The Best Revisited
OK, I know that nobody reads this blog. With something like 100,000 blogs being started up each day by people with a lot more to dish than I do, it's understandable. And I also know that Project 300 has been dead and buried for over two months now. But yesterday, I went through my best pieces (posted here), thinking that enough time has passed to make me more of a neutral observer. I have to say that I'm pretty surprised that most of the tunes really are kind of awesome. Gone are the minute-by-minute memories of how I built certain pieces and what I was trying to do at any certain juncture (as opposed to how things really turned out). I was more like a new listener to some of this stuff. I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm very proud of a lot of these efforts. Sure, there are some spots that beg for revision, but considering how much time I had for each of them, it's pretty amazing that I ever wrote anything good.
Conversely, though, I listened to the worst selections (found here, if you dare) and they're still pretty bad. With that said, I'd like to add another tune to the Hall of Shame - #217. Out of everything I wrote, this is the only one that's completely impossible for humans to play. It sounds horrid and ridiculous, but it was beyond my meager powers to make it sound any better. Hang your head, #217!
I know that I'm dredging up history, but I'm listening to these pieces with new ears and I like what I hear - except for all of those bad selections. Like with Mackris v. O'Reilly, I'm not quite sure how it all got written. I guess maybe I retreated into my head far enough so that I could figure out a workable plan to get everything on paper. That might account for why I was so antisocial while I was in the thick of writing these pieces.
So to sum up: good pieces still good; bad pieces still bad; I don't know how I write music. Thank you and good night.
Conversely, though, I listened to the worst selections (found here, if you dare) and they're still pretty bad. With that said, I'd like to add another tune to the Hall of Shame - #217. Out of everything I wrote, this is the only one that's completely impossible for humans to play. It sounds horrid and ridiculous, but it was beyond my meager powers to make it sound any better. Hang your head, #217!
I know that I'm dredging up history, but I'm listening to these pieces with new ears and I like what I hear - except for all of those bad selections. Like with Mackris v. O'Reilly, I'm not quite sure how it all got written. I guess maybe I retreated into my head far enough so that I could figure out a workable plan to get everything on paper. That might account for why I was so antisocial while I was in the thick of writing these pieces.
So to sum up: good pieces still good; bad pieces still bad; I don't know how I write music. Thank you and good night.
Getting Good
Well, I'm still every bit up in the air about what to do next as I was a month ago. Here's the trouble: I need for the next project to to have some impact. OK, Mackris v. O'Reilly didn't have it and neither did writing 300 pieces for brass ensemble. The only two options I can come up with are 1. Write a hundred (or so) pieces for piano - a piece a day just until I get burned out again; or, 2. Write music for a new band, go out, get gigs and play all over town. Each choice has its drawbacks. If I write a hundred (or so) piano pieces, I will again be forcing myself to come up with something every single day. OK, that's actually a good thing. It was tremendously useful when I was in the thick of Project 300. But the thing is that I'll be spending all this time and exerting all this energy for not much of a result. Sure, writing music is quite a wonderful experience, but it should lead to being able to write more music, whether it's commissions or freebies to ensembles or whatnot. I'm willing to do that, but I'm not sure whether writing a bunch of piano pieces will make me any more visible than writing a whole bunch of brass pieces.
The band-thing is a little more perilous. First comes the music, then the guys for the band, then the gigs. Sounds simple enough, doesn't it? Well, not quite. I've had three past experiences that show that it's much more complicated than that. The first was a small quartet that I put together. It consisted of alto sax, tenor sax, guitar and bass. We weren't that good, but we had lots of gigs. We went through three alto sax players in total until we finally settled down to being a standards trio. They all left for various reasons and I got tired of looking for players who weren't terrible, so I had to concede that extra dimension of the music. Take my word for it, an extra horn in a group makes a huge difference. The main problem was that I couldn't promise big money and that our music wasn't terribly adventurous; it was just standards and originals arranged for two horns. Once we were a trio, I became frustrated that the guitarist and bass player weren't improving. I started playing with other guys (who were tons better) and we all sent our separate ways. The problem here was that in order to keep the better guys interested, I needed to keep the good-paying gigs coming, which I failed to do, since the desire for standards/originals bands has really fallen off in the last few years. Those better-playing guys are still around, but they've got their own projects that don't involve me.
