Road Stories

For close to 25 years Linda and I roared across the country playing anywhere from 4-8 concerts per week. Some of our tours were over ten weeks long, which is 80 days. We both had 80 pairs of underwear, 100 pairs of socks, 80 Tee shirts, 70 or so concert shirts, and more of the like, all to cover the long trips. 

So the topic here is - laundry.

We didn't have time to stop in laundromats every two weeks. Linda would need 6 washing machines and 8 dryers, meaning that everyone else in these places would get mad at her (and me) for "hogging" them. So we finally found the solution: put the laundry into boxes and send it all home.

So for years we knew where all the UPS and FedEx places were in towns we went to all. We'd come roaring in with laundry stuffed into Walmart bags, the people at the counter would shove them into boxes and off they'd go. And off we'd go in the direction of the gig that night.

Of course when we'd finally get home months later, there' be a neatly piled stack of FedEx boxes on our porch. Linda would be on laundry patrol as we both unloaded our little motor home and simultaneously repacked it for the next tour leaving in two days. I played an average of 250 performances every year during these times.

I look back now on this long and thunderous career and thank the lucky stars for all that was thrown at us in those days. Now I'm semi retired. No more long trips. My next gig is right here in Lapeer in about 3 weeks, and it already seems like a long drive to me. I like my cabin and recliner. I like to sit on the porch and have a tomato, or maybe watch for our resident fox to go buy. Sometimes we go down to the river and hang out for few hours. Last week a bald eagle was circling above us, scoping the river for an errant fish dinner.

80 pairs of underwear. I'm reminded of it every morning when I pull the drawer out and see them all neatly stacked in there by Linda. May the saints be praised for keeping us safe all during that million miles we drove. Thanks for reading. 

The event started off with a Social Hour including cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, and I met some very nice people during this time. Dressed casually, they didn't seem to look or talk the narrative of the newspaper. They seemed totally normal. I didn't hear any talk of politics at all, rather they were speaking of their families, pets, recent trips they'd been on, and things of that order. One guy mentioned the surprise birthday party for his wife. There was no talk of money or wealth. I started thinking that they could easily have phoned each other for "taking over the world" policies, and really didn't need to travel thousands of mile to be together in beautiful surroundings like this. 

I played about a 20-30 minute performance before dinner and was preparing to leave, but one man invited me to join them at their table. 

I noticed that none of these people were wearing flashy dress clothes, it was all "business casual." Also, no one was discussing business, money, or "how to take over Montana" at the table. They were all relating a trip to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, their cabin in the Adirondacks, or something like that. One brief conversation I remember went like this:

JP: "Hey Max: how's that scholarship fund you set up going? I'm thinking of setting one up myself."

Max: "It's going great. We give out fifty full scholarships a year to the college of your choice, and they're all snapped up pretty fast."

JP: "Are there any qualifications to get a scholarship?"

Max: "There's two. 1) you wouldn't be able to afford to go to college without having some help, and 2) the recipient is totally unknown to me."

JP: "Unknown to you? Is that to avoid..."

Max: "Correct. There's no favoritism here. We don't care who you are, just have ambition and need. That's all."

JP: "Nice. I like it. I'm going to do the same."

 Realizing there was a dance band following the dinner and no further meetings tomorrow, I found myself wondering when they were going to get to the "new world order" stuff. About halfway through dinner I finally decided to find out what was going on. I turned to the man sitting next to me and said,

"Sir, may I ask you a question?"

"Of course," he answered. "What is it?"

I asked, "Sir, what is a 'power broker?'"

He took a moment to munch and ponder. I realized I was sitting in the "motherload" of CEOs in the country, so would finally find out what this phrase meant. 

I remained quiet as the man to my right pondered and munched. I imagined he was thinking about financing a politician for high office, or maybe telling some park authority they were going to drill on their land whether they liked it or not. I wondered if it would be something like, "Well son, there's certain things you have to do in business that the public in general doesn't understand..." I was prepared for anything.  But then he turned towards me and said...

"I don't know."

I was stunned. This man, advertised as a
Power Broker" by all the leading media of the entire state I was in, had no idea what the phrase meant. 

With the words "I don't know," I suddenly realized just how deep the depths of deceit lay in the media press and television stations. There was no meaning to "Power Broker." The media had implanted in me the fear of drilling on the park land or trying to buy influence. The "Power Broker" phrase was invented by the media to denigrate a certain class of people who, as I could plainly see, were doing nothing but having a pleasant party with their friends. I had already learned about some of their businesses and realized they weren't harmful in any way, but the "greedy media" (now there's a term to ponder) wanted to increase profits by selling more papers or increasing their ratings, even if it meant by slandering decent people. 

