One of the most important formative experiences for me in the music business began when I was 18 (or perhaps 17, not entirely certain), and Joe and Paul Midiri decided that our little trio (modeled after the original Benny Goodman Trio) would enter ourselves in the Monday Amateur Night contest at a local club; the Crazy Horse Saloon, in Barrington NJ. Not far over the river from Phildelphia, this, by the time we decided to go, had become one of the big weeknight events in the greater Philadelphia market, with a full house, most every week. As for Joe, Paul and myself, I'm sure it helped that the celebrity host (Ken Garland, from WIP radio in Philly, which was big at the time) was an old trumpet player with a bit of big band background. So he got where we were coming from, beyond the novelty of young kids doing the "before their time" thing. I knew nothing about this amateur night going in, and I doubt that Joe or Paul knew much more. The Crazy Horse wasn't the place or vibe where we would have been inclined to hang. So perhaps we had a bit of a fish out of water thing going on. Though, for me, the Crazy Horse would soon become the training pool in which I'd be swimming laps and getting into shape.

The brothers and I didn't know that the night we decided to enter was the next to last week of their recurring 13 week cycle. This meant that whoever won that night would be back the following week with the 11 previous winners for their quarterly "finals". As most of the acts were singers, there was a Fender Rhodes piano (this was the 1970s) already set up, belonging to the house accompanist (no drums though, so Paul had to schlep some in) so I could just sit down and play. Needless to say, we were the novelty act of the evening. For that, or whatever reason, we left the Crazy Horse that night with plans to come back for the finals the following week. I don't know that we endeared ourselves to any of the 11 other finalists; showing up to win the last week of the cycle, coming back the next week to win the finals (with the grand prize including tickets to an upcoming Benny Goodman concert, it seemed that Ken Garland may have had his mind made up going in), but that's how it went down. 

But something else happened that night. At the end of the evening, the house accompanist pulled me aside to tell me that he had put in his notice with the agency he was working for, though they hadn't yet secured a replacement. He offered me the gig. A week (and a few phone calls) later, I was lugging my own Fender Rhodes piano into the Crazy Horse Saloon to begin an 18 month adventure and an invaluable experience. I'll often say that the stage is the best school for musicians, and that was certainly true for me here. I would arrive to be set up well in advance so that the contestants who needed piano accompaniment (which was most of them) could have a brief time of rehearsal with me. I already had some experience with accompanying vocalists by this point, but not like this. I had a crash course in sight transposition from night one. The recurring theme quickly appeared, which I would learn to anticipate, sort of. In the rehearsal period, we would determine the singer's comfortable key for their song (sometimes they knew, but most often they didn't). An aside here to mention that deferring to the comfortable range/key of a vocalist, when possible, is job one for an accompanist, from my viewpoint. Not everyone agrees with me on this, but to me, the task of accompaniment is to support the person you are accompanying, and not to make it about yourself. Looking back, I'm glad I understood this early on. Back to the rehearsal time - for the inexperienced singers (which were most of them), whatever key we agreed to would often go out the window when it was time to perform and the nerves kicked in. I would start in one place, and they would start somewhere else (and always higher). And here's another place where not all will agree. Some will say that if a key is agreed to, you hold your ground and insist the singer find you. Okay, for professional vocalists, sure (and that should never be an issue anyway). But for nervous amateurs, if they can't find it to begin with, it would seem unlikely that they would be able to find their way back to it. So I would try to find them. And since I would have a lot of opportunity to practice, I became better at making it happen rather quickly. In the article pictured above (click on it to enlarge), I'm quoted as saying "Sometimes, if a singer goes off key, I have to figure out where they are, modulate up to them, and hope they're still there when I get there."     ;)  
Of course, to whatever extent people in the audience may have been clued in to what was going on, much more was happening out of view (even if there was no curtain to hide behind). One of my favorite memories (which, if you know a bit about music theory, is pretty funny) is when one of the contestants said to me during the rehearsal time: "My voice teacher said to take it down a third, but you can just take it down a quarter if that's easier". My least favorite memories mainly revolved around the host. It was not a well kept secret that Ken Garland could be (to put it mildly) difficult to work with. I got to experience that multiple times, from multiple angles. Fortunately, I think (in his own way) he kind of liked me (or at least appreciated that I knew what I was doing), which allowed the pendulum to swing back and forth, at least, rather than being stuck (on stupid) in one place all the time. After 18 months though, I'd had enough. Back then, I would privately joke that I deserved a medal for hanging in so long. (Much) older (and maybe a bit wiser) now, I can see difficult "working" relationships like this as the norm for many who are employees with unreasonable bosses and working conditions and stuff. There is always a bright side, out of view to whatever appears dark at the time. 

