I believe that it’s become a law now that if you write…anything…you must comment on Michael Jackson. Sorry, that’s just the way it is. Coup in South America? Yawn. Civil unrest in the streets of Iran? Whatever. American Governor going AWOL in Argentine with his “Soul Mate” in the most public Mid-Life-Crisis Meltdown in history? Well, that one’s pretty damn good, but…hello…’King of Pop’ over here.

    Unfortunately, my life is fairly bereft of MJ episodes. I remember someone brought a little Black and White T.V. to elementary school the day he was on “The Dating Game”. I remember when “Thriller” came out , I was working at a record store (look it up, kids), and we sold about 75 copies of that album every day. I remember my friend Gary Phillips was on a single that went to Number 2 in the whole U.S.A. but couldn’t quite get past Michael for the top spot.

    Good little tales, to be sure, but as big ‘celebrity as culture’ deaths go, I still defer to Elvis Presley. It’s not that I was a big Elvis fan; I was 17 when he died, and my frame of reference was that he was the old fat guy in the polyester jump suits who had made all those cheesy movies. Harsh, but like I said, I was 17 in 1977; I wasn’t supposed to like Elvis. I was not his demographic.

    Elvis died on August 16th. I know this date, because I remember it printed on the KISS ticket I had. They were playing at the Cow Palace or some barn that night, but I wasn’t there. I had to give up my ticket because August 16th was the day our family vacation to Hawaii started. Okay…I know; “Oh poor guy, has to go to Hawaii. Let me call you a Waaa-mbulance”, but here again; 17. I learned of Elvis’ death because the first thing I did in my hotel room; shared with my two little sisters, of course, was try to tune in some good music on the radio, and that’s when they announced his passing.

    Normally, that would have been just another “big deal” teenage moment, but sometimes life deals you some amazing cards on the river, and suddenly what looked like a crummy hand turns to golden memories. See, Elvis really liked Hawaii. He made movies here, and he hung out here. He even had a favorite hotel, where he’d always stay, and he knew the staff, and was always in a great mood whenever he was there.

    Guess where my family had dinner reservations for that evening? For the big “Fire Show”? That’s where they run around and light torches and play drums and hula dance for the mainlanders who are drinking out of cocoanuts and pineapples. All of this was made so much more enjoyable by the fact that the hostess and all the waitresses in the restaurant were bravely soldiering on with tears streaming down their cheeks as they seated you, and took your drink orders. “What’s the special tonight?”

    I don’t have any real, memories of the “show” itself, beyond some running and fire juggling, but the pre-requisite “Moment of Silence” is still family lore to this day.

    Wait; if I don’t set this up right, it could seem like we’re terrible people, and we’re not. You have to put yourself in the scene; we ended up here by some bizarre twist of fate. My parents thought it would be a hokey but fun evening, and now we’re surrounded by crying women, men in grass skirts, and a room full of people in white-belt-and-shoe ensembles and not many other kids. My sisters and I had a good ‘giggle undercurrent’ going by then, with my Mom admonishing us to stop, but not because she was embarrassed, but because she didn’t want to start laughing herself. So when the men in grass skirts bowed their heads, holding flaming torches aloft, and the solemn voice over came over the P.A., and said…said…well, look; I know speech impediments aren’t really things to be made fun of. And I’m pretty sure this was an impediment and not an accent. Not that accents should be laughed at either, it’s just that…to this day, if the family is sitting around together, one sure-fire way to get a laugh is to say “Bang the Big dwum…”. It made us all laugh out loud then, and it makes us all laugh now. Except now it’s not pissing off a room full of grieving people.

    Ultimately, as the years went by I decided that Elvis was okay, and that anyone who touched as many people’s lives as he did for so long had to be given some points for cool. He was so famous for so long that eventually he became famous for being famous, once the creative output dwindled. Sure, his final years seemed weird and drug addled, his appearance frightening to his friends and fans alike, but ultimately he made his choices. I don’t buy into the whole “fame killed him” junk. After his death there was a period where family and so-called “insiders” battled for their own little pieces of the legacy, whether to tarnish it or try to shine it to a too-bright finish. Eventually memories get replaced with The Icon, and then, “Icon Inc”.