"The Greedy Media..."

Once I saw this first hand, today I notice the same disgusting pattern continuing in all forms of media...

-- "talking heads denigrating local or national figures"

-- "cherry picked comments that give false meanings to the actual statements

-- outright lies that take much research before realizing they're lies

-- false political polls attempting to sway the vote

 I am helpless to do anything to stop this media greed - yes, GREED! - other than to tell this story that came from having mingled with the motherload of "Power Brokers" across the country who happened to be the nicest and most generous group of people I've ever known. 

"I don't know..."  

p.s. I could tell endless stories like this because I played for at least 100 similar events. 

   We didn't own our motor home until 1999, so before that we travelled in an aging Chevy Caprice. Concert hosts would put us up in B&Bs, hotel rooms, or occasionally in someone's house. It was in "someone's house" (including finding it) that this wild episode took place. 

I played a concert at the Hotel Syracuse in 1997. Built in 1924, this magnificent building was from the era of the famous Algonquin Hotel in New York, Sagamore Lodge of the Adirondacks, or the Mohonk Mountain House in the Hudson Valley. The Hotel Syracuse was of the same generation and reputation as all the great hotels, and was a "must go" place for all the big bands of the era. We learned that ragtime was played extensively during the hotel's heyday, and that Glenn Miller, Harry James, and all the big name bands had been featured in the Persian Terrace Ballroom decades ago, the same ballroom I would be playing when we got there. We were off to a slice of history in the making.  

Upon arrival our hosts informed us that "Tom and Jane" had volunteered their spare bedroom for us to stay in. Our hosts found them in the bar having refreshments when we arrived. When we were introduced, Tom called me "Bill" several times before getting my name right. (I sometimes get called "Bill" because my last name has some of the same syllables in it, plus combined with the "B" from Bob. "Bill." Get it?) Since the waiter was there, Jane offered us a drink before the concert started. We declined, so they ordered another round for themselves. 

The concert was going great. I received wonderful responses from the audience, and one time noticed Tom and Jane actually setting their drinks down just long enough to applaud with the others. 

When the concert was over we were informed that Tom and Jane would be riding with us because "neither of them drove." (That should have been our first clue but we missed it). We said there was no problem with that because they would simply guide us to their house. So off we went into the night with Tom in the front passenger seat and Linda and Jane in the back. This was our first trip to Syracuse and the old buildings were a glorious throwback to years gone by, just like the glorious ballroom we'd just left.

"Turn right at the next light," said Tom. I couldn't help but notice the 20's architecture of the building on the corner, and the art deco siding still on it. I followed Tom's directions as he steered me down the old streets and through the old neighborhoods. About 15 minutes later Tom said,

"Turn right at the next light."

As I turned I noticed the same 20s building and art deco walls going past me again. I thought this was strange but kept driving. (Had I taken a wrong turn and gone in a circle?) I could hear Jane in the backseat saying to Linda, "Why the concert was just wonderful, Linda..."  I looked up to see the Hotel Syracuse going by on my left. About 10 minutes later Tom said,

"Turn right at the next light, Bob...," and again I saw the same art deco walls going past me. I started to wonder just what in the world was going on. I'd been driving already for 20 minutes.

This time we wound through a different neighborhood and eventually Tom pointed to a house and told us to pull into the driveway. Although by this time I wondered if he even knew if this was indeed his house, I pulled in. There was no car in the driveway. (This, along with the 35 minute drive to get here, should have been our next clue, but we missed it again). 

"Why the concert was just wonderful, Linda..."

Tom had a little difficulty getting up the stairs to his porch but managed somehow. It seems that the booze they'd been drinking earlier was catching up. On the fourth try he got the key to fit the door. 

"Welcome to our humble abode," he said. "Your room is at the top of the stairs."

The bedroom was the size of a closet that had been built into the slant of the roof. It was big enough for a bed and not much more. We had to wait for Tom and Jane to catch up with us because they had some difficulty getting up the stairs. When they finally arrived they informed us that, unfortunately, there was no heat in this room. Linda and I assumed that the steam radiators we saw in plain sight must be non working, and that the thermostat was just for decoration. Jane said they'd "see us in the morning for breakfast" and they departed. As they tripped over their own feet going out the door, we wondered if we'd hear them go crashing head over heels down the staircase but fortunately that didn't happen. 

After they left I turned up the thermostat. We heard the radiators starting to creak and groan as hot water made its way into them. 

