The Treehouse

The ROAD CLOSED sign has been there all summer. Ever since I started coming out to the Treehouse. It gets me almost every time.
But just keep going straight on through. Notice the house number, red marker on cardboard, propped against an old stump.

Half a dozen cars are already parked on a freshly-mowed section of grass, respectfully ending before a lush wall of ironweed and goldenrod, and some other plants that grow in the doorway of seasons — and all over this ditch.

It takes a good look to rediscover the handmade wooden bridge, my shortcut up to the house.
The closer I walk, arms full of sparkling water and other potluck offerings, the louder stringband music gets.

There’s no happier or holier place in the world than a full front porch. Undeniably public and indescribably intimate.

This one is two stories higher than the driveway. Floating conversation mixes with the buzz of bugs and interjecting mockingbirds from the dogwood tree. If you time it right, you can complete the seventeen-step stairs right as someone is landing a joke.

This porch is where visitors become friends. If the folks here only met fifteen minutes ago, you wouldn't be able to tell.

I come stomping up with my drink offerings to find everyone making good use of the rocking chairs. They surround a coffee table, covered in leftovers from hundreds of hangouts: finger picks, toothpicks, half-melted candles, well-used playing cards, and various tobacco accessories.

"There he is!" A porch-sitter calls out.

Through the doorway comes Nathan Wasserman, the man with the plan, a pair of suspenders, and a cicada bolo tie. Moving across the porch with a calm thoroughness, he collects cover money for the traveling band.

"Welcome. Glad you're here." He’s been hosting shows at this house for a little over a year now. By day he works up a tree with a chainsaw. Afterwards, he writes a multitude of songs, plays a multitude of stringed instruments, and hosts nights like these.

Turning back over the porch railing, all I can see is foothill greenery and the sun nestling between a neighbor’s roof and blue-gold mountains.

We joke about the things you can choose to do with your free will. Nathan took it to mean turn your rented house into a venue home for the music you love.

“It came down to the fact that I was just tired of fighting bar crowds to be listened to.” He says, while hand-packing a cigarette. “To be heard even.”

He adds, “I always admired listening rooms, so figured if I ever had a space to do it, I would do it. If I wanted to harness the magic, I would need to lean really hard into it.”

What started as a one-time summer solstice celebration has turned into a rhythmic hub of community, shared resources, and good, good times.

The living room and kitchen are one open concept. So I can immediately smell the hot meal cooking on their stove. It’s obvious, you’re not just a ticket holder here.

This is someone’s home that you’re welcome in.

Quickly filling the small kitchen table is a buffet of shared snacks. Vegetarian sushi. Meat and cheese board. Fresh fruit. Crab dip? Folks are encouraged to bring food to share and the spread can get extravagant.

A guy comes in holding a tupperware on high, “These are some awesome meringue cookies, made by my ex.”

Someone laughs, “Are they poisoned?”

Tonight’s headliner Annie Stirling, who traveled down from Virginia, is peeling potatoes, helping housemate Jimmy finish up his Zuurkoolstamppot met Rookworst. (That’s sauerkraut mashed potatoes with sausage.)

Originally from the Netherlands, Jimmy is another arborist musician like Nathan. Folks seem to just find each other out here.

The third and final Treehouse roommate, and the third song-writing musician, Max Dubois rolls in with bags of groceries from the Food City.

No one goes hungry at the show.

Soon everyone is fixing their dixie plates in the potluck line. Everyone comes back for seconds.

Nathan comes through, still on a doorman’s mission with his black sharpie, and now, a half-full mason jar tucked into his belt.

Even with help from Max and Jimmy, he spends hours preparing the space.

He comes home from tree work to tidy the house, clean the bathrooms, clear the driveway, mow the grass, prep the firewood, count the seats, “Make sure there's room for people to have a good time.” he says.

It’s not unusual for a few people to have brought extra instruments and get a jam or two going. Some in the living room. Some on the porch. Moving through the house, your ears adjust to the changing rhythms of strings.