    The passing of Michael Jackson will be exactly the same. Well, except for the personal comedic value.

   There’s an old story about going to Nashville to “make it” in music. What you’re supposed to do as you drive towards Nashville is pull off the road about fifty miles from town, and find the nearest gas station. Roll into the gas station, take out your guitar (or bass), and hand it to the attendant. If he plays better than you, turn around and go home. If not, continue on your journey, stopping about every ten miles to pit your skills against the ‘locals’. If you make it all the way to the city limits, you might have a shot. I said ‘might’.

   That particular legend came back to me about halfway into Miko Mark’s first set Saturday night there at the corner of Commerce and Second, just up the street from Broadway, when I had a small epiphany – y’know; the little kind that makes you laugh at weird times – when I realized that I was in the heart of Nashville playing a Patsy Cline song.

   The entire city was one gigantic party to celebrate the CMA Fan Fest, and a city that‘s all about music was full to the brim with players and fans hanging out together. Autograph sessions, outdoor stages, a ton of nightclubs, and the stadium were humming with activity all through the weekend. The beer was flowing, the girls were pretty, and the streets were packed.

   As fun as the whole festival part of the whirlwind, in and out trip was, the best part might have been the people I met. Our guitarist, Kelly Back (from ‘Wingnut’ days) had lived in Nashville some years ago, and still had friends in town. Having the chance to talk to locals about the whole scene and how the game works was very illuminating. Guys like Chris Boggs and Scott Alexander have the insiders view, and shared it freely. Chad Lemons was somewhere between a one-man tourist bureau, and a natural disaster; if you can balance those two, a certain type of people will flock to your door. Whether you want them there in the morning is something else entirely.

   The city get called – derisively – “Nash-Vegas” a lot, but it reminded me of Hollywood, in that everyone is “industry” to some degree, or has an angle, or plays one form or another of the name-dropper game. Where that stuff is so damn superficial and annoying in the movie industry, it kind of made sense to me in Nashville. See, it’s not enough to say “it’s all about music”. What it really is all about in Nashville is getting people to listen to music. It’s bigger than the players, bigger than the industry, and even bigger than the ‘artists’. “Music City” boasts the best studios, the best rehearsal facilities, the best all around support structure for getting people to listen to music, and the best musicians to play that music. One person associated with a studio – who shall go unnamed to protect the…umm…well, guilty – said that in other cities they could “spend all day trying to explain the feel we needed on a track to the keyboardist or the guitarist, and still not get it. Here, we’re done before lunch.”

   So I don’t know how far towards town I would get taking the “pull over and check your skill level” advice, but I know that we blew into the heart of Nashville with a country band from Oakland, and we represented. We played hard, and we played good. Miko kicked butt. Come see for yourself when she plays Union Square on Sunday, June 28th from 2 to 5PM.

   For me, Nashville instantly made my fairly short “Places I would totally live” list. And between you and me, I don’t think any of those gas station attendants are going to keep me out. At least not quietly.

Music is hard wired into our brains. Every culture has had music. While not every culture has the same 12 note scale of Western music, “octave equivalence”; the fact that if the frequency of sound waves of a given tone is doubled, the note will be the same but an octave higher, is present in all music. The “perfect consonances” of Fifths and Fourths are easy concepts to anyone who’s learned a blues, folk, rock, country…any kind of song. The “oldest known popular song” was written on a Sumarian clay tablet 3,400 years ago, and when it was deciphered and performed several years ago, it turned out to be a so-called “I IV V”, like C, F, & G. Just like all the Chuck Berry classics. Just like the plaintive songs of Hank Williams. Just like almost every blues song ever played at a jam.

So what really separates these songs from one another? Where does the concept of ‘music genre’ come from? Bass and drums, my friends; bass and drums. A change in the rhythm section is all it takes for songs to achieve classification.

I’ll show you; take an easy, well known I IV V song; “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley. You know this one; “Don’t worry, about a thing, ‘cause ev’ry little thing, is gonna be alright…”. Nice reggae groove; lot’s of space in the bass, snare hits feel like they’re on ‘three’ with that reggae, half-time feel.