Then we discovered our bed had been "short sheeted." (Remember from scout camp days when we'd short-sheet someone's bed by doubling up the sheet to only reach halfway?) Well, that was the case when our feet wouldn't go past the center of the bed once we crawled in. We crawled back out. Linda took the bed apart and put it together the way it should have been done in the first place and we finally were able to crawl in.

The heat from the radiators wasn't enough to make up for the fact that there were no blankets on the bed. I remember trying to wrap the sheet around me twice for warmth, but that deprived Linda of any sheet at all. We shivered through the night as the radiators began hissing from heat not known to them for decades.  

The next morning we woke up to the sound of thunder and a torrential rainstorm. We went downstairs to find Tom cooking eggs and sausage on the stove while Jane was drinking orange juice and staring out the window. She offered orange juice to Linda. Tom handed me a cup of coffee. It was stone cold. 

"How do you like your eggs?" asked Tom. I wondered why he asked because he was scrambling them in the pan. I replied something about "medium." He smiled and kept on stirring. I kept on staring at the pans of sausage and eggs, and wondering when he was going to turn the heat on underneath them. It was a gas range and there was no fire under the pans. He kept stirring the eggs and rolling the sausages with a spatula while espousing how much he enjoyed the concert. 

Jane was staring out the window at I don't know what, because the downpour was such that water covering the window made it impossible to see anything at all outside. The window looked like swimming underwater and trying to look up beyond the surface. 

"You have a beautiful day to drive home in" she said, while taking another sip of orange juice.

Linda was trying to get my attention and was pointing to the orange juice. "Vodka!" she whispered to me. "It's got vodka in it!"

Tom continued to stir the eggs with a spatula and talk about the Maple Leaf Rag while I continued to stand there wondering when and if he would ever turn on the gas. Something inside warned me not to remind this guy of this enormous act of drunkenness and stupidity. I continued to stand there holding the stone cold coffee and wondering how it was that fate had brought us to these people who, we would later learn, were such stone alcoholics that their car had been seized by the authorities to keep them off the streets. A voice seemed to come from somewhere unknown...

"You have a beautiful day to drive home in..."

Linda was looking at me in amazement while Tom was pouring the raw eggs into a dish and the raw sausage onto a plate. Linda suddenly yelled at me,

"Oh my god, Bob! Christine's got an emergency at home! We have to leave!"

I yelled something or other in response as Tom was setting the sausage and eggs down on the table. Since our bags were packed and sitting at the bottom of the stairs, we grabbed them, yelled some sort of apology for having to leave like this, and ran straight out the door. On the way out we heard,

"You have a beautiful day to drive home in." 

We threw the Chevy Caprice into reverse and peeled rubber out the driveway. I remember we turned to my left and took off down the street, neither of us having any idea of where we were or which way we were going. We were lost in the neighborhood for a while until finally stumbling into a gas station. Someone told us how to get to the turnpike and we took off in that direction. The downpour continued for at least fifty miles until we drove out of it. I remember looking in the rearview mirror and shivering at the thought of where we'd just left and what we'd just been through. 

To this day I can clearly see the disgusting sausage and eggs, and her sitting over by the rain-blasted window saying, 

"You have a beautiful day to drive home in..." 

We prayed that we'd never see anything like this ever again. 

End of Story

The Show Must Go On... 

(even if you're sick as a dog)

This is a long article as I'm writing it for my online autobiography. I hope you are able read it and learn something about surviving in this business.

How do you play a concert when you're sick? Well, I'm thinking of the time in Florida when I had food poisoning following a Sunday night dinner at a local place in Jupiter, Florida. I had it bad. I would learn that they'd undercooked the shrimp, which are bottom dwellers and eat all kinds of stuff you don't want to know about. But the problem was this: my schedule for the week was:

1) Monday night concert at a high end retirement home. (Jerry Seinfeld's mother lived there and I'd always talk to her before performing.)

2) Tuesday evening teaching an adult education class to 400 people at a university. They'd all paid in advance.

3) Wednesday night at another high end seniors community outside of Boca Raton. This was a place I played at every year and people drove in from long distances to attend.

4) Thursday teaching a daytime class in Sarasota, followed by an evening performance at a gated community club.

5) Friday: go back to the east side of Florida and put on a pool/piano exhibition for a private club. (I was a semi-professional pool player in those days, so would combine a pool exhibition with a piano sitting next to it.)

6) Saturday: Two sold out performances at a northern Florida concert hall, one in the afternoon, the second in the evening.

