Sometimes being a musician is not enough
and one must rise up to the challenge to play to a different tune.

And The Bass Player Gets The Girl Part 1 - Auditions By TGJaime Copyright© 2007 TGJaime All Rights Reserved. This is a vastly improved version of the story I posted earlier. Many Many Thanks go to Angela Rasch for showing me what an Editor can actually do for a story. Thank you Angela! ~TGJaime

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Part 1 - Auditions
 
Some great musicians of the 70’s and 80’s influenced me. I grew up on Long Island, and had a fair chance of seeing them live at either the Nassau Coliseum or the Greatest Concert Stage in the world, Madison Square Garden. Of course as a young teen I wanted nothing more than to follow in their footsteps. I started playing bass guitar and drums taking lessons whenever I could afford it. My high school had an excellent music department and I always listened to songs and tried to figure the latest sound or riff. Long hair and a skinny-as-a-rail body completed my full package as the typical musician of the area.
 
 
Swim team -- doing the anchor in the relays, freestyle, and breast stroke — kept me in great shape. My “rock star” long hair had been bleached blonde from all the chlorine. When my times faded because of its length, I started wearing a bathing cap like the girls, which gave the other teams something to get on me about. They learned early in the season not to do that too loudly, or often, I swam my best races when they’re kidding got too bad. Coach Livingstone simply say “show them” and I took off like someone had added rocket fuel to a fire. There was nothing the other team could after the starter’s gun but look on in shock as I would dust their best swimmers by a body length, or more.
 
 
My phone interrupted my drum practice one evening. I had put an ad in a local trade paper about a bass player looking for a new band. The one I played in tried hard, but none of them except the drummer seriously wanted to be a professional. I answered the phone and a perky female voice asked for Jamie. “Are you the bass player looking for a new gig.”

“I am. What kind of music does your band play?.”

“Ohhh. I’m Lauren Michaels and I manage the band. We’re holding auditions for a bass player.”

Interesting! Open auditions and they have a manager. “What’s the name of the band?” I knew most the groups that played the circuit.

“I don’t want to seem evasive, but you’ll find out if you make the cut.”

Her decision not to tell me left me wondering if I should be all that excited. “What kind of music does the band play and where have they played in the past?”

Lauren laughed, apparently not easily interrogated. “Are you interested or not?”

I was, but I didn’t want to sound desperate. “Hey. . .this band isn’t formed yet is it? . . . Hello? Are you still there?”

Lauren finally answered “Wellllll it sort of is together, we’ve got some sponsors and were trying to make a go of it, is that a problem?”

I could tell there was more to the story, but I wasn’t going to get any more answers. I found out where and when the auditions would be held and told her I looked forward to meeting her.

For the next few days I couldn’t get my mind off my upcoming audition. I went directly home after school and practiced more than usual. I tried to figuring out all songs on the radio and all the top 40 hits so I would have a clue if they asked me to play one of them. I have a good ear and it only takes me a few tries to work out a song on my bass guitar. I then work on the drum part so I have the total rhythm section handled.

Thursday finally arrived and I went to the rehearsal studio where the auditions were being held. A few other players I know from the club circuit had also been ask to try out. No one had a clue as to the identity of the band and what they play.

Derrick, a player I’ve known for years, and I separated ourselves from the others to talk a little quieter. We chatted away, but couldn’t answer each other’s questions. He’s taller than I am, built like all he does is hit the weight room, and he is a competent player. He would be a threat if they went for that look.

I wore what I call “club clothes” -- tight jeans and a white silky poet’s blouse. The blouse could be thought of as kind of girlie, but it looked good -- especially under stage lights -- and a guy from Whitesnake had one. Besides -- Twisted Sister broke the mold on Long Island, so it was normal for musicians to be dressed in feminine tops and things like that.

My old girlfriend had always painted my right pinkie finger because it sticks out when I play, so it became my thing, I guess. I never thought anything of doing it or having it done by the ex.
 
