I once experienced glory, between the twelfth floor and the lobby of the Radisson.
Jens and I left our room for the gig. It was walking distance from our hotel in downtown Baltimore. We slumped into the elevator, and turned back to face the doors as they rattled shut.
There was already a pair of dudes in the car. I profiled them as traveling business guys in their “going out” clothes. One of the guys swayed a bit, leaned back against the wall, and tried to pull himself together by loudly sighing. The sweet smell of scotch rode his breath under our noses. The other one, with the blonde hair, gave us a once over, his eyes scanning our backpacks, our indoor sunglasses, and came to rest on Jens’ guitar case.
There are a few ways to carry a guitar case. In one you clutch the handle, thoroughly enthused by the unknown. Boldly striding into the recording studio. Dashing towards the gate to catch your Lufthansa flight, headed for a summer of backpacking, ready to destroy the hostel common room with your pitch-perfect Simon and Garfunkel.
But there is another way. When you’ve played guitar long enough, your guitar is not just a tool, nor is it merely an extension of you. It becomes your partner. You can’t do the show without it, and it certainly isn’t going to perform without you. It is the ultimate co-dependent relationship. And every once in awhile, you reach the point where you just want to tell it, “Hey motherfucker, you’re getting kind of heavy. You’re in this as much as I am, so get yourself to the gig!” But it can’t and won’t, so you are forced to slog that ungrateful bastard there on your own.
It was in this albatrossed manner that Jens was carrying his bass. I watched the blonde businessman light upon the stickered case, and knew what was coming. Guitar cases are truth serums. People will stop you, dead in your tracks, and pour out their stories. The bands they were in, the famous musicians who opened for them, and inevitably the failure and destruction that music caused in their lives. Depending on your level of inebriation, it can be either blessing or curse.
“Where’s the gig?” Blonde dude broke the silence as the elevator began its fall.
Jens and I had a silent Mexican stand-off for who was going to answer. I was ready to let that awkward pause sit there, for 11 floors if need be, but Jens broke.
“Yeah, there’s this street festival, across from the ballpark? Right there in the parking lot.”
“You a band?”
“Yep yep. With a couple other guys,” Jens answered, looking up at the countdown. I remained quiet. I had decided to let him take this one home.
“So,” Blondie continued, “what’s your favorite song to play?” The way he had it cocked, I could tell it was his go-to question. And you could tell he was only asking it so he could tell us his answer.
Let me say here, we are usually not dicks. We pride ourselves on the fact. Stage crews are telling us all the time, “Hey, you guys were really easy to work with. Not like those guys last week. Fuck them.” And I understand wanting to talk to bands, bands are exciting. In fact, I’m the worst at it. I once cornered the guy from Everclear with a fork.
“I don’t know man. It’s...it’s been a long time,” sighed Jens.
Now I knew what this meant. It was the rough equivalent of, “Hey man, I’m pretty tired here, so...they are all my children, and I could never pick one I love more than another.” As in, there have been so many awesome songs, and so many amazing nights, and if you really want to get into it, you need to buy me a bottle of Johnny Walker downstairs, and Let’s. Get. In. To. It. But Blondie must have heard, “I really want to answer, so press me harder.”
After considering Jens’ answer for a few seconds, he said, “No.”
Wow. A straight up “no.” He was not happy.
“C’mon, pal. There’s got to be one.”
Oof. He hit the “pal” extra hard. The dull echo of it wafted through the still air of the elevator, contaminating it like a noxious gas. I have a lot of pals, but I would never use that word on them.
That was it for Jens. We were just trying to commute to “work,” and we were also in a dangerously cranky area between having had beers and going to have beers. He turned his head and looked into Blondie’s face.
“Ave Maria,” said Jens.
Jens looked back up at the numbers. I took this moment to conduct a thorough examination of my shoe tops. I heard Drunk Dude’s mouth fall open a little. And Blondie must’ve been hip to the fact that Ave Maria is best known as a classical vocal piece by Schubert, because he took in the spirit it was intended: “Piss Off.”
Well, Blondie gave Jens one of the hardest sizing-ups I’ve ever been privy to. He stared at the side of his face for 2 or 3 dings of the elevator bell, his furrowed brow drawing in Jens’ entire being. And then he dropped the greatest, most enigmatic rebuttal I’ve ever heard, one I am still trying to decipher to this day.
“Whelp,” he shook his head. “That’s fucking talent for you.”
I’ve thought long and hard on that sentence. There was a level of frustration and resignation in his voice that belied some past experience of failure when having posed this question previously. Here are my theories as to what he meant:
1. Face value. He was sarcastically shooting right back at Jens, saying, “Yeah, sure, I bet you’re a real Luciano Pavarotti. Just happen to be slumming it right now in some crappy rock band. But I’m sure you’ve plenty of talent to pull it off, alright.”
2. Character attack. Here he assumes Jens actually is talented, and Ave Maria really is his favorite song to perform. We all know Blondie wanted Jens to say, “Oh man, when I hear that opening riff to Satisfaction, it gets my blood pumpin’!” Ave Maria was a preemptive strike at this guy’s musical taste. So his reply is, “Oh, mister fancy-pants classical music! You are so far beyond mere rock and roll that it has made you socially retarded.”
3. Confirmation Bias. This is my favorite. In “the biz,” the musicians are often referred to as “The Talent.” As in, “The Talent just arrived for sound check.” This guy had worked with bands before, and it had gone as well then as it was going now. This was him crying out, “Hey World, I once again tried to relate to The Talent, and once again they were assholes!”
We rode the remaining floors in silence, reflecting. All remnants of the brief but intense power struggle were flushed out by the fresh lobby air as it rushed through the opening doors. Silently, we parted company. It was a battle that was hard fought, ending honorably with no winners and no losers.
Well, that’s not true. Ultimately, I consider myself the winner. I was fortunate to once again experience one of life’s gloriously uncomfortable human interactions. To watch as two masters, at the top of their game, engaged in such an effortless, concentrated display of passive-aggressive power was exhilarating. And I consider it my duty, as the sole witness (because I think that Drunk Dude was really pretty drunk), to record and relay the tale of their meeting for all humanity’s sake.
