You Had To Be There
I've debated about whether or not to write about this in JAM, simply because a) it might be misunderstood by the good people who provided some useful work, and b) it could come across as a snooty dig at innocent folks just doing their jobs and/or having a good time.

But the incident in question keeps coming to mind as one of the more bizarre and incongruous things to go down since the many surreal episodes chronicled in "Adventures of a Jobbing Jazzman" (JAM, April/May 2000). Maybe writing about it will serve as a cleansing purge.

When playing a "jazz brunch" in any of the area's casinos, it's a given that the music will be background and merely part of the din. On the bright side it's a chance to shed, play with respected colleagues and get paid for doing it. But there's also the drone of clanging slots with which to contend (no ballads on these gigs, for sure), the unexpected eruptions of jackpot-induced cheers (that can be coincidentally timed to reward the high point of an inaudible solo), and the overall mysterious "tonality" of the casino itself, making it necessary to play most tunes in D Phrygian in order to harmonize with the room.

On this fateful day, our jazz quartet -- huddled in a protective circle on the mezzanine overlooking the cacophony below -- was sailing through breezy versions of "Desafinado" (a serendipitous title), "What Am I Here For" (the musical question du jour), and "Blues for People Who Shouldn't Be Gambling On a Sunday Morning" (I made that one up). It was a routine job, we were enjoying each other's playing, and few if any were paying attention to the whimpers of a flugelhorn backed by tasty guitar, bass and drums.

However, toward the end of the first set I noticed a nearby security guard giving me the evil eye. "Could he be a former trumpet player?" I worried. "And has he been counting all the clams?" Or worse yet, "Are we about to get busted for playing a tune in a conflicting key? And ruining the concentration of that one guy down below who hasn't moved from his favorite slot for an hour and a half?"

As the guard approached during our break, my heart filled with trepidation. I prepared to be cuffed.

"Hey buddy, do you think you guys could turn down a little? We've had some complaints."

That's right. Our humble jazz combo had become a distraction in a sonic maelstrom where ten trumpeting circus elephants would have gone unnoticed.

But, remembering my years as a "wedding band warrior," I knew The Right Thing To Do.

"No problem, kind sir. Down the volume goes." Friendly nod, warm smile, and (to myself), "I wonder if it's too early for a beer."

And what, you may be asking, was the first tune of our next set? It's all a blur now, but I'm pretty sure it was a jazz rendition of "4:33" by John Cage.

But, I could be making that up, too.

-- Mike Metheny



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