As we crest the mountain of Advent (that’s what they call the time before Christmas, if you’re Catholic) and go screaming headlong into the trough of Christmas, I felt it only fitting yesterday to take my family to the Christmas show at Radio City Music Hall. I’ve seen the show many times over the years. Some of the scenes remain the same, but they always add something new to keep it fresh, for lack of a better word.

Among my favorite parts of the Christmas show have always been the organists playing at the beginning. I have to get at one of those organs someday. It’s such a mess of sound in that huge room. I always enjoy how the organs rattle the walls but the guys playing them never seem to be working up a sweat. I was really close to the one on the right this year. From my seat, I couldn’t hear the other guy way over on the other side of the hall. I thought there’d be a monitor, but I didn’t see or hear one. It occurred to me for the first time what a bitch it must be to judge the delays in the sound and still make something sound like music. If the organists don’t use in-ear monitors to hear each other, they must be operating on instinct.

The most interesting change in the show this year was how the orchestra seemed to have moved almost exclusively to sampled percussion. As usual, at the start of the show, the orchestra floated up on one of the many hydraulic stage platforms. Immediately, I could see that the drums were what appeared to be the top-of-line Roland V-Drums, the TD-20KX. They retail for something like $5k. Oh to have a budget… Before I got heavily into synthesizers, I would have immediately deemed the V-Drums nonsense. Those days are gone for me though, and I must admit that they are nothing short of neato-torpedo. I used to be a real nazi for real instruments and all that, but since I can’t very easily bring a piano, a Hammond B-3, a Fender Rhodes and a Wurly to gigs, adopting synthesized versions of those instruments certainly got more music made, which is kind of the whole point. Therefore, I knocked off the “real only” rule. The way I see it, synthesized drums are no different than keyboard instruments. In an orchestra with limited space and volume control considerations, V-Drums seem to be a reasonable alternative to the eyesore of acoustic barrier panels and to the miking headaches. Try to put drums that close to a string section and see if it’s not a complete pain in the ass to get the sound right. I’ve played enough pits to know that volume is always an issue. With electronic drums, it’s a simple matter of pulling a fader and the drummer can play as hard as he likes. Though I’ve never played them, the V-Drums with mesh heads are supposed to provide a very realistic feel for the drummer.

All the synthesized stuff required that everyone in the orchestra be on in-ear monitors and I’m sure they could hear everything perfectly. Theoretically, that makes for a better musical performance.  However, I have to admit that I haven’t heard a cymbal sample that I thought was really great yet and as I listened to them yesterday, I recognized the deficiency immediately. It was also very strange not to hear the gentle bleed of cymbal crashes or snare drum coming from the direct vicinity of the orchestra and not just from the sound system. I always enjoyed that part of the experience in previous productions of the Christmas show. Very few people probably noticed it, but I always did.

The other percussionists had very elaborate controllers that I’d never even seen before. Many of them seemed to be circular and have trigger pads arranged like the tonal surfaces of a steel drum. To see these guys working mallets on these little rubber pads is kind of anticlimactic, but it helped fit what sounded like a very well-equipped orchestra into a very small space.

Whenever electronic percussion is used live, I usually notice one piece of the configuration that seems woefully out of place — one instrument that would seem to be a no-brainer for triggering a sample with a controller. On a Yes tour in the 90s, the band staged a reunion of most of the members that had been in the band over the years. Bill Bruford, whom I thought to be the more colorful of the Yes drummers, played electronic drums while Alan White played traditional traps. (Back in my nazi anti-synth days, I’d have been appalled by Bruford’s instrument choice.) When it came time to do “And You And I” off Close To The Edge, it was so odd after the bass entered to see Bruford reach into the middle of his electronic rig to strike a triangle with a microphone on it. Why go through all that trouble when everything else was “fake?” Yesterday, at the far edge of the platform with the orchestral percussionists, was a lone acoustic timpani with a Sennheiser 421 on it. All of the mallet instruments were done with samples and controllers, but here was another instrument that would only be used occasionally at most, sitting there with a big ol’ mic on it.