So, after a year and a half, I "graduated" amateur night school. No formal degree, just the prerequisite training for the experiences/school to come. 

In late 2005, I rejoined the Midiri brothers quintet/sextet and, from 2006-2008, played the traditional jazz festival circuit (which, at the time, was still alive and somewhat vital). Many of the festivals were on the west coast, but there were others, scattered about. During that time I was able to give each of my children the experience of travelling to one of the festivals with me. Each of these trips was it's own unique adventure, and one that I'm grateful I could give my kids, even if I was able to take each one only once. 

The first year I played the festivals (2006) I took Joe, Jr to Pismo Beach, over the weekend of his 18th birthday. As it was the first year I was on the festivals, it was both my, and my sons first trip to Pismo. He was the one, of the three, that was most engaged (and still is) with music, on a personal level. I didn't push any of the kids into playing piano, rather, encouraged them to have a connection with music, and the arts in general, in whatever way resonated with them. For Joe, it's the drums (he has kept a connection to it, still playing now, in the worship band at his church). So he was engaged with the festival more like one of the musicians, checking out the sets of the other bands, finding who he really liked, and even hanging with some of them. He also went shopping on his birthday, because he could. That was another thing altogether. It was a good weekend.  

The next year (2007) I took Robert, who was 10 at the time, to the Juave Jazz Festival in Decatur IL on a snowy weekend in February, where we were late in arriving because of flight delays due to snow. And even later in returning home for the snowstorm that crippled the local airport that weekend. It created an adventure for us beyond the more limited festival environment (everything contained within one hotel), which gave us lots of together time, and was fun.

The final year, Charie' (then 15) came with us to Mammoth Lakes, CA, which was my favorite festival destination, in the High Sierras. Since I'm not a skier (and had never been to a ski resort before first going to Mammoth in 2006), the idea that summer could be an off-season caught me off guard off at first. Having lived all my life on the east coast, my image of an off season was a beach resort in winter. But just like the Golden Inn in Avalon NJ created special theme package weekends in the winter (see blog post from a few weeks ago), a ski resort town would host a jazz festival (among other summer activities) to keep the travelers and tourists coming. Charie' loved the trip. She did interact with the festival, a little, but was much more interested in the shopping opportunities. And our trip to the top of Mammoth Mountain (photo above). It remains a nice memory. All 3 trips do. it's nice to feel that all the boxes have been checked. 

I keep coming back to what I love; the music that moves my heart and can make me cry at the drop of a hat (don't reference the above picture, yet). Sure, at a given moment, most any stripe of music can move my eyes to water. But, for whatever reason, a hard swinging, deep grooving rhythm section (such as Oscar Peterson or Count Basie) can shut me down. It reaches into my heart, deeply. And if I am to follow my heart, I need to pay attention to just these things. And although it is only in the last decade or so that I've had even a remote understanding of head space vs. heart space (or knew of that heart space, much at all), it has always been there. I have always been who I am. When I was about 11 or 12, I stumbled onto a AM radio station, on a Sunday evening, with a signal that barely came in. But it grabbed me immediately. And every Sunday night thereafter, lying in bed, I would tune in, struggling to find the sweet spot on the dial (which would always, at some point, become a moving target). Sometimes the signal would improve, and I was delighted. Sometimes I would lose the signal altogether, and I would cry with sadness. It was my own private personal space. Thing was, I didn't know what the music was actually called. Eventually I was able to describe it as "old time jazz". But that still didn't really help me put a finger on it in a record store. Then, on one good signal night, I heard the word "Dixieland". It was all I needed. The next day, I walked (maybe I ran) to the neighborhood 7/11, which, believe it or not, had a record display. And I saw the word. Dukes of Dixieland. I bought my first record (now reference the above photo. I still have the record). I got a bit lucky, as this was a more swinging Dixieland approach, with a upright bass playing mostly in 4. So the itch was scratched. which, of course, only causes more itching. The chain reaction that connects that "now" to the current (and every other) now, weaving and creating the tapestry that it does, was underway. This discovery, at 11 (or so) years old, was one of my most important. Not because I bought a Dixieland record. But because a clear path was cut right in front of me to (unknowingly) begin the practice (or maybe better, discipline) of following my heart. And now I know. And now understand (I use that word cautiously these days) that in order to be myself, and to truly speak with my own voice, I am to bring all things into and through my heart. 
The young (around 30 y/o, I think) jazz saxophone phenom Chad LB, in an interview I read recently, expresses, in relatively simple language, what I can now recognize as mature wisdom. "Really focus on what you love about music... Let that naturally help you approach music. The most genuine musicians play the music they like."  For all that I might want to expand on the verbiage and nuance of expressing this, he actually nails it. So I'll shut up now.