Now, strip it down to vocals and rhythm guitar, and this time ad a straight drum beat and a “1, 5, 1, 5” bass line, and viola; y’all’er playin’ country and western! Pod’ner!

Wait; now put in a good, snare rollin’ ‘train’ beat, with a blues-rumba bass line; a “Crosscut Saw” type of rhythm, and that is straight up New Orleans gumbo!

Now use a Chicago style blues box pattern, like “Tore Down”, and it’s Chess Records all over again!

Us humans like melody. Because of the nature and consonance of a good I IV V, a lot of great melodies fit right in there. While ‘Groove’ is (or should be) the inescapable goal of any song, which groove is always up for interpretation, and that’s where the value of a true rhythm section (including the vastly underrated Rhythm Guitar) comes into play.

I’m off to Nashville, where I’ll be tending to the groove with Miko Marks at this year’s CMA Fan Fest! If you’re in town for any of the scabillion shows, come see us at The Wild Beaver Saturday night!

People play music because they love to play music. “Play”. The artistic freedom. Good times with friends. The titillating satisfaction that comes with the situational adoration that accompanies performance…y’know; chicks.

I don’t throw around absolutes too often, *ahem*, but I will say this; nobody ever got into music because they enjoyed the concept of trying to book gigs. There is no “thrill of the hunt” in continuously trying to talk bar owners out of their money. Let’s face it; the ‘business’ part of the music business, is often demoralizing and depressing, and probably contributes more to Musician Drop-out than anything else, except maybe “Musicians Flaky-Jerk Syndrome”.

So let’s walk our way through some typical Club Owners and/or Bookers to see if by identifying their genus and species, we can’t learn to deal with them better.

“The Beer Seller”; Easy to spot due to a certain general weariness that permeates their existence. Upon engaging them, it’s easy to begin questioning whether they even like music at all. Incapable of understanding why you can’t draw two hundred people at Eleven PM on a Tuesday night to their ‘hot spot’ that no one goes to. Be careful; ‘Moral Ambiguity’ is a trademark of the Beer seller, and you can never be sure where the uncrossable line exists. Sure, hiring strippers to ‘dance’ during your set will fill the room, and sell a lot of beer, but chances are that for every person who may enjoy such a thing, there are others who will be mad. Really mad. The irony of the “Careful what you wish for” lesson is wasted on the Beer Seller.

Care and Feeding; Engage the Beer Seller only if you are adept at selling beer. If you have that kind of draw, take advantage of it and woo only the best Beer Sellers with the brightest plumage. Otherwise, you should probably avoid them.

“The Moneyed Hipster”; The entire reason for even owning a Nightclub for the Moneyed Hipster is because of the elevated status it brings to it’s owner. You’re ability to be booked there is directly proportionate to how cool it would be to have a picture taken with you. Make no mistake, he considers you part of his plumage. Deep psychological problems from childhood are always on display. Put one small chip in his well constructed mental playhouse, and he’ll turn on you in an instant, and all of his self aggrandizing stories will become cries of “You’ll never work in this town again.” He could, for instance, be on stage trying to turn off your bass amp while the lead singer is running through the club chased by Bouncers, gleefully knocking over the house P.A., and you wind up in a Sacramento motel two hours later thinking “What the hell was THAT?”

Care and Feeding; Cultivate the relationship. Moneyed Hipsters have a tendency to overpay to hang out with you, and throw cash around to attract friends. They might as well throw some your way! Just remember to keep an escape route for when it goes bad.

“The Woe-is-Me”; You generally have to get close to hear their plaintive call; some variation on “Life is hard, running a bar is harder, and thankless, and if I can scrape by for just one more month, I’ll be doing the world a favor.” There is some speculation that the Woe is a crossbreed between the Beer Seller and the Moneyed Hipster, but to date, there’s no scientific proof of that. Generally very friendly, they are quick to talk about their problems, and offer visions of a glorious future just over the horizon. Beware; one minute, you’re practically partners, and before you know it, your band is playing New Years Eve for two hundred bucks and a handful of shiny promises. When you try to cash in those promises, you find the Woe has already sold out and flown the coup. You get one more soul crushing “no good deed goes unpunished” lesson.

