2:54 p.m. - 2008-04-21
Steamed
Loyal readers of Stevergo may recall that I was priveleged to attend a performance by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra a couple of years ago, along with Kia and various family members. It was a strange, baffling, strange experience; an experience that could only be matched by last week's experience. To wit, I played in the backing, "legit" orchestra for the ensemble that predates the Trans-Siberian Orchestra by many years and does a similar kind of thing, notably very well-attended concerts of Christmas music with lots of synthesizers and drums and the like. YOU know the band I mean.
I wandered onto the stage for the rehearsal, awash with curiosity and wonderment. Everything was all set up except my batterie. I was initially surprised by how few keyboards there were littering the stage. I had expected, based on the couple of songs I had heard by this band, to see about eighteen or twenty keyboards, maybe with giant Moog consoles that would be manned by a squadron of Super-Nerd Musicos, with tons of knobs and dials and stuff. Sadly, they were able to get by with only four: one sort of in the middle of the stage, which would be played only occasionally by the bassist, and the other three further back toward stage left in front of my area, to be manned by their one full-time keyboardist. These included a Synclavier and a really complicated thing that was cheesily installed in a big wooden cabinet so that it resembled a baby grand. In addition, there were electronic drums set up on a tall riser that doubled as a fog machine (!!). The backing orchestra consisted of me, two brass, an oboe/corne Englais, four violins, one viola and one cello. (The actual band also had a violinist.) I shared a riser with the brass, and the strings were situated on risers on the other side of the stage, with the drum riser dividing the orchestra.
I got to rehearsal very early so I'd have time to set up my stuff. Since the riser created space constraints and I had a ton of stuff, including timpani, chimes, glockenspiel, the gong with the stupidly wide stand, and a boatload of little rattly things, setting up was something of a puzzle. While I began the puzzling, the conductor, Chazz, came up and introduced himself. It seemed odd to have a conductor for such a relatively small ensemble, especially when we were probably going to be playing to a click track. It began to dawn on me that we backing orchestra people were there more for show than anything else, since a gaggle of string players and a bunch of timpani equal "klassy" with a capital "K". Also, bands like this always fill out their extended ensembles with locals because it's way less expensive than touring with the whole ensemble. So we were there for show AND as a cost-cutting measure. Whatever. We were getting paid. Not great, but still paid.
So the conductor was chatting me up, quizzing me about what stuff I had, what kind of shaker, did I have another cymbal, etc. He was the only member of the band with whom I had any real contact. He seemed nice enough. He talked to me like I was a human being, unlike nearly every other conductor I've encountered. Eventually Chazz excused himself and I arranged my things so that each thing would be accessible when needed. The rehearsal began.
The only band members present were the conductor and the keyboardist. The keyboardist was a middle-aged white man with a rubbery face and a seemingly prissy demeanor. There was also a monitor somewhere onstage, faintly playing the backing tracks. Conductor and keyboardist both had earphones on, not the high-tech in-ear kind or the big earmuff kind, but the in-between kind that cover the ears but don't significantly alter the shape of one's head. Presumably they had clicktracks and whatever was coming through the monitor in their headphones. Those of us in the backing orchestra were given no headphones, perhaps another cost-saving measure. This, it turns out, made having a conductor necessary. Throughout the rehearsal he wandered back and forth between the string area and the brass area to give us instruction.
The music was pretty straight forward in that new-age, crowd-pleasing, pops-orchestra kind of way. All the pieces were within the prescribed pop music length of three to six minutes and had titles like "Open Window #14" and "Flowers of the Meadow". There was a slick commercial sheen covering everything, like cheap cologne on a senior prom goer. The conductor encouraged me to play loud and showy whenever I was playing, you know, really SELL IT! I tried to accomodate him because remember, we're getting paid, and conductor seems nice, etc. However, I find it hard to play excessively visually, because of how cheesy it looks and feels and is. It's great when a performer is visually dazzling in a natural way, like Pete Townshend. However, imagine (the late) John Entwhistle all of a sudden breaking out with the windmills and the jumping all around the stage, feeling awkward and out of place. Suddenly show-biz showiness feels mortifying and strange.
Luckily, I was busy enough that I didn't have time to dwell on my own mortification. At least not until the keyboardist, Prissy McRubberface, appeared to be trying to get my attention in the middle of a number. At least I THOUGHT he was trying to get my attention. He may have just been making some sort of spastic keyboardist-head move. Whatever, I looked up at him and he made eye contact while he kept playing and I kept playing. Then he did the head-jerking, "look over there" motion. I thought he was jerking his head toward the house, as if to say, "Play more for the imaginary audience" or "Look at all the empty seats!" I couldn't suss the meaning of his gesture and didn't ask. I was a little too weirded out by this guy to initiate conversation.
Eventually, rehearsal ended. Chazz's only comment for me before I left was, don't look so stiff when you play the cabasa. You know, GET INTO IT more! Loosen up! Shake your booty! Look like you're into it! This wasn't too surprising, given the nature of the show and the fact that the cabasa is one of my two or three least favorite instruments so I probably don't appear to be having a great time while I'm playing it. Still, this was turning out to be an awkward and dispiriting experience. Still, I had expected it to be much, much worse. Owing to some convoluted sense of personal integrity, I took the cabasa home from rehearsal so I could practice it a little. I would play my best, I resolved, but whether or not my booty shook would be entirely up to the booty.
SO, I went home with my cabasa and met up with Kia, who, through her vast network of connections, had scored a free ticket to the concert in order to have a few laughs at the expense of me and the other orchestra people. We went for pizza before I went back to the hall for the show. I was terrible company due to how tired and depressed the prospect of playing with the Trans-Siberian Orchestra precurser band made me feel. This depression and fatigue was due more to my immaturity than to anything having to do with the job. Here's the thing: some music you do because you like it, some you do for whatever money you're getting. Occasionally the two coincide in a felicitous way, but even if they don't you can take something positive away from the experience, even if it's just the money you make. In this case there was the little bit of money, plus SO MUCH MORE! Like:
*As I mentioned, the conductor WASN'T a total prick. This is extremely rare!
*We got to play Christmas music...IN APRIL!
*Both Kia (who likened some of the video parts of the show to the Edward G Robinson death scene in "Soylent Green" and was struck by the overall cult-like nature of the band) and I have bizzare fodder for future conversation.
*And, I got a little better at the cabasa. And showbiz!
