Hi there.

My last post was one in which I lamented my dead dog. I hope that this one will be even funnier.

Yiddish is an extremely colorful language that was spoken by my ancestors, and many of its words and phrases have made their way into other tongues. For example, two of my favorites are shlemiel and shlemazel. The accepted definitions: a shlemiel is someone who spills soup on someone; a shlemazel is someone who gets soup spilled on him.

The reason for that brief linguistics lesson will be apparent in a moment, but first let me get to the crux of my gist: Mayhem happens in every workplace, and the bandstand is certainly no exception. I’d like to relate four memorable episodes, two in which I cast myself as shlemazel and two as shlemiel. Let’s start with the former.

In the 1980’s era of Trickle-Down Economics, every working keyboard player simply had to have a Yamaha DX-7. It was all the rage, and I went with the flow. The thing about it, though, was that it really didn’t have a decent acoustic piano sound. I will admit that the Log Drum and Wild Boar sounds were outstanding. So, I eventually invested in a little module thing that had a variety of passable faux-acoustic sounds, and I hooked that up to the mighty DX-7. One particular gig was a “Jazz Wedding” in Manhattan (that’s a term for a gig in which the clients claim to want a jazz band, thereby eliminating the need for a rock guitarist or singer). It was a good band, led by violinist Andy Stein: trumpeter Randy Sandke, bassist John Goldsby, drummer Arnie Kinsella and DX-7/module stylist JK. The gig was going smoothly when it was time for the First Dance. We commenced playing “As Time Goes By”, with Andy’s well-intentioned (if not entirely pleasant-sounding) vocals leading the way. The Happy Couple were gazing meaningfully into each others eyes as they danced in front of their guests, and it was about a minute into the song when Randy felt that he no longer needed to be on the bandstand. I’m guessing that Andy’s vocal stylings were perhaps causing Randy some variation of Acid Reflux. While beating his retreat, Randy bumped into my new module, causing its settings to change. Wouldn’t you know, it went into “Demo” mode, whereby it started playing a bunch of prerecorded selections that were designed to show you how great it sounded. Its first selection was a Toccata and Fugue by Bach, played at lightening speed and ear-splitting volume.  I immediately tried to get it off of there and back onto its previous setting, but I had only recently bought the thing and and it seemed like it took forever. In the meantime, the Not-Quite-As-Happy Couple had stopped dead in their tracks and glowered at the band as Andy gamely tried to explain the technical malfunction. John and Arnie assisted me by turning red and convulsing with laughter. A First Dance to remember, no doubt. I wonder if they’re still married.

Around that same time, I was in a band called Vince Giordano’s Nighthawks. We played for a lot of very wealthy people, and a favorite venue to illustrate one’s opulence was (and still is, I’m sure) the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue, particularly in the huge room that houses the Temple of Dendur. One such gala was thrown by Steve Ross: a birthday party for his wife. Ross was, at that time, the Chairman of Time-Warner, so it was a very high-profile affair. Not only had he hired our 13-piece band to play in the Temple, but he had also rented out another section (the American Wing) for cocktails. The musicians for this cocktail portion of the evening were Vince on electric bass, Mark Lopeman on sax et moi. It was arranged that there would be a piano provided for me to play during the cocktail hour, and that another piano would be provided inside the Temple area. So, imagine our surprise when we discovered that there was no piano in the American Wing. The other piano was hundreds of yards and many flights of stairs away, so moving it was not an option. Needless to say,  there was no emergency electric piano in my car. As we were only a few minutes away from the start of our gig, Vince jumped into Crisis Mode. “Quick! Run back over to the Temple and grab Arnie’s orchestra bells!” He was referring to Arnie Kinsella (see above); part of the band’s unique sound was the inclusion of orchestra bells along with the drum set. I did as I was told, and liberated Arnie’s bells for our emergency. The new challenge was the fact that I didn’t see any mallets with which to play the bells. What was a boy to do? I grabbed a setup of silverware: knife, fork, spoon; no doubt some combination thereof would produce the Lionel Hamptonian effect I was seeking. So there we were, playing tasteful cocktail music: Vince on his electric bass (which he despised; he had no use for any instrument that didn’t exist in 1932), Lopie on tenor sax, and me, desperately trying to look like a happenin’ and giggin’ NY musician as I whacked little metal bars with cutlery; looking GQ in my tuxedo (parts of which were held together by duct tape). As I recall, my efforts did not sound like Lionel Hampton. Fisher Price was more like it. In the middle of a tune, I looked around at the hobnobbing guests and noticed two men conversing about six feet away from us: Quincy Jones and Paul Simon. I suddenly didn’t feel so happenin’, but I later spun that moment of humiliation into a hypothetical phone call from Paul Simon to Quincy Jones: “Q! Did you check out that cat last night who playing bells with spoons? Whatta sound! Man, I’ve gotta sample that for my next project.” I’m guessing that no such exchange took place. I don’t even know that they checked us out. Taking no chances, I moved to Chicago not long after.