Another unfortunate experience was when I formed up a sax quintet. It was my idea that I could arrange all these doo-wop tunes for quintet, make a demo and market us around town to places that featured music (as opposed to the bars and restaurants that hired the quartet/trio to hide in the corner and dispense ambiance). I worked for several months arranging tunes before I started making calls to sax players to gauge interest. I had arranged some 35 tunes by that time. Most players were too busy. The ones that could do it didn't seem that interested. All I wanted to do was for us to get together and play through the music to hear whether these arrangements were viable. Almost all of them were, but the interest level among the other guys in the band was extremely low. Each week, somebody else would quit and I'd have to call another ten sax players trying to get a replacement. Finally, when the bari sax player quit, I decided to pack it in. I don't really blame anybody for quitting. We didn't have any gigs, so what was the point? All that time I'd spent on the arrangements was pretty much squandered.
The last experience was brief but frustrating. In fact, the group didn't even get past the embryo stage. I resolved to form a band that would play pseudo-European cafe music a la the Black Cat Orchestra (only much smaller). I wrote several tunes (two of which made it into Project 300 as #63 & #64) and then embarked upon learning the clarinet. I even went out and bought a very nice old Martel. Hey, I could play saxophone just fine. How hard could it be? Well, it turned out to be damn near impossible. I don't know what's the matter with me. I could sound decent for 10-15 minutes, then everything would just go to hell. I'd squeak and honk and contemplate breaking the stupid thing over my knee in frustration. I tried and tried - and failed and failed. I got a soprano sax (an old Conn, of course) at the same time, thinking that it would be a worthy substitute for the hated clarinet, but it just didn't cut it. Its sound was a little too shrill and direct.
So those are my three cautionary band tales - all of them quite educational.
My latest Big Idea is along the lines of the second example. I'm thinking of starting a groove band (NOT smooth jazz - God no) made up of tenor sax, keyboards, bass and drums. There are several of these outfits around town and they seem to play out a lot. I know that the music has to come first. It'll take some time to write. I can convert about five tunes that I wrote for the quartet/trio, but I need to write a lot more than that - we're talking sets and sets of music, maybe 30 more tunes just to start. After that comes the band. I want these guys to be interested in the music. That's a pretty tall request, as I learned with the sax quintet. I still haven't figured out how to capture their attention, get them to rehearse the music and make space in their calendars for gigs, but I'm working on it. It's even more important that I like them. We don't have to be best pals, but it is really important that I respect them and like what they play. I mean, if they were ham-handed mouth-breathers, that wouldn't be too fun. With the music and the musicians in place, it might not be so tough to get gigs. This is my wishful and delusional side coming out. I realize that I'll have to do all the work - and I'm pretty bad at landing gigs. In the quartet/trio, the guitarist found us the overwhelming majority of our gigs. He was from Detroit and didn't take no for an answer. He was also not the greatest musician in the world, so it all evened out.
The reason why I'm so hesitant about this scenario is that it can all evaporate into nothing in exactly the same way the sax quintet did. I can spend all this time writing music and rounding up musicians only to have it all vanish for any kind of reason: lack of interest, other gigs, etc.
Having played at "Oo La La" with two excellent jazz musicians (whom I greatly envy because they have gigs), I realize that I have to get better. Sure, I'm happy that I was able to hold my own with these guys. We played dots off a page and did a little elementary improv. That doesn't prove much; only that I can meet the minimum requirements. It's been a long time since I've picked up the horn. I have to tell you, though, Josh sounded so incredibly good on my Conn alto that I've been playing it for a week. I haven't even opened up that horn's case in two years. Now I play it every day and it's quite a joy to wiggle around on. Over the next few weeks, I'll try to revive my skills on both alto and tenor. Hopefully, it won't lead to the vat of stagnation that I've been wallowing in since last November. I'm thinking that writing tunes for this new band might be exactly what my playing needs. They won't be swing numbers but rather funk/groove stuff that requires a different approach. That's what gets me excited about this prospect.