While folks continue to mingle, I go downstairs to the indoor listening room, which doubles as the traveling band’s rehearsal room. Instrument cases, well-traveled and covered in stickers, fill the corners alongside backpacks and an occasional suitcase.

Touring bands occasionally crash in the guest bedroom or camp in the backyard — as many are encouraged to do after the show.

Over the summer, it’s been a pleasure to meet these creators who share Nathan’s passion for making and passing along their music. Folk singers, bluegrass bands, indie songwriters and bedroom pop players. Some artists reach out to him; some people he invites directly.

I sat down with guitarist, Canon Tyler, who found an opportunity to play at the Treehouse after attending a friend’s show earlier in the summer. “It was such a great time. I just had to play here myself.” He gravitated towards house shows like these for the same reasons as Nathan.

It’s hard to compete for ears at the bars and restaurants. “People just aren’t there to listen. But someone who shows up to these shows, they’re showing up because they want to hear the music. They’re invested.”  

I met Leica, named by photographer parents, in the middle of the potluck one Saturday. Her headlining band, The Lonely Few, had traveled up from Atlanta to grace us with foot-stomping bluegrass — including a gritty ballad about Rick Davis and a certainly non-autobiographical song about crimes.  

Legendary Abe Partridge brought a July crowd to whoops and hollering with his absurdly thoughtful songs of war, philosophy, southern baptists, and a chicken’s eye.

At twenty years old, Annie Stirling is already experienced in the art of taking big swings.

“I ask to do things I don’t even feel ready for yet.” She laughs, “And then it happens!”

Out of all her touring venues, however, Annie loves house shows the best. She told me, “I try to write a song in every place I stop, because different places — and instruments — have songs in them. And if you're lucky enough to find one, you'd better damn well write it!”

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The last time I was here, the front row folding chairs were set an intimate ten or fifteen feet away from the covered carport stage, lit by multi-colored LED Christmas lights, the glow of windows, and an oil lamp set on top of stacked, white paint buckets.

Tonight, Nathan has set up the front yard stage, similarly decked in lights, guarded from behind by a massive PokeWeed Bush.

I asked him what, if anything, the house makes putting on shows.

“Are you kidding me? I don't make a dime.” He laughs and lights his cigarette again. “I lose money on this shit.”

“We're not taking a house cut. No hired staff. There's no financial incentive to do this.”

He gestures towards this.

“But it’s an opportunity to platform people who have amazing art, who are worthwhile to listen to and who deserve to be listened to.”

Two campfires, dutifully stoked and crackling as Anna Baldree takes the stage, bring the crowd closer together. Blankets touch on the grass. Some folks lay down. Some pop open chairs.

We settle in as Nathan begins his infamous pre-show rundown.

"Now, this is a listening room; it's not Cherry Street or Tremont Tavern.” He nods at the glowing house. “If you've got to have a conversation, take it inside and if you're gonna talk on the porch, keep it quiet. If anyone's being an asshole to ya, let me know. I'm also the bouncer.”

Folks raise their eyebrows in good-natured alarm, and he adds, “I may look scrawny, but I can pack a punch."

Anna begins to play her original, “Homesick,” with the crickets, frogs, and cicadas as backup.

Even through the campfire smoke drifting upwards, you can see the stars brighter than anywhere in town.

No, there’s no financial incentive to keep hosting. But month after month, the parking lawn gets mowed. The fridge gets filled. The house is cleaned. The potluck is made. The shows keep playing. The people keep coming.

It’s a space you stumble across and recognize, like an old street you used to live on.

Maybe it’s porch welcoming or leaving every show with more friends than you showed up with.

It’s definitely the singing bugs in the dogwood tree.

And driving past the ROAD CLOSED sign, trusting what’s really on the other side.

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If you’d like to learn more or come out to a show and see for yourself, follow Treehouse announcements on Instagram : _nathanwasserman.

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