Care and Feeding; Engage but keep a respectful distance. Commiserate instead of sympathize. Stay business-like. Remember that generally speaking, no favor done for a club owner, especially a Woe-is-Me, is ever repaid.

These three examples are by no means the only species of Club Owner/Booker out there. There are others, like “The Clueless”, who obviously have an extremely short life span, “The Jaded Cougar” who spends all it’s time desperately chasing the latest trends, and “The Who Cares”, that will take up with whoever calls first at the special designated random secret time, and that is all that matters.

Of course, there are some exceptional Club Owners/ Bookers, and these are the ones that should be most sought after. They come by many names usually associated with “nice”, “cool”, and “friend”. They’re honest with you up front, and you can tell that they see their club as part of a Music Community. You might be lucky enough to see one or two of these rare birds, and they are the ones most worthy of protecting. It’s no surprise or mistake that the best people make the best Club Owners/Bookers.

Speaking of which, if you want to catch a glimpse of just such a rare bird or two, come to Armando’s, on Thursday, June 11th to see me and The Bros. Goldman, for an evening of ‘Meters’ inspired, New Orleans funk. A fine time will be had by all. I promise.

The Bros. Goldman
Thursday, June 11th, 8 to 10PM
Armando’s
707 Marina Vista
Martinez

I am too young to remember the Beatles appearing on the Ed Sullivan Show. Not by much, mind you; I remember Ed Sullivan, but nothing specific about his show. For a lot of musicians, the Fab Four on the Magnavox was the seminal moment that jump started their own musical journeys.

The start of my own personal bass universe is very clear. When I was a wee fifth grade lad attending Broadway Elementary School in San Pablo (don’t look for it; it’s not there any more), the music teacher who came twice a week to mold our young minds was a man named Jeff Neighbor. Jeff , in addition to being an elementary school music teacher, was also the bassist for the band Joy Of Cooking. I, in addition to being a fifth grader, was a violinist. Jeff ‘fixed’ this when he said “You’re tall. You should play the bass.”

And the rest is…well, an occasionally amusing story, at the very least.

Flash forward forty years, to this last weekend. I had a full schedule of wildly diverse gigs starting with Friday night subbing with The Billy Martini Show, a ‘tribute to the 70’s’. I had the best time playing with these guys, mainly because they’re all about the groove and the fun, without taking themselves seriously at all. ‘Schoolgirls’ dancing on the bar, the dancefloor humming, and a fine time had by all.

Saturday I headed for Morgan Hill and the 30 Annual Mushroom Mardi Gras for a set with Andre Thierry and Zydeco Magic. Andre is a great musician, and I love playing Zydeco. Add a few hundred people who enjoy listening to Zydeco on a beautiful sunny day in a lovely amphitheater and it was a great day. More groove! In fact, playing Zydeco is pretty much ‘find the groove and ride it into the ground’!

Sunday was another day gig, this one at the Sonoma Jazz festival with “Hurricane Sam & The Hotshots”. A lot of really good New Orleans piano funk, with just enough jazz to stretch me thin. I’ve got the improve and interplay down pretty good, but in Zydeco or New Orleans funk the tonal palette is usually less intricate than jazz. I haven’t spent enough time ‘blowing over changes’ to be completely comfortable at straight jazz. But, like I told them, even though I know my limitations, I don’t let them scare away from trying something!

There were different bands playing all over the square, and at one point, someone mentioned seeing a percussionist they knew playing at a different spot, and said “He’s over there playing with Jeff Neighbor.” Jeff Neighbor, the bassist? Really? Here?

At the end of the last set, I packed up in a whirlwind, got paid, and high-tailed it across the square to try to catch up with the guy who…well, it’s all his fault, isn’t it? Unfortunately, they had finished playing too, and I couldn’t find them anywhere. I was about to give up when out of the corner of my eye, down a long alley, I caught a glimpse of a man carrying an upright bass just as he went around the corner. Figuring ’What the hell’, I popped down the alley to check, and there, loading his hatchback was the man directly responsible for a good deal of what I am today. It took me a second to figure out how to introduce myself to him, because I was having this strange “life flashing before my eyes” in reverse, all leading back to “You’re tall. You should play bass.”