I now move to the shlemiel portion. In all honesty, the metaphorical soup that I spilled was no accident; the messes that I created were strictly the result of a belief that no one was paying attention to these attempts to amuse myself. Consequently, there may be a more accurate Yiddish word for the type of person in these circumstances. Putz comes to mind. I have always had a bit of an irreverent and cynical streak in me, so I apologize in advance to anyone who might be offended by the choices that I made in the following accounts. Chalk it up to immaturity and youthful indiscretion. I’d like to think that I’ve evolved considerably since then. But, then, I’d like to think all kinds of things.

There’s nothing like a good disease to get the Rich Folk to rub elbows under a tent. Oops: did that sound irreverent and/or cynical? What I meant to say was that those who are in a position to assist others can almost always be counted on to do so in the name of noble and worthy causes. One such occasion found me at a benefit for Alzheimer’s in the lobby of a big office building in midtown Manhattan. Once again, I was lucky enough to make some extra dough by playing for the cocktail hour. I was joined by a wonderful sax player whose name shall be omitted so that his reputation won’t be sullied. I’ll call him Tram. We started making Happy Cocktail Jazz, pretty much ignored by our Charity Festivants. Musing on the whole premise of this event, one of us (Tram, no doubt) thought it would be funny if we played a tune like I Remember You. We played it, of course. Then, feeling naughty, amused and empowered, our program quickly devolved into this tasteless abyss. Any title ending in a question mark or having to do with memory was worthy of our shameless consideration. Some titles that I recall were Where or When?, It’s Easy To Remember (But Hard To Forget), I Didn’t Know What Time It Was, Who?, Try To Remember, What Is This Thing Called Love?, What Am I Here For?, etc. You get the idea. Determined to rot in Hell, we kept at it, unaware when a party-goer approached our Den of Insincerity. Sizing her up, she did not appear happy. When she asked me if we had just played Remember by Irving Berlin, I had no choice but to confess that, yes, ma’am, that was what we played. I mean, she obviously knew and recognized the tune, so I felt that I had no choice but to accept whatever fallout our profound lapse in judgment might bring. Bracing myself for the worst, she looked at me and said, “That’s my favorite song”. Then she walked away.

This last entry makes me swell with pride each time I recall it. If you place the above paragraph at a certain level of callous tastelessness, then take a Bob Beamon-esque leap further into the abyss and you’ll then be properly situated for what you are about to read. I was hired to play in someone’s lovely house for the celebration of a Bar Mitzvah. Once again, I numbed myself into thinking that no one was listening and started to amuse myself with thoughts as to what I might play that would be just the right witty/wry/sardonic commentary on my surroundings. Suddenly, I thought to myself, “Self? You know what I’ve always thought was a pretty catchy tune? ‘Springtime For Hitler’, that’s what.” Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead, I launched into my own unique interpretation of this classic composition from the cinema. My reverie was interrupted when I noticed a boy standing next to the piano. He was about thirteen years old and was looking at me. “Excuse me”, he said, “but what you’re playing sounds a lot like ‘Springtime For Hitler'”. Yikes! Totally busted (yet again), I chose the strategy of Deny, Deny, Deny. “No, no, no. That’s not what I was playing”, I told the young lad. But I reflected for a second and tried to satisfy him with, “But, you know, you’re right. What I was playing does sound an awful lot like ‘Springtime For Hitler'”. I finished out the gig with a lot of songs from Fiddler on the Roof.