 
Other players came and went in and out if the session room quickly. Some spent less than five minutes inside before they left. Is auditioning for these people a good idea? Finally a gorgeous woman came out and called everyone who was left together. She immediately told some of us they could leave, including my buddy Derrick. He caught my eye and shrugged as he grabbed his case and left. After everything settled down she introduced herself as Lauren.

Finally, someone who has a clue what’s going on.

Lauren then asked several more to leave.

Wow, from about 35 guys down to 10 in less than five minutes!

She then scheduled the rest of us for every thirty minutes and told us we would be judged on playing ability, showmanship, and finally -- looks.

I’ve got a chance. I’m a good player and a ham on stage. I look good -- even if half the time people say “miss” to me when they ask me something which I never thought would be an asset.

After what seemed like hours, with many other musicians coning and going, I got my chance. I figured I had nothing to lose so I walked in with my mind ready to play something cool. I stopped at the door and looked inside, but there was no one in there. I could see only a small bass amp and a single chair spotlighted in the middle of an otherwise dark room. Strange! Did I get the right room?

A voice from the speakers told me to get ready to play.

I responded to the disembodied voice. “Okay.”

I walked over to the chair, placed my case on the ground, and got ready for my baby’s debut. What confidence I had came from knowing I had my own special weapon. My pride and joy, a custom-made bass. Others had auditioned with the same instrument I had. You could buy it at Sam Ash for around $450, or so, but it remained special to me.

An aluminum-necked Kramer with a solid ash color, it didn’t appear to be anything special ‘til you heard it. Well honestly, three things did make it that way: 1.) The way it was decorated, 2.) All of the electronics work I did to it, and 3.) the best reason I could think of -- it was MINE!

Some others started the trend of using bandanas on the neck so they could dry their hand while playing, which makes sense after a fashion. I took it to the next level with silk scarves sewn on to the strap, and dangling from the head stock were another five scarves feathered into a loose chain. I had six more looped around each other so it looked like a rainbow-colored tail. Under stage lights they looked alive and seemed to glow on their own when I moved around.

Although I’m not honestly an electronic wizard, I’m very tenacious. I built all of my on stage electronics into my guitar: a chorus, flange, and distortion units. I could make any sound come out of the speakers I wanted, and very few knew how I did it.

Feeling ready to audition, I plugged in and sat down waiting for something to happen. I did some scales to warm up my fingers when the lights went out. No biggie, the amp is still on and I’ve been doing scales forever so I can do them with my eyes closed.

Finally the lights came back up. “Are you ready?” the voice asked.

I nodded and some top-40 stuff came over the speakers. Thanks to my crash course I knew the lines and played right along -- first song no prob! The second song started playing. Again it was another popular song, but it was so simple -- straight 4/4 time, quarter notes on one string. Out of boredom I started adding riffs and some syncopated times as additions. Still no comments or anything. Finally a third song started for a minute, and then stopped.

“Do you know the song?”

I answered honestly I had not heard it, but it sounded good to me.

Again, no response. Finally, “Do you want to hear it again, so you can improvise something for it?”

“Uh huh.” I felt up to the challenge. “Could I hear it all the way through first, so I can get a feel for it?”

As the song played I got ideas about what I want to do and where I wanted my playing to shine. The melody is almost haunting in its sound. It starts slow and dreamy, and then picks up in tempo and scope, and than slows down again all coming to a crescendo at the end.

I like it! It has the complexity to give me a chance to show many sides of my abilities.

At my request they rewound it and we started. I added simple harmonics to the background enhancing the overall sound. When it started picking up I laid down some slow laid-back rhythms to give a foundation for the guitar to play over. On the whole, I felt happy knowing my rendition could get better with time. The song ended.

“Thank you,” the voice said. “Please wait outside in room seven.”

I went down the hall to the different waiting room, which was already occupied by two other players. I didn’t know either of them, but I did notice a common theme. All of us were blonde, tall, skinny, and dare I say it “cute”!
 
 
Yeah okay, I know I’m not supposed to say that guys are “cute.” That’s reserved for girls and puppies. But since I’ve always been more comfortable hanging out with the girls than the guys, I sort of picked up their lingo. Words like cute, adorable, and sweet rolled off my lip.

