Emma Blake dares say...
Saturday, 22 June 2013
It’s all over for David Dinsmore. Come Monday, he’ll be
the new Editor of The Daily Tits (aka The Sun), and as he has gone into
print to say: “"there's no better job in journalism" I guess the only
way from there for him is down.
I’d
like to think that if I were a journalist, I would be aiming a little higher,
something along the lines of a Robert Fisk, or Anne Leslie, but then again, it
seems that at least these days, what most people believe to be aiming “high” is
highly relative.
Way
back in the 1990s when I was a “sassy and risk-taking” chick jazz singer on the
London ‘scene’, and politicians were all still people who were older than me, I
received a call from a piano player who was looking for someone to do a duo gig
with him at some restaurant up in Hampstead.
“What’s the money?” Was my first
question.
“£70.
Plus they’ll feed us” he said.
“Lemme
check my diary and get back to you.” I said.
I
then called around my musician friends to ask about this guy. I’d never heard
of him, so I needed to know if he was any good; could he read, could he keep
time – that sort of thing. Nobody had heard of him however, and couldn’t give
me any kind of a steer as to what to expect. Finally, I called my usual bass
player and he exploded into laughter on the other end of the ‘phone.
“Ha
ha! He’s TERRIBLE!” He chuckled.
“Oh
God...” I began.
“Take
the gig, Em...” he carried on, “you’ll be ok. He knows a few chords and you’re
good enough to busk it to keep it together, but just don’t look at him when
you’re singing or you’ll wet yourself.”
“Why?”
I asked, desperate.
“I’m
not going to tell you. Best you find out for yourself, but just remember, I
warned you...”
And
with that, he left me to call the guy back to confirm.
I
confirmed.
I
showed up professionally early to the gig in my little black Mini Mayfair with
my charts (music) and my mic stand and my honed professional manner. He was
already in a state. Nerves. Panic. Fumbling with the leads on the back of his
keyboard, dropping stuff. I waited until he was completely ready before
plugging my mic in to his amp to soundcheck in the last three minutes before we
were actually due to hit.
Halfway
through the first number, I couldn’t resist a peek to see what was going on
behind me when he took his solo. He was like Animal at the drum kit on The
Muppets. Flailing, hammering, sweating, gurning. He looked like he was giving
birth to a wasps’ nest. It was a sight to behold. Sometimes the lower lip was
almost touching the keys, I was fairly sure he went cross-eyed at one point.
The point though, was that the impression he gave to the audience was that
playing the piano was the most difficult thing in the entire world.
Meanwhile, I was up at the mic giving the impression that singing complex rhythms, stretching phrasing, improvising, and providing hook after hook for this lunatic to keep to the beat was the easiest thing in the world.
I have never been so exhausted in my life. It was an ordeal. Singing percussively and snapping my fingers and beating my bangles on the mic stand in such a way that this berk could keep up and sound halfway listenable had all but wrung me out, but all the while, my smooth jazzness and my smug jazz grin never wavered. Not once. Brought up in a theatrical family, to let the audience “see the wheels going ‘round” in a performance was akin to drowning kittens down the bog. Anathema. Unspeakable. No matter what is going on, you present a professional front to the audience.
When it was all over, I staggered to the bar for a bucket of Merlot.
To my annoyance, I watched as
members of the audience lined up to congratulate HIM on his “amazing”
performance and offered to buy him drinks. Not one of the bastards offered one
to me.
It was a salient lesson. That night, I learned that very few people out there seem to be able to tell the difference between good, mediocre, and downright appalling. It seems the fact that anyone can get up on stage and do anything at ALL seems to please most people to the point of pant-wetting amazement.
I learned too, that if you strive for perfection, if you work to be the best you
can be, if you practice and rehearse and try stuff and reject stuff before you
present it, be sure you understand you’re doing it for yourself alone. If
anyone notices, that’s nice, but essentially, the only person it’s going to
matter to... is you.
If
however, you're one of the rare and wonderful people who does notice,
and delight in it when someone has gone to the bother of learning their craft
in the service of your entertainment, no need for a fanfare, or even a song and
dance; just buy ‘em a drink.
Posted by Emma Blake at 13:45