We’ve just buried our dog Mari and now I come to praise her.

Despite my advanced age, she was my first real pet. I’ll qualify that last statement: my family had a dog when I was a baby. His name was Spotty, and I’m told that we had him for about a week. When Spotty was so rude as to commit the puppy-like sin of peeing on the garage floor, my mother immediately banished him to the Land of Elsewhere.

Flash forward about 40 years: my older son Charlie (then around eight years old) started dropping hints about wanting a dog, and I couldn’t think of any compelling reasons to say no. So, when our neighbor’s two dogs (one was a German Shepard and the other was a mix of Springer Spaniel and German Short-haired Pointer) had a brief and unforeseen May/December fling, we soon found ourselves with a new member of the household. The boys named her after one of Charlie’s classmates (no, Mari the Human is not a bitch).

The potty training didn’t take long. I recall a few nights of sleeping on the couch downstairs so that I could take her into the back yard, where I stood shivering and begging her to take care of biz. She caught on quickly. I was amused to see the Pointer emerge: if she saw a squirrel or a bird in the back yard, she’d slowly point her puppy paw at the potential prey.

Early on, we kept her in a crate in the basement if she was by herself.  We got home one afternoon and heard Mari barking like crazy. When we let her out of the crate, she immediately dashed up two flights of stairs to Charlie’s bedroom . We discovered an open window with the screen kicked in: someone had climbed up our deck and had broken into the house. The only things that we found missing were a handful of coins and a Kerry Wood baseball card that been in Charlie’s room. The police found a teenager a few days later who confessed to having broken into several houses (including ours) in our neighborhood. I like to think that Mari’s barking (even as a puppy, she had a frightening set of lungs) motivated our burglar’s hasty retreat. We stopped keeping her in the crate from that point on, and our little princess/sentry had free access to the whole house.

She quickly became Queen of the Domicile, greeting most house guests at the door with a pillow in her teeth. She mooched whatever scraps of food we were wimpy enough to give her, in addition to her nightly helping of crunchy carrots and lettuce. And she barked like the Hound from Hell at any dog rude enough to walk in front of our house.

And of course she was the Queen of the Great Outdoors, too. My eyesight was sharpened on our daily walks as I scanned the horizon for other dogs who had the audacity to be walking at the same time. If we saw one approaching, we’d get to the other side of the street because a face-to-face encounter was sure to not go well. Humans, though: that was another story. Mari always stood patiently if someone (especially a little kid) wanted to pet her. The only risk was a wet kiss, particularly if the youngster had soda/candy remnants or dried snot on his face.

In the backyard, the neighbor’s cats got an extended lecture when they came into view. Mostly, though, in classic canine fashion, it was the Chasing of the Ball that gave Mari so much pleasure, but with a few subtle and crafty variations. She would often refuse to drop the ball, and if I tried to grab it from her she would use evasive tactics. A mere twitch of my leg could provoke her into a lightening-quick first step that reminded me of Walter Payton. She faked me out of my shoes more times than I care to admit. Other times, she would casually drop the ball a good fifty feet from where I stood, making me fetch the ball for her! This really annoyed me at first, as I thought, “Hey! I’m the one with the opposable thumbs and I’m the one walking more or less erect. Don’t you know the Social Contract with regards to who is the fetcher and who is the fetchee?” But I came to appreciate it as a manifestation of her intelligence and sense of humor. And, besides, who among us can’t use a little more exercise? She also delighted in dropping the ball where she knew I couldn’t get it, like under a bush or the trampoline. I’d have to tell her, “I can’t get that. Bring me the ball.” She’d then bring it to me, smug and satisfied that she’d made me beg.

