Three Nights in Fairfield — “This Is What I Saw” and more than I expected
Last weekend I settled into Fairfield the way you ease into an old wooden chair — a little creaky, familiar, and somehow exactly the right fit. Three nights at StageOne gave me the chance to play these “This Is What I Saw” songs in their natural habitat: up close, face-to-face, in a room where even the dust in the rafters seems to listen.
These songs have lived in my head and my notebooks for a long time — 100 windows into the each room of my life — so stepping onstage and sharing them felt a bit like handing pages from a private journal to a room full of friends. And the room, bless it, handled them with care.
The Shape of the Music Each Night
A big part of what made the run feel alive was John Leccese, who jumped in for the second set every night. John switched instruments like he was flipping through chapters — stand-up bass, banjo bass, drums, keys — each one shifting the energy in this subtle, gravitational way. It kept me on my toes in the best possible sense. Some musicians accompany you; John meets you. It turned each night’s second set into its own little living world.
And then there was Night Three, the 23rd, where something full-circle and quietly enormous happened:
my son Ryder sat in with us.
Now, I’m not going to pretend I was cool about it. Watching your kid step into the same musical space you’ve been carving for decades — with confidence, calm, and this grounded sense of belonging — it hits you in places you didn’t even realize were open. He wasn’t trying to “make a moment.” He just was the moment. And somehow it felt like he’d always been heading toward that stage.
As if that wasn’t enough to test the limits of my dad-heart, one of Ryder’s friends from pre-school — yes, pre-school — jumped in with us for “Speculator.” There are circles in life you can’t plan or script. That one just quietly closed itself, and I’ll probly be unpacking the meaning of it for a long time.
The People Make the Room
Fairfield has a way of turning a performance into a conversation. Each night unfolded differently — some songs leaning toward memory, some toward mischief, some toward the kinds of truths you only say out loud when the room feels safe enough to hold them. Folks came from all corners: Strangefolk heads, AOD lifers, brand-new listeners, old friends, strangers, and the sweet mix of “haven’t seen you since we broke down outside Killington in ’03” types.
It wasn’t a loud kind of energy. More like a quiet agreement that we’d all show up fully. Those are the nights where songs breathe, where stories wander in and out, where even the mistakes (and there were a couple) start to feel like part of the design.
What I’m Carrying With Me
By the time Sunday night wrapped and the lights went soft, I felt that good kind of worn-out — the kind that says something real happened. Something that won’t rinse off in the shower or disappear when you scroll to the next thing. Looking through the photos from the weekend — the in-between smiles, the pedalboard chaos, the moments when John and I locked into something wordless, Ryder’s calm focus — I realized this run wasn’t just a preview of the project. It became part of the project.
Another layer of what I saw.
Another layer of what I’m still seeing.
Thanks to everyone who came out, leaned in, and made the room feel like home. If you were there, you know. And if you’re just stepping into this world now — welcome. There’s room.