JAM: April/May 2000: Adventures of a Jobbing Jazz Man

ADVENTURES OF A JOBBING JAZZ MAN

by Mike Metheny

The following piece, written in 1988 when the author was a freelance musician in Boston, was originally titled "Adventures in G.B. Hell -- One Musician's Impressions Of, and Guide To, the World of General Business." It is reprinted here as a timeless example of how the line between comedy and tragedy in the music world can be very thin. And how, in the face of adversity either real or imagined, humor is sometimes the only refuge for the jobbing jazz musician.
* * *

General Business -- or "G.B." -- is a category of musical engagement that includes wedding receptions, bar mitzvahs, Christmas and birthday parties, and other special occasions in need of live music to lubricate the festivities.

In other regions of the country this line of work is described in different ways ("casuals," "society gigs"), but regardless of label, when a professional musician says he or she is playing "a G.B. gig," it is tacitly understood that the performance will not necessarily resemble a polka party, football halftime show or mega-decibel rock concert, even though elements of each may be employed.

Now, about the expression, "G.B. Hell."
This loathsome little term is reserved for the more surreal and unpleasant occurrences that take place on the G.B. Circuit -- those stressful and frequently nightmarish experiences all musicians who play G.B. will ultimately be forced to deal with at one time or another, usually with traumatic results.

Although my personal exposure to G.B. has been mostly favorable, what with the opportunity to play with many excellent Boston musicians and the chance to learn some good tunes from the pop repertoire representing plusses, there have been those nights...

Nights when my eyes darted from side to side in anticipation of the next chortling "rug cutter" who would kick over my music stand...

Nights when I was certain I would suffer a stroke from the sheer claustrophobia that results from too many people jammed into too small a function room...

And nights when the crowd itself seemed determined to prove once and for all that a room full of jabbering humanoids could easily drown out four or five musicians who were already struggling to hear each other during the Cocktail Hour.

Yes, there is sometimes a dark side to G.B. -- a side where reality is replaced by the hilarious, the unbelievable and the bizarre.

The purpose of this treatise, therefore, is two-fold: 1) to take an irreverent look at that dark side of these types of jobs, and 2) to give the Veteran a healthy perspective, the Rookie a bit of instruction, and the Casual Reader some insight into the many experiences of just one G.B. Warrior.

So, sit back, put your musical standards on hold, and suspend all beliefs forever held sacred.
It is now time to plunge headfirst into the wild and wacky world of...
G.B. Hell.

Proper Attire
With few exceptions, you will be asked to wear a tuxedo to the G.B. gig. Because this outfit will constantly be subjected to The Three Major Conflicts (man vs. nature, man vs. man, man vs. himself), you will need to make a decision as to whether or not to go ahead and invest in a brand spanking new Mr. Tux ensemble or head to the nearest thrift shop to buy a used tux for under 50 dollars. I strongly recommend the latter. Several years ago I purchased a plain black suit (not even an official tux, mind you) and a cheap white shirt from a well-known "previously owned" clothing store in Boston, all for $25. (I already owned a bowtie and cummerbund left over from my college days in the late '60s.) In the years that have followed, that "tux" has endured every conceivable form of abuse -- beer blots, gravy stains, enormous quantities of sweat... you name the punishment, that outfit has absorbed it. Had I purchased something new and pristine, it now would most likely resemble the battered and disheveled unit I already have (and still proudly wear), and I would have spent hundreds of extra dollars for nothing!

The Gig Site
(Or: The Scene of the Crime)
When G.B. Hell occurs, it usually takes place in one of the following locations: 1) a hotel ballroom, 2) a restaurant function room, 3) a country club party room, 4) a VFW hall, or 5) other locales, such as an entire floor of a skyscraper that has been converted from office space into a noisy theater of the absurd.

My favorite site for G.B. is the "function room conglomerate," a entire structure whose sole purpose is to house as many individual parties with live music (and DJs) as is simultaneously possible. A properly timed stroll through the hallways of such a place will reveal the astonishing images of nearly identical activities taking place in each room, as if stamped from a cookie cutter. Each live band will invariably be made up of a salivating drummer (bearing a close resemblance to "Animal" on "The Muppet Show"), a keyboard player tinkling on a small Casio that wobbles with every chord, and a suggestively genuflecting female singer who could pass for the twin sister of Elvira, Mistress of The Dark.