Guys who gush about how they felt about things usually got nicknames they didn’t want: fag, queer, or gay. Sometimes when they called me that my temper would get me in trouble, but mostly I stayed quiet about how I felt.
 
 
Since I had to wait I decided to work on the last song some more. I pulled up a chair, sat down, and started playing. The other two slid there chairs over.

“What that you’re playing?” one of them asked.

That’s funny. We all came from the same audition and they don’t know what I’m playing. I stopped and looked at them. “What did they have you do in there?”

“I’ll show you,” one of them said, while the other nodded. They each got their basses and played something completely different from what I had just done.

The three of us continued to talk some more and finally our manners kicked in and we introduced ourselves to each other. “I’m Jamie,” I said, extending my hand.

Andy, Bobby, and I started chatting and finding out each others influences and preferred choices of style. We all had similar backgrounds in playing and were almost the same age. I started to say something about coincidences, but I kept it to myself since it didn’t seem important.

Bobby seemed very introverted and didn’t want to talk about anything but his playing. Even then he gave one syllable answers to any question asked.

Andy couldn’t have been anymore opposite, he was so stuck on himself that I almost had an immediate dislike for him. He acted like a lead singer with his attitude always “I can do this better than you” and “That’s not the best way to do it.”

I gave up on talking to him and directed my attention to Bobby. He apparently felt the same way, so finally Andy got the hint and walked away to the opposite side of the room mumbling to himself about queers and fags and other shit I didn’t pay attention to.

I changed my opinion of him quickly. He didn’t have a lead singer attitude, he acted like a jock! Yuck! Bobby blushing after Andy’s rude comments and seemed to be embarrassed. Without thought I put my hand on Bobby’s leg and told him to ignore Andy, as he wasn’t worth it. Bobby looked at me in shock. I didn’t realize why ‘til I looked down and saw my hand on his leg. Oops! I rocketed my hand back and tried to hide my own blush.

A l-o-n-g awkward pause followed.
 
 
After what felt like an endless amount of time, they called over the intercom for the three of us to go back into the studio. Once there the “voice” asked us to sit down.

I grabbed one of the two available chairs; and Andy pulled the chair literally out from under Bobby as he went to sit down. I got pissed and helped Bobby to his feet and turned toward Andy too as they say ‘have a talk with Andy.’

“Boys,” the voice said very loudly, “stop that before something else happens.”

Andy moved his chair a few feet away from Bobby and me, so we shared the chair half a cheek each.

The voice sounded pissed as she asked what the hell was going on?

Andy continued being his asshole self. “I don’t want to sit by no fag. By now I would hope you people realize I’m a much better player than either of them two homos.”

“That’s quite enough, Andy,” the voice said. “You can go.”

“I can go? You’re NOT serious. You would take one of those two over me, what kind of bullshit. . . .”

“You can leave, Andy.” The voice said with much more authority than it had used before.

Two chairs. Two people. Bobby and I each took one.

“What are your personal schedules like for the next six months?”

Bobby and I told the voice we could clear things away so we could work fulltime.

“Are you willing to tour?”

I felt ecstatic just thinking about it. Bobby, on the other hand, got more and more distraught with each passing question.

“What’s up, Bobby?” I asked.

“I’m only sixteen,” he admitted.

The voice asked him to repeat what he had just said.

“I’m only sixteen,” he said again with a tear forming in his eye. “This is what I eventually want, but I can’t possibly commit to something this big.” He gathered his things and left looking back with regret. I sighed sadly for him.

Hey wait! Two chairs and me!? Do I have the gig? Or is there something else?
 
 
Suddenly, another door opened and the lights inside the studio soundroom come on. Three people plus Lauren sat in the room around a small sound console and some tape machines. They waved and appeared to be leaving the room to come in to talk to me.

I’m finally going to get some answers.

However, Lauren was the only person to come in. She took a seat in the other chair next to me. She stared at her clipboard and started to ask some more questions. “How committed are you to being a professional musician?”

