based on actual events:

How did I end up here? I’m sitting onstage in the ballroom of a five star hotel in downtown D.C. No matter I had to haul my drums through an alley, onto a loading dock and up a freight elevator, it’s a five star hotel none the less. On the way in there’s rats by the dumpster, a guy hosing garbage off the loading dock and a security guard that looks me over like I'm a hobo trying to crash a railyard. I wheel my cart through a maze of hallways and finally to the bustling kitchen, full of chefs, servers and stressed out maitre d’s. If this is what the kitchen of a high end hotel looks like I’d hate to see the back of a Chinese take out. Dirty dishes in precarious piles are stacked near the food ready to be served to tonight’s guests, on the floor soggy bits of food lie in water from the dishwashers hose and the ever present rat traps remind you who runs the place when the lights go out. 

So I make my way to the ballroom and am happy to see the bar is situated close to the bandstand, though this can be a blessing and a curse. A good stiff drink can be the tonic that either washes away the angst of the gig or makes a four hour wedding seem like an eternity. I set up my drums and make small talk with the other sidemen on the gig. The leader is happily away from the bandstand, nervously talking to the party planner about when the band should break for the cake cutting. He stutters, twitches and merely nods in approval when she tells him the band will not eat. This is gonna be a long night. 

We start the gig with the usual fare (bossa novas, standards and some show tunes) and we’re not three notes into the first tune when I realize the leader is a drummer’s worst nightmare. He’s the bass player (normally the drummer’s right hand man) and this guy can’t play two notes in time, much less in tune. Worse than that (almost) he feels he needs to coach everyone in the band on how to play. His favorite target seems to be me. “Now keep it the pocket. Don’t speed up.” This clown couldn’t find a pocket in a pair of painter pants. I just grin and say “Okay”, while my brain is saying “Fuck You.” As I look at him I see a glazed look in his eye that tells me it’s taking him every ounce of concentration to play as horribly as he is playing. A strand of drool hangs from his bottom lip as his fingers move in the most un-bass player like manner. This guy makes the bass player that played “Smoke on the Water” in my first garage band sound like Jaco Pastorius.  Why is it that every leader on a club date gig is always the most unqualified, insecure, saddest mistake for a musician in the room? Oh, I remember. He spends all his time talking on the phone to clients, going to bridal shows, jogging, doing yard work, anything and everything but practicing his instrument. Hey buddy, do us a favor. Become a booking agent. We’ll gladly pay you twenty percent to stay the hell away from the bandstand. 

The set mercifully ends. Me and the piano player practically trip over each other as we race to the bar. We defiantly order two scotches on the rocks.
I down my drink and say: “You hear the shit he’s playing up there? Unbeliveable.”
“Last time I heard someone sound that bad, it was a thirteen year kid on a bass at Guitar Center.”
“You won’t believe this. He booked me on a jazz gig last week and the front line was trombone and...violin!”
We both crack up laughing.
“Oh well, as long as his checks clear.”

After a few minutes of solace our fearless leader approaches, his bow tie askew and drool stains on his lapel.
“Come on guys, we need to go back up”, he stutters. “They want a dance set before they have dinner…and try not to hang around the bar”
We slowly rise to the bandstand like death row inmates preparing for execution. Fearless Leader counts off the next tune but starts his part at about half the tempo he counted. “Follow me boys!” he shouts.
We lamely make it through a few R&B tunes. These tunes are normally all about feel and groove but not tonight.
An older couple approaches the bandstand and politely requests “Moonglow.” Fearless Leader shuffles through his Real Book, finds the chart and says “Sure we can play that for you” in the tone of a Catskills lounge lizard. You half way expect him to say “Try the veal we’ll be here all week.” He then mercifully asks the piano player to set up the tune with an intro. After four bars the rest of the band somehow comes in all at the same time…well almost.  We get to the bridge and Fearless Leader is completely lost, staring at the music as if trying to decipher the Dead Sea scrolls. He nervously looks around, twitches a few times then shouts: “Sell ‘em Satin Doll!” as he suddenly goes into Dukes standard to the horrified look of the rest of the band. The sax player pulls his horn out of his mouth and drops his head as chords clash, the groove (or lack thereof) teeters on falling apart and the dance floor clears. I guess we didn’t sell ‘em anything. 

Later in the evening the crowd’s getting liquored up and doing the silly dances that well off white folks love to do. We’ve already done “YMCA” and the father of the bride requests the “Chicken Dance”, possibly the corniest song ever written. Knowing that this guy is paying for the whole thing, including the band, Fearless Leader triumphantly announces: “Coming right up!” He immediately counts of the tune without enough time for the horn players to get their bearings and they slightly falter on the pick ups at the top of the tune. No matter, this is a silly song anyway and we’ve fucked up every other tune so far, so no problem. Not so for Fearless Leader. He puts down his bass and storms over to the horn section to the bands polka accompaniment. He stares at them, with wild hair and bulging eyes as if he were Stravinsky and they’d just butchered “The Rite of Spring.” WHAT”S WRONG WITH YOU GUYS DON’T YOU KNOW THE FUCKING CHICKEN DANCE?!!!”, as yet even more drool flies from his lips. “I THOUGHT I HIRED A-1 FUCKING PROFESSIONALS!!!” Now he’s starting to sound like Buddy Rich but without the talent. Me and the piano player play the stupid little polka theme as the crowd forms a circle and pump their arms like chicken wings, seemingly oblivious to the tirade unfolding before them. He grabs their band books and throws their music all over the stage, “CAN’T YOU READ A FUCKING CHART, MOTHERFUCKERS.” I feel like a shrink witnessing some kind of Freudian meltdown. “YOU GUYS ARE FUCKING FIRED, EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU”. His voice cracks at the end as if he’s about to cry, the climax to his onstage therapy session. 

We finish out the set without Fearless Leader and the rest of the band is just hoping that he can pull himself together enough to get the check, before either he’s committed or the father of the bride is too drunk. I pack up my drums as Fearless Leader’s bass forlornly leans against his amp. I feel sorry for it. 

Once again, out the back of the hotel. No glamorous exit with paparazzi at every turn. Not for the club date musician, the guys that tough it out weekend after weekend, lame gig after lame gig all just to pay the rent. Save that for your pop stars. We don’t need it anyway. Just a decent gig with a group of good players and a sane leader. A hot meal, an open bar, free parking and an easy load in will seal the deal. 

I load up my car and slide in behind the wheel. So how did I end up here? When I first got into music it was for the love of playing and the mystery resolved after each new discovery. A pair of sticks and a snare drum were the voice of some fascinating new language.  Playing with other musicians brought a feeling of camaraderie and accomplishment that I’d never felt before. Somewhere it turned into whoring myself out to half assed band leaders that either can’t or don’t want to play some quality music. 

I slide in a CD to wash away the stain of the gig but it’s bittersweet. Listening to masters like Miles and Trane, I doubt these guys ever had to put up with what we did tonight, and if they did it was from a leader that sure as hell knew music. Hacks didn’t cut it back in those days. I think back to the beginning when music was a joy and I’m sure at one time it may have been for Fearless Leader.

Somewhere along the way it went horribly wrong.