Why does it always seem to go like that? Is it because percussionists have a guilty conscience about going electronic? I can’t decide whether the holdover instrument is cool or just the percussionist’s way of coping with a pink elephant in the living room. Ten years ago, I might have felt differently, but now, I think it’s OK to detach. If you’re going electronic, just go for it. Whatever gets the music made. It’s always better than doing without it.

A while ago, I swore off writing about the Band of Brothers. I wrote about some of my interactions with the members, which produced some negative backlash in the band that I found very upsetting. It called into question the value of my experiences as a member and I decided, for better or worse, to discount them from that point on. However, in view of the band’s internet activity concerning the recent fiduciary unpleasantness, I feel justified in commenting about the Band of Brothers one last time.

For those of you not hip to what’s happened, the BoB played this place called the Castle Tavern in Greenwood Lake, NY last Friday. The band played two sets only to find out after loading out that the owner refused to pay our agreed-upon guarantee. Though something strange was in the air, I didn’t know all about this until the next day. Since I have the longest drive, I took off before the post-gig business had begun. In those situations, Brian holds my share until I see him next.

It should be noted I’d never heard of this joint and it took a while for me to get up there. Driving through those dark back roads to the gig, I could feel what I was in for. The place was a dump. The band set up on a concrete slab that served as stage. It had a sofa on it. Even though across the room was an open-air bar facing the lake, it reminded me of playing in the basement of someone who had long since quit paying the rent. Some tables were arranged in from the of the “stage.” When I walked in, no one was in this “restaurant” area. A plate with a half-eaten burger and fries had been left on one of the tables. As I loaded out at the end of the gig, it was still there.

I didn’t have to think very much of myself to believe that the Castle Tavern was beneath me.

I haven’t been excited about some of the places the BoB has played, but I joined the band because Brian is a significant talent whose work I respect. I felt I could make a contribution to his well-deserved success. I met him a long time ago, and he has always had the elusive quality of a born performer.

However, I believe the Castle Tavern incident is the culmination of a series of events that teach a valuable lesson:

Everything counts.

Everything. It matters what you play, where and why. How you present yourself to the audience counts. The way you think of your career and your music counts. The universe is listening.

In my career, I’ve heard musicians say that it isn’t about the money. Even now that money has been essentially stolen from them, some members of the BoB are saying that online. Some have argued that the music and the fraternity of the band is the most important thing. I’ve heard it said that it doesn’t matter where we play, as long as we keep playing out.

Why then, is everyone so upset that we got stiffed by some low-life?

The universe is listening when you say to yourself or out loud that you’re not in it for the money. I believe that whether you like it or not, you alone are responsible for what you draw to yourself. It’s the law of the universe, or God, or whatever you choose to call it. I believe that ill-fortune has been drawn to the band on occasion because of the message being sent out. 

I know that the money counts. Though I’ve played for free, I’ve never rationalized playing in some shithole bar by telling myself that I love playing this music so much that I would do it for free anyway. However, I joined Brian’s band because I believe in him and his music. For that reason, I’ve gone where the band goes and have had little to do with that end of the business. Perhaps that’s why I’m not as upset about this as I might have been years ago. I don’t like being stiffed any more than any other musician, but in a certain way, what to expect from a pig like Mike at the Castle Tavern but a grunt? It could be argued that to expect anything else might be your own fault.

The venue counts. Not that “prestigious” rooms matter, but I believe that the place you play should be one in which the people who appreciate your music can feel comfortable in. One that you feel comfortable in yourself. How can someone feel comfortable in the Castle Tavern, eating in an un-air conditioned room in which flies are buzzing around an abandoned plate for 3 hours? I didn’t expect anything from these people. Interestingly, nothing is what we got.

If you reinforce in your mind that you’re a great band and that people at your gigs just don’t get it, that’s what you’ll draw to you. I have a lot of experience with that flawed thinking early in my career. Negative thinking will bring negative events into your life. The universe makes no distinction. There is no good or bad in the universal mind, only equal choices. We all get to choose. The only challenge is to overcome yourself and choose what you really want.

There’s some talk about small claims court and the guys are doing what they can to spread the word about how unscrupulous the Castle Tavern can be. I don’t feel as compelled to do that as I might have once, but that’s fine. In fact, small claims court might be an interesting experience. Who could ever side against a band who played in good faith? Maybe we’ll get a chance to find out.