After what seemed like an eternity of “Uhh”, I stood there with my bass slung over my shoulder, and said “My name is Kennan Shaw. When I was in fifth grade you switched me from violin to bass.”

I remember that the first thing he said was “And you’ve been playing all this time?” We talked about the when and where’s, figured it had to be 1969. I don’t think he remembered me, but he probably taught hundreds of kids, and it was 40 years ago. He asked about musical education, and when I said I didn’t really have any he said “So the music took you away from school? Same with me!” He asked about life stuff, like family and happiness, and as I told him about all of it he said “So, you’ve been blessed?” Absolutely.

It was just a few minutes of conversation in a parking lot, but it felt so much bigger than that. There’s probably no one outside of my parents who have made a bigger difference in my life. Without Jeff Neighbor, I might have eventually found the bass – there are other road sign along my life that I can point to, but the fifth grade was definitely my Big Bang. And all of this was running through my mind as I talked to him. I didn’t even think what it must have meant to him; having a student show up after 40 years and say “Thanks for all this!” A handshake turned into a hug, and I drove home beaming.

Yeah, I’ve been blessed. Even more so after Saturday.

When I’m writing these little missives, I make a lot of assumptions. I assume that people get a sense of who I am through a few strung-together words. I assume people know that everything I say should be taken with a grain…or five, of salt. I assume that the fact that I feel incredibly happy and fortunate to do what I do shines through all the whining, and sometimes, because of the seedy nature of a particular gig, and a burning need to tell you about it, I assume that some of the people I write about will never, ever find themselves in a position to happen across my wee diatribes.

This, as they say, is one such story. The facts are true, only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Last Friday, I picked up what sounded like a nice gig; a big benefit for a school, held at a ritzy country club. The money was good – not “corporate party” great, but better than “bar” fair. The contract said music was 9 to 11, and dress was “Club Chic; black slacks and black shirt.” Fortunately, that’s pretty much my entire wardrobe. I knew it would be fun because the band consisted of me, and “Slim Paroompas” and “Rhett Colby” (not their real names; remember, ‘protect the innocent’).

We’re all set up in the Banquet Room, and the assembly is getting a huge course of back-patting speeches along with their salads, so we wander inconspicuously through the silent auction fair (guitar signed by the Rolling Stones, framed autographed triptych of Cy Young Award Winner Tim Lincecum, y’know; garage sale junk), and try not to stand out. Or at least, try not to make a scene.

About 8:15, I’m approached by a man who inquires about the band playing “dinner music”. Now, I am not a greedy man, but this simple question invariably leads to several more, all of which, me being “the bass player” this evening, I’m not really qualified to answer or ask. Like “obviously, there is more money than AIG used for massages and cigars last year in this room; how much of it are you offering me to go off-contract?” Or “do you have any idea what kind of ‘dinner music’ we might play?”

I used a Jedi Mind Trick, and the fact that someone asked the guy a unrelated question right at that moment, to become invisible. Later, when I told “Rhett” about the question, he said “I remember that guy; I did a benefit at his house last year. He’s owns approximately 14% of the entire world and has a ballroom in his basement that’s roughly the size of Luxembourg.“ Hey, you want a little “All Blues” with your Vichyssoise, a little monetary kindness goes a long way. Pal.

Nine o’clock rolls around, but the auction and games are running late, so the band retires to the anti-chamber to linger in the warmth of the giant fireplace. And linger, we did. We probably started playing about 9:45, as people were finishing dinner.

Then, it got weird. Second song into the set, a ton of horrible feedback and people ‘testing’ microphones starts interrupting, and when we finish the song, a man comes up to tell us our equipment is making noise. I pointed out that it wasn’t us, it was in fact two girls who had hooked wireless mics up to the in-house P.A., and were disrupting the music. “Oh. Those are our Receptionists! They are going to perform a couple of numbers, so you guys take a break.”

Oookaaaayyy. We’d already been paid, so we can do that. What followed was a half an hour of feedback, three ‘We’re gonna slow it down a little bit”, one acappella version of a song when the backing tracks would wait for the singers, all through a sound system that could have been replaced with a ‘Sports Illustrated Football Phone” and it would have been an improvement. I didn’t recognize a single tune. People listened politely for a bit, and then the room gradually cleared out.

