CAST YOUR FATE TO THE WIND
I'm a musician. I play piano and sing for a living. I also teach. I went to a good music university and finished with pretty good marks, and have been able to defend myself in the field now for about 30 years or so. A couple of CD´s, a few international tours with my own group or famous spanish pop artists, I can´t complain. Nice house, wonderful wife and daughter, a good life in Spain where I settled some 30 years ago. I´ve been lucky enough to have played in dozens of countries, sometimes pretty big events, other times informal affairs, just me and my piano. I´ve been in a few newspapers, picture and all and even a MAGAZINE. No television to speak of, unfortunately, mainly playbacks for other groups. With all that and more baggage accompanying me, I know that the best moments in my musical and not so musical life have always been had through the contact with many of the people I have interacted with, wherever I have found myself.
Anyway I´d say that my life in the last 35 years has resembled a kind of pinball machine, with the many extraordinary coincidences acting as flippers that would bounce me, the pinball, to and from one mind boggling, soul searching or life changing event to another. A series of twists of fate that have changed and shaped my life, attitudes, philosophy and general world view, and have provided me with deep, although sometimes fleeting, human contacts, that aspect of life that I most cherish and find most fulfilling.
After graduating from college in Boston in 1980, I knew I had to get out of that city, overcrowded with great musicians and their teachers, all competing for work. In my last year, I was invited down to Bermuda to stay at a friend´s house for a month. Being a small island , with lots of tourists, and having some great connections to help me along, I wasted no time in participating in jam sessions, sitting in at hotels, playing at parties, etc. In short, I got to know every little corner of that thriving musical community and made many friends. Then the month ended, and I found myself back in Boston, with a good gig leading a swing sextet, playing in two piano bars, teaching, and in a comfortable relationship with a woman with whom I shared a house in the burbs. One day I had to go to the college to do some paperwork and who should I literally bump into? It was John from Bermuda, a schoolmate and fine pianist. Big life changing coincidence.
John knew I had been to his country, and he was planning to stay in the States to work and settle down. He told me that they needed a pianist for a great hotel gig, on the beach, 25,000 dollars for the year, 2 hours a night, house thrown in. I jotted down the appropriate names and phone numbers (of people, many of whom I had met), and after receiving very encouraging news, started to prepare for my journey, my future as a real professional musician in a foreign land. I was very very excited. To make this long story somewhat shorter, I managed to do the following, in the space of two weeks: disband my successful swing sextet, quit my two piano bars, say goodbye to all my students, sell my car, buy a ticket to Bermuda, start the paperwork for the proper visa (that included a chest x-ray for immigration), buy a tuxedo, break up, at least psychologically, with my girl, put all my stuff in storage and move back to my parents flat in the Bronx, 11 years after moving out. And then I waited anxiously for that call from Bermuda, which took its sweet time. Getting a bit suspicious, and finding myself in a McDonald´s in Manhattan with a pianist friend from Israel, I called Bermuda from a pay phone. Who should answer but the same John who originally sent me off on this get out of Boston whatever the price of adventure. Turns out that John couldn´t get a work visa and was forced to go home and take the fabled job. I literally almost threw up my hamburger. A couple of days later back in the room where I grew up, pretty depressed, and wondering what the blazes I should do with my derailed life, I received a letter from a friend in Germany, someone who I had known in India 7 years before and with whom I had kept up contact. I did not need much convincing to accept his offer to go to Germany, as he had free time and a car, to do some camping and stuff around northern Europe. I changed my suitcase for a backpack, my tux for some jeans, and with my book of tunes and a melodica, left for Germany some days later. My dad said I would be back in 6 months. It´s been thirty years. The next few months found me floating around Europe playing piano in bars and melodica in the streets and subways passing the hat, with generally great success, with and without my friend Manfred.
One day while playing for tips in a bar in Amsterdam, I met a couple of guys who were putting on a festival in Norrdeich northern Germany, on the North Sea coast. A small Woodstock, if you will. They offered me a concert, solo piano for 80 bucks. So with Manfred and a tent, two weeks later we were on the front page of the Norrdeich Daily, me playing my melodica and Manny on guitar. Not exactly national television, but I couldn´t complain. I was scheduled to go on after a symphonic rock group called Scaramouche, because they agreed to lend me their piano. The big night arrived. Think of the situation: recently graduated from college, not practicing at all, not in top form by any means, about to play SOLO PIANO (old time jazz, basically) in front of 5000 or so drunk German youths screaming (¨tzugabe! tzugabe!¨) for more Scaramouche. So my moment finally arrived at 3 in the morning. I was really nervous, practically shitting bricks, sweating bullets if you prefer, as I slowly rose from my chair backstage to confront, me solito, the situation. How was I going to follow that amazing group? One step forward towards the piano, and all hell broke loose. A torrential downpour like I have never seen, except maybe during the monsoon, accompanied by thunder and lightning and more thunder. Everyone disappeared, people running like crazy to their tents, the plastic being frantically thrown over all the equipment, the concert canceled. What a relief! And a happy ending as well when the next sunny morning, with everyone stretched out on recently distributed hay with their coffees and breakfasts, they welcomed a piano trio to start off the day´s concerts (me on piano and with bass and drummer from Scaramouche) and rewarded me with my own Tzugabe! Tzugabe! at the end.