Here it the lovely, lovely Conn Chu Berry alto. Did I mention that it sounds really sweet?
But lurking out there in the grass is the possibility that it may come to nothing. The guys in the rest of the band will most likely be strangers to me and each other and therefore have nothing invested in this venture. I'm not a guy who has an extensive list of contacts, so that's very probable. And lastly, if I do get the tunes done and the band together, I can't guarantee that I'll find us anywhere to play. I wish I could, but I know my own nature. I'm a terrible self-promoter. At the same time, I know that if I don't make it happen, it won't happen. That's it right there.
It would be great if I was super-busy and playing lots and having an income from it, but first I have to get really good before I think I'm entitled to have that happen.
The band-thing is a little more perilous. First comes the music, then the guys for the band, then the gigs. Sounds simple enough, doesn't it? Well, not quite. I've had three past experiences that show that it's much more complicated than that. The first was a small quartet that I put together. It consisted of alto sax, tenor sax, guitar and bass. We weren't that good, but we had lots of gigs. We went through three alto sax players in total until we finally settled down to being a standards trio. They all left for various reasons and I got tired of looking for players who weren't terrible, so I had to concede that extra dimension of the music. Take my word for it, an extra horn in a group makes a huge difference. The main problem was that I couldn't promise big money and that our music wasn't terribly adventurous; it was just standards and originals arranged for two horns. Once we were a trio, I became frustrated that the guitarist and bass player weren't improving. I started playing with other guys (who were tons better) and we all sent our separate ways. The problem here was that in order to keep the better guys interested, I needed to keep the good-paying gigs coming, which I failed to do, since the desire for standards/originals bands has really fallen off in the last few years. Those better-playing guys are still around, but they've got their own projects that don't involve me.
Another unfortunate experience was when I formed up a sax quintet. It was my idea that I could arrange all these doo-wop tunes for quintet, make a demo and market us around town to places that featured music (as opposed to the bars and restaurants that hired the quartet/trio to hide in the corner and dispense ambiance). I worked for several months arranging tunes before I started making calls to sax players to gauge interest. I had arranged some 35 tunes by that time. Most players were too busy. The ones that could do it didn't seem that interested. All I wanted to do was for us to get together and play through the music to hear whether these arrangements were viable. Almost all of them were, but the interest level among the other guys in the band was extremely low. Each week, somebody else would quit and I'd have to call another ten sax players trying to get a replacement. Finally, when the bari sax player quit, I decided to pack it in. I don't really blame anybody for quitting. We didn't have any gigs, so what was the point? All that time I'd spent on the arrangements was pretty much squandered.
The last experience was brief but frustrating. In fact, the group didn't even get past the embryo stage. I resolved to form a band that would play pseudo-European cafe music a la the Black Cat Orchestra (only much smaller). I wrote several tunes (two of which made it into Project 300 as #63 & #64) and then embarked upon learning the clarinet. I even went out and bought a very nice old Martel. Hey, I could play saxophone just fine. How hard could it be? Well, it turned out to be damn near impossible. I don't know what's the matter with me. I could sound decent for 10-15 minutes, then everything would just go to hell. I'd squeak and honk and contemplate breaking the stupid thing over my knee in frustration. I tried and tried - and failed and failed. I got a soprano sax (an old Conn, of course) at the same time, thinking that it would be a worthy substitute for the hated clarinet, but it just didn't cut it. Its sound was a little too shrill and direct.
So those are my three cautionary band tales - all of them quite educational.
My latest Big Idea is along the lines of the second example. I'm thinking of starting a groove band (NOT smooth jazz - God no) made up of tenor sax, keyboards, bass and drums. There are several of these outfits around town and they seem to play out a lot. I know that the music has to come first. It'll take some time to write. I can convert about five tunes that I wrote for the quartet/trio, but I need to write a lot more than that - we're talking sets and sets of music, maybe 30 more tunes just to start. After that comes the band. I want these guys to be interested in the music. That's a pretty tall request, as I learned with the sax quintet. I still haven't figured out how to capture their attention, get them to rehearse the music and make space in their calendars for gigs, but I'm working on it. It's even more important that I like them. We don't have to be best pals, but it is really important that I respect them and like what they play. I mean, if they were ham-handed mouth-breathers, that wouldn't be too fun. With the music and the musicians in place, it might not be so tough to get gigs. This is my wishful and delusional side coming out. I realize that I'll have to do all the work - and I'm pretty bad at landing gigs. In the quartet/trio, the guitarist found us the overwhelming majority of our gigs. He was from Detroit and didn't take no for an answer. He was also not the greatest musician in the world, so it all evened out.
