I might have a few vignettes for this thread.
I was called to play a wedding once, and country music was on the docket. The fellow who invited me in on this was a slow-talking Texas-bred guitarist/vocalist and fiddle player of considerable stature (except I didn't know it when we first spoke). I met him at his place, he answered the door complete with the requisite fifth of Jack in his hand, and took me to his music room. Very nice pad, lots of trophies in a long case, and all for his fiddle playing. He handed me some tapes, gave me the time and location, and that was pretty much it. No rehearsal. When it came time for the gig, the band was comprised of the fiddle front man, a metal guitarist with big 80s hair, a Mexican drummer who spoke no English whatsoever...and me. If I have any stylistic leanings at all, they probably fall mostly under the jazz and progressive rock headings. I couldn't have imagined a less country-esque country band if I worked at it. Further, this was taking place at a reputedly mob-owned country club (and in the interest of my own safety, the location will remain my little secret). All I could think about while setting up were the stories of Al Capone having his piano players shot after gigs when he didn't appreciate their music. Anyhoo, we got set up and ready to go. The moment of truth arrived. The front man started calling tunes, and we played right down the prescribed lists. It actually sounded quite good. The hair guitarist was dropping in tasty licks that complemented the front man's playing nicely, and the drummer was truly excellent - fantastic meter and feel, and I assume he liked what was going on because he smiled a lot. The front man sang very well, had a mellow but engaging stage presence, and played good rhythm guitar. I was pleasantly surprised and slowly shook off my trepidation. We played about an hour, took a break, then came back for another set. About four songs in, the front man calls The Devil Went Down To Georgia. And I thought to myself, yup, this is where the tommy guns come out. No way is this going to work. So the front man picked up his fiddle, counted it off, and away we went. He tore it up. My jaw was on the floor watching this guy do his thing, and when he got to the devil's fiddle solo, he played part of it with the bow stuck in his shoe. He played it by moving his leg. And he'd play it behind his head, probably upside down and backward...it was beyond awesome. By now, most of the 100 or so people were hooting and hollering drunk, dancing, and having a ball. The energy just kept building and the whole gig really came off as well as if it had been rehearsed. It stands to this day as the wildest experience I've ever had - the gig that by all appearances should have flopped miserably turned into a great night of music and entertainment. I never even got the drummer's name, but in lieu of the spoken word, we at least high-fived each other when it was done. Such a cool vibe. I wish all gigs could be like that.
Another band I worked with for several years in Michigan had a standing gig at a now-defunct bar in a semi-rural location. It was a lighthearted gig - we were all friends, we played a bunch of classic rock and blues, and the patrons were comfortable with us. There was a fellow that came in sometimes who was absolutely enormous. The stats I recall were 6' 5" and over 500 pounds. He was the nicest imaginable guy and everybody knew him. He was enjoying our band one evening, sitting at a table and drinking beer with his buddies, from the first set through the third. I don't think he ever even got up to go the bathroom. As we were coming off our third set break to do the fourth, I glanced at their table. As a joke, the barmaid had left all of his empty beer bottles right where they sat (his beer consumption skills were legendary). I counted 31 that I thought were attributable to him alone. By now he was laughing and jovial, red-faced, but maybe a little louder than ordinary. We started the fourth set. Three songs in, we must have hit on something he really liked because he cheered, slowly stood up, stumbled toward the dance floor, and then just stood there not moving - but with a big smile on his face. It all seems like slow-motion in my memory now, but after a few moments he slowly rocked forward and all 500 pounds of him did a faceplant smack in the middle of the dance floor. On that old gig I ran a Peavey head through a Bullfrog 18 (anybody remember those?), and when he hit the floor, the whole rig jumped two inches. One of the drummer's cymbals tipped and old dust poofed from the walls. It probably registered on a seismograph somewhere. We stopped playing while his state was assessed by friends. He had simply passed out, but was happy as a lark - he was still smiling, despite being unconscious. Our trombone player walked over and started blowing some noisy blues lines right in his ear trying to wake him up - no dice. He was carried out by six regular-sized men and deposited in the bed of somebody's F-150. That was his ride home.
One more and I'll shut up. This one wasn't mine, but a friend's whose band was booked to play a gig at a remote location in the Rockies. He told me this story and it stuck with me all these years. It was an outdoor day gig, by my recollection maybe something like noon to 5PM. They got set up and played the first set, then took their break. There was apparently a pretty good crowd present, just a lot of happy folks having some lunch and drinks. As they were coming off break and getting ready to start their second set (I hope I'm remembering this right and not embellishing too bad), I believe somebody in the distance banged a gong...at which point, everybody in attendance proceeded to disrobe and then go about their business. Yep, some big nudist event. So the guys in the band, after getting over the first few seconds of shock, looked at each other and shrugged. They took it all off and played the rest of the show in their birthday suits.
I laugh hard every time I recall that story, but I don't think I could have done it. I'd have felt just a little too weird playing bass in the buff.
