Just in case you were wondering what the mental health requirements are for being a bandleader in the current economy, let me fill you in.
I've been in Santa Cruz for long enough to have established a little cred by sitting in around town, doing uncompensated rehearsing of other people's bands (OPBs) and generally making a nuisance of myself. I work in the only music store dealing with band and orchestra instruments in a serious way. People are in and out of here every day taking advantage of the boss's good nature for instant gratification repairs (IGRs) at low or no cost because of the trivial nature they see to the turning of the right screw on an adjustment, a screw they themselves could not even FIND much less TURN. I've done some rehearsing of my own band, and did a couple gigs where I was bandleader for not a princely sum but enough to get the troops deployed. (Not without its consequences though. I had a piano player and a trumpet player cancel on a paid gig in June less than a week before the gig, leaving me in the lurch with my limited knowledge of the local scene to scuffle for subs.)
Anyway, back to the matter at hand. Two days ago I'm at work with my phone off and a voicemail comes from a singer-bandleader saying I'd been recommended by Zach, the young Soquel-based drummer who is just a kick to play with. The gig was on the 20th of August, and he was checking my availability. As soon as I got the message I called him back, and left a message on HIS voicemail saying YES I CAN DO IT. I tried again into the night, but got voicemail every time I tried. The next day I tried again, got voicemail, restated my availability for the gig, and I went off to work.
Once again, I try not to use my phone at work, because that's how I was brought up. After work I had to meet with Sue to set up her Itinerary for the January Wine Tour in France, so we slogged that out with my zero knowledge of French spelling, she very patient, me designing as I go, something the Old Fellows who taught me the graphic arts racket would never do.
It wasn't until I was at my seven o'clock rehearsal at Casa Dryden by Cabrillo, where Zach was the drummer, that I thought to check my phone. I asked Zach the rundown on the cat who he'd recommended me to and I'll keep that conversation privaleged as his confessor. Emboldened, I dialed the number of this guy.
Huzza! Finally an answer, though not the one I'd expected!
Seeing he hadn't TALKED to me (never mind whose fault THAT was) he decided to go with another saxophone player! Through the gritted teeth of a 60-year old "new cat" in town (although I lived here before) I heard this turkey trying to turn the tables on me, like it wasn't his fault that he didn't check his own voicemail.
But that's not the part that pissed me off. He asked me what my rate was. My RATE?? WTF does THAT have to do with anything? I told him, look, I moved here from Austin, where I was working with my 4-horn book with various Sinatra-like singers in front, and I've been here 8 months now and I don't HAVE a RATE!
After I cooled off a little Zach said he'd still the waters at least for the possibility of future gigs.
But here's what this cat is missing by not using me on the 20th:
I show up early, not "on time," but genuinely early.
I wear what I'm told to wear, not trying to upstage anybody in the process.
I know all the tunes you'll likely play by memory, and I can transpose in my head.
I can read anything you put in front of me, and I can transpose THOSE parts in my head.
At the end of the night I help knock down. I don't leave until I can't do anything more to help.
So that's how it goes with the state of bandleading in the central coast of California.
"Oh," in the words of Duke Ellington, "Don't worry, we've got plenty more . . . "
No comments:
Post a Comment