Anyway, to continue...my travels took me around Europe and eventually to Barcelona, Spain, where, by chance again, I coincided with the opening of a small jazz university, the first of its´ kind in Spain. Through a contact from Boston I had sleeping arrangements in the house of the person who happened to be one of the founders of the school. So I played informally at the opening concert (with Jordi Rossy who, later on, was to be the drummer for my favorite pianist Brad Mehldau for many years). Having studied Spanish in Boston as part of my credit load (little did I suspect that it would come in so handy, indeed have a definitive effect on my life) I was offered a teaching job, starting in 4 months if I was still on that side of the ¨puddle¨, as thay they say in Spain (ocean).
Continuing my journey through Spain and North Africa, I decided not to head south to Kenya and Madagascar (visas in hand) after calling Barcelona from a pay phone in the Sahara desert, camels and Tuareg nomads in the distance, and started to head back to Europe to be a responsible working musician. On the way, literally in the middle of nowhere, a five kilometer no man´s desert in between Algeria and Tunisia, I met a guy just like me, with a backpack, coming the other way, also on foot. Turns out that we each had exactly five dollars worth of currency of the country we had each just left, so we simply traded and said bon voyage. A month later I took the ferry from Tunisia and got off in a small town called Trapani, in Sicily, where I planned to take the train to Palermo and continue on to Greece. No train available due to a strike, and the bus didn´t leave for another 4 hours. So a bit after dawn I wandered around this tiny, sleepy, beautiful and picturesque village on the tip of Europe looking for a coffee, and a place to wait, write, read, whatever. There was a cafe opening up and I wandered inside. Lo and behold a grand piano! I asked if I could play, and although somewhat out of tune, it was decent enough. The barman must have been impressed because he got the owner out of bed, a guy named Luigi. Luigi insisted that I play that night, reimbursed me for the bus ticket I had already bought and put me in the care of four breakfasting kids from Palermo, who took me to their hotel, and later on to dinner. All this was arranged of course with my almost non-existent Italian and some broken French. 10 at night rolled around and the cafe was packed. Luigi had called what seemed like all of Trapani, some 200 people, to be witnesses to this jazz guy who happened to roll in from nowhere. So, still in what I consider less than top form, I played what I could and found myself continually interrupted by the crowd yelling BRAVO and spontaneously standing applause, to my mixed feelings of elation and embarrassment. The evening went on for hours and eventually turned into a jam session with the local violinists and accordionists, with Luigi reciting poetry on top of it all. Very bohemian. Another unforgettable experience, with a high dose of genuine human contact and warmth. Still, however no television.
Fast forward 6 years. I have met my future wife of 28 years, love at first sight if you will, through a student at the school in Barcelona. We were getting itchy and bored with Barcelona (imagine) and arrange to go on a long trip to India and Nepal, which lasted a year. During that time we gave some 45 concerts at schools, cultural centers, charities, etc., experiences hard to explain in words. Susa and I had put together a show that was half jazz and blues (solo piano) and half Spanish and South American music (she plays guitar and also sings, and I also play the flute, by the way). After some months traveling the sub continent between gigs, temples, Himalayan trekking and paradise beaches, I received word through the embassy in New Delhi that the National Endowment for the Arts in Washington (Leonard Bernstein, Billy Taylor etc.) which still had money back then, has approved me (me only, not yet being married) for a series of solo concerts under their auspices.
One of those concerts took me to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I had to leave Susa on a beach with friends in Goa, south India, with a broken foot. Poor her, but that´s a whole other story.
Anyway I was given 1000 dollars at the embassy in Calcutta (a small fortune in that part of the world), and flew to Malaysia, where , just out of customs I was greeted by my hosts, the embassy official and some students from the university cultural union. One of them said that they loved my Cds, and I stupidly replied that I had not recorded anything just yet. A bit of a surprise, to say the least, and a feeling of consternation filled the air right there in the airport. They had made a mistake and thought I was someone else! Who, exactly, I never found out. But I was promptly whisked off in a limousine to a 5 star hotel and a press conference was arranged. Now, Kuala Lumpur is not Calcutta. Western style culture is all pervasive and the level of musicianship is extremely high. After almost a year easily triumphing in India, I suddenly found myself a tiny little fish in a large ocean, if not totally out of my element.
The next day I attended the very stressing press conference with the local and international press, where I was asked my opinion on the current wave of jazz fusion in Europe, as well as other things that I was extremely hard put to answer, having been away and totally disconnected for almost a year. That evening I was limousined again to the national convention center, which I estimated could hold around 15,000 people. It was mentioned in passing that the Prime Minister had to cut short his speech (or something like that) so they could prepare for this ¨huge¨ event. Finally the moment came and the local ¨voice¨ from a radio station introduced me and out I went to confront...maybe 75 people. What made things worse was that there were different ticket prices, so those 50 to a hundred people were spread out all over the place. And it was an upright piano, to boot. What could I do but take a deep breath, cast my fate again to the wind, and plunge into the task at hand. The next day brought mixed reviews, good ones from the Malaysian press, bad ones from the international. Anyway, no hard feelings on the part of the embassy or students, everyone quite nice, and, I suppose, quite glad to get rid of me and brush this little cultural trip up under the rug.
