|
In my last blog (Feb. 29), I talked about being ready
for my first solo gig on bass clarinet, to take place later that day at a
community center's annual spaghetti supper. Here's my report.
Boy, was I UP for that performance. I had worked really hard the previous
three weeks. Selecting the music. Entering some of the pieces, note by
note, into my music notation software (so that I could play and record the
bass line against an audible first line, or so that I could transcribe my
piano accompaniment). Re-determining the wiring configuration between my tape
recorder and my computer. Turning our bedroom into a recording studio
several days running, then back into a bedroom each night. Working through
some complicated bass line fingerings -- busy left and right little
fingers, and a sudden quick trip across the register break on one song.
Finally getting a fairly clean recording of that; then realizing that the
top line was in unison during that section -- I'd have to do that fingering
live. Noticing that there was way too much unison in that particular duet,
and solving both problems by taking the top line down and octave. Working
to get the right amount, variety, sequencing of pieces: Long vs. short.
Jazz vs. rock vs. classical. Slow vs. fast. BC accompaniment vs. piano
accompaniment. Burning the CD. Copying the sheet music in such a way that
Kinko's could give me a single, spine-stapled booklet, in CD track order.
Finally, way too late in the last week, sitting down and practicing with
the CD.
Sunday came. I rehearsed once in the morning, then "relaxed" the
rest of the day. Arrived at the venue to set up in plenty of time. Great
location, at the back of a two-story entrance hall, near the chow line. Set
up my gear: Folding chair, folding music stand, instrument stand,
battery-powered Fender Amp Can speaker, small end table with CD player on
it. Oh, yeah -- assemble the bass clarinet. Warm up -- great acoustics in
this space.
Oops: During some last-minute repacking, I had left behind one essential
cord: CD player to speaker. Called home, caught the family before they
left; they found the cord, all was well. Kept my cool (sort of) as they
drove to the wrong venue, then finally showed up at the right one. Met 'em
in the parking lot, ran back inside.
It's 6:20, and the chow line is forming. No time for a sound check -- plug
in the cable and start playing. I'm in the middle of my slow jazz call-and
response opening number (Beale Street Blues), when my family comes in
(after parking the car). "Turn down the amp -- way too loud!" OK.
I can do that.
I have an empty chair set up next to me, intended for some handouts I was
thinking of distributing (more on those in a minute). But some young kids
come and sit down and watched me intently. One, whose aunt had played bass
clarinet, is really interested in learning an instrument, and wants to pay
real close attention to a real live musician at work. Cool!
Time for the third number: a slow blues-rock tune from 1964 called
"House of the Rising Sun", made popular by Eric Burdon and the
Animals. A personal favorite in my repertoire: I had taught myself to play
the very-recognizable-at-the-time intro on the ancient player piano in our
basement in the mid-1960s. (That, and Chopsticks, and a bunch of old beat
up piano rolls were all I ever played on that instrument.)
I had hoped to catch the ears of some fellow Boomers who I was sure were
lurking in the crowd. But that once-recognizable intro, so laden with
personal meaning, turns into just another song for the chow line. That's OK
-- I still enjoy playing it, especially since it's all MINE -- a bass
clarinet duet with a rolling triplets bass line.
Later, some other young kids come by, and one bounces up and down in front
of me with his hands over his ears. OK. I can live with that.
The entrance hall is filling up; the chow line is getting longer. And that
acoustically sweet entrance hall is amplifying the crowd noises as
efficiently as it had done with my BC. Have I ever told you about my
ambient noise problem? It's been a long-standing issue with my ears and
brain and tolerance level. I can only listen to one thing at a time, and
competing noises are very unsettling to me. Well, guess what: I am getting
some auditory competition here. It gets to the point where, at the intro to
one song, I can't even hear my recorded one-measure count-off, so I have to
ask my wife to lean over the speaker and relay the count-off as she hears
it. OK -- I'm improvising here (with the situation, not the music!);
rolling with the punches.
But eventually I have to turn the speaker back up, then reposition it from
in front of me to a spot next to and slightly behind me, so I can hear my
own accompaniment. I'm getting a little frustrated here.
Did I mention that I'm receiving enthusiastic applause for nearly every
number? And, oh yeah, it comes from the same two people every time: my
supportive and loving wife, and the community band coordinator who had
requested this gig. What with my eyes being glued to the sheet music
(remember, I'm still bound to the printed page), I have few opportunities
to look for audience reaction. And when I don't hear much after each
number, I quickly learn to cope by smiling briefly, then getting busy
setting up the sheet music and the CD player for the next number. So I
don't really see the crowd.