I was called to play a wedding once, and country music was on the docket. The fellow who invited me in on this was a slow-talking Texas-bred guitarist/vocalist and fiddle player of considerable stature (except I didn't know it when we first spoke). I met him at his place, he answered the door complete with the requisite fifth of Jack in his hand, and took me to his music room. Very nice pad, lots of trophies in a long case, and all for his fiddle playing. He handed me some tapes, gave me the time and location, and that was pretty much it. No rehearsal. When it came time for the gig, the band was comprised of the fiddle front man, a metal guitarist with big 80s hair, a Mexican drummer who spoke no English whatsoever...and me. If I have any stylistic leanings at all, they probably fall mostly under the jazz and progressive rock headings. I couldn't have imagined a less country-esque country band if I worked at it. Further, this was taking place at a reputedly mob-owned country club (and in the interest of my own safety, the location will remain my little secret). All I could think about while setting up were the stories of Al Capone having his piano players shot after gigs when he didn't appreciate their music. Anyhoo, we got set up and ready to go. The moment of truth arrived. The front man started calling tunes, and we played right down the prescribed lists. It actually sounded quite good. The hair guitarist was dropping in tasty licks that complemented the front man's playing nicely, and the drummer was truly excellent - fantastic meter and feel, and I assume he liked what was going on because he smiled a lot. The front man sang very well, had a mellow but engaging stage presence, and played good rhythm guitar. I was pleasantly surprised and slowly shook off my trepidation. We played about an hour, took a break, then came back for another set. About four songs in, the front man calls The Devil Went Down To Georgia. And I thought to myself, yup, this is where the tommy guns come out. No way is this going to work. So the front man picked up his fiddle, counted it off, and away we went. He tore it up. My jaw was on the floor watching this guy do his thing, and when he got to the devil's fiddle solo, he played part of it with the bow stuck in his shoe. He played it by moving his leg. And he'd play it behind his head, probably upside down and backward...it was beyond awesome. By now, most of the 100 or so people were hooting and hollering drunk, dancing, and having a ball. The energy just kept building and the whole gig really came off as well as if it had been rehearsed. It stands to this day as the wildest experience I've ever had - the gig that by all appearances should have flopped miserably turned into a great night of music and entertainment. I never even got the drummer's name, but in lieu of the spoken word, we at least high-fived each other when it was done. Such a cool vibe. I wish all gigs could be like that.
Another band I worked with for several years in Michigan had a standing gig at a now-defunct bar in a semi-rural location. It was a lighthearted gig - we were all friends, we played a bunch of classic rock and blues, and the patrons were comfortable with us. There was a fellow that came in sometimes who was absolutely enormous. The stats I recall were 6' 5" and over 500 pounds. He was the nicest imaginable guy and everybody knew him. He was enjoying our band one evening, sitting at a table and drinking beer with his buddies, from the first set through the third. I don't think he ever even got up to go the bathroom. As we were coming off our third set break to do the fourth, I glanced at their table. As a joke, the barmaid had left all of his empty beer bottles right where they sat (his beer consumption skills were legendary). I counted 31 that I thought were attributable to him alone. By now he was laughing and jovial, red-faced, but maybe a little louder than ordinary. We started the fourth set. Three songs in, we must have hit on something he really liked because he cheered, slowly stood up, stumbled toward the dance floor, and then just stood there not moving - but with a big smile on his face. It all seems like slow-motion in my memory now, but after a few moments he slowly rocked forward and all 500 pounds of him did a faceplant smack in the middle of the dance floor. On that old gig I ran a Peavey head through a Bullfrog 18 (anybody remember those?), and when he hit the floor, the whole rig jumped two inches. One of the drummer's cymbals tipped and old dust poofed from the walls. It probably registered on a seismograph somewhere. We stopped playing while his state was assessed by friends. He had simply passed out, but was happy as a lark - he was still smiling, despite being unconscious. Our trombone player walked over and started blowing some noisy blues lines right in his ear trying to wake him up - no dice. He was carried out by six regular-sized men and deposited in the bed of somebody's F-150. That was his ride home.
One more and I'll shut up. This one wasn't mine, but a friend's whose band was booked to play a gig at a remote location in the Rockies. He told me this story and it stuck with me all these years. It was an outdoor day gig, by my recollection maybe something like noon to 5PM. They got set up and played the first set, then took their break. There was apparently a pretty good crowd present, just a lot of happy folks having some lunch and drinks. As they were coming off break and getting ready to start their second set (I hope I'm remembering this right and not embellishing too bad), I believe somebody in the distance banged a gong...at which point, everybody in attendance proceeded to disrobe and then go about their business. Yep, some big nudist event. So the guys in the band, after getting over the first few seconds of shock, looked at each other and shrugged. They took it all off and played the rest of the show in their birthday suits.
I laugh hard every time I recall that story, but I don't think I could have done it. I'd have felt just a little too weird playing bass in the buff.
So two sets instead of four, paid, a little extra entertainment, and we were home early.