If there really is a Hell, I'm sure it will look like this.

Risky Business
There will always be certain risks and dangers at a G.B. gig, mostly of a physical nature. (Mental injury occurs later and in the more delayed form of a bleeding ulcer or nervous breakdown.) The biggest threat to the physical well-being of a G.B. band member is the dreaded Cavorting and Thrashing Ballroom Dancer. No one is safe when trapped within the trajectory of this particular brand of reveler.

...Sometimes there just isn't any other place to set up other than right on the periphery of the parquet floor, where elbows of dancers will knock over music stands at best, and at worst, make contact with instruments, causing untold damage to both equipment and embouchures.

It is always a profound relief to arrive at a G.B. gig and see that the band has been positioned in such a way as to be safely distanced from potential collisions with these demons of the dance floor. But, sometimes there just isn't any other place to set up other than right on the periphery of the parquet floor, where elbows of dancers will knock over music stands at best, and at worst, make contact with instruments, causing untold damage to both equipment and embouchures.

It has always amazed me that these middle-aged American Bandstanders can writhe, twist and flail all over the floor, yet remain oblivious as to where the band has set up and at what point their movements will violate a musician's airspace. When the inevitable finally does occur, and a music stand or microphone is sent crashing to the floor, the reckless and half-plastered partier will slowly turn around (in mid-froog), observe the destruction, make brief eye-contact with the disgusted band member, shrug his or her shoulders, and gleefully continue the mating ritual.
There is occasional justice, however, when one is able to witness the sight of a grinning and intoxicated female V.I.P. attempting (with the assistance of her leisure-suited dancing partner) one too many spins in her "Saturday Night Fever" pirouette then plummeting to the dance floor in a twisted heap. I've seen this happen twice, and each time it warmed my heart with a kind of self-righteous joy that is beyond description.

The most effective solution for unwanted bodily contact with the dancing guests is something I call the "Improvised Barricade." Yes, those empty instrument cases and extra serving tray tables can come in handy in these hazardous situations. But, even with such objects strategically placed between bandmembers and dancers, one is not totally immune. There are sometimes flying projectiles with which to contend. (Exploding balloons! Wadded up napkins! Bullet-like ice pellets!) And then there will be that one misfit who will trip on the barricade itself, causing him/her to helplessly tumble all the way INTO the band, reducing those fragile musical accessories the size of a breadbox and smaller to mere fragments of their former selves.

It is at this point that you must surrender, order "a double" during the next break, and know in your heart that you did everything you could to protect your possessions and your person.

Fringe Benefits
In addition to the good money that can be made on the G.B. Circuit, there are also certain perks that come with the territory. For the steadily jobbing G.B. musician, the most important question of the night is: "Do we eat?" In most cases, the dignitaries in charge of the affair will see such a free meal as an unnecessary gratuity analogous to feeding the monkeys at the zoo, and they will deflect the bandleader's query about free food with a sarcastic smile and a terse "Nope!"

But when the green light is given to the band, and an official gesture is offered in the direction of the chow line, it's just a matter of where the dinner itself will fall on the hipness scale of freebies. Will the band be offered club sandwiches? (While the rest of the guests dine on steak and lobster.) Will it be the infamous Chicken Clump? (At least it "tastes" like chicken...) Or, will the entree -- served only in the employee cafeteria -- reveal itself to be the notorious "shit-on-a-shingle" that I used to think was only served in the Army.

Whatever it is, most musicians I know -- including yours truly -- will gratefully oink it all down with the frenzied enthusiasm of a poorly-nourished piranha. (There is even one respected saxophonist in the Boston area who carries with him -- in his horncase, at all times and to all gigs -- a gold-plated fork, as if in a perpetual state of culinary anticipation.)

But, a word of caution.

Another fringe benefit that the G.B. musician will sometimes encounter is a thing called "The Open Bar." This always-welcome bonus enables all within crawling distance (including the band) to gobble down as much free booze as is available for the entire affair. I have found this to be a pleasant and rewarding provision, unless the gig itself begins to deteriorate and enter the realm of G.B. Hell. When this occurs, too much alcohol will tend to magnify the horror of the situation causing feelings of unmanageable stress and impending doom.

