Casino Boogie

This songwriter business is and isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s a passion, it’s what I do, I can’t not do it. So in that sense it is highly pleasurable and a defining point in this life. I work for myself, I call the shots. On the other hand, to be successful, to eke out a living, requires a considerable amount of jumping through hoops, to get airplay, to tour, to sell records. The more I try to remove myself from duality the more it constricts, like a creeping vine. All in all, though, it is a good life and I’m happy for it. I woke up on a peaceful Sunday, Father’s Day, and made myself the usual, espresso: four shots, cream and sugar. I sat down at the command center- an over stuffed chair at the kitchen table and began my contemplation.

Early morning, me and the dog; this is a good time for ideas, for writing, for musing. A lot gets done in these early hours and it sets the tone for the day. After a few hours’ work I decided I would allow myself the rest of the day off. After all it was Father’s Day (whatever that meant). I got a call from the children, first my daughter then my son, within an hour of each other. Best wishes and love all around; a nice peaceful day. The day came and went. I had a yearning for a mess of greens. Early afternoon I heated a skillet and began wilting the greens with onion and garlic. The phone rings. Another day I might have let it ring but it was Father’s Day, maybe more well wishers, duality again. I was certainly wished well from my friend on the other end of the line but there was a catch. It seemed my cohort, a musician, a drummer who also had a day gig as a sound engineer, was working on an event about an hour out of town. At one of the many casinos scattered out beyond Albuquerque, an outdoor stage, a pretty good crowd. One of the acts hadn’t showed up, had canceled. Here’s the catch, would I be willing to fill in? My first thought was no, absolutely not. It was a peaceful Sunday, Father’s Day. I had planned to do nothing; didn’t I owe that to myself? Besides with two hours’ notice and an hour’s drive ahead, what was a blind song writer supposed to do? After all, I had no chauffeur. It was proposed that a mutual friend and musician, a fine guitar player, should drive and the three of us form the fill-in band.

There is a sense of challenge that rises up when this is what you do for a living and after all I’m certainly not at the top of the food chain. The guitar player and I had a brief discussion. We hadn’t played together in three years and I personally had never played with our friend and instigator, the drummer. That sense of challenge and adventure consumed us. Mind you, my good friend is not the most punctual sort. When we finally got on the road the timing was questionable. Nonetheless we were off; headed ‘west young man,’ into the wild blue yonder. Time flies when you haven’t had the chance to catch up in awhile. We discussed song possibilities, caught up on mundane activities in each other’s lives while careening towards Eagle Rock Casino, exit 108. We pulled into the festival supposedly without a moment to spare. Alas our friend and coordinator of this impromptu jam had withheld our actual start time--we had thirty minutes to spare. We sat on the bumper with guitars, going over our set. Our adventure deepened--more duality.

The space we were filling was the final slot for a battle of the bands. For one, I’m not much on casinos, for gigs or for gambling; after all, I’ve done my time on the Las Vegas strip. For two, I’m less enthused with “battles of the bands,” although I’ve won a few. Duality now had me by the short hairs. We made our way back stage, shook hands all around and stepped into the ring. The theme for the day was cow bells it seemed. The MC had been handing them out all day and every time he found his self at the front of the stage with a microphone in his hand, he was making sure that everyone in the audience had one and was coaxing them to wring them silly. It was a considerable outdoor stage with a backline, nice and shady. We did a ten minute whore bath sound check while the MC revved the crowd and their cowbells up to a frenzy. “Ladies and gentleman,” he made the introduction, we were off.

As surreal as the day had already been, our performance was no different. It felt like a matter of seconds, from the initial chord to the finale, which culminated in a train wreck ending--relatively flawless. As we sat backstage going over the high points, in memory, the banter with the audience, blatant requests for ringing of the cow bells, to critiquing our performance on each number, the judges divulged the winners to the MC. Four paid places, he started from the bottom. With a deaf ear and no expectations, we continued to talk. Our job was done. The adventure was acknowledged and seized; it was already one for the books. While laughing and back-slapping, our attention was drawn to the MC. With his huge black hat and even larger belt buckle, he was calling our name for second place. As they led me to the stage to except the prize, I was expecting a plaque, a cheesy memento. Instead I was handed an envelope which rendered a considerable cash award. A few snap shots, more well wishers. What a day. What an adventure. What a life. And to think I could have been napping!