Posts tagged ‘live-music’
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART VII; A SHORT STORY
The following Friday night the air was the same – electric. Everyone in the band was smiling, joking and having the time of their lives. They were “on” again, their boss, Mac, knew it and the audience knew it. Halfway through the evening, during a piano solo, Sweats once again scanned the crowd. He blinked his eyes in disbelief. There sat Miles Davis again, out in front. Beside him was someone Sweats also recognized. The man wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. Sweats could easily hear his gravelly voice. It was Satchmo. Louis Armstrong was watching Jerome Connelly play. Sweats was numb with excitement and fear. He had no doubt that he was looking at two dead men. They were his idols, but they were dead. When it came time for Sweats’ sax solo, he flubbed the piece. His playing was terrible. There was no way he could concentrate on playing his sax with Miles Davis and Louis Armstrong in the crowd.
When the night’s work was over, Leroy walked over to Sweats and said, “Don’t worry kid. No one is on all the time.”
There was no way he could tell Leroy why he was off. He avoided all contact with Joe. Sweats walked home doubting his sanity.
Another Friday night and Sweats was living up to his name. He usually calmed down after he arrived at the club. But now, even the club wasn’t his sanctuary. There were dead men watching him play and he couldn’t tell anyone about it. He always found solace in his music. Now even that was gone. If dead men kept showing up to hear him, his only sanctuary would be destroyed.
The band began to play. Sweats didn’t dare look to the front of the audience but couldn’t help himself. There, at Miles’ table, sat Louis Armstrong, along with Duke Ellington and one of the greatest jazz drummers of all time, Gene Krupa. Sweats could tell they were enjoying the music. He didn’t understand what was happening, but he played his heart out. They were part of the audience and deserved to be entertained. He never mentioned the patrons of the ghost table again. He just played as well as he could for them.
The next Friday was the last Sweats ever played with the band. The ghost table had a new member. It was John Coltrane. He sat deathly still, just staring at Sweats, his gaze never wavering. When the band was done for the night, the ghost crew was still there. Sweats was totally unnerved. John Coltrane was motioning him to the table.
As Sweats left the stage, the lights of the club dimmed, and a milk-white haze enveloped all but the ghost table. Sweats sat down in the only empty seat.
In a quiet voice, no more than a whisper, Coltrane said, “We’ve been following you Sweats, not only your music, but also your life. We want you to join our group. It will be the gig of a lifetime. We have an audience that spent their whole existence loving jazz, living it. Say yes, and the fears, the streets you dread will be gone forever.
Sweats agreed and was never seen again.
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART V, A SHORT STORY
The following Friday night, the band was setting up when Joe turned to Sweats and said, “Can you feel it, Sweats? The air is electric. We’re going to be right on tonight.”
Sweats looked at Frank, Fats and Leroy, who nodded in agreement. As soon as he walked into the club that night, he had felt it too. He just didn’t know what “it” was.
As soon as the band began to play, Sweats knew that Joe was right. All five members of the band found their groove and inhabited their own musical heaven. During Frank’s drum solo, Sweats looked out at the audience. They were clearly enjoying the band. His eyes drifted to a table in front. There, sitting alone was a man he recognized. The man smiled broadly as his head bobbed back and forth and his hands rapped on the table, keeping time with the music.
After the performance was finished, backs were slapped, and high-fives passed around the band. Frank said to Joe, “Man, were we on tonight, or what?”
Joe said, “Shit, man. We were beyond on. We were on holy ground!”
Frank, Fats and Leroy walked to the bar to celebrate. After they left, Sweats approached Joe and asked, “Say Joe, did you happen to get a good look at the audience tonight?”
“Sure, kid. I gave them a look. There were some sweet women out there. That what you talking about?”
“No,” answered Sweats. “There was a man sitting out front. I recognized him. I can’t believe he came to hear us play.”
Joe asked, “You mean a friend of yours came to give us a listen. He sure caught us on a good night.”
“No, Joe. It wasn’t a friend of mine. Sitting there in the front row was Miles Davis.”