...That is unless you are willing to "go all the way" and drink yourself into a catatonic stupor to avoid dealing with the terrifying sights and sounds that are unfolding before you. It is then that you will most likely be kicked out onto the hotel loading dock (while still tucked in the fetal position), have the stripes ripped from the sleeve of your tux, and sentenced to life in the G.B. Slammer.

Step Into My Dream
After one has spent a certain number of years playing G.B. there will be specific images of the different functions that will melt into one surrealistic synopsis, this Grand Image made up of many different, yet representative parts. It is in that spirit, therefore, that I submit to the reader this description of a recurring and somewhat disturbing dream, all viewed through a foggy fish-eye lens.

I am standing in the middle of a grandiose and infinitely large ballroom filled with hundreds of bantering revelers, their giant mouths flapping open and shut with the dull and unintelligible roar of meaningless conversations. I then turn to see several well-dressed ladies (with huge false eyelashes and overly made-up faces) entering the ballroom in slow motion (a la Loretta Young) and leaving behind a trail of blinding tear-gas perfume.

Turning again, I see that lining the walls of this ballroom are people grouped in twos and threes assuming the standard poses of social interaction -- a cocktail in one hand (napkin neatly tucked between the glass and the cupped palm), the other casually gesturing as if to add proper body language to wise and profound opinions about the stock market, the current administration in Washington, or the possible outcome of the next America's Cup Yacht Race. (Intermingled with these partiers are the waiters, waitresses and bus boys who are quietly scurrying about in their roles of Wench and Man-Slave, pandering to the needs and desires of the Royal Guests.)

Then, as if to remind me that the surface tranquillity of this montage' is not secure, the crowd abruptly parts down the middle, allowing 100 teen-age bar mitzvah guests to charge in my direction with shrill and screaming demands for prizes just won in a game of musical chairs. It is at this climactic moment in my dream-so-real that the only thing left between me and a certain end by suffocation is a row of photographers and video cam operators who, when impacted by the stampeding little grabbers, are each knocked to the floor and trampled to death, their Sonys and Quasars pulverized, the mountain that is their tangled and twitching corpses barely protecting me from the lunging throng of squealing, impudent brats.

I once tried to capture some of this imagery by taking my camera to a gig, planting it somewhat awkwardly behind the bell of my horn -- as I was playing it -- and snapping away, all in an attempt to freeze some of these strange visions as I have actually seen them.

But, all that made it to film were a few poorly-lit images of strangers casting inquisitive looks in my direction, and the glare of a trumpet bell taking up half of each frame.

The Tragic and the Bizarre
Another highlight of any excursion into G.B. Hell is the opportunity to witness the many remarkable human dramas that can take place at any moment. Sometimes it's as if the band members have been afforded front row seats at the most elaborate soap opera imaginable!

In this category, I have several personal favorites.

First, there is the "Sobbing Best Man" who, when asked to offer a toast to the newlyweds, will start off good and strong with several humorous anecdotes about the groom's childhood (the Best Man is usually the groom's brother) along with some funny stories about the lovebirds' courtship. But, when the poor fellow starts to enter more sentimental areas, expressing family gratitude for the addition of that special "new member" and telling one maudlin tale of family esoterica after another, he will begin to tear up and, with a cracked voice and trembling hand (that still clutches the raised champagne glass), struggle to continue.

In addition to the awkwardness created by the Best Man's emotional dilemma in these instances, there is also the physical challenge facing the guests who must keep their toast glasses held at eye-level throughout as the Best Man stammers and weeps his way through a lengthy and incoherent toast. The record for the longest toast under these conditions that I have witnessed is 20 minutes. On this occasion, the toast-er broke down after every sentence (with the band members standing at attention directly behind him, stifling our laughter as best we could, knowing that we were "on camera"), and the guests' arms slowly began to freeze up and cramp from "holding their toast glasses high" for the duration.