Off I went on a train to Bangkok for 3 days of tourism, stopping for one night at the island of Penang, a very Chinese enclave off the coast of Malaysia, and a former center of silicon chip production. That night I wandered into a very Chinese restaurant, very side street, local and cheap, and was enjoying my noodles while grandma shredded cabbage, mama breast fed her infant, and barefoot kids played around on the floor next to me. I was the only customer. Suddenly I hear my name and the word CULTUR and look up to see, on an old television with terrible reception, the culture section on the Malaysian nightly news being broadcast with video of my recital at the convention center the night before. I immediately went into a panic. I had to share this. So, frantically pointing at the television and at myself, practically shouting ¨Me! Me!¨, through a mouthful of chow mein, I succeeded in sharing the magical moment with the barefoot family at my side, who proceeded to ask me to autograph some paper napkins.
Strange and extraordinary human contact again, another fulfilling and meaningful experience through my music, and finally....international television!
Thank you, and thanks to John
Anyway I´d say that my life in the last 35 years has resembled a kind of pinball machine, with the many extraordinary coincidences acting as flippers that would bounce me, the pinball, to and from one mind boggling, soul searching or life changing event to another. A series of twists of fate that have changed and shaped my life, attitudes, philosophy and general world view, and have provided me with deep, although sometimes fleeting, human contacts, that aspect of life that I most cherish and find most fulfilling.
After graduating from college in Boston in 1980, I knew I had to get out of that city, overcrowded with great musicians and their teachers, all competing for work. In my last year, I was invited down to Bermuda to stay at a friend´s house for a month. Being a small island , with lots of tourists, and having some great connections to help me along, I wasted no time in participating in jam sessions, sitting in at hotels, playing at parties, etc. In short, I got to know every little corner of that thriving musical community and made many friends. Then the month ended, and I found myself back in Boston, with a good gig leading a swing sextet, playing in two piano bars, teaching, and in a comfortable relationship with a woman with whom I shared a house in the burbs. One day I had to go to the college to do some paperwork and who should I literally bump into? It was John from Bermuda, a schoolmate and fine pianist. Big life changing coincidence.
John knew I had been to his country, and he was planning to stay in the States to work and settle down. He told me that they needed a pianist for a great hotel gig, on the beach, 25,000 dollars for the year, 2 hours a night, house thrown in. I jotted down the appropriate names and phone numbers (of people, many of whom I had met), and after receiving very encouraging news, started to prepare for my journey, my future as a real professional musician in a foreign land. I was very very excited. To make this long story somewhat shorter, I managed to do the following, in the space of two weeks: disband my successful swing sextet, quit my two piano bars, say goodbye to all my students, sell my car, buy a ticket to Bermuda, start the paperwork for the proper visa (that included a chest x-ray for immigration), buy a tuxedo, break up, at least psychologically, with my girl, put all my stuff in storage and move back to my parents flat in the Bronx, 11 years after moving out. And then I waited anxiously for that call from Bermuda, which took its sweet time. Getting a bit suspicious, and finding myself in a McDonald´s in Manhattan with a pianist friend from Israel, I called Bermuda from a pay phone. Who should answer but the same John who originally sent me off on this get out of Boston whatever the price of adventure. Turns out that John couldn´t get a work visa and was forced to go home and take the fabled job. I literally almost threw up my hamburger. A couple of days later back in the room where I grew up, pretty depressed, and wondering what the blazes I should do with my derailed life, I received a letter from a friend in Germany, someone who I had known in India 7 years before and with whom I had kept up contact. I did not need much convincing to accept his offer to go to Germany, as he had free time and a car, to do some camping and stuff around northern Europe. I changed my suitcase for a backpack, my tux for some jeans, and with my book of tunes and a melodica, left for Germany some days later. My dad said I would be back in 6 months. It´s been thirty years. The next few months found me floating around Europe playing piano in bars and melodica in the streets and subways passing the hat, with generally great success, with and without my friend Manfred.
One day while playing for tips in a bar in Amsterdam, I met a couple of guys who were putting on a festival in Norrdeich northern Germany, on the North Sea coast. A small Woodstock, if you will. They offered me a concert, solo piano for 80 bucks. So with Manfred and a tent, two weeks later we were on the front page of the Norrdeich Daily, me playing my melodica and Manny on guitar. Not exactly national television, but I couldn´t complain. I was scheduled to go on after a symphonic rock group called Scaramouche, because they agreed to lend me their piano. The big night arrived. Think of the situation: recently graduated from college, not practicing at all, not in top form by any means, about to play SOLO PIANO (old time jazz, basically) in front of 5000 or so drunk German youths screaming (¨tzugabe! tzugabe!¨) for more Scaramouche. So my moment finally arrived at 3 in the morning. I was really nervous, practically shitting bricks, sweating bullets if you prefer, as I slowly rose from my chair backstage to confront, me solito, the situation. How was I going to follow that amazing group? One step forward towards the piano, and all hell broke loose. A torrential downpour like I have never seen, except maybe during the monsoon, accompanied by thunder and lightning and more thunder. Everyone disappeared, people running like crazy to their tents, the plastic being frantically thrown over all the equipment, the concert canceled. What a relief! And a happy ending as well when the next sunny morning, with everyone stretched out on recently distributed hay with their coffees and breakfasts, they welcomed a piano trio to start off the day´s concerts (me on piano and with bass and drummer from Scaramouche) and rewarded me with my own Tzugabe! Tzugabe! at the end.