In the Fall of 2010, at the age of twelve, Mari had some cancerous growths removed. She came through the procedure with flying colors, but we felt that we were maybe heading into the home stretch. The vet told us to wait and see, and that she might have a nice and happy several months ahead. She did have a nice stretch, but we took her back to the vet in early February 2011 when several lumps reappeared. The vet told us what we had already intuited: the end was rapidly approaching. Still, she was pretty much her normal self for a while, even cavorting and ball-fetching after the great 20″ Blizzard of February 2011. Mariana and I went to L.A. for a wedding on the last weekend of February, leaving Mari in the care of our two boys. We were nervous that she would take a turn for the worse while we were gone, but, again, she was fine.

You hear stories of death being deferred until the return of loved ones. I’m convinced that that was the case with Mari; we returned home on Sunday night and she started vomiting on Tuesday night. Bad timing: our vet is never in his office on Wednesdays (his assistants do office work there for a few hours) and we sure as hell weren’t going to take Mari anywhere else. We made an appointment for Thursday morning. In the meantime, she stopped eating, barking, and, eventually even stopped drinking water. She also was having a progressively harder time moving around. The vomiting continued every few hours; we sometimes succeeded in getting her outside for that. As I write this (3/27/11), there are still a few remnants of her getting sick in the back yard. Is it weird to wax nostalgic over some fading traces of dog puke? Guilty as charged….

Thursday morning came, and knowing what was about to transpire was a very surreal feeling. And incredibly sad, too. Mari was so weak at this point that I had to assist her into the car. The five minutes in the car weakened her to the point where she had to be carried into the office. She was lying on the table like a sack of potatoes when the vet came in to briefly discuss what we had decided to do. He agreed with the decision and then gave her a shot of some kind of relaxant “to take the edge off” (not there was any) and that he’d come back into the room in a few minutes. I held Mari’s paw and looked into her eyes for much of this time. My intention was to attempt to give her comfort, but I soon realized that the Mari that I knew was longer there: she had really been gone for about 36 hours and what remained was merely a remnant. As I stared into her eyes for the last time, I felt that she was telling me that this was the right thing to do, and that if she couldn’t chase a ball, bark at cats or lick our plates, well, then what was the point? I took comfort from that, and she had turned the tables on me for the last time, like getting me to fetch the ball for her. She was a clever vixen. The vet came back and gave her an overdose of barbiturates. He had always commented on her amazingly strong heart, and, poof…..just like that (maybe two minutes) it was beating no more.

Poof: Mari be Gone.  Here is my cue to be tying  things up in a tidy bow, replete with pithy observations on mammalian themes. I’ve never been all that good at that kind of stuff. I will say that our dear doggie still has a residual effect on my everyday rhythm: I start to make sure that we’ll have time for a walk, I expect to hear her come trotting into the kitchen within seconds of slicing an apple or peeling an orange, I glance down at the spot where her water bowl always sat: stuff like that. I never realized how ingrained she was to our household dynamic, even though it should have been obvious: Mari spent more time in our house in the last 12 years than did any of the resident humanoids.

Mari was a wonderful and surprising blessing in my life, and I’ll always miss her and recall her fondly. It’s goofy, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of her red rubber toy that was used to chase each other around the yard. It remains in its usual place on the garage window sill, ready for use. Somehow, though, I don’t think that I can convince Luke or Charlie into displaying the same enthusiasm for it that Mari had.

And hello again.

I’d like to wax prosaic on another aspect of my life as a musician: that of being employed in the orchestra pits of theatrical extravaganzas.

