A Night Out with Black Belt Eagle Scout

at the Reser Center for the Arts

Jan 10, 2025

I leave my house at 5:27pm to catch the 5:35 bus. There is only a suggestion of sunlight visible, already smothered by night. My bus is late, which Google never seems to anticipate. There must be a hitch in the road just before my stop that throws each bus into disarray, from “on time” to “late”, somewhere in the ninety seconds I walk from my back door to the pick-up spot.

I can see into the bar I used to work at across the street, a 120 second walk from my back door. I can see into the kitchen and into the dishwasher pit, recognizable coffins of space that house the essential workers. I don’t recognize the faces inside.

The bus arrives, relatively empty. I scan my card and find a seat. I take out my notebook to jot down a scance thought. Everyone on the dark bus around me is looking down at their hands, their hair draping over their faces, if it is able. They are looking at their phones in their hands, of course, but for a moment those devices don’t register, and all I can see are carefully arranged grievers heading west.

I pull out my phone, too, and start reading various newsletters. I come across a suggested entry about guitar playing, something I’ve done for a collective three hours of my life. It says guitars are a practice instrument: if you want to get better, or learn that certain arrangement, you simply practice it. That’s a revealing thought, more-so than it might sound. The next person to board has a guitar across their back. I wonder how many hours they have put into practicing. Likely more than me, if they’re willing to bring it outside of the house.

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I’m off the bus, now connecting to the Red Line, a city train that will take me to the venue’s doorstep. The train is due “momentarily”, but it doesn’t arrive. I have to wait for the next one. The Green and the Blue lurch past, and ten minutes later, when the Red is finally approaching, I notice on my phone that the Blue would have taken me to the exact same place, ten minutes ago. I should know my city’s public transport better, given I just celebrated my ten-year residence anniversary.

I hop on the Red. NTS Radio, channel 2 — channel one is too industrial/hardcore. It is mildly crowded. I read a charming and convincing entry about deleting Instagram. I consider doing the same. The trains, for a portion of the ride, pick-up speed, screeching and yelling through tunnels under the west hills. I acclimate just fine.

I arrived and dismount into unknown territory. I’m dumped into a newer development, surrounded by six-story buildings consisting of mostly large windows into people’s apartments. It is difficult to navigate, hard to tell which road leads out or in. Brightly lit shops populate the ground floors, people amble about in their boxes above. It feels like a fishbowl, like a zoo.

There’s the venue, the Reser. Another large, clean building. I’m through the front doors, my event ticket .pdf ready in my palm, because I’m a sensible and prepared person. I get scanned in by the genuinely warm and inviting staff, all of whom will be warm and inviting throughout the night, and I am guided to my seat. The auditorium is way smaller than the stadium seating seat selection lead me to believe. I am in the back row, but still right on top of the stage. It’s quiet, it’s delicately lit, it’s not filled with people yet. I leave my puffy jacket and my sling bag in my seat, and head for the lobby.

The concession line is small in population, big in conversation. Someone joins their friend in front of me, and a woman — who I will now refer to as Lobby Lady — starts talking to anything that moves. Turns out, Person Joining Friend is the main act’s step-father. His son is the drummer in the act’s typical band, though it’s just the solo act tonight. He tells Lobby Lady, and surrogately myself, about the act, about the land they were born on, raised on, about the tribe they belong to, about their story. Lobby Lady can’t get enough.

They reach the front of the concession line, surprised to find themselves asked what they would like to buy. One of the staff notices the dynamics of Lobby Lady and the difficulty of getting her to answer just one single question, so they skip around the desk to ask me what I’m having. I have long ago identified what I will be purchasing in this line meant for purchasers, because I’m a sensible and prepared person. I choose a blood-orange italian sparkling, and a dark-chocolate with cocoa nibs. I’m not drinking alcohol right now, so obviously I need something else that is going to have an alarming and immediate effect on my body.

I thank the staff for their specifically observant service, and shuffle over to the merchandise table. There are six or seven people there, idly eyeing the goods. There are many beautiful hand-made pieces of all shape, size, and color. Lobby Lady has made it over to the table, and is pivoting the social and physical dynamics of the space. To my left, the merch seller, after a minute or two of talking to a potential customer, asks if they know each other. They do. They embrace. They trade contact information. They haven’t seen each other in many years. He is married to the main act, and he plays drums in the act’s typical band. His father is here tonight.

Someone in front of me buys a “Soft Stud” hat. “What did you get?”, Lobby Lady asks loudly as the customer walks away. I buy a cassette tape of the act’s 2014 EP. It fits perfectly in my LL Bean shirt pocket. I turn to head back towards my seat and I see some friends chatting in the lobby, and I say hello. One of them helped secure funding for, and design the building we are in. They have their name, and their mom’s, on some of the seats that we will all be sitting in. I tell them the space is wonderful, and that the upcoming acts are intriguing. They are glad to see my interest.

As I find my way back, I see a familiar pair of eyes, face hidden behind a mask and a beanie. I think I know them, and this would be a place I’d see them.

I am seated and situated, and the lights dim. An employee introduces the building and the host for the night. He reminds us of the land we are on, and who once tended to it, and the sacrifices forced upon them. He introduces us to tonight’s host, a local musician and educator, who in turn introduces the act’s story and then, the act.

KP, who also goes by Katherine Paul, and by Black Belt Eagle Scout, is tall and smiling striding onto the stage. She wears a knee-length empire dress1, black tights, lived-in black chelseas. The sway of her cropped dress matches the sway of her hand-made earrings and cropped hair, shorter than the black/brown/red mane she wore while touring several months ago. A mane she would rhythmically throw back and forth, or that she would burrow into while looking down at her axe, shredding. She joins the host in a boxy white chair, stage left, where they sit to have a short conversation.