Anyway, to continue...my travels took me around Europe and eventually to Barcelona, Spain, where, by chance again, I coincided with the opening of a small jazz university, the first of its´ kind in Spain. Through a contact from Boston I had sleeping arrangements in the house of the person who happened to be one of the founders of the school. So I played informally at the opening concert (with Jordi Rossy who, later on, was to be the drummer for my favorite pianist Brad Mehldau for many years). Having studied Spanish in Boston as part of my credit load (little did I suspect that it would come in so handy, indeed have a definitive effect on my life) I was offered a teaching job, starting in 4 months if I was still on that side of the ¨puddle¨, as thay they say in Spain (ocean).
Continuing my journey through Spain and North Africa, I decided not to head south to Kenya and Madagascar (visas in hand) after calling Barcelona from a pay phone in the Sahara desert, camels and Tuareg nomads in the distance, and started to head back to Europe to be a responsible working musician. On the way, literally in the middle of nowhere, a five kilometer no man´s desert in between Algeria and Tunisia, I met a guy just like me, with a backpack, coming the other way, also on foot. Turns out that we each had exactly five dollars worth of currency of the country we had each just left, so we simply traded and said bon voyage. A month later I took the ferry from Tunisia and got off in a small town called Trapani, in Sicily, where I planned to take the train to Palermo and continue on to Greece. No train available due to a strike, and the bus didn´t leave for another 4 hours. So a bit after dawn I wandered around this tiny, sleepy, beautiful and picturesque village on the tip of Europe looking for a coffee, and a place to wait, write, read, whatever. There was a cafe opening up and I wandered inside. Lo and behold a grand piano! I asked if I could play, and although somewhat out of tune, it was decent enough. The barman must have been impressed because he got the owner out of bed, a guy named Luigi. Luigi insisted that I play that night, reimbursed me for the bus ticket I had already bought and put me in the care of four breakfasting kids from Palermo, who took me to their hotel, and later on to dinner. All this was arranged of course with my almost non-existent Italian and some broken French. 10 at night rolled around and the cafe was packed. Luigi had called what seemed like all of Trapani, some 200 people, to be witnesses to this jazz guy who happened to roll in from nowhere. So, still in what I consider less than top form, I played what I could and found myself continually interrupted by the crowd yelling BRAVO and spontaneously standing applause, to my mixed feelings of elation and embarrassment. The evening went on for hours and eventually turned into a jam session with the local violinists and accordionists, with Luigi reciting poetry on top of it all. Very bohemian. Another unforgettable experience, with a high dose of genuine human contact and warmth. Still, however no television.
Fast forward 6 years. I have met my future wife of 28 years, love at first sight if you will, through a student at the school in Barcelona. We were getting itchy and bored with Barcelona (imagine) and arrange to go on a long trip to India and Nepal, which lasted a year. During that time we gave some 45 concerts at schools, cultural centers, charities, etc., experiences hard to explain in words. Susa and I had put together a show that was half jazz and blues (solo piano) and half Spanish and South American music (she plays guitar and also sings, and I also play the flute, by the way). After some months traveling the sub continent between gigs, temples, Himalayan trekking and paradise beaches, I received word through the embassy in New Delhi that the National Endowment for the Arts in Washington (Leonard Bernstein, Billy Taylor etc.) which still had money back then, has approved me (me only, not yet being married) for a series of solo concerts under their auspices.
One of those concerts took me to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I had to leave Susa on a beach with friends in Goa, south India, with a broken foot. Poor her, but that´s a whole other story.
Anyway I was given 1000 dollars at the embassy in Calcutta (a small fortune in that part of the world), and flew to Malaysia, where , just out of customs I was greeted by my hosts, the embassy official and some students from the university cultural union. One of them said that they loved my Cds, and I stupidly replied that I had not recorded anything just yet. A bit of a surprise, to say the least, and a feeling of consternation filled the air right there in the airport. They had made a mistake and thought I was someone else! Who, exactly, I never found out. But I was promptly whisked off in a limousine to a 5 star hotel and a press conference was arranged. Now, Kuala Lumpur is not Calcutta. Western style culture is all pervasive and the level of musicianship is extremely high. After almost a year easily triumphing in India, I suddenly found myself a tiny little fish in a large ocean, if not totally out of my element.
