The dim lighting hid the familiar bartender from me for a bit. Once I remembered where I was, I made sure to say "hello". When she returned the warm smile, I sat back down and waited for my compatriots, one of which was the man of the hour (well, actually, he was the man of the last 60 years, and he who spawned me, clothed, fed, burped and raised me). My father and my brother walked in shortly after I sat down, I wished Dad a happy birthday (to which he grunted), and welcomed my brother to Pasadena (where he doesn't visit very often). My dad's off-color remarks were in high gear as his Tourette's Syndrome-like rapid fire annunciations of various euphemisms for body parts were flying through the normally mid/high-brow atmosphere. Hey, it's his day!
The kit and the electric keyboard/piano were set up, taunting potential listeners with their ominous presence and capability of being loud, overbearing, captivating and annoying at the same time. My dad playfully suggests that we dually debut our duo/trio as musicians and saboteurs. Chuckling through a dim smile, I peruse the beer/wine list for a quenching beverage. I had walked to the restaurant. I was thirsty.
With beverages in hand, conversation in play, and the order on the wheel, our attention turns to 3 musicians taking the stage. The keyboardist, a 50-somthing grey haired fellow had been greeting arriving guests warmly. Looking like David Strathairn from A League of Their Own, he maneuvered himself stage left facing the drumkit and sax player. The drummer wore long pig-tails atop a slender 20-ish figure, the expression on her face as she took the stage seemed one part focused, and the other part frightened. She sat high over the kit as she collected her brushes and prepared to play.
Brass was forgetful. Sorry dude.
The band started with some very basic 12 bar structure. It was evident that we were not going to get the transcendent uptempo bop runs, but the droning romantic crooning numbers that the "anysomething" sax player could recite the melodic lines he was studying in class. I sort of cringed at first and figured maybe he'd be able to miss some of the poor note choices he was reaching for (it's why Jazz is hard).
What I found blandly unentertaining was the expression on the face of the figure behind the drum kit. I couldn't tell you if her eye color was light or dark. She seemed to focus on the snare as if it would play a trick on her if she gazed away once. She sat stiff on her throne, seeming not to enjoy herself, but to "work" the drums the same way the kitchen chefs labored over our evening meals.
As the table made conversation about notes the sax player was missing, and how we wish mon chere ami would show some other expression than misery and/or ambivalence, our stomachs also grumbled almost in a unison chorus. After a near 45 min wait, our meals arrived and we began to dine. I ordered my steak medium, but received it well done and dry. My brother ordered his medium-rare, but received minimal pink coloring on the inside, and dry as well.
Dad ordered the salmon. Good choice.
We eventually left, abandoned our plans for catching a movie nearby, and sat in a smoke shop, puffing on cigars and talking about our collective passions: rock n' roll, and baseball.
After that night, I was left wondering: what was up with that drummer? I understand jazz is something that takes more mental capacity than most other contemporary types of music, but you'd figure a gigging musician (even a student) would find SOME kind of energy/excitement for playing with other folks. Was it even fun for her? Why would she play if it wasn't fun. She wasn't terrible. She didn't foul up. She even took a solo and got a little impressive. But she wasn't fun to watch.
I started to type something like "this was a good lesson for me in that I should enjoy playing" yada yada yada... but the funny thing is: I do! Naturally. Get me behind a kit with some people I enjoy playing with, and I'm having a great time. I mean, unless Ed Murrow on the keys is giving me a hard time and I'm upset about it, I guess I could understand being morose, but really, I'd rather have fun behind the kit than most other places in the world.
(they had to substitute my $29 steak for short ribs... I wonder if the chef was a drummer...)
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