The reason why I'm so hesitant about this scenario is that it can all evaporate into nothing in exactly the same way the sax quintet did. I can spend all this time writing music and rounding up musicians only to have it all vanish for any kind of reason: lack of interest, other gigs, etc.
Having played at "Oo La La" with two excellent jazz musicians (whom I greatly envy because they have gigs), I realize that I have to get better. Sure, I'm happy that I was able to hold my own with these guys. We played dots off a page and did a little elementary improv. That doesn't prove much; only that I can meet the minimum requirements. It's been a long time since I've picked up the horn. I have to tell you, though, Josh sounded so incredibly good on my Conn alto that I've been playing it for a week. I haven't even opened up that horn's case in two years. Now I play it every day and it's quite a joy to wiggle around on. Over the next few weeks, I'll try to revive my skills on both alto and tenor. Hopefully, it won't lead to the vat of stagnation that I've been wallowing in since last November. I'm thinking that writing tunes for this new band might be exactly what my playing needs. They won't be swing numbers but rather funk/groove stuff that requires a different approach. That's what gets me excited about this prospect.
Here it the lovely, lovely Conn Chu Berry alto. Did I mention that it sounds really sweet?
But lurking out there in the grass is the possibility that it may come to nothing. The guys in the rest of the band will most likely be strangers to me and each other and therefore have nothing invested in this venture. I'm not a guy who has an extensive list of contacts, so that's very probable. And lastly, if I do get the tunes done and the band together, I can't guarantee that I'll find us anywhere to play. I wish I could, but I know my own nature. I'm a terrible self-promoter. At the same time, I know that if I don't make it happen, it won't happen. That's it right there.
It would be great if I was super-busy and playing lots and having an income from it, but first I have to get really good before I think I'm entitled to have that happen.
The Oo La La Experience
Since I got back from my jaunt south, I've been at loose ends as to what I'm going to do next. It's always the same question: big project or small project? Either way, I'm pretty sure that any effort will be less than successful. That's just the way I roll. So I'm sitting and wondering where to take it from here and I get a call from my cousin. She tells me that she's working as project manager on this crazy piece of performance art called "Oo La La." Purportedly, it's supposed to celebrate May Day and also give a nod to the first Thursday Art Walk in Pioneer Square. She goes on to describe exactly what's going to happen. The focal point of the action will be the Harbor Steps at 1st & University. The Steps are going to be done up like some 1920s ocean liner with fake posh tourists, fake housekeeping stuff, fake French waiters, fake deep-sea divers, people dressed as poodles, dancing chefs, and huge dancing cakes. In all, it would involve a cast of more than 150 (or so). The person who dreamed this all up is somebody named Lucia Neare. The project had hit a snag just two weeks from performance. They needed music for the dancing chefs and the cakes. After wracking her brain for possible musicians to contact, my cousin remembered me and asked me to lend some assistance with organizing the music. The main band that was going to play on the "cruise ship" on the Steps had already been contracted, but everything else was up in the air. Oh, and all musicians would have to dress up like bakers. I told her I'd think about it.