By the time we started up, we had about a half hour left, and a very empty room. I can’t remember for sure what song we started back up with, but about a minute into it, one of the ladies working the details of the auction came up to “Slim”, while he was singing, and told him to announce that it was time to check out at the auction table. Two songs later, another of the auction politburo came and stood next to me, obviously awaiting my attention. I however, didn’t have a microphone set up, so I tried my “invisible” trick again, but to out of range of my telepathic powers, it may have looked like I just turned my back on her. It worked though, and she was off to talk to Rhett as he drummed. “People, you need to check out, then you can come back and listen to music.” That’s pretty much the quote. She must have been a teacher!

We finished up playing some real fun songs for a small group of nice people who wanted to dance. We had some fun doing “My Girl”, “Last Train To Clarksville”, “What’s Goin’ On”, and a handful of others. “Slim’s” displeasure with the whole thing was pretty evident, but I told him we were going to be laughing about this gig for a long time. Sometimes you get the carrot, and sometimes they smack you with the stick. But you still get the carrot! My mantra at this kind of things is “There are a lot of musicians NOT working tonight.”

It’s easy enough to impugn these gigs as being just “hired help”. At any Country Club, the gap between “member” and “band” is larger than the water hazard on the tenth hole. The whole neighborhood whispers “you don’t belong” ever-so sweetly in your ear. Frankly, I’ve come to believe that the band is there to supply a small bit of “rough trade” to the proceedings, as much as music. If you can’t deal with the fact that you are an afterthought, and fewer resources are used on you than the linen, then don’t drive yourself crazy. If you can find the humor and absurdity in the situation, then you’ll have some fun with friends, and get paid. And have a good story or two to tell.

Some people avoid it at all costs. Others do it sparingly, figuring that they can quit any time. Some people need it just to feel normal, and yet others let it consume them, and do it at the cost of losing focus on why they started in the first place.

It’s called Rehearsal, and it’s harsh mistress.

Well…not really, but I recently had an animated Email exchange with Steve Ahola about our two contrasting styles, Steve felt that rehearsing gives the band the opportunity to hone their set list, working out tighter endings, and for Blues Bands lets them go outside the standard One Four Five. He felt it helps the players get a feel for what everyone is doing and how the parts go together to form a cohesive whole, maximizing the performance.

I, on the other hand, think they suck.


Okay, okay, allow me to elaborate; many bands succumb to the “Practice makes perfect” edict, and end up expending all their energy in this quixotic quest for a perfection that doesn’t exist in the world of musicians and gigs. I contend that the only place to learn what we need to know on a gig, is a gig, and that being able to ‘read’ other musicians is a more valuable skill than remembering whether to play the Chorus twice or three times on the outro. I prefer the purely musical method, of mixing and matching players, and working off their strengths. ‘Play’ with a capital ‘P’. Steve mentioned Bluenote Recordings, and there is a certain ‘jazz sensibility’ that I find addictive in improvisation on a full-band scale.

So who’s right, me or Steve? Well, the short answer is ME. However, even at my most "I don't want to rehearse" worst, I try to remind myself that the rehearsal isn't for me; it's so the leader/front person can see that I know what I'm doing. That way, when it's time to play, they can relax a little more, and have a better show.

Recently I did a show with country singer Miko Marks, and we had two rehearsals leading up to the shows. It helped a lot that we were able to at least run through her songs because we hadn’t played them together. Conversely, the last time I played with her was last summer, and I walked in and did the gig on just ‘homework’. She was great both times!

So like so many things, the amount of rehearsal necessary depends on the situation. I would still suggest having too little is better than too much.

I think Steve and I both agreed that a long guitar solo during a rehearsal of 'Mustang Sally' is surely a sign of the apocalypse. Or at least an impending stroke!

   I’m pretty full of myself this morning. And humbled. And proud that I pulled the whole thing off! And amazed that I even had the chance. But, DAMN; it was great! Wasn’t it?