Believe me when I say that being a pit musician was not high on my list of goals when I set out to be an Artiste.  Being a dyed-in-the-wool Jazz Snob, I amassed a list of all the Groovy Cats in Chicago that I would call when I decided to move there from NYC in 1993. Waaaaay down towards the bottom was a Contractor named Anita Smith. I had grudgingly put her on my list at the insistence of a drummer that I did a gig with in the waning days of my Big Apple period. I got got a call from said drummer a few weeks after having moved to Chicago. “Hey man, have you called Anita yet? I told her about you and she wants you to call her”. It seemed that none of the usual suspects were available to sub on the Key 3 book for “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” (starring Donny Osmond) and they were desperately seeking a warm keyboard body for a particular date. I came, I saw and I didn’t totally screw it up, thereby earning me a place on the Sacred List of Acceptable Subs. And there I’ve remained; making my mark on shows like The Lion King, Wicked, Spamalot, Les Miz, The King and I, Hot Mikado, Elton John’s Aida, and many others with a lot of the same notes.

It eventually occurred to me that theater musicians are asked to do something that other musicians are not: play the same music the exact same way, usually eight times a week for an extended period of time, sometimes lasting for years. So, considering my jazz background (where I play notes of my own choosing, and, if I happen to revisit a tune that I had recently played, I try to make the new version different in some way than the previous versions), I’m often asked questions when I’m in the run of a show like “How can you stand it?” “Aren’t you bored out of your skull?” “I bet you can’t wait until the run is over, huh?” My answers might surprise you. But first, let me back up a little.

One early vision of my career had me touring with either Miles Davis or Joe Henderson. That never panned out, and since they have both demised, I hope that it’s a very long time before I connect up with either of them. The realization sunk in that not every gig would provide me with the forum to make Jazz History. Two choices became apparent: Play in a wider range of settings and support myself solely as a musician, or find another means of support to enable me to only play gigs of my choosing. I chose the former.

As I found myself playing in different musical situations, I began to assess the various factors that justified my having accepted any given engagement. I call one method “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad”:

1. Is the music enjoyable/stimulating/challenging/well-executed?

2. Am I being financially compensated to my satisfaction?

3. Am I in the company of people whom I enjoy/respect?

If the answer to all three is “Yes”, then we have a Lottery-Winning situation here. Two “Yes” answers ain’t bad. One “Yes” is better than a sharp stick in the eye, so the one affirmative needs to be pretty much be off the charts to prevent sadness. Zero “Yes” answers: Kill Me; Kill Me Now.

The overall issue in any musical situation should be this: Is this gig giving me the chance to become a better musician? Expand my repertoire? Pose technical challenges? Allow me to collaborate with musicians who will make me surprise myself? But I digress, as I warned you.

My answer to the question of “Don’t you dislike playing a show where you have to do the exact same thing over and over?” is “No, I don’t dislike it.” And here’s why: I always strive to play my part perfectly, and, if I set the bar high enough, I know that I’ll only be able to get close to perfection on rare occasions and will never actually achieve it. This mindset is diametrically opposed to my usual philosophy of “Low expectations yield low disappointment”, but it’s the healthiest way for me to approach things, once I’ve made peace with the fact that this is an exercise in craftsmanship and not creativity.

There are literally thousands of notes to be played during the course of a typical evening in the orchestra pit. Let’s envision a performance where I’ve pushed down and released all of the right notes and none of the wrong ones. Well, Mazel Freaking Tov to me: Perfect Show, right? Oh, so wrong. There are a lot of other requirements to be made of Synthesizer Man:

PEDAL TO THE METAL-One way to control the volume is with a volume pedal. My most recent show used a pedal that was linked up to a meter that ranged from zero (softest) to 127 (loudest).  My book will likely contain hundreds of different volume pedal markings, many of which will have to be accessed in a fraction of a second. It’s a tall order to achieve perfection here from start to finish.

KISS OR SMACK?-Another way to vary the volume is the velocity with which my fingers strike the keys. I need to be sensitive to the subtle differences that separate each step between pianissimo and fortissimo.