The next day I attended the very stressing press conference with the local and international press, where I was asked my opinion on the current wave of jazz fusion in Europe, as well as other things that I was extremely hard put to answer, having been away and totally disconnected for almost a year. That evening I was limousined again to the national convention center, which I estimated could hold around 15,000 people. It was mentioned in passing that the Prime Minister had to cut short his speech (or something like that) so they could prepare for this ¨huge¨ event. Finally the moment came and the local ¨voice¨ from a radio station introduced me and out I went to confront...maybe 75 people. What made things worse was that there were different ticket prices, so those 50 to a hundred people were spread out all over the place. And it was an upright piano, to boot. What could I do but take a deep breath, cast my fate again to the wind, and plunge into the task at hand. The next day brought mixed reviews, good ones from the Malaysian press, bad ones from the international. Anyway, no hard feelings on the part of the embassy or students, everyone quite nice, and, I suppose, quite glad to get rid of me and brush this little cultural trip up under the rug.
Off I went on a train to Bangkok for 3 days of tourism, stopping for one night at the island of Penang, a very Chinese enclave off the coast of Malaysia, and a former center of silicon chip production. That night I wandered into a very Chinese restaurant, very side street, local and cheap, and was enjoying my noodles while grandma shredded cabbage, mama breast fed her infant, and barefoot kids played around on the floor next to me. I was the only customer. Suddenly I hear my name and the word CULTUR and look up to see, on an old television with terrible reception, the culture section on the Malaysian nightly news being broadcast with video of my recital at the convention center the night before. I immediately went into a panic. I had to share this. So, frantically pointing at the television and at myself, practically shouting ¨Me! Me!¨, through a mouthful of chow mein, I succeeded in sharing the magical moment with the barefoot family at my side, who proceeded to ask me to autograph some paper napkins.
Strange and extraordinary human contact again, another fulfilling and meaningful experience through my music, and finally....international television!
Thank you, and thanks to John
THE GREENHORNS
AFTER LOSING ALL HOPE, MAINTAIN YOUR DIGNITY
Greetings friends, enemies, and others:
As musicians, everybody has their first gigs, and it occurred to me to relate three experiences that I had at the beginning of my career as a professional musician. I suppose that most people have these kinds of experiences at one time or another, and they help us to at least, strengthen our character, and possibly prepare us for the real world.
I was in an ensamble at music university, and it was a pretty good one, or so I thought at the time. It was one of those school groups that got together on weekends, at each others' houses, to continue working, rehearsing and exploring tunes, original or from the Real Book, and anything strange that would occur to us. At last the day came when we actually had a real gig. Nothing too great, in a small, busy neighborhood bar in Boston, maybe 30 bucks a head. Although I'm not too sure, I think the band was piano, guitar, bass and drums. All of us, now looking back, were pretty green, but the night promised to be glorious and we began in earnest to consolidate our tunes, practice our solos, memorize the tunes, and tweek the guitar and piano sounds. We invited everybody we could think of, students, friends, girlfriends, roommates. Obviously there was no facebook, twitter, o cell phones. Fender Rhodes and a guitar fx pedal and off we went.
The big night arrived. Soundcheck, a beer, a dose of anxiety...the bar began to fill up with acquaintances and friends giving us claps on the back, people wandering in looking to quench their thirst, students there out of curiosity some of them jealous of our big gig, people from the neighborhood, and...Mike Stern.
Mike Stern was one of the most important jazz guitarists in history, very popular with all of us budding musicians. I think he was a teacher at the university, or at least a visiting professor. How the hell did he find out that we were playing, who we were, or if it was worth his time and money!? He probably was there by accident, having a drink with friends, or maybe lived around the corner. Anyway there he was, one of the most important jazz guitarists.
The “concert” began pretty well if I remember correctly, some standards with typical harmonies, some blues based material, everything in order, solos correct with moments of lucidity, friendly and polite applause. I didn´t sing back then, and our style was swing, bebop, blues. Nothing really special you could say.
Anyway, the end of the first set was drawing near and we were flying high, everything was just rolling along, everyone very satisfied. A great first gig, that included the great Mike Stern in the audience! We ruled the world....but suddenly... someone screwed up. Now I
don't dare say who (the bass player, surely, ha ha) but everything went to hell and stayed there. The mistake continued en crescendo while we anxiously snuck looks at each other....total desperation. A fall from glory into a puddle of muddy shit. And with Mike Stern 10 feet from the stage! Nobody was following the chords, everyone was totally lost (at least that's how I remember it).
There often comes a time in the life of any musician, when you are playing and don't feel entirely comfortable with what is going on, so you stop and wait for the others to sort it out. Well that moment arrived, for all of us at the same time. We all stopped abruptly, all of a sudden. One second everyone playing their asses off, fast, loud, everything wrong, and the next moment TOTAL SILENCE. Suddenly from out of the silence, the drummer made some signs, or whispered “loudly” that we should leave it right there. And to our great relief, the applause started. But a big applause, from our loyal and appreciative public. And with a very impressed Mike Stern, congratulating us afterward. But we never found out if his kind words were due to the fact that we succesfully exited the mudball that we were wallowing in, or if we fooled him as well, or if the applause was because they really liked us, or because we had finally stopped playing.
But we triumphed that night.
Moral: Cry with your mouth closed, so as to hide your ignorance from others (Spanish proverb).