   My crazy mix-n-match, guitar summit, fantasy concert was last night, and it turned out as good as I possibly could have hoped. The show was fantastic, and even though aside from me, no one in the band had ever even met before last night, the evening flew by, and even seemed too short by the Ten O’clock curfew. It not only worked, it was spectacular!

   I have to thank the musicians; Danny Click, Jeff Magidson and Robin Roth. All consummate professionals in their own right who somehow let me talk them into this crazy idea of winging an entire show. Everybody bought into it, ignored their personal comfort levels, and had a good time, just playing. It’s a privilege to know musicians of this caliber, and while these are by no means the only fantastic players I know, last night everyone played their part to perfection.

   To Roy, Eloise, Thomas, John, and everybody who works at Armando’s; my deepest thanks for making anything like this possible. Where else can I walk in and say ‘Yeah, I’ll put together all these players who don’t know each other, and we’ll charge money!” And they go; “Allrighty.” I’m so appreciative that a place like that even exists, and the fact that they listen to me is mind-boggling!

   Last, but not least, none of it would mean a damn thing without friends, family, and perfect strangers who ignored the cold, rainy weather on a School Night to come out and support live music. Without that support we’re just four knuckleheads jamming. Thanks for not only sharing, but contributing greatly to our fun last night.

   I don’t know what the future holds for our little “One Night Only” extravaganza, but last night was a great reminder why I do this; when it’s good, it’s transcendent, humbling, and a hell of a lot of fun. Thanks to everyone for making it that way!

I have this fantasy, and…wait, not like that…hear me out…it’s a Musical Fantasy. It’s a little like the famed “Trio” gigs at the Maple Leaf in New Orleans, where George Porter and Johnny Vidacovitch enlist a different “third” every week and improvise the whole gig.

In my version, about every two weeks I’d have a gig at a cool joint, like, say, Armando’s in Martinez. And every week, I’d put together a varied list of musicians who I know and play with, but don’t necessarily know each other, and we’d just…play. Really, really play.

In my fantasy, I’ve built the reputation of the gig to the point where people always come out because they’ve come to expect something just a little left of normal, but music that’s always entertaining. They trust that what I’ve put together will be…a spectacle.

This Thursday, April 9th, I damn near get to make my fantasy come true. Thanks to my friends at Armando’s, I’m getting to put two guitarists together who I personally am constantly blown away by. I may have mentioned on occasion that I play bass, and have for quite some time. I also may have mentioned things along the lines of having spent a good deal of my musical life playing behind guitar solos. Goes with the territory. Most of the time, the guitar solo is the last thing I’m listening to; groove, drums, rhythm…pretty much everything else is more important to me at that moment. I’m workin’ here! Every once in a great while, the guitar will play something that catches my ear, and makes me listen. Usually with a big “What the hell was that?” smile on my face.

Both of these guys have given me plenty of those moments.

Danny Click blew into the Bay area from Austin a few years ago, and turned the idea of “Blues Rock Guitar” inside out. I’ve had the good fortune to play with Danny all over the world, and whether we’re at a huge Swiss festival, or doing an intimate Bread and Roses gig, his playing never stops surprising me. I’ll say this; in all my years I’ve had and have the privilege of playing with some great guitarists, and in my opinion, Danny is the best of the best.

I’ve known and worked with Jeff Magidson through Red House for a few years now, and his nice guy, unassuming nature makes me forget what a deep, soulful, and kickass guitarist he is. Only recently have I stopped being shocked by how good he plays every time I see him. His show last Friday at Armando’s with Duo Gadjo Quartet was unbelievable, and I’ve been searching for a way to play some more with him.

These two guitarists have never met, much less played together, but I’ve dreamt about getting them together for a long time now. I have no idea what we’re going to play, or how well it will work!

Rounding out the quartet is drummer Robin Roth, a veteran of the Bay Area scene, and a member of Johnny Nitro’s band. Robin’s deep groove seemed like the perfect anchor to keep this machine running as smoothly as we can get it, without overpowering the sound. She has never met either guitarist either!

There you go; the only thing, besides being amazing musicians, that these people have in common, is that I’ve played with them! That’s it! No rehearsals, no set lists, no matching outfits, and no common ground, save little old me.