This is a different KP than the ones I have seen in music videos and concert recordings. She’s coming back to public performance after a diagnosis and a wrestling match with an auto-immune disorder, which lasted months. It forced her to cancel the tour of her latest album, 2023’s The Land, The Water, The Sky. She talks to the host: of her life of music, of the cultural singing she and her family have done — forever — and of Seattle rock music. She talks of love, friendship, her main writing inspirations. She talks about living in her “speck of the universe”, of having a home. She talks of rest, of forced rest, and of art and creation. She and her family “bring all of our art wherever we go.” It is their hand-made jewelry and wood carvings you can buy outside at the merch table.

”I get to do this again,” KP says, before the host wisely excuses herself, allowing KP to take the third seat on the stage, an empty chair center stage, situated between two Ernie Ball St. Vincent guitars2 and an amplifier, all confronted with an array of effects pedals. She looks like Robin Williams’ Jack — a big, adult-sized kid — as she strolls over to her tools, her face poorly hiding a smirk.

She takes her seat, slings on her guitar — an all-white number — and starts toe-tapping her pedals. The first sounds out of her guitar are somber and sweet. She uses a looping machine to record and repeat the phrase. She finger picks over the top of it. She starts to hum, somber and sweet. She can say more with her “huh”s and “hah”s and “mmm”s and “hmm”s than I can with a keyboard and the internet.

I don’t think to write down the songs she is playing, yet. The music is quiet, and lyrical. Her sound, the whole experience, is hitting me in waves. Beauty, wonder, sadness, ecstasy. We’re sharing the same room. Her music is all around me. Her left hand works fluidly, knowingly. Her right hand strums assuredly. The song turns brighter, fiercer. She’s loosening up, and building.

The audience cheers and applauds, and we move into more songs. More lyrical looping, more self-harmonizing. She creates an orchestra with her feet. This song starts to get grungy. She knows that sound. She likes it. She smiles.

She finishes a third song, and pauses to change guitars — an all-black number — with a new tuning. “I haven’t played this one in a long time”, she tells us. The first note stirs some of her friends and family to chirp and cheer. She loops her voice, coming back around after the chorus to harmonize with herself. It’s gorgeous. The shape of the song is simple, but with my three hours of expertise, I clock the unbelievable range that her left hand can achieve on the fret, like a classical pianist, to shape her chords.

She plays ‘Sam, a Dream’. Her right leg swings over her left, her right foot taps the air to keep time. She leans over between whole notes to tweak a knob. The looper catches the slide of her fingers between voicings, echoing the squeak of the strings in every measure. She plays a lick with both hands on the neck, tapping and sliding an entry, pushing and pulling the sound. Her head is bowed, her eyes unmoving, paying close attention to her work.

”I’m just gonna play a couple more songs. I have no idea what time it is.”

She plays ‘Indians Never Die’. Her metal pickups reflect the light, casting light puppets on the interlocking wood slat walls. When she sways her hair and rocks her shoulders, the light can catch your eyes. “Check this shit out”, it might be saying.

She takes a drink of water, she switches back to the all white. She’s relaxed, she’s having a good time. I feel at home in the performance, like I’m watching a friend play, not an idol on a pedestal. Maybe it’s because we’re the same age, I think. Maybe it’s because she is obviously herself when she plays, when she sings.

”I’m gonna play two more songs.”

She plays ‘Don’t Give Up’. The song-writing is clear, precise, moving. It’s a bop, it’s a jam. It closes her most recent album. It packs a punch, and she knows it.

“I tend to be vulnerable …”

She plays ‘Soft Stud’. It’s not sweet and somber, it’s dark, heavy, cut by the lightness of her voice and the sharpness of the guitar solos after the first chorus. It’s a song of wanting, of acceptance. of acknowledgement.

I’ve been listening to Black Belt Eagle Scout for two years. I don’t know what was taken from KP in her wrestling with illness. I don’t know what was gained or recovered. I know she was saddened and scared. I know, now, that she still has her powers.

We stand, we applaud, we hoot, we holler. We linger in the rows and aisles, dazed by the house lights, finding our way to the lobby. KP is working the merch table. I decide not to head over. I’ve met plenty of touring, tired artists. I feel my introduction and short chat would add to a burden. I’ve already got my cassette, and I’ve spent 80 minutes up close with her. That’s enough for me.

I again see that pair of eyes from earlier, and now I’m sure: it’s the baker friend that I used to work for. I see them frequently, at theaters and shows. We must be very similar, because we see the same things, and we both dart our eyes away from each other’s, and don’t say hello. I like them. I had a great time helping make Christmas pies. I hope they are doing well.

The night is quieter now, the train less crowded. I scan my card and find a seat. I think about messaging a writer and music-lover on Instagram. I’m not supposed to be on Instagram right now. I know that they are a massive Black Belt Eagle Scout fan. I know they feel the many troubles of the world deep in their body. I think knowing that KP is well enough to perform would be soothing, welcome news. I download the app, send the message, and delete the app again.

I’m at the transfer to the bus line. It would take 25 minutes to wait for, and ride, the bus back home. It would take 27 minutes to walk. I know I’m faster than Google Maps thinks I am, so I walk.

The back door is unlocked, just like I left it, in case there was a house key mishap. My partner is still awake. She made brownies, still warm and gooey in a baking tray on the oven. They are dark, and sweet.

A Night Out with Black Belt Eagle Scout

at the Reser Center for the Arts

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