7) Sunday:  Two sold out performances at a synagogue, also in northern Florida and again in afternoon and evening. 

The solution? Go out onto the stages and play the performances. Linda would arrange for couches just offstage where I could crash during intermission and afterwards. My strength level was still very weak from the poisoning, and in fact Linda had to drive our little motorhome from place to place so I could sleep in the back and build up strength. The next day, Monday, my gig was only 30 minutes away. I slept until 5:00 in the afternoon. No, I couldn't eat dinner and had skipped everything during the day, only drinking water. So here goes.

1)  I had no idea when I'd be feeling better, and the 1 hour Monday night went fast and easy, other than I felt like crap. I said "hello" to Mrs. Seinfeld at the beginning but disappeared after the performance back into our little mobile home. (It was nicknamed "Road Abode"). We drove back to the Home Depot lot in Jupiter (we parked on this lot for many years when in the area.) I hoped I didn't puke in bed.

2)  The Tuesday evening gig was right in Jupiter.  I arrived over an hour early and slept in the green room before the class convened. Teaching the class and playing a few tunes was easier than full length two-hour concerts. I was still very sick, but hoping to feel better in the morning. It didn't happen.

3)  I woke up Wednesday morning feeling even sicker. Had joint pains and upset stomach problems. We went to the next senior's community and I slept for two hours before going inside. Hot and cold flashes were attacking me all the time. On stage I smiled, played hard, and never let on I was sick. (This is something I did every time I didn't feel good. No one should ever attempt to garner the sympathy stuff from the audience. Give them what they came here for. If you can't do that, get off the stage.)

4)  Awoke Thursday morning wondering if I was getting better yet. I wasn't, but still taught the Sarasota class in Florida. I was still sick and couldn't go with our friends to dinner afterwards.  Joint pains still hurting plus the nausea wouldn't go away.  Plus dizziness. I never dreamed I could feel this crappy.

5)  We went back to east Florida and I put on the pool/piano exhibition. Their local hero wanted to play me a game afterwards and he quickly lost. He wanted to play another game but I told them I was on a tight schedule and had to leave. We went out to our van and Linda started driving us to the concert hall 200 miles north for tomorrow's gigs. How long is this poisoning going to last??? I still felt terrible but could only bounce around in the back as Linda navigated construction zones and stop-and-go things where flagmen directed one-way traffic.

6) Saturday I woke up feeling the worst I'd felt all week. I was shaking and weak, but the concert series had advertised me for six months and had sold out in the first two days. I told Linda that once I got onto stage I'd know if I could play it or not. (Incidentally, if I didn't play it this small concert venue had to refund everyone all their money.) We moved into a hotel room near the concert hall when we got into town.  Even though I passed out into the bed upon arriving the night before, I still needed a lot of sleep for the strength to play two 2-hour performances the next day. Two cousins showed up at this concert, so they and Linda arranged for a couch offstage again. I somehow pulled off the afternoon performance. I played the first half, crashed on the couch during the intermission, then played the 2nd half. I was trying my best to be at 100%, but it was brutal playing through the pain, shakiness, and tiredness. And there was another performance coming up at 7:00. Linda drove me back to our hotel where I slept soundly until she woke me up at 6:00.  "It's time. We have to go back..."

The evening performance was the same as the previous one. I have no idea where I got the strength, but possibly the fact that I was on a stage doing what I love to a packed house of many hundreds of people gave me the energy. I managed to finish it somehow.

7)  Sunday: I again woke up still sick. I couldn't believe this thing had poisoned me so bad. We drove 100 miles to the synagogue, again facing afternoon and evening performances. We did the same routine: I slept in the motor home until 5 minutes before start time, then went inside. A lady was present who was a neighbor and classmate of mine when we went to grade school and I hadn't seen since 1953. That helped a little. Again I slept during the intermission, then finished the concert. Again, I couldn't go with our hosts to dinner. Then we returned for the evening performance and...

The sickness lifted. I couldn't believe it. I could feel it "evaporating" from my body. Suddenly I could stand up for more than a few seconds, and somehow I wanted to talk to people. And I became terribly hungry. Incredibly hungry. It seemed like miracle. Seven days of sickness from undercooked shrimp.

This time we went with the hosts for dinner. I think I ate two dinners, it was definitely more than one. My arms had stopped shaking. The joint pain was gone, and when dinner was finished I actually felt like driving again towards the next gig.

I was shaken by this experience and feel lucky to have been able to pull it off. And - I could never eat shrimp again for the next ten years, and when I finally did start I examine them very carefully. Thanks for reading.