Initially, it sounded kind of ridiculous, but then I got to thinking. How many times does something this grand and strange happen in crummy old Seattle? As far as I could remember, never. That's really what warmed me up to the project. This wasn't just going to be a few mimes on a street corner, but around 150 people doing weird stuff. I really wanted to see it happen. I called her back with a few ideas. Originally, they wanted two ensembles to accompany the dancing bakers as they marched up from Occidental Square on the south edge of downtown. I had a few ideas. Since we were talking about the twenties, I thought it would be cool to organize a pair of saxophone quartets to play some twenties hot jazz for the bakers. My cousin thought it was a good idea and put me in touch with Lucia, the creator of the event. I told her about my big idea and she thought it would go over well. She was a very friendly and enthusiastic person - kind of the opposite of me - and set me to task. I stressed to her that since we would be looking for good musicians, we'd have to pay them relatively well. It was agreed that the fee would be $50 - a pretty paltry sum, but better than nothing. I didn't think it would be too tough to attract musicians - at least I thought it would be pretty easy to put together one quartet. My main concern was finding the music. I had no idea where to start. A secondary concern was that I hadn't played saxophone since early November. I hadn't touched or even thought about playing the horn for quite a while. Before I gave it up I had been in a huge rut for a long time. Setting it aside seemed to be the best way to forget about the problem. In addition, I was still shoulder-deep in Project 300 and that was sucking out my soul one piece at a time.
My first move was to call my sax repair guy. He was a very good player who had his own quartet. He also played a lot of music from the twenties in various other bands. The bad news was that he and his quartet were busy for the May Day performance, but he had some solid leads to where I could find music. He suggested the University of Washington Music Library and the Seattle Public Library. Honestly, those two options never occurred to me. I just thought there was some guy around town who lived with his mom and collected hundreds and thousands of old arrangements because he was, y'know, kind of weird. But no, that wasn't the case. Short story even shorter, I walked down to the library's main branch and after delving through what they call the KOMO Archives, I had six tunes for sax quartet. I settled on four fairly uncomplicated numbers. Golly, that hadn't taken any time at all! All the charts were from the twenties, and by my estimation, probably hadn't been heard by human ears in 75 years or more.
The next step in this very smoothly-unfolding plan was to find the musicians. I needed seven more sax players (2 sopranos, 2 altos, 1 tenor (I'd be playing the other tenor) and 2 baritones) to join me in this wacky project. In a few days, I put out some fliers at Cornish and the University of Washington. No response. I reported back to my cousin who upped the money (to $75) and wished me the best. I put an ad on Craigslist. Within a few hours, I was getting responses. That was really encouraging and I had two guys good to go - one on soprano, the other on alto. I also stopped by the Musicians Union to see what they could do for me. It turns out that a guy I've played with in the past works there. We got caught up and I pitched my project. I gave him all the details. He told me that the money was a little low for union guys but he'd run my request past the board of directors and hopefully send it out that afternoon. Before I left, he encouraged me to join the union. I promised to give it some serious thought. He was a good guy and I never doubted his sincerity when he talked about how good the union was.
I heard nothing from him the next day. Finally, the day after that, I get this letter in the mail from the union. I can only describe it as a nasty-gram. I won't get into the details, but basically, it accused me of being cheap and disrespectful toward musicians. I would have been perfectly OK with something that told me I wasn't paying enough. That was fine. What I didn't need was a lecture on the way the brave union functioned and how I was ruining life for more than 500 local musicians with my low-ball offer. I really felt that these guys had crossed the line. I mean, who the hell did they think they were? I was just this guy looking for some sax players to help my cousin put on a weird show. I didn't need this. Who were they to pass judgment on me? I felt compelled to call them and let them know that they weren't winning any friends with their righteousness. I talked first with my former bandmate. He was very apologetic and a little chagrined that I'd gotten that bitch-slap of a letter. He transferred me to the guy who actually penned it. OK, he was a jerk. He told me that he was only fulfilling the wishes of over 500 of their members. I asked him whether their members thought I was cheap and disrespectful. He said that he wasn't speaking of me specifically, but rather the production staff of "Oo La La," about whom he knew nothing. Funny thing, I told him, since his little letter was addressed to me, I got the distinct impression that all the cheapness and lack of respect mentioned in its contents were aimed at me. We went around and around for a while. He was, as I mentioned, a jerk and couldn't see any merit in what I was saying. He repeatedly referred back to the desires of the union members as the basis of his being a jerk about this whole thing. There was nothing else I could say. What point can you make to somebody who is such an utter tool?
