For the past few months we have been reviewing the By-laws of our organization. This month we finalized changes that were as mundane as fixing punctuation and as profound as updating the very structure of the Board of Directors. The revised document will be available on our website shortly and we’ll let you know when it is so you can be up to date on the rules governing our non-profit.

While we were discussing changes we also revived the discussion on changing the 

public name of the organization to Songwriter Summit in hopes of broadening our reach to include more writers from all over Northeast Ohio. That change is reflected in the banner of The Bridge this month and will be included in other materials from the group as we develop our new logo.

In a further attempt at outreach, President Don Henson asked newsletter editor Bob Sammon to create a four page hardcopy newsletter summarizing lead stories from previous issues of The Bridge. Don then had a limited run printed and distributed them in music stores and other businesses in the area in the hopes of attracting some additional interest in membership. This effort was conducted without investing any funds from Songwriter Summit.

Finally, the board voted to continue participation in the Acme Cash Back program between now and the end of the year. Details on how you can help raise funds are noted elsewhere in this issue. 

Bob Sammon - I first walked into an open mic at the Barking Spider in December of ’08 shortly after I ended a 23 year hiatus from performing. After listening to many of the other acts I was a bit intimidated. Host Will Cheshier put me at ease, set the sound perfectly and I had a great time. I returned in January and met the other host, Gary Hall, and that started me on a path of being a regular at these events. 

I was back that February and again in March. As Gary was introducing me that time he said that I was the guy he was going to ask to do the feature set in April. I didn’t hear the rest of the intro. Suddenly I had gone from open mic performer to featured player. I panicked.

I spent the next month working on a set list and running through all the songs every day. I didn’t want to let Gary down and I surely didn’t want to sully the reputation of the Spider by bringing anything other than the best I was capable of performing. 

Matt Harmon - It is impossible to overstate the value of the Barking Spider Tavern. Despite the closing, I refer to that value in the present tense as the gift is ongoing. This was no mere watering hole. The Spider was a community center, Martin Juredine was the man at the core, and it was his appreciation and respect for people and music into which we were all granted entrance.

As a songwriter, I got something from the Spider that I didn’t yet know I needed. We learn to play an instrument. We learn to create melodies and support them with chords. We learn to write poetry and artfully lay our observations and dreams on a bed of music. But the next step can’t be achieved at home.

The Spider gave me the opportunity to connect with an audience.

To set up a P.A. system and play to a noisy room is a gig. To sit center stage in front of a listening audience is a show. I was fortunate to play ninety minutes, every three months for about eight years. In the beginning it was shaky at best. One night I’ll never forget, as I was leaving the place with my guitar, Martin pulled me aside at his end of the bar and said “you’re finding your voice”. He meant you’re starting to resonate and capture attention, elicit laughter and even tears. He meant, keep going, you’re doing it!

Today, no matter what venue I play, from a noisy bar to a coffee shop, from a grocery store to a festival, during my first couple of songs I picture the Spider from stage. This little exercise puts me in my comfort zone, and quickly elevates the average gig to a special show. No matter how chatty the room, someone may be listening. If you ever see me play, and I’m gazing beyond the crowd, you can bet I’m looking to Martin for a nod of approval.

Jim Kooser - I was a rotten father. I started taking my daughter to bars when she was 10 years old. Kate tagged along for gigs with Willoughby Run and the other bands I’ve played in. The Spider, in particular, always welcomed her, and she felt at home there.

Kate and I walked in one night three or four years ago, hoping to catch the end of Joe Rollin Porter’s set. Joe had finished and was gone, but there were two guys playing and singing, so we sat at the bar, grabbed a couple of beers and settled in. The guy singing had a great Texas drawl. The chorus of the tune they were playing came around “If I ever get back to Texas.”

Kate and I looked at each other, and asked each other “How do we NOT know this guy?” See, Texas, its landscape, people and music, are centers to our lives. Kate was playing Townes, Guy and Jerry Jeff tunes from the time she could pick out her first chords. 

Ann Trupo - The Spider always was so much more than just a job, or just a bar or even just one of the best, most unique music venues anywhere in the country. From the first moment I walked through those doors on a sunny afternoon in 1998, I knew I was home. I didn’t need the music or the friendly faces to know that. Well, maybe just one friendly face. It was early afternoon so the only one there was Martin Juredine, sitting at a table doing his crossword and sipping on his mate tea. He was warm and welcoming, funny and charming. He told me about his artwork and the photos of Morocco that he had taken on his travels. I was hooked. I knew this was a place I would return to many times.

I began pestering him for a job. Every time I came I would ask him, “Are you ready to hire me yet”? Eventually either he got tired of me asking or I got lucky. Much to my delight he offered me the ever-coveted Thursday night shift. I'd hit the jackpot. Four killer bands rotated the Thursdays of each month and from that moment on so did so many of my best friends and extended family. For the better part of the next two decades I had a home away from home. I found a family. The laughs and the drinks and the tunes would flow endlessly from the carriage house. The stories, the 

characters, loves found and loves lost and loves found again. We celebrated weddings and a few too many farewells. The space Martin created and the vibes that filled the room were a lasting gift. That he opened his home and welcomed me in was a blessing beyond compare.

There were too many nights to recall them all, but a couple do stand out. The night of the Great Eastern Seaboard Blackout Vicki Chew and Bill Lestock were playing with Under The Tree. You couldn’t imagine a happier bunch of patrons. No one panicked. No one left. We lit some candles, unplugged the instruments and sat in a captured silence while they played their set and made magic happen. On another night while the music rang out, a couple of guys were both looking for a dance partner. The ladies in the house were either dancing or resting and both of the guys looked a bit dejected when they realized it. The two men, in one quick glance, decided that their desire to dance was greater than their apparent lack of chemistry. They looked at each other, threw up their hands, and in an instant were in each others arms, sharing a Cajun dance for the ages.

The Spider was a place for like-minded, music loving free spirits to gather together, to meet someone new, learn something interesting, hear a new song or discover a new instrument. It was always an adventure and never a dull moment. Every Thursday night, especially Vicki Chew Thanksgiving and Hillbilly X-mas, every Hessler weekend or Parade the Circle Saturday, every Jimfest and every anniversary party, hell, even those slow winter Saturdays and open-mic Tuesdays, I knew I was a part of something special. I always wished it would - but knew it couldn’t - last forever. Nothing ever does.

From the moment I walked in until the doors closed that final time, I remain grateful for each moment. Grateful to Martin for inviting me into the family, grateful for the music that filled my soul and the friends that made me whole. Grateful to Jenna for the six extra years we weren’t promised. Grateful to forever raise a glass to the finest little tavern that ever was. In the words of the man himself, “We’re lucky guys”