BATONICAL GUARDIANS-The conductor is responsible for keeping all musical things as cohesive as possible. Have I kept an eye on the podium as much as possible, and have I been able to accurately interpret the intentions of the conductor, even if he/she/other appears to be stirring a giant cauldron of chowder or dealing with a shirt that has suddenly caught on fire?

SAFE IN SOUND-A synth player has to be prepared to play a wide variety of sounds (“patches”, as we call them in the biz), and very few of them are likely to sound like a piano. They can sound like another instrument (violin, trumpet, harp) or they can sound like some mysterious noise that is not found in Nature. Depending on the patch (and who programmed it), it might take a fraction of a second longer to actually produce a sound as compared to the instant response of a piano. Each patch has its own quirks that need to be dealt with in order to make them have the desired effect. But I’m getting ahead of myself, yet again:

PATCHWORK MANAGEMENT-My book might require me to change patches several HUNDRED times during the course of a performance. These have been thoughtfully programmed into the keyboard in proper order by some geek whom I’ve likely never met. When I’m done with one patch, I advance to the next one by clicking a foot pedal. Every so often I find myself on the wrong patch. This would be due to one of the following reasons:

1. I forgot to click the pedal.

2. The pedal didn’t advance when I clicked it.

3. The pedal double-clicked and skipped the desired patch.

There is always some kind of visual readout that will tell me which patch I’m on. It’s a really good idea to always double-check on this, rather than relying on the assumption that everything went according to plan. I learned this lesson the hard way one night when I subbed on “Joseph”:

It was time for Donnie Osmond’s big song. He was standing in jail (hands on bars), wearing only a loincloth and a very serious expression. The song started with just me, hitting two notes on a patch called “Mellow Strings” (or something like that). I had discovered that, in order to get the right sound, I needed to smack the notes with a lot of oomph; really put my back into it.  Well, on this particular night a gremlin got into the patch-change pedal and skipped ahead to the next patch. As luck would have it, this subsequent patch was called “Fanfare”: markedly different from Mellow Strings, no? I brought my hand onto the keyboard in the appropriate fortissimo fashion, only to be greeted by the sound of a jillion fake brass players on steroids. I immediately started gushing flop sweat, and I was later told that Donnie started laughing, somewhat at odds with the intended mood. It was not my finest moment. I was later talked off the ledge by Bob Sutter, who told me how entertaining this was to the rest of the band (as are most accidental deviations), and John Kornegay consoled me with the following words (which I use on other people every chance I get): “Everyone said that they hardly noticed”.

PLAYS WELL WITH OTHERS-Perhaps the most challenging and most important skill for the Synth Stylist is the ability to blend in with the other instruments that the synth is attempting to imitate. As I mentioned earlier, it can be tricky to get certain patches to “speak” precisely how you’d like them to, and to seamlessly phrase with other instruments is always the goal. There’s a lot of subtext at work here: A brass, string or wind player is always going to prefer playing in a section with others of their breed. First, it’s easier for instruments to sync up when they’re all producing sound in a similar way. Second, it’s very likely that the presence of a synthesizer means that economics have prevented the hiring of additional brass, string or wind players, and that can be a touchy subject. I once tried to joke to a violinist that the presence of a large string section on a particular show had taken work away from a lot of synthesizer players. She wasn’t amused.

So, there you have it: Far more insight into the mind of a Broadway keyboard player than you’ll ever need. I guess my point is that there is much more to a successful performance than the accurate execution of the notes. And the pursuit of excellence within these various parameters is what helps me avoid the potential tedium of having to reproduce the exact same performance numerous times on end.

A significant portion of my storied career has been devoted to the service of providing piano accompaniment to singers who are auditioning for a part in a musical production. Repeated exposure to these situations has led me to mentally index a series of “Dos” and “Don’ts”. The following is my helpful attempt to articulate these observations for the world to see, and will take the viewpoint of me speaking directly to the implied singer. Recognize and enjoy.

