking shit. This version of my trio’s been together for a while. We’re comfortable around each other.  

Last fall, I tried to book us some place every week. We got into a rhythm and built a following—just not a very large one. I assumed that playing more often would lead to more exposure and therefore attract more fans. More = More = More, right? Following that model, we started our weekly residency at a bar in Lincoln Park. We played each Wednesday in August. Sometimes there were three people in attendance, sometimes nine. My brother once came with his ladyfriend; once, it was just us. That lonely night, we ordered Long Islands and talked about the death of live music.

I’ve been back in Chicago since 2003. I moved to (and eventually away from) South Jersey. I worked at an art center about 30 miles outside of Philadelphia. Artists were touring up and down the Eastern seaboard, and they arrived at the center, driving their own cars and pulling guitars out of their back seats. Across the river, in Philly, Neo-Soul had emerged from cracks in the pavement. Now every black artist was doing spoken word, playing an instrument, and claiming as inspiration some soul singer from earlier that century. Venues in Philly were never empty.

Chicago in 2003 was very different than out East. I tried to be a singer/songwriter, but I didn’t play the guitar. Being a pianist, I ended up playing at cabarets and lounges, but I hate show tunes. I got a band and sloshed into the bars. Inevitably, the first few years were frustrating.

We’ve just finished our sound check with15 minutes to spare. The doors open, and people begin to arrive. I thank them for coming and flash them a grin. A few minutes before we start, I get a sense of what the room is going to look like for the night: a group of friends, peppered with strangers. In my head, I note where the strangers are sitting. Fans? I wonder, or friends of friends? At least the room isn’t empty. I’ve played a lot of empty rooms.  

My little ensemble has played some great sets for a group so small I could count them on my hands. Since we’re almost a band, I’ve considered reaching out to college kids—young beatniks who read Chaucer and listen to Miles Davis—but I’m not sure it would work. Regularly attending live music used to be edgy and underground. Audiences were filled with like-minded individuals, and people like being around like-minded individuals. The public will still spend 50 bucks on a major-label ticket. However, that $5 or $10 show in somebody’s attic? Those shows have fallen off most people’s priority list. Instead, they can create “intimate” experiences on the Internet for free. Online, tastes can be even more specialized and the number of like-minded individuals almost infinite. Instead of meeting a local girl at a show, a guy can chat up a girl two time zones away. It’s become so easy for a pair of Chaucer/Miles aficionados to find each other across state lines. In many ways, people don’t need a music scene anymore. Artists used to be the most interesting people in the room. We used to draw in listeners in and entice them to follow. Now we chase them down and give them things for free.

It’s showtime. I’m sitting sidesaddle at the piano and eyeing this new girl wearing a white dress who decided to sit in the front row. “Now, how am I supposed to sing when you’re wearing your Communion dress?” I tease everyone in the room—gently. It’s just part of the act. She blushes, laughs, and whispers something to my friend behind her.  

Friends of friends: I answer my question right before counting off the first song.  

We’re six bars in and fast approaching this pregnant moment I’ve come to love. My drummer has a bead of sweat working its way out of his hairline. The bass line is breaking across the floor. We squeeze, hit, and coax music out of our instruments. It fills up the empty spaces in the room.

Erick Deshaun Dorris is a gigging singer, songwriter, and pianist. He earned degrees in theatre and music from Millikin University. Since returning to Chicago, Erick has been has been playing around town with his trio, The Rhythm Method. Erick is also a company member of Barrel of Monkeys Productions, for which he writes music, performs, and sits on the board. Erick lives and creates music in Chicago's Portage Park neighborhood.