I think it’s more important here to have learned that everything matters. For the money we lost last Friday, it wasn’t as expensive as it could have been.

I know that over the years I’ve amassed volumes of knowledge about how to be a gigging musician from a purely practical standpoint. This list is by no means exhaustive and I’ll probably think of more as soon as this post appears, but here are a few golden rules that I live by and still break.

1. Get off the batteries.

If you’re a guitarist, you know exactly what I mean by this. Guitarists are known for these little boxes that they string together on the floor in front of them. Each one is plugged into the next. The guitar is plugged into the one on the right and the amp is plugged into the one on the left. These boxes are called pedals because each one generally has a footswitch that enables you to activate them as needed to mutate your sound in some way. When they are off, they pass your guitar signal without affecting it (mostly).

Unless you’re using some type of pedal board that you leave connected all the time, each one of these pedals takes a 9 volt battery. As soon as you plug a cable into a pedal’s input, the thing is considered “on” and is using battery power.

Each pedal uses battery power at its own rate and you don’t have any clear indication of  when a battery is ready to fail, so you’re constantly buying batteries and going broke or you live in constant fear of your tone going to hell in the middle of a gig when the existing batteries die. To stave off premature battery death, some guys unplug the inputs of each pedal during set breaks. This requires that you power down your amp, or at least turn down your amp’s volume, regardless of whether you have the perfect level. I find myself buying new batteries and most likely replacing good ones “just in case”. The money adds up.

All of this is an unnecessary hassle. Run everything on an electrical power supply if you can. Easy to say for guitar effects. I don’t have an answer for wireless mics and inner ear monitor packs. I suspect that you’ll have to continue spending money and fouling the environment. (Scott, the drummer in the Band of Brothers, had his mic battery fail on a recent gig. The whole universe was powerless to help him. I sympathized, but I was quietly and shamefully grateful that the fate had not befallen me.)

2. Wrap and arrange your cables.

There are a number of reasons why this is good form. The first is that it looks better. If you set up and your performance area looks like a plane hit it, you are unpleasant to look at and wordlessly encouraging people to look elsewhere. To perform effectively, it’s helpful to have them looking at you. Make it nice.

Tripping is entertaining to an audience in a bad way. You want attention for doing what you do well, not for falling on your ass because you were too lazy to get the obstacles out of your way. You (or someone else) could also get tangled up and yank a cable out of your guitar, or knock over your keyboard, or worse. These things never make for a good show.

The other thing is that cables don’t last forever and can get expensive if you have to keep replacing them. Instrument cables usually consist of a conductor in the center surrounded by a shield of braided wire. If you step on them enough times, the wire breaks inside the insulation and creates an intermittent or non-existent connection, despite the fact that the cable looks fine. Annoying and unpredictable are not the conditions under which I like to perform. (I once had a clodhopping troupe stomp all over a stage where my stuff was set up. I had to replace my cable. Now that I think of it, I also left that band shortly after. What the hell was I doing sharing gigs with a clodhopping troupe?)

(The photo is apparently one of a utility installation in Vietnam.)

3. Watch your stuff.

I learned this one early. I arrived early for an Honors Band concert at a strange school in East Orange, NJ when I was about nine years old. I was playing second chair second clarinet. I was instructed to leave my instrument in the cafeteria under the auditorium and wait with my parents upstairs until our teacher arrived. When I went back downstairs to meet all my friends who were getting ready to start, I returned to where I’d left my instrument to find only the luggage tag bearing my name. A hard lesson on a very early gig. My teacher lent me a Resonite clarinet so I could do the concert, but I was pretty shook up. In addition, I’d only ever played my wood clarinet, which my grandfather and uncle had played. Wood vs. Resonite? I also learned an important lesson about tone that day.

I’ve not had anything stolen on a gig since I was nine. When I load into a gig, everything is always in my sight. I lock my car before every trip and always have someone watching my gear inside the venue. Anyone who thinks my routine is excessive has either never seen the blackness of the world envelope him or has unlimited funds. Insurance is no substitute for vigilance. A rule to gig by.