The Gig

            by Evan Hughes

 

            The coals were hot, the weather nice, and the spirits high.  It was the end of summer, and we were barbequing for Alex’s birthday.  As I stood there turning over the sausages, making sure they were grilled to perfection, I felt my pocket buzz.  I passed the tongs off to Joe and answered the phone.

            “Hello?”

            “Yo Evan, wussup, it’s Charles.”

            “Hey man, what’s happening?”

            “Ey, I gotta gig tonight but I can’t make it.  Think you could fill in for me?”

            “Uh, yeah, I guess.  Where’s it at?”

            “This spot called Savannah Jazz, in the Mission.  It’s just a trio with these dudes Michael and Igor and you’ll get like 60 plus tips.”

            “Yeah, I think I can do it.”

            “Alright, thanks man, here’s how you get there.”

            The rest of the conversation was freeway jargon that my newbie license and I could not comprehend.  I had never driven to San Francisco before, but this sounded fun.  Plus, it couldn’t hurt to make a little money.

 

*          *          *          *

            I arrived about 30 minutes early, thanks to my friendly Mapquest copilot.  On jazz musician time, this is equivalent to at least an hour, so I now had some time to kill.  As I sat in my car waiting for the time to pass, I noticed floods of people walking down the streets decorated with shiny beads and feathered masks.  I remembered that the Carnival celebration was earlier that day, the heart of it taking place only a few blocks from where I was parked.  I knew already that this show would bring a fascinating crowd.

            After about 35 minutes, I saw a man start to unload a monstrous upright bass out of his station wagon and walk into the club.  This was my cue, and I decided that it was time to leave the car.  I walked across the street, feeling confident and mature, but I was stopped before I could enter the club.

            “Where you going, kid?”

            I looked up at a 6’5” African American man dressed in a suit with a bald head and a deep raspy voice.  His eyes were a shade of dark yellow and he reeked of tobacco abuse.  I concluded quickly that he was the bouncer, and he probably wanted to see my I.D.  Charles hadn’t told me that this club was 21 and over.  Surely he hadn’t run into this problem with his well developed facial hair, but my lone whiskers could not pass the test.

            “Oh, um, I’m the drummer tonight.”

            “Are you good?”

            I humbly grinned, unable to directly answer his question.

            “I asked you if you’re good, kid!”

            Surprised at his change in tone, I hastily replied, “Yes, I’m good.”

            “Alright, well you better bring some shit tonight, because if you’re not good, then I’m gonna have to deal with you.”

            The lack of sarcasm in his tone left me utterly confused, and I could see the bass player smile after eavesdropping on us.

            With my cymbals hugging my shoulders, I headed inside.  Savannah Jazz was simply a bar, with a stage.  The people were loud, most of them intoxicated, post-Carnival celebrants.  A video of Louis Armstrong played on the 5 scattered television screens, and the crooning of his trumpet was felt throughout the room.  I started to set up the drum set, and introduced myself to the bass player.  He greeted me with a weak handshake.  His name was Michael, and he was a tall thin man with a head of prematurely balding brown hair.  He seemed quiet and uninterested, or maybe just embarrassed to talk to a 16-year-old at a public bar.

            Soon after, a short, pale man with glasses sulked over to the piano and began talking to Michael.  It must be Igor, I thought.  Michael said, “This is Evan,” attempting to introduce us, nodding his head in my direction.  Igor gave me a slight hand motion as a gesture, then went back to his conversation with Michael.  Igor spoke in broken English, with a heavy Russian accent, and was so expressionless that he appeared to be most closely related to a robot.

            “…en tis morning I woke up wis a han…a hang…vat du you call it?”

            “A hangover,” Michael replied.

            “Yes, tat’s right, a hangover.”

            “So what did you do?” Michael asked.

            “I drank more vodka, and de hangover vent away.”

 

*          *          *          *

 

            The gig I’d come to play at was a jam session.  Michael, Igor, and I made up the house band, destined to play behind any musician who wanted to come up and perform a song of their choice.  I had attended jam sessions before and knew that a wide assortment of musical characters, from novices to professionals, could be in attendance.  But until now I had always been a wannabe; one of the many drummers waiting for their turn to play.  Now I was in the house band, and I desperately wanted this debut to shine.  We started with a warm up, Straight No Chaser.

As the only kid and nondrinker in this bar, I already stood out, and I was hoping that my playing would lend a maturity to my presence and help me blend in a little easier.  But the start was rough.  Having never played with these musicians before, I had to quickly pick up their style and feel, and given how nervous I felt, this was no small feat.  I felt stiff, timid to express myself the way I usually can so freely when practicing in the safe and secure walls of my room.  I turned red, made a painful-looking focus face, and even dropped my stick throughout the course of the never ending opener.

When the song finally ended, we quickly launched into On Green Dolphin Street.  I felt self-conscious, and was frustrated with my limbs for not doing their job of making the drums come alive. I was over thinking, and my playing was suffering the consequences.  After a good 10 minutes, I heard Igor mutter, “Lets take a break, I need a drink.”  This was going to be a long night.  I now longed for my own shot of vodka.

              I looked around.  Igor had found a secluded stool at the bar, and had a couple of shots keeping him company.  Michael had a Heineken in his right hand and a cigarette in his left and was headed outside to let the beer and tobacco settle him in the cool night air.  The people inside the bar were all early thirty-somethings, and the volume of their conversation and laughter was increasing with their intoxication.  And me, well, I was a kid at a bar, with no one I knew around, ready to have some sober fun. I realized that the awkwardness of playing paled in comparison to the breaks.  I went to use the bathroom twice, fiddled with my drum set, tuning my drum-heads and adjusting my snare, and pretended to make cell phone calls to look important.   I felt out of place, incredibly uncomfortable, and was regretting my decision to be here in the first place.

