The Tolerance Wars - 15
when it works that way
upper and lowercase
begin at the beginning—Chapter 1
The Tolerance Wars
15.
when it works that way
It’d been a bright clear blue sunny late summer day. And the evening was looking to be likewise clear and warm. With some of the rising damp that comes around in August here in these parts. I was thinking that this time of year always made me think of festival gigs I played when I was just starting out. Play a set in the middle of the day and it was hot and dry. Well, if it wasn’t bucketing-down with rain. Then come the evening, if you were lucky enough to play a set after dark, when the big lights came on and it felt more like a real show, you’d be strapped to a guitar merrily flailing away and your arm would brush the top of your instrument in that way that happens sometimes. No big deal, didn’t slow things down. But now your forearm would feel wet. Not just slightly damp. Wet like you’d accidentally wiped up a countertop spill with your arm. As you do. Well, I do. And you’d realize the temperature had dropped enough to make dew. The summer’s humid daytime air had gotten just cool enough, and the air just moist enough. And now anytime you touched your instrument it was wet. You tried not to think about whether you were playing one of those guitars made with water-soluble glue. Because internal conversations like that can get in the way of a good groove at full speed. And if your guitar was gonna come flying apart there was nothing you were going to be able to do about it. Besides it’d make a great visual. May as well keep playing.
But yeah. Damp. That’s what I always remembered when a summer like this started to think about dropping the flower show and concentrating on making all the possible shades of green she could come up with that in a few short weeks would all give way to first the yellows and purples of late summer and then the deeper golds and oranges and reds both brilliant and dark that we get around here as a great gift in the fall.
But the colour-splash was weeks away yet. First we’d do August. The perfect time for an evening house party. In the country so you won’t annoy the neighbours quite so much.
And, as it turned out, inside. So we didn’t have to worry about the rising damp. Nice.
“This used to be the swimming pool. Indoors, of course.” Marcus, our friend who owned the club downtown, had met us at the end of the long driveway and helped us carry our gear through the house to where we were going to play tunes for the nice people. Hired catering had their black and whites doing that particular buzz and hum that they do. I’d done enough of these to know that sound well. Like cicadas, only slower.
Marcus was a big man. Loved to pretend to think like an old-school linebacker. Folks who had a nasty habit of preying on the unsuspecting and tried it on him would get the most marvellous surprise when he uncloaked and revealed himself in all his glory. And there they were. Trapped in their own selfishness. I’d been privileged once to witness that particular form of justice-served. A scene that will make me smile until the day I die. Probably longer.
“So they filled in the pool. And put proper flooring over top of it. Now there’s this lovely hall.”
And the room was lovely. Even had a low stage. Not high enough to worry about anyone falling off. But tall enough to say, ‘Hey, this is a stage. Park yourself up here and you better be playing an instrument.’ We walked the length of the room, dropped the instrument cases and amps on the edge of the stage and turned around to take in the space we were going to be playing to. First impressions are important.
“Big enough for you and a hundred of your closest friends to party.”
Marcus wasn’t wrong. Probably built as an addition to the house. About the proportions of, well, a decent-sized swimming pool. With how we were setup we’d have our backs to a wall, literally. Which in my mind was always good. And beat every one of the alternatives. To our right a long wall backed onto the rest of the house. On the opposite side a large picture window took up most of the other long wall to our left, with a view of green grass and what looked like a more formal garden in the middle distance, the whole thing ringed by trees a few of which had to be a hundred years old, and over there several big old healthy willows that meant there was probably water of some kind.
Inside, here in the hall it was a big space, with not much in it. A couple of couches that looked like they’d each been artfully dropped into just the right position for swooning. A few overstuffed chairs here and there. A table or two for guests to perch their glasses on when the overwhelming need to dance became too much to bear. And, as we’d been able to tell right away from the gentle bounce as we walked our gear along the length of the room, it was a sprung floor. A floor made for dancing. With not too much stuff to get in the way. It really was a fine room. Nicely lit. Well set up.