As this marathon rambled on into infinity, the in-laws, family members and yawning ring-bearers could be seen shifting their weight from foot to foot while exchanging looks of embarrassment and mounting agony. And, when the Best Man finally did finish his tribute, the applause was thundering, and laden with overwhelming relief.

There is also the Grandly Opulent and Obscenely Decadent Wedding Reception, a function that has been made possible by two things: 1) a spoiled-rotten young bride who views the party as an opportunity to fulfill every girlhood fantasy of what "the perfect wedding" should be (even though her new husband is clearly a goon, and the marriage itself will probably only last a few months); and, 2) a bride's father who is financially capable of serving up the most extravagant and excessive blowout in the history of consumption.

Although I have been a participant in a number of these epics, the one that really takes the cake (pun intended) involved a regulation circus tent that was erected in the backyard of the family mansion (a true metaphor for what was to follow), two bands that alternated sets (satisfying the request for "continuous music"), tons of raw seafood served to the guests by an army of obedient waiters, a spectacular fireworks display that fanned over the moon-lit bay neighboring the estate, and an actual helicopter waiting to whisk the newlyweds off to their "honeymoon yacht" that was anchored in the aforementioned bay... with a spotlight trained on its hull.

At the end of the party, as the band played "the last dance" (I think it was "Feelings"... or maybe "Mandy"...), the dancers -- overly fed and pampered -- were seen clinging to their partners in strangely impersonal embraces and with crocodile tears streaming down their cheeks in the pent-up yet artificial emotions of the evening.

Tragic or bizarre. Take your pick.
The creme de la creme in this category, however -- the piece de resistance' as it were -- must go to the famous "cake-in-the-face" incident.

This memorable skirmish occurred at yet another opulent ballroom wedding reception as the bride and groom engaged in the standard "bride feeds the groom" cake-eating ritual.

As any G.B. vet will tell you, it's a sure bet that during this segment of the party (as the band vamps its way through "The Farmer in the Dell" with the words re-arranged to fit the ritual itself), one or both of the newlyweds will intentionally miss the other's mouth with the cake slice causing some spirited chuckles among the guests. It's an exchange that's always good for some comic relief, and it usually makes for a couple of cute photos in the official wedding party scrapbook.

At this reception, however, tragedy occurred.

The bride was a dainty, sorority sister pledge type (the kind who would look very much at home modeling flannel pajamas in a Sears catalogue), and the groom was a lumbering ex-jock who was not only three sheets to the wind, but clearly on the verge of not behaving himself.

As if on cue, the bride playfully missed the groom's mouth, timidly brushing his chin with a dab of white frosting, then blushing as the crowd reacted to her triumph.

...And it was then that the groom's sleepy eyes literally widened with a sense of immense opportunity, as temporary sobriety set in, and as a moment was about to be seized.

Of course, the crowd (clapping in rhythm to the band's accompaniment) issued cheers of encouragement to the groom, confident that his "retaliation" would be fair and in good taste. But, much to the horror of the assembled guests, he instead slowly raised his cake slab, cocked his "throwing arm" as if to toss the game-winning touchdown, and nailed the bride squarely in the face with an Angelfood Surprise. (Remember Jimmy Cagney and the famous "grapefruit scene"?) The bride, blinded by frosting and cake, was nearly knocked to the floor by the impact, and a unison gasp swept across the crowded ballroom floor.

Stunned but still "professional," the band continued its vamp ("the groom feeds the bride... the groom feeds the bride...") as a hush fell over the room, and as the bride steadied herself by trying to clear a peep-hole in the cake that now adorned her perfect bridal makeover.

Once the young lady fully realized what had hit her, and once she caught a glimpse of the apprehensive stares of the guests (many of whom were covering their mouths in disbelief), this new bride-of-only-a-few-hours broke down in tears of humiliation, stormed out of the ballroom, and left the groom standing next to the cake, an innocent smirk on his red face, the "smoking gun" still in his messy hand.

Yes, folks, things for this young couple had gotten off to a rocky start, indeed.

Finally, after a tense 30 minutes or so -- with all in attendance (including the groom) unsure of what had become of her -- the bride reappeared with her face repaired and her tears mopped up... but with a "how could you?" scowl aimed clearly at the guilty groom.