I came away from this little confrontation vowing that I would never, ever join the friggin' union. Not only that, but in the future, I don't even want to play alongside anybody from the union. That's the way I feel about it. I know that unions do tons of good in this world. They are crucial organizations in many trades. But this particular one is so pathetic and inept that they take to insulting those who are actually considering joining. And they were defiantly unapologetic about it. OK, so why would I want to join an organization that's run by a bunch of dicks?
Please pardon that digression. That little event totally steamed me. I had bigger problems to worry about. The two people I'd found via Craigslist remained at two for a number of days. I tried to find a bari sax player through old jazz contacts. At about the same time that I found one, the guy who was playing soprano quit. He conjured up a few lame excuses and hoped that I was cool with it. I was not. Here's the deal: if you say yes to the gig, you're on the gig. If circumstances make it so you can't make it to the gig, you find a substitute. If you can't honor either of those things, I don't want you on this or any gig until the end of time. Professionals are professionals for several reasons: they're good and they're reliable. This gig didn't exactly demand that the players be super-good (the music wasn't all that tough), but it did ask for some reliability. I'm no professional, but when it comes to playing, I'm very, very reliable. Some people don't understand that showing up is really important, too. This erstwhile soprano player thought it would be OK because he'd committed himself only 24 hours beforehand. Well, I wasn't OK with it. I think what really happened is that after I gave him the music, he probably went home, tried it out and it kicked his ass. That's the way I figure it. Yeah, it wasn't that difficult, but it was too difficult for him. At the end of our conversation, he said that if I ever needed a sax player again, he was willing. I told him not a chance. If he quits this gig, he can just as easily quit anything else that I offer. One strike and you're out, pal.
Another concern was that I hadn't touched my horn in almost six months. I wasn't the strongest reader to begin with, so yeah, I was pretty worried that I'd sound horrible. After I found the music at the library, I got right on it. All my apprehensions were confirmed when I played through it the first time. I couldn't read worth beans and I sounded dismal. As the days passed, those things began to take care of themselves. With lots of repetition, the music started to flow from page to fingers much easier and my sound improved dramatically. By the time I realized that my playing was becoming functional, it appeared doubtful that we would ever have more than three guys in the quartet. Even though the money for the gig had increased another $25, I didn't think I could find another player. Time was short and I had pretty much exhausted all of my options. If we had to, we could play as a rather thin-sounding trio. Luckily, it didn't come to that.
Thanks to Chris, the bari player, I got a lot of guys to call. At the end of a lot of calls, I found Josh, who was really a tenor player. He was such a tenor player that he didn't have an alto. I happened to have two old Conn altos gathering dust on my shelf. I offered to loan him one. He came over and picked it and the music up on Monday night. There were three days to performance. I finally got to call my cousin with the good news. I had been stalling for almost a week. She told me that plans had changed; we would now be accompanying the dancing cakes. That was fine. She also told me that she was pretty impressed with my competence. That was even finer. Hey, thanks, cuz!
So the quartet was in place. We had Erling on soprano. He was an older classical clarinet player who had just given a very lengthy recital. If he had good classical chops, then he'd have no problem reading the music down. Chris and Josh were both professional jazz guys in real bands and everything. And then there was me.
Since I expected lots of results from Craigslist, I initially wanted to have a lot of rehearsals. You never know what you're going to get on Craigslist, so in case I got some poor readers (poorer than me, that is), we'd have a cushion of time to get things ship-shape. With these guys, that didn't seem necessary. They were good and I had complete faith in them. I prayed that none of them would quit in the few days before the performance.
Our first rehearsal was the day before the gig. It was at my formerly squalid apartment. (I've been doing a lot of cleaning since I got back from my road trip.) From there we needed to go down to the dress rehearsal. We went over the tunes for about an hour. They were pretty rough, but almost good enough to pass muster. Everybody played reasonably well, even me. We went down to the dress rehearsal at the art museum, played a tune for the entrance of the cakes and their descent down the stairs. We actually sounded great there in the echo chamber of the museum. Following that we were hustled down to the Harbor Steps across the street and told to wait for further instructions. Fifteen minutes became half an hour, which became 45 minutes. The weather turned cold and pretty nasty. The last week had been cold and dreary. Any continuation of that would put a pretty ironic ending on the event. Here we were celebrating spring and May Day and whatnot and the weather was making it seem like February.