And big enough for a whole mess of people.
Marcus waited while we took it all in. “Figure there’ll be about two hundred guests tonight. Spread ‘em around the house and the grounds.”
Tony was already doing the math, had picked it up from the big man’s clues. “So we’ll have anywhere between fifty and a hundred and fifty in here. That’s enough to feel like an audience. Not too much to feel crazy overstuffed. I think we can have a good time here.”
Our man of infinite goodness beamed. “Glad to hear it meets with your approval. I always like to do right by my friends. I’m gonna go make sure they haven’t got some cowboy setting up the kegs. I don’t know where buddy got his staff from, but some of them haven’t got a clue. If you need anything, you know where to find me?”
I nodded, “Anywhere trouble might be forming.”
“Right. Also known as the kitchen. Meanwhile,” Marcus turned to the stage and waved an arm to take it all in, “This is your domain. You need anything, I want to hear about it right away. Please know that you’re honoured guests here. Anyone treats you like staff and I will speak to them. Personally. And they’re gonna hate that. Because it takes For-Ever!”
“Thanks for looking after us, friend.”
“You’re doing my buddy a favour. I will see you treated well. Or the big man bumps heads.”
Marcus was a pacifist. So I knew he didn’t mean that literally. Though he wasn’t above using his physical strength to help people understand the error of their ways. There are many paths to enlightenment. Being held immobile in a bear hug while a large man explains gently and at length the error of your ways is one of them. This too I have seen. It is a world of wonders we live in. Marcus was one of them. Maybe two.
Archer figured she’d wander the grounds while we finished the setup. “I haven’t been out in the country in too long. I saw a pond. I wonder if there are ducks.” I dropped my amp on the stage and stashed my guitar behind it, she gave us both a hug and headed off in search of ducks, and Tony and I headed back to the front of the house and out to the driveway to see if any of our fellow honoured guests had arrived yet.
When we got there Waits was hauling his big bass amp out of the back of a low-slung hatchback he’d borrowed for the evening. His rig was about the size of an old-school refrigerator. And about as noisy when the power was suspect. “Man, how can you not love that? That’s the sound of the 70’s!” He’d say wistfully. Then he’d play the entire night with his hands somehow always touching the strings. So the noise disappeared and all that was left was the biggest, roundest low notes you’d ever heard. A foundation to build on. And build we must. For tonight the people will party.
“So who’s on drums?” My man of few words cut to the important question. Bass and drums is a living partnership that drives a good band. I knew Waits always heard what all the other instruments were doing at your average gig. He’d give you back a tasty echo of something you played a little while ago just to show that he’d been paying attention. And approved. But groovin’ with the kit, locking his bass and the kick drum so they sounded like one instrument, that was his mission. And he wanted to know who his co-pilot was gonna be.
Being a last minute gig we weren’t quite able to get all the regular gang together. But we’d managed to get Josie to join us on drums. I let Waits know and he brightened even more than usual. “Me an’ Miss Josie are gonna set it up just right. I’m in a mood. You are in for a fine night!” And he wasn’t wrong.
I leaned in to give my man a hand with hauling his rig and we left Tony to wait for Josie. And McShane. I was glad the boy wonder was gonna be fully present his own self on guitar. Because a night of nothing but my solos is an acquired taste. McShane solos like he’s playing guitar. Which he is. Me, I solo like a singer. It’s a style thing. Just how I hear it. And like everything else in music, the Italians have a word for that style. Apparently the word is carpaccio. Or so I’ve been told.
As we were trundling our way back through the house to the big room and the stage, we passed by the kitchen. And I heard a voice I recognized. “No man, the soup is supposed to be cold. Put it any closer to that stovetop and Marcus’s gonna wanna have a word with you. And you’re not gonna like it…”
Sparechange. All duded up like the rest of the catering staff in white tux shirt and black dress pants. I knew he cleaned up nice. Yet it was somehow always a surprise. We caught one another’s eye and nodded a cheerful hey as Waits and I rolled along by the kitchen door. Good to know there’d be another friend on site. You never know when you could use a friend.