The Newlyweds then had their "first dance" -- a gut-wrenching version of Lionel Ritchie's "Truly" -- and, as the band dug into this soaring love song, all in attendance circled around as the new husband and wife slow-danced... alone on the ballroom floor... like two short-circuited robots.... she with a zombie-like straight-forward gaze... he, still in a giggling state of semi-inebriation.

Standard Repertoire
In the action-packed world of G.B. there is a body of work that the aspiring sideperson must master and be able to perform on demand. There are all of the obvious tunes like "Beer Barrel Polka," "Satin Doll," and "Hava Nagila," as well as "Louie, Louie," "Addicted To Love," and "Midnight Hour" (key of E), but there is also that special battery of ear-catching, toe-tapping material that will cause the guests, as if by Pavlovian conditioned response, to gratefully swarm onto the dance floor and begin a series of arrhythmic maneuvers that will boggle the mind of the curious observer.

"After The Lovin'" is one such selection, as is "In The Mood," the latter causing people somewhat long-of-tooth to think they are once again jitterbugging teenagers as the music propels their stumbling and skipping bodies across the dance floor in such a way that not only causes bodily injury to themselves, but to anyone in the path of their spastic gyrations.

Tunes like "Alley Cat" (a.k.a. "The Hully Gully") and "The Chicken Dance" are also required repertoire, not only because they are crowd favorites, but because they carry with them a universally understood choreography, the origins of which remain a mystery to G.B. musicians. Is there a clandestine Order Of Chicken Dancers that secretly meets once a year in a candle-lit bunker? And, at this meeting, is there a ceremony involving "the old guard" and "the new recruits" in which a frayed scroll (with little shoe sole symbols connected by the proper dotted lines) describing The Dance is "handed down?" Or, is it at that delicate point in a young girl's life when her mother gently explains "the birds and the bees," that she is also taught the hitherto top-secret steps as part of a rite of passage?

An ironclad Code of Silence has kept, and probably will always keep such things unknowable for many generations to come.

P.R. and Diplomacy
In the rough and tumble arena of G.B., both leaders and sidepersons will need the highly developed diplomatic skills of an arms control negotiator when dealing with flustered brides, pushy relatives and hostile hostesses. The trick here, I've found, is to nod and smile a lot regardless of the insulting nature of what is being said by the perpetrator of the potential confrontation.

The nervous and/or paranoid bride (or bride-to-be, who calls the bandleader every day for weeks prior to the event, making a nuisance of herself about completely inconsequential details) is usually the source of this needless form of stress. A certain musical selection for the First Dance will be insisted upon, for example (say, a favorite tune from a lushly recorded Carly Simon record, Carly backed by a full symphony orchestra), only to be the source of big-time disapproval when it is noted that the four piece combo's version of the same tune is grossly inferior to what the young lady was used to hearing on her album.

Or, for that same First Dance, another kind of jittery bride will relentlessly hound the band into doing some obscure pop tune that nobody (including the band) has ever heard of. But, come the big moment, she will be oblivious to the fact that, for that dance, the band has slipped in an entirely different and more playable piece with a similar tempo and melody to the original request.

Bandmembers will also be accosted by high-ranking relatives and guests who will simultaneously ask the band to "tone it down a little" and "liven things up a little," throwing both the leader and the band into a no-win situation. (A bossa nova version of "Born To Be Wild" has been known to keep everybody happy in these instances.)

One's diplomatic skills will be tested to the limit, however, when a red-nosed and staggering in-law demands that the band play "New York, New York" (the anthem of G.B. Hell) after it has already been played twice, or when the groom insists that his grandmother, who has traveled thousands of miles from "the old country," be allowed to sit in with the band and sing an atonal version of "The Tarantella," much like a dispatched contestant on "The Gong Show."

But, your powers of diplomacy and restraint will be put to the ultimate test when dealing with the uninhibited and crotchety older guest who admonishes the band all night long for failing to play "anything he recognizes." My favorite example of this took place at yet another large ballroom reception in Boston. Standing alone in a corner next to the bandstand most of the evening and giving an unforgiving evil eye to the band was a grimacing, graying, flatulent old curmudgeon wearing a glare that made it clear he hated our music. It was simply a matter of time before he was going to express himself, and when he finally did lose control (of both his temper and his bowels), he stalked toward the band shouting, "Snap out of it! Snap OUT of it!!" -- his arms spreading wildly like a baseball umpire giving the "safe" sign, his face beet-red with pain.