The dress rehearsal turned out to be something of a bust. Both Chris and Josh had to go do things at about the time that everybody was really-truly-honest-to-gosh supposed to start rehearsing. I told one of the stage managers that and they let us go home. Golly, that was easy. Everyone else was to stay till eight o'clock in the evening and beyond. Me, I got home in time to get in on my building's weekly poker game. I ended up winning $40. That was sweet!
The next day, Thursday, May Day, was the rehearsal. I took it easy during the day, knowing that I'd be lugging around my tenor on a circuitous route through downtown Seattle dressed as a baker. The weather actually looked like it would cooperate. I got to the Art Museum early, found two of the quartet and started worrying about the last guy. Time passed and he was nowhere to be found. Josh and Chris went off for a drink down the street and I started worrying more. There was nothing for me to do but hang out by the museum's entrance and hope for Erling to show up. They told me to assemble the guys, get into some baker gear and start playing. Once Josh, Chris and I were in the museum, I heard Erling warming up. He had actually been there longer than I had. I was relieved.
We quickly got into our baker costumes - white tunic, apron and hat - broke out our horns and rushed up to our places at the top of the museum's stairs. The baker's hats took quite some time to figure out, so we delayed everything by about five minutes. Once we got lined up, the ten-foot-tall cakes appeared and we played their entrance music. We didn't sound so good, but we got the job done. From there, we followed them around downtown, stopping to play tunes on various street corners on the way up to Westlake. We sounded good. People loved us. It was a very cool thing to experience. Dozens of people were taking pictures and asking what the hell was going on. Even more just gaped at us as we passed by. All kinds of weirdos were following us around, strangely drawn to our odd little procession. Everywhere we went, people seemed very happy, if not slightly puzzled, to see us. Yeah, five large cakes being followed around by four bakers playing saxophones is not an everyday sight. Part of the point of the project was to get a reaction from people along the way. Not only did we get one, but it was overwhelmingly positive. It was really a joy to be a part of this weird spectacle.
The big dance number took place at Westlake Square. The cakes danced in the way showgirls dance in Vegas; the costumes were so big and bulky that they could only walk around more or less to the beat of the music. We had our problems playing the tune - somebody missed a repeat and we were thrown into chaos - but we got through it. Hey, at certain points, we sounded really great. Equally as gratifying was that I was able to hold my own against guys who were a lot better than me. I still had a long way to go until I could regain my former powers, but it was great to not be the slowest wheel on the cart.
After the Westlake dance, we took a break, then made our way back down to the Harbor Steps. At the corner of 2nd & University, we met up with the dancing bakers and their marching band, which was about ten strong and made up of mostly brass. A block down on 1st, we joined with yet another band like the first one. Everybody played a few numbers and then joined the main orchestra on the Steps for the grand finale. The place was absolutely packed. It was chaotic but fun. And then it was over. Everybody went to the after-party at the Art Museum, had a few drinks and went home. It had been a very memorable evening.
I was never really clear what cakes and bakers had to do with a twenties-style cruise ship and all of its accouterments, but it really wasn't important. The main point was to do something wild (and yes, fairly whimsical) and not look foolish doing it. I think the production really pulled that off in a big way. Being just one small part of the whole made it worth all the petty setbacks that I encountered along the way.
The next day, I looked for any mention of the piece in the local papers. Since there were so many photographers and video cameras around, I thought there would be fairly extensive coverage. No such luck, apparently. I wasn't able to find any mention of it in either of the big local papers. What's the deal with that? Well, I guess that's just Seattle. But honestly, this town needs more pieces like this. Such things change dreary day-to-day scenery into backdrops for new experiences. They also draw people out of themselves. Seattle residents, for the most part, are quite withdrawn and distant most of the year - especially this year; the weather has been just awful. I wouldn't go so far as to say that these interactive performance pieces will change the way people think about life and art, but at least they can at their city as not as stodgy and reserved as they once thought. I'll say it again: Seattle needs more pieces like this.
The Oo La La Sax Quartet: I'm the guy who looks like he doesn't have a neck. It's a bad photo, but the only one I have.
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