When we made it to the big room I had just enough oomph left in me to help heft the bass amp up onto the playing surface. By which point I was rendered pretty much oomphless so I sat myself down on the edge of the stage and took a breath.
And was rewarded with the sight of our drummer striding purposefully into the hall at pace with her stick bag slung over her shoulder, rolling her big hardware case tilted on two wheels like she was on her way to ten glorious days in Mexico all-included, wearing a big grin and just enough attitude to know exactly who’s in charge. She was being followed by two young men of the strapping variety. Who were carrying her drum cases. And big round black cymbal bag. And of course one of them had a large, rolled-up carpet draped over his shoulder. “The boys wanted to help.” She shrugged at me in an ‘I don’t know why they always do this’ kind of way. “Who am I to argue?” Then stood up her hardware case and took in the stage, and monitors and amps and main speakers, and nodded towards the space in the middle of it all. “You left me enough room?”
“Yes ma’am. Figured we’d wait placing the rest until you had your gear down. I remembered you don’t like to be crowded.”
“Only by my friends.” She turned back to the guys still holding her cases. And cymbal bag. And rug. “Okay boys. This is my stop. I’ll take the carpet. Everything else can just go on the floor at the side of the stage over there. And thanks so much for the help.” Then without another look at her helpers she effortlessly took the rug, stepped up onto the stage, and expertly flung out one end so it rolled itself out and laid down flat right in the middle of the stage. Perfectly placed. A magic carpet. Which always beats trying to tape down the drums and cymbal stands so they don’t wander around when they’re being played. Drummers who showed up without their own rug always worried me a bit. Josie never worried me. Well, not in that way.
“There,” she said, “that’s my space. Can you work around that?” I looked at Waits. He nodded in professional admiration on behalf of both of us. “Good. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be pretty much ready to roll. I hope you guys are here to play. I’m in a mood. And you know I don’t like to be disappointed.”
The singer’s mic was already stood front and centre, waiting for our lady of infinite dreams. Three monitors were placed on the stage floor approximating useful positions. One would go in the middle pointing at the singer so they could hear themselves. Another would be on the far side so the drummer and the bass player could hear what was actually going on without all that guitar nonsense getting in the way. And one more would live on the floor on this side of the stage so the rest of us could hide our own disappointment. As the saying goes. The only thing we’d mic up for tonight would be the vocals. Maybe a bit of kick drum and snare if we felt the room needed it. The rest of the mix we’d control using the volume knobs on each of our amps. Like in the old days. Good to still have that skill. Larger shows it’d be up to the sound-person to put the mix together, controlling everything from a sound board, with mics on every instrument. For gigs like this we’d feel the sound from how it bounced around the room and change our individual volumes accordingly. The same way a string quartet takes a few minutes in every new concert hall before any audience arrives and makes sure that they’re each playing loud or quiet enough so that every instrument can be heard equally. Because every hall is different. And last week’s mezzo-forte played in a concert series up north might be a little too quiet from the cello tonight here in a hall in farm country. So you work it out. Just like a good rock and roll band. One with ears.
So Waits and I set-to, making order out of chaos. To get away from the rumble of the floor, we’d found some milk crates to put the two guitar amps up on, mine and McShane’s, for when he showed up, positioned Waits’ rig and my amp, and had only just finished putting the monitors into their final positions when Tony and the boy wonder waltzed into the hall through the double doors at the far end like they owned the place. Which they would do later. Just now though, perfect timing. We’ve already done the last of the hard work and the talent arrives. This is how the world works.
“Sister Josie!” McShane shouted out as the two of them made their way towards us past the tables and through the furniture and the staff who were now starting to buzz just a little quicker in and out of the hall and around the tables. A sign that we were getting closer to guests arriving. Show time would be later. For now we’d finish setup and maybe run a couple of tunes to check it all out. Then we’d take a break and enjoy ourselves until it was time to make with the noise.