The question startled me in a way, I did as Mom had always taught me, I paused, thought and then answered. “Lauren, I have always wanted to be a pro.” It was time for me to know a few things. “I really don’t understand what you’re asking of me within the band. Can you fill in some more details?”

She seemingly ignored my question and asked me for my thoughts on different bands, equipment, and stage shows. “What did you think about Andy?”

“Candidly?”

She nodded.

“Asshole!”

“Okay,” she replied, not tipping her hand. “And what about Bobby?”

“Quiet, but a really nice guy.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Will you submit to a drug test?”

“Sure,” I said, “but I’m clean. Can’t stand drugs and have a hard time with the people who use them.”

“Does that mean you also don’t drink?”

“I don’t like drugs, but I’m not a saint. A little drink now and again is good for the soul, but hey, I’m underage, so my idea of a big time is a can of beer.”

Than she started asking about guys, girls, gays, lesbians and she gave me this very soulful look, the kind that you can feel deep inside your spirit.

I couldn’t hold her stare anymore, “Lauren I’m ‘try-sexual.’ I’m willing to try anything once, more if it feels good!” I smacked my hand over my mouth, before I said something else to get me in trouble. This woman is way too easy to talk to. I’ve only met her today and already I feel I can talk about anything with her. Weird!

“Lauren, if you will have me, I’m yours.”

I hadn’t really meant the double-entendre, but she just laughed and stage whispered. “After you sign the contract you will be.”

She had me floundering on the ropes again. I was so flustered I couldn’t answer her so as the saying goes “When in doubt, smile” so that’s what I did.

She stood. “It’s time to go and meet the rest of the band. After that, if you’re ready we can sign the contract admitting you officially as our bass player.”

I grabbed my case and we started out the door. Surprisingly it was already dark outside. We got in her Jeep and drove for about thirty minutes on the Southern State Parkway to the Robert Mosses Causeway going toward the ocean. We got off at the last exit and drove down to a secluded beach house.

All the lights were on and there seemed to be a party going on inside. This gorgeous house was huge and it sat right on the Great South Bay. It had big open windows allowing the salt air to flow through. We walked up to the front door and Lauren walked inside like she owned the place.

I followed her into the living room and found a few people milling around.

As soon as they all saw Lauren everyone shut up quickly and someone turned down the music. All eyes turned toward her. I stood behind her, but I thought I had seen one of the people before.

Bobby?
 
 
He or she looked more like a twin sister of the boy I had met that afternoon. I walked over to this person to look a little closer when she spoke.

“Hi Jamie, welcome to the group”

“Bobby, is that you?” I asked.

I got an honest giggle from her, definitely a most delicious “her.”

“I’m Bobbie, as you know. You and I are the rhythm for these lifeless girls. Dawn,” she pointed toward one of the other girls, “plays Guitar. Frankie,” she indicated another, “plays the keyboards. Hannah is the adorable redhead over in the corner, and she plays lead guitar. Everyone this is Jamie, she is our bass player -- and like me another drummer.”

I looked at Lauren. “Can I speak to you outside, ALONE!”

I appeared to be the only guy here. Most guys would be in seventh or eighth heaven, but something didn’t feel quite right.

Lauren nodded. ”Would you like a drink or would you like to go to the office first to talk?”

“Office first, please,” I stated.

As we walked in an office near the front of the house, I didn’t even wait for the door close. “Why was I introduced as a she? What’s the deal?”

Lauren took a deep breath and pointed to a chair for me, as she walked around the desk.

“Jamie,” she said easily to me “this is a girl band, if you want to be in it you have to be a girl.”

All my dreams of the last hour went up in smoke. “But, I’m a guy!”

“Are you sure? Are you really and truly sure you’re a guy, through and through?”

My jaw fell open.

Lauren laughed. “All of the ‘girls’ you met out there are really ‘guys.’ They’re the same as you, but they’re girls as far as the band and the outside world is concerned.”

I shook my head.