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So you’re auditioning for a musical? The producers have spared no expense in enlisting my services to assist you in this regard, so it looks like you and I will be making beautiful music together. The smoother things go for me, the better you’re going to sound. Trust me, we’re going to get through this thing together–yes, we are–if you’re willing to help me help you.

So what are you going to sing? First, I don’t recommend that you sing a capella. I shouldn’t be saying this, because for every song that I don’t play my per-song rate increases. That notwithstanding, the Creative Team wants to hear you sing with accompaniment because their show will probably have some kind of accompaniment (i.e. a band). This is not “American Idol”. If you choose to sing alone–even with an accompanist present–the Creatives will subconsciously put you in the category of “Does Not Play Well With Others”, and that, my friend, goes on your permanent record.

So now you need to start thumbing the sheet music for the 750 songs that you know. What? You only know 675 songs? Well, then I have one word of advice: learn more songs.  In what style is the score of the show for which you hope to land that big part? Hint: if the show is Carousel, don’t sing a song by Radiohead. If the show is Rent, don’t sing a song from Naughty Marietta. Oh, you’d be surprised. Or not. Your song doesn’t have to be from the show, or even by the same composer; just in a similar style. That way, the Creatives can more easily decide whether you’re a good fit for the style of show that they’ll be doing.

Ok, you’ve got it down to two songs that you think are perfect, and you’re only supposed to sing one. Let me help you decide: Look at the music for each song. Which one has more ink on it? Choose the other one. More ink=more notes. More notes means more chances for me to mess up. Play the odds. Also, chances are that the notier piece of music is also trickier for you to sing. The Creatives aren’t looking to hear how tricky a song you can navigate; they want to hear you sing in an uncluttered setting. Another factor: look in the upper left corner of the music. See those things that look lower-case b’s or tic-tac-toe signs? Those are flats and sharps, and they indicate the key signature, or what key your song is in. Any more than four or five of these automatically puts it into the category of “Pain in the Toochus.” One exception with this “More ink vs. less ink” approach: a lead sheet will certainly have less ink than another piece of music. But don’t bring in a lead sheet. A lead sheet just has the melody and chord symbols written out. If your pianist has a jazz, pop or rock background, you’ll probably be ok. But if the pianist comes from a classical or theater background, he/she will have a hard time interpreting a lead sheet and will quietly seethe resentful-flavored vibes.  Make sure that the accompaniment is written out, preferably with the lyrics written in. If you’re still in doubt, find a pianist some time before your audition to see which one will be easier to navigate. You shouldn’t have to pay money to get this information; any pianist should be glad to offer this very small favor.

All-righty: You’ve picked the perfect song. Let’s talk about what these pieces of paper should look like: road map feng shui. The easiest thing for me to read is something that starts at the beginning and keeps going straight to the end. Logical, right? Much easier on the eyes (and brain) than “Start here, go to there, then go back to here, then jump two pages and play to here, then go back to here and take the coda.” Seriously? Do me a favor: copy, cut and paste your song so that it just reads straight down. That’ll make me happy. I ask so little. If you can’t avoid all of this jumping around (which you can, but never mind), then marking the various landmarks in color or with stickies will help things substantially. Also, highlighting landmarks like tempo changes and key changes is very helpful. A confession: I know ahead of time that I’ll likely not absorb every single marking on your music, so I decide (on the fly) the ones on which to concentrate or ignore. My eye will naturally be drawn in by the allure of another color. I’m easily amused.

Can you feel the excitement building? We’re almost at the part where you actually get to audition. Just a few little tidbits: The best way to present your music is in a binder. Loose sheets of paper tend to collapse and fall off the piano at the worst moments. And take a look at this paper. Did your copy cut off the notes at the bottom of the page (thanks, Shawn Stengel)? You may not like the ones that I guess. Is it a fifth-generation copy so that the ink is all washed out and barely legible? If so, is that good or bad: what do you think? Has it been all wadded up? Are there huge scratched-out sections? Are there several different sets of indications based on whether it’s a 32-bar cut or an extended version? If you hand me music that looks like a dog’s breakfast, you are opening yourself up for a world of pain.

