What is the worst possible thing for an acoustic bassist to hear at the other end of a night club?
Monday night June 10th, day after my sweety's 40th birthday. The begining of the week. Hands are rested but stiff. The club is empty except for some early week die-hard partiers and the working girls who got wind that it's the bands payday. It turns into a halfway decent night with local business people and business travelers getting into the band.We're grooving. Last song of the set.They want an encore [I've learned this much in all my years of performing; Every band in the world becomes the best band in the world after the last note is played. You can quote me on that.] We are obliging [sp?]. Encore is fulfilled. They start again with the encore stuff. Stage lights are off and carefully place the bass on it's stand the same way I have for the past few weeks. I turn my back to the audience and laughingly scream 'Go home! It's over. The canned psuedo jazz is blasted out through the mains. We say to one another' that was a quick Monday. I'm going to bed. See you tomorrow..'.
A couple of us hit the bar to greet our friends and fellow musicians that came to see us. I typically beg for a freebie to no avail. We hang at the bar bustin' each others chops and then it happens
- I'm assuming some idiot decides the music isn't over and gets on the drums and randomly starts hitting the tomtoms except the tomtoms sound different. They sound exotic, hollow, wooden. Hey wait a minute!!!!? I jump to my feet and there it is: the bass is lying face down on stage, the ebony finger board is completely severed from the neck. A growing sickness inside me abounds as I hear voices of denial pleading in the backgound ['I didn't do it!' or more like 'It was dead when I got here'] I am sick!!!