As musicians, everybody has their first gigs, and it occurred to me to relate three experiences that I had at the beginning of my career as a professional musician. I suppose that most people have these kinds of experiences at one time or another, and they help us to at least, strengthen our character, and possibly prepare us for the real world.
I was in an ensamble at music university, and it was a pretty good one, or so I thought at the time. It was one of those school groups that got together on weekends, at each others' houses, to continue working, rehearsing and exploring tunes, original or from the Real Book, and anything strange that would occur to us. At last the day came when we actually had a real gig. Nothing too great, in a small, busy neighborhood bar in Boston, maybe 30 bucks a head. Although I'm not too sure, I think the band was piano, guitar, bass and drums. All of us, now looking back, were pretty green, but the night promised to be glorious and we began in earnest to consolidate our tunes, practice our solos, memorize the tunes, and tweek the guitar and piano sounds. We invited everybody we could think of, students, friends, girlfriends, roommates. Obviously there was no facebook, twitter, o cell phones. Fender Rhodes and a guitar fx pedal and off we went.
The big night arrived. Soundcheck, a beer, a dose of anxiety...the bar began to fill up with acquaintances and friends giving us claps on the back, people wandering in looking to quench their thirst, students there out of curiosity some of them jealous of our big gig, people from the neighborhood, and...Mike Stern.
Mike Stern was one of the most important jazz guitarists in history, very popular with all of us budding musicians. I think he was a teacher at the university, or at least a visiting professor. How the hell did he find out that we were playing, who we were, or if it was worth his time and money!? He probably was there by accident, having a drink with friends, or maybe lived around the corner. Anyway there he was, one of the most important jazz guitarists.
The “concert” began pretty well if I remember correctly, some standards with typical harmonies, some blues based material, everything in order, solos correct with moments of lucidity, friendly and polite applause. I didn´t sing back then, and our style was swing, bebop, blues. Nothing really special you could say.
Anyway, the end of the first set was drawing near and we were flying high, everything was just rolling along, everyone very satisfied. A great first gig, that included the great Mike Stern in the audience! We ruled the world....but suddenly... someone screwed up. Now I
don't dare say who (the bass player, surely, ha ha) but everything went to hell and stayed there. The mistake continued en crescendo while we anxiously snuck looks at each other....total desperation. A fall from glory into a puddle of muddy shit. And with Mike Stern 10 feet from the stage! Nobody was following the chords, everyone was totally lost (at least that's how I remember it).
There often comes a time in the life of any musician, when you are playing and don't feel entirely comfortable with what is going on, so you stop and wait for the others to sort it out. Well that moment arrived, for all of us at the same time. We all stopped abruptly, all of a sudden. One second everyone playing their asses off, fast, loud, everything wrong, and the next moment TOTAL SILENCE. Suddenly from out of the silence, the drummer made some signs, or whispered “loudly” that we should leave it right there. And to our great relief, the applause started. But a big applause, from our loyal and appreciative public. And with a very impressed Mike Stern, congratulating us afterward. But we never found out if his kind words were due to the fact that we succesfully exited the mudball that we were wallowing in, or if we fooled him as well, or if the applause was because they really liked us, or because we had finally stopped playing.
But we triumphed that night.
Moral: Cry with your mouth closed, so as to hide your ignorance from others (Spanish proverb).
R-E-P-E-R-T-O-I-R-E
Again with my favorite school ensemble of the moment, perhaps with some change of personnel (we probably fired the guy who screwed up in front of Mike Stern).......(from the last story)....
I get a call from the drummer, a guy slightly older and somewhat more experienced with commercial gigs, weddings, commercial events, etc. He says that we have a gig that very same night and it was an emergency call. It seems that the original group who signed for the gig (I remember the name “Greensleeves” like the english folksong, really corny name)...anyway that group couldn't do the gig, a wedding for someone “important” I think some politician or businessman, what to us was one big dollar sign. I had my doubts because I was new to all this, and we only played simple tunes from the Real Book, things from my teenage years, like country music, boogie woogies, etc. But my esteemed colleague insisted and the four of us got down to business.
We arrived at the hall where the party was to takeplace, set up the equipment, had a beer. It was my first time playing with my new tuxedo, bow tie and all. (I still have it, but can't close the waist). Then we try to figure out what tune we should play, but it turned out that there wasn't any tune that we all knew. Not Blue Bossa, Autumn Leaves, Tune Up. not Rock and Roll...Uh-oh.. Not to mention a polka,
cha cha cha or the Twist. Finally we found one, The Hustle by Van McCoy. Before you continue reading, I suggest that you listen to it in case you´re not familiar with the tune.
A hit from the Disco scene... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y0xVLGssnwU
Everybody knew how to play The Hustle. Okay at least we had one, but we had to play at least two hours of music. We began by playing anything at all, and that's not the name of a tune, something that one half of the group more or less knew with the other half trying to follow as well as they could. But it was all too slow. It's okay to begin that way, maybe for the half hour of cocktails, but once dinner is over people were expected to boogie. So we get out our big hit....The Hustle. We played it pretty well I should say, and people started to dance. The newlyweds happy, the parents and inlaws happy. We too were happy enough but somewhat worried about what we would do after the song finished. Of course now that they were dancing, we did a remix that lasted a good 15 minutes, with solos, the intro again, and the inevitable war cry of “Do the Hustle” now and then. It was, to say the least, pretty surreal, but , hey, as long as they didn't sit down....