            I found an empty stool at the bar and sat down.  A brunette with heavy makeup approached me.  She smelled of rum and cigarettes.

            “Oh my God, you’re the drummer boy,” she said overly loud, obnoxiously close, and with a dramatic flare.  “At first, I thought I was listening to the radio, and then I realized, oh wait, there’s live music here!  I looked over and was like, oh my God, who is that 13 year old playing drums!?”

            “I’m 16,” I quickly interrupted her.  I heard the defensiveness in my voice, and felt the heat of self-consciousness rise in my cheeks.

            “…Oh.  Well yeah, I was like, this kid sounds really good!  Keep it up!”  She walked away.  Though I appreciated the compliment, it did not inspire the confidence I needed at the moment.  Anxiously waiting for Michael and Igor to return, I looked down towards the door and unfortunately made accidental eye contact with the bouncer.  As if on cue, he started to approach me, a grim look on his face.  I could smell him from ten feet away.

            “Ey kid, you can’t sit at the bar.”

            “Why not?  I’m not drinking or anything,” I replied, in my increasingly familiar defensive tone.

            “Well are you twenty-one?”

            “Yeah, I’m twenty five.”

            I instantly regretted my sarcasm as I saw his expression change.  He had that tough and rowdy glint in his yellow eyes like someone about to handle the riff raff.

            “Well, do you have I.D.?”

            “No, I was joking.  I’m not twenty five.”

            “Oh so now you’re a drummer and a jokester!  You’re not on my good side, kid.  You better watch out.”

            “Be easy on him man, he’s just a kid.”  Michael came in for the rescue after mingling outside for a while.  “Come on Evan, let’s get started.”

            My relief at being occupied again was palpable.  After Michael’s small gesture of support, I felt myself loosen up, ready to play again. As we opened up the jam session, a sequence of beginner adults came up and played easy jazz standards, Blue Bossa and Autumn Leaves.  The music felt familiar to me, reminiscent of the instructional combo I had played in two years before.  The adults there had been psychoanalysts and lawyers, intent on playing jazz in their spare time, but they were woefully wedded to the lead sheet, unable to improvise or really let go.  I had moved on, impatient with their slow progress, ready for better players.  I felt that confidence now.  But low and behold, after three songs, Igor called another drinking break.

 

*          *          *          *

            I hopped down off the stage and was approached by an alto saxophonist who had played during the jam session.  He was middle aged, frail, and had glasses that were clearly too big for his head.

            “I really enjoyed your playing.  You’re really good at drums.  How old are you?” he said to me with a thick lisp.  Usually I would never be caught talking to somebody like this in public, but he must have noticed that we were probably the two most awkward people in this bar, and I decided that it was better to talk to someone than to spend the time by myself.

            “Sixteen.”

            “Wow, only sixteen.  You play like you’re twenty-five.”  I was struck by the irony of his remark, but was flattered nonetheless.

            The saxophonist started talking to me about some Miles Davis record that I owned but pretended not to for conversational purposes.  He chatted away, me nodding my head and trying to avoid the occasional spit that would fly uncontrollably from his mouth.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw the bouncer come in and quickly excused myself from the conversation to hide in the bathroom for a few minutes.  When I came out, Igor and Michael were getting ready to play the next set.  I felt more relaxed than before, as the last set had ended on a good note, and I was ready to show everyone my abilities.

We started with One Finger Snap, one of my personal favorites, and this time I started to really let loose.  The music started to come alive as the ting of my ride cymbal locked in with the quarter note of the bass, and the chords of the piano played harmonies around the soloist.  The room started to fill with a myriad of sounds, capturing the attention and silencing the previously rowdy drinkers.  I closed my eyes and let the music flow in through my ears and out through my body.  It felt second nature as my limbs played polyrhythms effortlessly, making the drums sing in melodic phrases.  The rest of the band cut out, and I was given a drum solo.  I entered another world, without consciousness or thought.  Everyone around me faded away and I became the mind behind my drum set, it only voicing what I had to say.  As my solo came to an end, I started to cue Michael and Igor back in for the rest of the song.  I opened my eyes to see most of the patrons at the bar staring back at me, eyes wide with surprise.  At the door I spotted the bouncer, arms folded with a smirk on his face.

My sense of time had shifted.  Tunes that might have taken an eternity to play an hour ago now seemed to take minutes.  I longed to keep them going and  to savor the sound of the moment.  Igor had a newfound energy, putting his whole body into the piano.  His fingers ran smooth and light, playing chord progression and improvising with a delicate authority.  Michael, too, began banging his foot uncontrollably to the rhythm of the music and he plucked the strings with effortless control, walking the bass line and locking in with the drum beat.  We had found our groove, but suddenly it was over.  Twelve o’clock midnight, our time was up.

As I stepped off stage Igor approached me.

“Hey man, dat was really fun.  I hope you can play wit me sum oder time.  Du you have a cellphone nomber?”  This was the first time he had talked to me all night.  I gave him my number and he offered his hand in respect.  Michael came up and gave me a warm embrace accompanied by a friendly slap on the back, complementing me on how great I had sounded.  The three of us walked over to the bar.

Igor shouted, “Vodka.”

Michael shouted, “Heinekin.”

I shouted, “Coke.”  And oddly, I felt perfectly comfortable.  I had proven myself to everybody with my music and it no longer mattered that I was a 16-year-old sitting at a bar at midnight.

The three of us were talking at the bar when the familiar scent of stale cigarettes wafted over.  I turned around to see the bouncer glaring back me, his eyes the same shade of yellow, only they appeared warmer than before.