“Shit, kid, you must be crazy.”
Sweats insisted, “No, Joe. I’m sure it was Miles Davis. I recognized him from his CD cover.”
Joe stepped back and looked at Sweats, then said, “I don’t know who you saw, but it wasn’t my man Miles. He passed away about two years ago.”
“But, Joe, I’m sure…”
“Go home and get some rest. And next week, if you see Satchmo in the crowd, let me know.”
THE GIG OF A LIFETIME, PART III, A SHORT STORY
The four band members began filtering in at eight o’clock, nodded to their boss, and began setting up the stage.
Mac walked up to the stage.
“What’s up, boss?” asked Joe the piano player.
“Might have a sax player for y’all.”
Frank, the drummer, said, “That’s great! About time somebody saw your damn sign.” The other band members laughed as they nodded in agreement.
“Don’t get too worked up,” said Mac. “He’s just a kid. I’m sure he lied about his age. But there aren’t many musicians in this part of the city, and those that wouldn’t work in a dive like this. Hell, by this time of night, there ain’t many sober folks of any sort in this part of the city. He’ll be here at nine. We’ll see if he has anything.”
At nine sharp the door to the club opened and Sweats walked in carrying his sax in a beat-up case.
Joe took one look at Sweats and muttered, “Shit.”
Sweats walked to the stage.
“So they call you Sweats,” Joe said. “Does your mom know you’re here, little boy?”
Sweats’ forehead instantly grew a glistening sheen.
After studying Sweats’ face, Joe said, “I take that to be a no. Well, boy, I’m sure it’s going to be a waste of our good time, but we’ll give you a try.”
Sweats hurriedly took out his sax and scanned the sheet music handed to him, while Joe introduced the band. Pointing to each member, he said, “This here is Frank. He plays drums. Leroy, over there, plays brass and Fats plays bass.” The musicians looked Sweats up and down. He could see the ridicule in their eyes.
The band began to play the first set. Sweats was nervous at first and made some mistakes, causing Joe to wince. But halfway through the second piece, Sweats fell into his groove and took off. The rest of the band had to work to keep up with him. One by one, the band members stopped playing and listened. The conversation in the club died down. Only the sweet sound of Sweats playing his sax filled the club. Sweats was lost in the music. He was at a level the band members tried for but never attained. At that moment, his entire world consisted of his sax and the notes it produced. When Sweats was done, he was drenched; the club was silent. Slowly, the audience began to clap. The enthusiasm of the crowd picked up with shouts for more.
Joe handed Sweats more music and the band played until one. As they were packing up, Joe said, “See you at eight tomorrow night, kid. We play Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. That okay with you?”
“That’s fine sir.” Sweats was getting ready to leave when Mac called out his name and motioned him to the bar. “Looks like you got yourself a job, kid. I got to tell ya’, kid, you fooled me big time.” He handed Sweats two twenty-dollar bills.
He had totally forgotten that he would be getting paid to play. However, his euphoria ended when he thought about going home and facing his mother. He knew she would be home before him, probably waiting for him now.
Sweats made his way home on the darkened streets to the apartment he shared with his mother. Entering quietly, he locked the door behind him. He put down his instrument in the hallway and walked into the tiny kitchen. His mother sat at the beat-up table drinking coffee.
“Where in the hell you been, boy?”
“I got the job, Mom,” Sweats said as he laid his pay on the table and pushed it across to her.
“What kind of job, and where you working?” she said as she looked down at the money.
“Playing my sax, Mom. I’m getting paid to play. Shit, I’d play for nothing if I had to, but they’re paying me.”
“Watch your mouth, boy”
“Sorry, Mom.”
“Listen, Jerome, the streets around here aren’t safe during the day, never mind at night.”
“I’ll be careful Mom. I’m playing with a band, and I love it.” As he said this, Sweats pushed the money closer to his mom. She looked at the money. Sweats knew they were barely making it.
“Oh, Baby,” said his mom.
Sweats knew he had her, again.
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