We all looked at each other, wondered what it was we were supposed to snap out of, and continued with our impassioned rendition of "1999" by Prince.

Costumes of the Damned
Another visual treat that one will be able to enjoy at a G.B. gig is the trumpeted arrival of an appropriately garbed mystery guest. A man in a Santa Claus suit is the most common example of this, and the guy who has volunteered for this role usually turns out to be the C.E.O. of the company that is throwing the party. This is the chief's annual attempt to show that he really isn't the ruthless dictator and scrooge that, in fact, he has actually been the previous 364 days, and that by putting on an ill-fitting Santa costume, along with a drooping red Santa cap and fake Santa whiskers, he will reveal to all that he really is "a good guy" who secretly desires (at least for this one evening) the affection and acceptance of the very people he intimidates, dominates and ridicules five days a week at the office. (When the beard and cap finally do come off revealing Santa's true identity, the employee response is usually a mix of groans and contorted facial expressions, with the boss oblivious of their scorn.)

Other strange get-ups witnessed over the years include a man dressed in a chicken suit (that's right, to lead everyone in "The Chicken Dance"), and a woman who made a dramatic entrance decked out in a full head-to-toe rabbit costume. Her role, at an otherwise ordinary wedding reception, was to perform an original composition dedicated to the new bride and groom, and for some hidden reason, her piece required that she look like Bugs Bunny. (She either sang the piece a cappella or recited it, it was hard to tell.)

It was at this same function that I got my first close-up view of a transvestite. The sobering thing about this was that I'd noticed the person "across the crowded room" for most of the party, but, because of the distance, was unable to come to any firm conclusions about "her" other than the fact that I might be scoping out one of the more attractive babes at the affair.

Just after the rabbit recitation, and after making my way through the crowd of bantering revelers, I finally got a much closer look and was jolted by the sight of five o'clock shadow along with the sound of a deep bass voice.

"Love the perfume," I blurted, before executing a 180 degree pivot in the direction of... the Open Bar.

Playing It Straight
(As Opposed to "Taking It Out")
Although it will be difficult at times, it is important to maintain a dignified and professional demeanor at a G.B. gig. The alternative is usually more trouble than it's worth, and a positive, can-do attitude on the battlefield may even postpone the arrival of G. B. Hell.

It will be tempting, however, to register a musical protest now and then by blasting out an angry and irreverent chorus on an otherwise tender version of "Daddy's Little Girl."

And you will be especially inclined to "cross the line" when a sweaty and obnoxious frat bro' hangs his smelly sport coat on your microphone stand so as to acquire more mobility while squatting on the dance floor to the music of "Shout."

But, resist these urges if you can.
If you ever do "take it out," having been pushed beyond your limits one long and torturous night in G.B. Hell, you may never be employed again, and you may forever lose the respect of your peers.

On the other hand, a self-sacrificing tantrum on the stand may actually win the admiration of all, the story of your demise becoming part of G.B. Folklore, the legend of your "crime" and subsequent "execution" becoming a favorite topic of conversation during those breaks between sets when everyone sits around and tells those "funny musician stories."

Yes, such a complete and total collapse may be your ultimate contribution to the warm, wet and wonderful nether world that will be forever known as:
G.B. Hell.

A POEM
(with apologies to Joyce Kilmer)
I think that I shall never see,
a gig as grinding as G.B.
Where each swell tune gets really hot,
as dancers beg for one last fox-trot.
The Hora too they want to hear...
(my kingdom now for one tall beer).
"The Greek Dance" seems to win their praise,
the dance floor soon becomes a maze.
The bride is in an awful snit,
her period's here, she has a zit.
The groom is drunk, a royal pain;
he must sit in, we go insane.
But the money's good, the food is free;
and with some luck there'll be O.T.
One million sides we'd rather sell,
but for right now: It's G.B. Hell.
(c) 1989

(Oh, and I wasn't kidding about the camera.)