At last the song finished with everybody on the dance floor, polite applause, waiting for the next number. By the way, when one plays at a wedding in the EE.UU, it is not only necessary to play tunes according to the ethnic group of the families involved (Italian, Polish, Jewish) but also to not stop like for at least a half hour. Not only did we not know what ethnic group(s) they all belonged to, but the only song I knew that was a bit “ethnic” was Oye Como Va by a chicano by the name of Carlos Santana (escrito por Tito Puente I might add), and these white folks from Boston, a city with frequent racial tension, well, I don't think they would have much appreciated the tune.
After contemplating our navel for some 60 tense seconds, we found that we had no choice but to play The Hustle again. And again and again, the whole damn night. But we did however come up with some ideas...we played it disco, funky, cha cha, and I can even imagine The Hustle in waltz time.
A pretty embarrasing moment, friends. But the truth is we triumphed. They danced like crazy, doing their “conga” line, dancing in circles, and, I imagine, even doing their “ethnic” steps. At the end we got paid what was agreed upon, and were congratulated by the famlies, who were not to be deceived and surely knew that we were beginners.
R-E-P-E-R-T-O-I-R-E, amigos....
I get a call from the drummer, a guy slightly older and somewhat more experienced with commercial gigs, weddings, commercial events, etc. He says that we have a gig that very same night and it was an emergency call. It seems that the original group who signed for the gig (I remember the name “Greensleeves” like the english folksong, really corny name)...anyway that group couldn't do the gig, a wedding for someone “important” I think some politician or businessman, what to us was one big dollar sign. I had my doubts because I was new to all this, and we only played simple tunes from the Real Book, things from my teenage years, like country music, boogie woogies, etc. But my esteemed colleague insisted and the four of us got down to business.
We arrived at the hall where the party was to takeplace, set up the equipment, had a beer. It was my first time playing with my new tuxedo, bow tie and all. (I still have it, but can't close the waist). Then we try to figure out what tune we should play, but it turned out that there wasn't any tune that we all knew. Not Blue Bossa, Autumn Leaves, Tune Up. not Rock and Roll...Uh-oh.. Not to mention a polka,
cha cha cha or the Twist. Finally we found one, The Hustle by Van McCoy. Before you continue reading, I suggest that you listen to it in case you´re not familiar with the tune.
A hit from the Disco scene... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y0xVLGssnwU
Everybody knew how to play The Hustle. Okay at least we had one, but we had to play at least two hours of music. We began by playing anything at all, and that's not the name of a tune, something that one half of the group more or less knew with the other half trying to follow as well as they could. But it was all too slow. It's okay to begin that way, maybe for the half hour of cocktails, but once dinner is over people were expected to boogie. So we get out our big hit....The Hustle. We played it pretty well I should say, and people started to dance. The newlyweds happy, the parents and inlaws happy. We too were happy enough but somewhat worried about what we would do after the song finished. Of course now that they were dancing, we did a remix that lasted a good 15 minutes, with solos, the intro again, and the inevitable war cry of “Do the Hustle” now and then. It was, to say the least, pretty surreal, but , hey, as long as they didn't sit down....
At last the song finished with everybody on the dance floor, polite applause, waiting for the next number. By the way, when one plays at a wedding in the EE.UU, it is not only necessary to play tunes according to the ethnic group of the families involved (Italian, Polish, Jewish) but also to not stop like for at least a half hour. Not only did we not know what ethnic group(s) they all belonged to, but the only song I knew that was a bit “ethnic” was Oye Como Va by a chicano by the name of Carlos Santana (escrito por Tito Puente I might add), and these white folks from Boston, a city with frequent racial tension, well, I don't think they would have much appreciated the tune.
After contemplating our navel for some 60 tense seconds, we found that we had no choice but to play The Hustle again. And again and again, the whole damn night. But we did however come up with some ideas...we played it disco, funky, cha cha, and I can even imagine The Hustle in waltz time.
A pretty embarrasing moment, friends. But the truth is we triumphed. They danced like crazy, doing their “conga” line, dancing in circles, and, I imagine, even doing their “ethnic” steps. At the end we got paid what was agreed upon, and were congratulated by the famlies, who were not to be deceived and surely knew that we were beginners.
R-E-P-E-R-T-O-I-R-E, amigos....
CHUKY THE DIABOLICAL PUPPET, RULES!
Let's say about a year later, and I find myself in a somewhat better situation. The trio, led by the drummer (a different one) was called "Crosswinds", another corny name, but a sight better than "Greensleeves" (the last story), heh heh. We even had a silk banner made with the name in a kind of logo, (probably polyester) that we draped across the bass drum. We were piano/voice, guitar/voice, and drums. We gigged once in awhile, and had, besides our promotional package, a book with all the tunes, published by a clever teacher. We had the rock and rolls, top 40, polkas, and tarantelas (by the way the name comes from "tarantula" and the tunes were, according to legend, originally used to cure their sting, making the person dance and sweat).