She took up a professional tone again. “We at Venus Records have decided that the GoGo’s aren’t the way for women musicians to be viewed by the rest of the world. We want a band that actually has talent, chops, and a stage presence that will be unmatched. Now before you ask, ‘Why aren’t we using real women’ it’s really very simple. There aren’t many Pat Benatar or Lita Ford lying around. We aren’t trying for a girl band niche. We want this band to have staying power and become a real dynamo in the music business.”

All of that made sense, but. . . .

She continued. “We’ve already done some test marketing on the girls with a poster; 250,000 posters sold in three weeks without anyone even knowing anything about them except they’re a bunch of hot-looking women with instruments!”

Lauren pointed to a wall behind me. I knew before I even turned around what the poster looked like. I had it hanging in my basement where I practiced. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

Lauren’s face told me she had misinterpreted my laugh.

I quickly held my hands up in a surrender move. ‘Lauren, when you described the poster I knew what it was before looking. I have the poster and I wondered who they were -- now I guess I know”

She looked a little relieved at my explanation.

It was time for true confessions on my part. I looked at Lauren and tried to stare at her but I couldn’t hold her gaze.
 
 
Taking a deep breath, I started. “In 1976 I was 10 years old. I watched the Olympics. I saw this beautiful little creature, a Romanian, Nadia Comaneci. She had grace and was so petite, with legs that looked incredible. She was the gymnast that scored all the perfect 10’s that year.

“I fell in love with her, but in a special way. I wanted to be just like her. After the Olympics were over I tried to do some of the things that she did. I found a leotard and tights in my sister’s closet. When no one was home I would prance around and pretend to be a gymnast.”

Lauren’s face had remained calm and gave no indication of anything but interest, so I continued.

“One day I had the stereo up to loud, so I never heard my mother come in. She caught me dressed as girl. I had my hair up in a bun, some really bad makeup on, and honestly looked horrible! She didn’t say anything mean to me, but she quietly asked what I was doing, I just broke and ran straight upstairs to my room and hid.”

Lauren listened intently and nodded.

“By the time dinner was ready she convinced me to downstairs; and we ate in silence. Afterwards I was told I was to do the dishes alone. Everyone left but Mom. She just watched me with this strange look in her eyes. When I thought I was done doing the dishes and felt ready to go back to my room, she called me over and had me sit down. “What were you doing?” she asked. This afternoon, when I came home, what were you doing?” I laid my heart out to her and told her everything about seeing the Olympics and wanting to be like those girls. She reacted very gently and told me I could never be like those girls because I was a boy, but she did it in such a way as to not ridicule me.

“She didn’t say anything else -- just told me to get ready for bed. Not wanting to get her any angrier I did just that and went upstairs to bed. The next morning I woke up in something different than I went to sleep in -- I awoke in a Pooh Bear nightie. To this day I have no idea how she did it.

“The next day when I got home from school there was a bag on my bed with a new team U.S.A. leotard, dance skirt, tights, sport panties, and ballerina shoes with a simple one word note — ‘Enjoy!’ I didn’t move from that spot, Mom found me standing right there when she came home hours later. She could see the tears running silently down my face as I stood there in a trance.
She tapped me on my shoulder and I collapsed on the bed wondering what happened and how she got there. I saw the time and couldn’t believe it. I had been standing there for over two hours.
She asked me what I had been thinking about; and I told her -- me as the gymnast. I had replayed the whole Olympics in my mind with me in it. She then asked me why I was crying as that was a wonderful dream. I told her I was crying for something that could never be.
So you see, Lauren, being in a girl band, to me, right now -- is another dream that can never be.”
 
 
At that point I broke down; tears fell and wouldn’t stop. I didn’t notice when Lauren got up and left the room. All I felt was a pair of arms wrap around and hold me. When I finished crying, someone handed me Kleenex. After I blew the gunk out and cleared my eyes, I turned to look expecting to see Lauren. It was Bobbie.

She still had her arm around me, holding me, keeping away my demons. Just because of that simple kindness I would have signed on to do what they wanted. Her sweetness was something I haven’t felt in a very long time from anyone outside of my family.

Then Bobbie said something so simple, yet so profound, I will always remember her words.

“You aren’t alone sister”
 
 
To Be Continued...