“Oh look! It’s my favourite kind of trouble.” Josie was sitting behind her kit, T-wrench in hand, giving the head of the snare drum a final tuning to get the ping just right. “Tell me we’re going to stop in between songs tonight. My arms are still aching at the thought of the last time I saw you guys play together.”
“Tonight we play for the people. Bite-sized morsels of musical goodness. Drawing out the groove when the heart says yes. And stopping for breaks whenever we feel like it. Under orders from Marcus himself.” McShane hefted his amp onto our side of the stage, I noticed careful to keep my amp between him and the drummer, then looked up at Josie. “Seriously sister, thanks for comin’ out to play tonight. You and my man Waits workin’ it together is one of my favourite things to play off. I feel inspired already. Gonna be a good night.”
“You say all the pretty things.” With one final tap-ping on the snare she was done and looked up at the guitar god. “Just put your tubes on and get ‘em warmed up. I want to get the mix sorted then take a break and go clear my head for a while. Somebody told me there’s ducks.”
Waits was already plugged in and responded by slowly bringing up a low note. Then kept it coming up louder until it was about the volume we might want to play to. Tony was now standing in the middle of the hall, so he looked her way. When it was about the right kind of loud she nodded once. He played a couple of riffs. She gave him a thumbs up and came back to the stage while I hit a couple of chunk-chunks, both to get a match to how the bass was sitting and to hear what my short hits sounded like bouncing back at us from the room. I adjusted my amp a bit then did it again. Then I nodded to Josie. She hit her kick drum a slow steady pulse, steadily louder until she found something that felt right in the room for herself. Then she added the snare to play a perfect little swingy but simple groove. Tony walked back out to the middle of the room and closed her eyes to listen. Josie kept playing and adjusting her volume until Tony opened her eyes and gave her another thumbs up. While the bass and drums continued, I slid in and started to play a rhythm that fit without getting in the way. Yeah this was a volume I could get comfortable with. McShane just listened as we played it into place. Then he hit a note, middle of the instrument and not too showy. He was capable of that too. He reached over to his amp and dialled in a little more midrange, took a bit of the reverb off, then moved the tone knob on his guitar just a bit. And did the same for the volume on one of his guitar pickups. Then he played another note.
And that note was perfect.
His turn to nod to Tony. Who smiled and looked at every one of us in turn from her place in the middle of the room. Yeah, always felt like a benediction. Seemed to make a difference too. Then she made her way to the stage and took up her position behind the mic while we continued the groove we’d built. At this point Tony was the only one of us who knew how it felt in the room. So we trusted her. And after enough gig-miles I knew how loud she’d likely want her voice to be in her monitor. So she trusted me. As we grooved, she hummed a musical line into the microphone. Then another. Then she closed her eyes and gave us a few notes of what she was thinking, and how it felt. She thought for a second. Then she raised a finger in the air. I went over to the side of the stage where the mixer was and when I had a space in the groove I was playing on my guitar I reached over and turned up her voice in her monitor just a bit. She gave us a few more notes then thought about it again. Again the finger in the air. Again I adjusted. Again a few more notes, eyes closed. Then she smiled. And nodded to no one in particular. McShane hit a line on his guitar to echo what Tony had just sung. Tony smiled again. Then sang another line. McShane echoed again. Then Tony backed away from her mic and towards her band.
We stopped.
“I think that feels pretty good.” She said. “Anybody need anything different?” We all looked at one another to check in. Apparently we were all happy. And fully sound-checked. Without a word being spoken. A special kind of magic. And I was grateful to be part of it. “Then Josie, go find your ducks. I’ll stay here and mind the gear for first shift. Someone come and spell me off in a few minutes. Nice work everybody. Let’s have fun tonight.”
Time to breathe. And a break before the doors open.
Nice when it works that way.
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