The gig was through our leader and it was a sweet sixteen party for the daughter of the owner of an all purpose club . Good money was to be had, and we could afford to rent a van for all the equipment. We arrived at the club, a small independent building on the outskirts of Boston with a stage, dance floor, and bleechers for the audience. We set up, and with beer in hand, waited for the party to begin. Suddenly, the owner/father appeared and introduced us to a woman about 60 years old, and her marionette. She was a ventriloquist and was to do her show in between the soft set and the dance set. The puppet looked like something in between the Howdy Doody of my childhood.... and the famous Chuky from the movies.
The gig was through our leader and it was a sweet sixteen party for the daughter of the owner of an all purpose club . Good money was to be had, and we could afford to rent a van for all the equipment. We arrived at the club, a small independent building on the outskirts of Boston with a stage, dance floor, and bleechers for the audience. We set up, and with beer in hand, waited for the party to begin. Suddenly, the owner/father appeared and introduced us to a woman about 60 years old, and her marionette. She was a ventriloquist and was to do her show in between the soft set and the dance set. The puppet looked like something in between the Howdy Doody of my childhood.... and the famous Chuky from the movies.
So anyway the woman took out about 10 arrangements, all very complicated for us, and with the stamp of the local musicians union. She began to point out, very fast and without pause, the things we should be aware of, such as "and from here you jump to the third ending and wait until (the puppet) says...and after from here you return to the top and don't take the coda until (the puppet) says...and don't forget (this to me) THE ARPEGGIO OF THE DOMINANT OF THE FIRST CHORD. This means that if the first chord is C, I had to play a G7 chord so that the first song could be sung in tune (sung obviously, as we discovered after, by the diabolical puppet). It seemed that this was pretty serious stuff, and we began to worry a bit, with secret looks between us and butterflies in our stomachs. The leader of "Crosswinds" said "no problem", and we went off to play a bit. We never did find out if the ventriloquist was a surprise for the three of us, or if our leader had told the owner that we could handle the job.
When the soft set was over, the owner presented the lady and her puppet. They sat in front of us on the stage. All of a sudden, the diabolical Chuky turned around, "looked" into my eyes, and nodded. To say that a kind of chill took hold of me would be an understatement. Sweat began to soak my meticulously ironed white shirt, and I played the opening arpeggio of the chord. But due to my sudden brain freeze, what I played was the first chord itself, instead of it's dominant. This forced the ventriloquist (and Chuky, logically) to sing a fifth down from the normal key of the song. It sounded something like Louis Amstrong singing Heebie Jeebies, with the puppet making all the corresponding movements and facial "expressions". All very surreal. In addition, they were going so fast that we couldn't keep up, and the entire show came and went WITHOUT A SINGLE ADDITIONAL NOTE OF MUSIC. 45 minutes of show I think, with us just sitting there like asses. Once in awhile, the drummer or I would say in a loud whisper "now!...no!...wait!...now...no!" and so on until the end of the show.
I don't remember how it all ended, because I continued in a state of brain freeze for the next two weeks. But I do remember the dressing down we and the owner received. (justified of course) from that very angry woman (and from Chuky). The owner refused to pay us but his wife gave us 60 dollars out of the goodness of her heart, which, after the rental fee left us about 10 dollars each. Being very insulted, I stole a microphone that I found in the club.
A few days later, I drove by the club only to find that it had burned totally to the ground. After, we found out that the owner had been detained for possible arson and insurance fraud.
Or was it Chuky?
A night to remember....
When the soft set was over, the owner presented the lady and her puppet. They sat in front of us on the stage. All of a sudden, the diabolical Chuky turned around, "looked" into my eyes, and nodded. To say that a kind of chill took hold of me would be an understatement. Sweat began to soak my meticulously ironed white shirt, and I played the opening arpeggio of the chord. But due to my sudden brain freeze, what I played was the first chord itself, instead of it's dominant. This forced the ventriloquist (and Chuky, logically) to sing a fifth down from the normal key of the song. It sounded something like Louis Amstrong singing Heebie Jeebies, with the puppet making all the corresponding movements and facial "expressions". All very surreal. In addition, they were going so fast that we couldn't keep up, and the entire show came and went WITHOUT A SINGLE ADDITIONAL NOTE OF MUSIC. 45 minutes of show I think, with us just sitting there like asses. Once in awhile, the drummer or I would say in a loud whisper "now!...no!...wait!...now...no!" and so on until the end of the show.
I don't remember how it all ended, because I continued in a state of brain freeze for the next two weeks. But I do remember the dressing down we and the owner received. (justified of course) from that very angry woman (and from Chuky). The owner refused to pay us but his wife gave us 60 dollars out of the goodness of her heart, which, after the rental fee left us about 10 dollars each. Being very insulted, I stole a microphone that I found in the club.
A few days later, I drove by the club only to find that it had burned totally to the ground. After, we found out that the owner had been detained for possible arson and insurance fraud.
Or was it Chuky?
A night to remember....