Quest for a Decent Lunch

A New York Experience:

This afternoon I was hanging out with a friend, working on some music we've been writing together and cleaning up in the backyard of his new apartment in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. After a while we set out for some lunch.

My friend wanted to go to a spot where they made this sandwich called the Vegan Temptress. He talked about it as we walked the 6 or 7 blocks to the place. My mouth was watering. When we got there, the place was being used to shoot a movie, with Jason Schwartzman sitting in the window. We stood across the street staring while we tried to decide where to go eat, when the director turned around and gave some dude the stink eye while pointing at us, and we were quickly asked to leave.

Then we wandered around looking for a Mexican restaurant he wanted to go to, but of course couldn't remember where it was because he's only been living in Brooklyn for about a month. When we finally found it, it turned out it was closed on Tuesdays. Only closed on Tuesdays.

We ended up at a spot around the corner. Another Mexican restaurant, but they were playing jazz. I knew it was a Verve album because I recognized Herb Ellis' guitar, Lester Young's tenor sax, Buddy Rich's drums, Oscar Peterson's piano, which of course meant Ray Brown was on bass. But I couldn't pin point the trumpet player and asked the waiter. It was Harry "Sweets" Edison. Don't you hate it when that happens?

What I Learned at My Record Label Job

There's a new website in the works, and it'll be the future home for my blog. I've been working on an in depth article about what I took from working at a record label. It's pretty long, so I might not be writing too much more on 'Between the Music' this week.

What I Learned at My Record Label Job

After you're done, take a sneak peak at the site. If you're a musician, you can participate in the forum or even contribute an article yourself, simple read this post by Dave Hahn, my cohort and the true evil genius behind this adventure.

Metallica

I'm not ashamed to admit that I basically learned my way around the guitar thanks to Metallica. I learned every song from their 1983 debut, Kill 'em All, through their fifth, the self-titled black album released 1991, plus some of the other miscellaneous debris recorded during that period.

Then around 1992 I read Kirk Hammet's article in some guitar mag, I think his column was called The Sound And The Fury. Anyway, he wrote about phrasing, a term that, when used musically, really has no place in the heavy metal lexicon. But he wasn't talking about heavy metal, he was talking about jazz. Miles and Coltrane to be exact. His article prompted me to buy a Miles and Coltrane CD, then I was hooked. I sold all my Metallica CDs, along with a bunch others I mostly regret selling off today, and the rest is history in the making.

In the '90s, Metallica released a few albums. I bought Load in 1996, and lost interest. I didn't even pay attention to their next couple albums. But they just released their ninth, called Death Magnetic. This one sounds a lot more like their earlier releases, so out of nostalgia, I bought it.

If you used to be a fan, check it out. It's hilarious. They're back to doing everything that made me love them as an adolescent. Long songs with long intros built on riff after riff after glorious wall-to-wall-Marshall-stack riff. Then there's harmonized lead guitar lines, shredding solos, and dark, dark lyrics. I can't really take these men seriously anymore, especially that goofus Lars, but nobody makes this kind of music better than them. Thank you Rick Rubin for giving us our Metallica back.

The author circa 1996(?). I was past my Metallica stage, but hadn't taken down the posters in my bedroom. Note the other sophisticated post-modern decor, accented by the empty Gatorade bottle and Successories (to compliment my road race t-shirt) on the desk and bulletin board full of empty guitar string packs. I used Dean Markley strings back then, but am a dedicated D'Addario customer now. Hey D'Addario, how about an endorsement?

Craziest gig, ever.

Summer of 2002. The last summer I spent in my parents house in St. Louis. I was working as a waiter and trying to find gigs wherever possible. With the amount of running around I was doing, I figured a cell phone would help people reach me for gigs, and within 24 hours of activating my first cell phone, while shooting pool and drinking beer at a friend's house, I got the call.

Me: Hello?
Unidentified Voice (w/ heavy Italian accent): You play guitar?
Me: Uh, yeah?
UV: You know some jazz chords?
Me: Yeah?
UV: You gotta suit?
Me: Yeah, who is this?
UV: How long will it take you to get to the Hill? You gotta car?

The Hill is the Italian neighborhood in St. Louis. Sort of like Little Italy in New York, but less touristy and in my opinion, a lot more authentic, so probably more like Arthur Ave. in the Bronx.

Me: Maybe an hour and a half. Wait, who is this?
UV: It's [not named to protect myself], I'm a jazz singer that sounds like Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra, Dean... you know, I'm a jazz singer. Meet me at [unnamed restaurant] in an hour. I need a guitar player. I've got all the music.

And so I asked a couple more questions to make sure I'd get paid, got something that resembled directions, and went home to get my suit. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

While sitting in traffic headed downtown, he called back to tell me that he and the sax player were running late (Ok, now I know there's a sax player), and he needs me to cover for them until they get there. In 2002 I could play about three competent chord melody solos on guitar. At least, there were three I felt comfortable performing. So I crossed my fingers that they weren't running that late.

When I got to the restaurant, a rough looking man in a suit named Guy showed me where to set up. "Where's [the singer]?" he asked. "Oh, he'll be here soon. Traffic. I'm going to play some solo guitar in the meantime." Gulp.

Nearly an hour later, they showed up. It was just the two of them. That meant I was the entire rhythm section, and would be playing plenty of chord soloing whenever the saxophonist laid out. After setting up the small P.A., a binder of music was thrown in front of me. Opening it up, I didn't recognize a single song. These weren't jazz standards, these were Italian songs. Half of them were written for mandolin! I was a goner.

The scariest moment in my life happened a few tunes later, when he called Mi Amore. Finally, something I sort of knew! Before I had a chance to look it over, he was counting off the tune. And by counting off, I mean he was doing some weird foot stomping, fist swinging motion while singing what I imagine was some sort of trombone part from the arrangment stuck in his head, "Bah, Bah-Dah, BOP!" As soon as I started playing my best boom-chick-chick waltz pattern, he got right in my face and while playing air mandolin, starting singing some high notes, wanting me to play that, doing some tremelo picking, at the same time. I don't remember the next couple minutes, but things seemed to settle in place. But then it all fell apart. The key changed or something, but not in my music. Wait, where's the final barline? Where's the rest of this lyric? I'm missing a page!

And that's how I fucked up Mi Amore in front of an all Italian audience in the most Italian neighborhood in St. Louis. I was pretty sure my car was going to blow up when I turned it on.

Yet ironically, Guy and everyone else loved my solo playing at the beginning that they forgave me, and just teased me about it afterwards. Plus, once we did get to the jazz standards, I more than made up for it. Literally, I played like my life was on the line. After the gig, which went until the last customer left a little after midnight, the chef made an amazing pasta dish for the three of us. The owner broke out a few bottles of vino and we kicked back, smoked cigars, had some lemon dolce, and shot the shit until about 4 am. My car started without incident and I felt successful.