If you’re a guitarist, you should absolutely not miss this show! If you like live music, you should definitely come to Armando’s this Thursday night at 8 o’clock! I have no idea what you’re going to hear; it could be transcendent, or it could go up in flames. Either way, why would you miss it! I’ll guarantee this; one way or another, you’ll be able to say “Dude, I was there!”

And who knows; if it works out, and a lot of people show up, maybe I’m that much closer to making my Musical Fantasy happen more often.

Danny Click and the Highwaymen
Armando’s
707 Marina Vista, Martinez
Thursday, April 9th, 8 to 10PM.

“Drums Stop; Very Bad.”

   Stop me if you’ve heard this one; a rather wealthy man embarks on an African Safari. First day in the bush, the hunter grows tired of the incessant native drumming coming from the jungle, and complains to his guide, who just turns and says “Drums stop; very bad.”

   The days go on, the safari moves deeper and deeper into the jungle, and the drums persist. “Really,” says the hunter, “must they carry on like that at all hours of the day and night?”

   His guide turns and says “Drums stop; very bad.”

   After about ten days, the poor hunter is on the brink of insanity, and is about to tell his guide to turn back and head for civilization, when suddenly, the drums stop. The hunter’s elation is unbridled, even in the face of his guide’s obvious fear. The guide’s agitation is evident when he says “Drums stop; very bad!”

   “My dear man, what could possibly be worse than the constant din of the drums that has you so worked up?”
The guide slowly turns, and in a fearful whisper says ”Drums stop…now…bass solo!”

   Thanks, I’ll be here all week.

   The bass solo; a veritable mine field. Does the guitarist wander off to buy a beer, or accompany? What exactly are the obligations between bassist and dance floor? Maybe now would be a good time to try out that Wah Wah peddle. Is there a rule that says I have to slap and pop here? I think I’ve played all my “A” licks, how long do I have to keep this up?

   I am by no means an expert, but when someone looks at me and says “You want one?”, I do this; Say no. Tell them they used up all the notes and there’s none left for you. Or better yet, say “all I’ve been doing is soloing!” I love the groove, and I’m fortunate enough that the gigs I do give me all the artistic freedom I require within the structure of the songs. I don’t need the extra ‘spotlight’ moment.

   On the occasion that I do take a little for myself, I fight the “this-is-all-the-cool-stuff-I-know”, catalog of licks solos. A couple of years ago, I went to a huge Festival, and saw a band that I absolutely love, but in all these years hadn’t seen. The band – veterans each and every one – were flat out groovin’. When they started playing one of their older, iconic tunes, I was in heaven. Half way into the tune, the bassist – a bad, bad man, and an inspiration – launched into a bass solo, and it…was…awful. Suddenly, his thick, gritty tone was eighties-inspired “clank”, and he went through a shopping list of mediocre technique. He slapped, he played a strange pentatonic ‘walking’ line, he bent notes in odd places…my jaw must have been to my knees. I remember this clearly, I even bought a CD of the performance (a nice feature of this particular festival), and every time I listen to it, just kind of shake my head.

   I have some particular touchstones that, if I showed them to you, you’d hear me play in every solo, varying the tempo and approach so they sound different. The other thing I try to do is shoe-horn things that amuse me into solos, like playing a Miles passage or quoting other bassists or songs. The great thing about playing a lick by someone you admire, is that you concentrate on getting it right, and it comes out as sincere. Once I was doing a gig, and a certain song had bass breaks at the end, and on one of them I used a Ross Valory lick from the first Journey album. I looked down, and Ross Valory was in the front row! When it came time to play the lick, I completely blew it; fell all over myself. The audience was left wondering what I thought was so damn funny.

   You have to remember that the Electric Bass Guitar is a baby compared to other instruments – 50 years old! - , and the rules get rewritten about what constitutes “good” bass playing all the time. Taking on a bass solo makes you removes you from your comfortable place, nestled in the groove, protected by drums and guitars and singers and whatever else. There aren’t any magazines devoted to photo spreads of foundations and framed in walls, but without those things, there wouldn’t be pretty homes to take pictures of! Go ahead every once and a while, and paint a wall.