Time for piece number 10 -- another hoped-for crowd pleaser, for an
anticipated wider range of ages: Hallelujah, written by Leonard Cohen in
1984, and recently popularized in the movie Shrek. One of my daughter's
friends exclaims his pleased recognition of the tune, and tells me later at
dinner that he really liked that one. But the groundswell of recognition
never comes, and I soldier on. (Well, it's one of MY favorites, and I enjoy
playing it!)
Final piece, number 11: A rousing, upbeat finish with Thelonius Monk's
"Well You Needn't", played with two BCs. I love that song. But...
the chow line is winding down, people are eating; it's time for me to pack
up my gear. My wife asks how I feel about the gig. I say "Well, I
could go either way. Right now I'm thinking about getting out of
here." She's surprised at this. She had seen people smile in
recognition at some of my tunes, then go back to talking. She thought I had
been well-received. She sympathizes with my ambient noise problem, but
reminds me that I was playing "incidental music" -- this was to
be expected.
So, I schlepped my gear out to the car, then came back in to eat. The
conversational noise was deafening by this time, and really grated on me. I
decided to cut out early, with my wife's sympathetic approval.
Oh. You remember those handouts I mentioned earlier? I haven't told this to
anyone else, but it's time to come clean: I actually pre-printed some set
lists, with my contact info on them, as well as copies of the lyrics for my
two hoped-for crowd pleasers: House of the Rising Sun and Hallelujah.
Perhaps out of a sense of premonition, I never set them out on that empty
chair next to me. Good thing, too -- my hubris had already set me up for
enough of a fall (in my own head, anyway).
Driving away from the community center, I made the best decision of the
day: Rather than go home and sulk, I chose to drive to Minneapolis to hear
a solo acoustic blues guitarist -- John Hammond -- perform at the Cedar
Cultural Center. Listening to him was great. It helped me to wind down, got
my mind off myself. His music was really infectious, and -- unexpected
pleasure -- I had a sense of empathy with him up there alone on that stage,
since I had just finished my own solo gig.
At the end of the blues concert, I ran into the husband of the acquaintance
I had seen a few weeks earlier at the Minneapolis Orchestra concert (see my
Jan. 25 blog). He, his wife, my wife, and I are going to go out to dinner
and then to see a terrific concert at Orchestra Hall on March 13: Two
pieces by Carl Nielsen, and then Mozart's Requiem. Another musical
connection forged, attributable in some ways to my participation in this MC
Network. Hooray!
SO... lessons learned, from my first public solo gig:
I have a new sense of sympathy/empathy for background musicians, such as
solo piano players.
I did just fine; the crowd liked me just fine. I enjoyed playing, I played
well. I'll do it again, with adjusted expectations.
Part of this anxiety was due to my overarching love of the personal
epiphany of musical experience, running head on into my lack of experience
at solo performance. It'll get better.
I have a renewed interest in seeking new solo performance venues. I spent
some time on the Web this week, looking for open mike opportunities at
local coffeehouses. Think I'll check some of them out. I plan to go
sometime soon to perform a seven-minute slot at a venerable weekly midnight
cabaret in Minneapolis: open stage, no auditions, no ambient noise
problems! And you can keep coming back! So, one of these times, I'll find a
use for all those lyric sheets I printed up...
I also now have a better focus on where I want to go musically. I let go of
my involvement in one of my two community bands, just this morning. Four
regular music-playing experiences provide a good mix for me: one community
band, where the music is fun and varied; one mixed clarinet quartet; where
I select over half the music and like it even better; one solo bass
clarinetist, where I select ALL the music, and one series of jazz bass
clarinet lessons that I'll start next week (where I hope to learn to dance
right off the page...).
I want to continue to work with my homegrown accompaniment CD, and improve
my comfort and familiarity with my solo repertoire. I want to *feel* my
music, with increasing intensity.
I want to... Good gosh -- I didn't start this blog with a promise to keep
it short, did I? Let me leave you with this:
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!
Hallelujah, Hallelujah...
-- Leonard Cohen
|
. I played a couple of pieces with a
mixed clarinet quartet for the Community Arts Board that sponsors the
community band I play in. I had really wanted to work through a troublesome
passage in one number, but ran out of time (and energy) the night before.