The moment of truth has arrived and you’ve walked into the scary room, trying to establish a memorable, positive first impression. Here is my only piece of non-musical advice: Don’t be a Hand Shaker. It adds unnecessary time to the process, and the Creatives have a lot of people to see and hear. Do you see that big bottle of Purell on the table? That will be used after the Hand Shaker has left the room.

So now it’s time for our little meeting. You’ll have a few seconds to pass along any verbal info that you deem important. Obviously, it helps me to know about any dramatic tempo changes or strange cuts. But it can also be helpful for you to be able to succinctly describe the overall feel of the song. It doesn’t even have to be in musical terms: aggressive, bouncy, introspective, somber, etc. Adjectives are your friend, particularly in a song that might lend itself to a variety of treatments.

I’ll likely ask you for your tempo if you don’t give it to me. This is sometimes trickier than it seems. What I don’t want is to hear the first melodic phrase compressed to quadruple-speed. Think of the wordiest phrase in your song, and then sing it to me (softly) as though you were performing it. This is very helpful to me, and I think that it helps you in putting away any jitters and concentrating on the task at hand.

Ok….it’s Magic Time! Hopefully, you have heeded my advice and taken steps to maximize our musical rapport. I will try like hell to follow you all over the page and make you sound like a million bucks.  Much as I’d like to, though, I cannot promise perfection. Mistakes, by one or both of us, may happen. It would be great, if you hear something that you weren’t expecting, if you could be a trouper and keep moving forward. As a matter of fact, the Creatives will be impressed that you were able to handle a curveball and keep your poise. If they even notice, that is. It’s a sure bet that they will notice if you get all vibey by shooting a dirty look at me or stomp your foot in your desired tempo.

There: we did it! You did it! Now you’re done, and will soon come back to the piano to collect your music. And, when you do, make your grandmother proud: a simple “thank you” to the piano player is appreciated more than you know.

I’ll see you next time.

My piano teacher in college was Jaki Byard, and he was a huge influence on me. I’ve covered this subject in detail on my website (http://www.kahnman.com/byard.php). When he was shot to death by a knucklehead who had come his door (yet another story) in 1999, I had only been in touch with him once in the previous 19 years. Yet, even with such limited contact, he was never far from my thoughts. I therefore felt a strong pull to attend his memorial service at St. Peter’s in Manhattan, and made the journey from Chicago in order to be there.

Despite the deep sadness of the occasion, I was immediately glad that I had decided to go. I saw a lot folks for the first time in ages, and there were a lot of moving tributes, both musical and verbal.  When it came time for the Apollo Stompers (Jaki’s big band) to play, the original plan had been to leave the piano chair vacant. Logical enough. But, at the last minute, my old pal (and sax/flute maven) Jed Levy asked if I would sit in with them. Extremely surprised and extremely touched, I of course agreed.

The Stomper’s first tune was Jaki’s arrangement of “I May Be Wrong (But I Think You’re Wonderful)”, or, as Groucho Marx called it, “I May Be Wonderful But I Think You’re Wrong.”  Since some band members were taking a while to locate their parts, I was instructed to take a chorus by myself as an intro. As I happily plowed my way through the tune and approached the last few bars, it became evident that there were some players who still hadn’t located the music. Someone on the bandstand yelled, “Take another chorus!”.  I obliged.

It struck me that this was a deliciously Jaki-like moment: Absurdly spontaneous, loose and anarchic, yet doing the music no disservice whatsoever. I pictured Jaki, chuckling in his high-pitched and staccato style, and instructing me in his Worcester accent, “Take anuthah one.” I think that I played with the band for the rest of their little set; I don’t remember.

Is there a moral to this tale? I don’t know. Maybe this: Never pass up a chance to go to a funeral. You just never know what might go down.