We learned 2 lessons the hard way one evening about 12
years ago at the Red Line Tap: playing
as an opening band there, we’d drawn a pretty respectable crowd of friends and
relations, and so were asked to headline next time. A newly formed bluegrass outfit—Tangleweed—
was slated to open for us. We had a nice
little acoustic band going—The Hacksaw Three we were called—and did a fine job
playing a wide range of covers with a handful originals tossed in for good measure. We mixed up guitars, piano, bass, and even
occasionally mandolin or snare drum and covered everything from the Rolling
Stones and Tom Waits to Schoolhouse Rock and Monty Python. We were, by no
means, however, professionals— neither the band nor anyone in it supported themselves
or made a dime really, apart from a few free drinks at the bar, from making
music. No one had blazing chops, we
rehearsed once a week for a couple of hours at most, and no one was a great
singer: we were (and still are) advanced amateurs. Tangleweed were pros, however: highly skilled
and schooled virtuosic musicians who were good enough to and DID support themselves
by playing in a variety of settings around town, and what they were coming
together to play in this setting was bare white knuckle, lightspeed bluegrass. They not only were virtuoso players, but sang
in harmony, tossed a few killer ballads into their set to make you weep, wrote terrific songs, and, if that weren't bad enough, they were also kind, funny, humble, gracious, and appreciative. They played an intense, high-energy, tight,
flawless, jam packed 50 minute set that left people slackjawed with awe and /
or screaming for more. Then we came on
with our moderate tempo covers and satisfactory but definitely amateur level chops, plain old voices, and
sometimes rattly arrangements and, well… let’s just say we learned in a deep
way:
1.
that a chasm of difference yawns between professionals and us (and other advanced amateurs)
even on our best night, and
2.
that, in simplest terms, you never, ever wanna have a band
that’s better than you open for you.
Still, sometimes my head gets swelled because I’m fortunate
to have many opportunities to play these days and I get to thinking I’m better
than I am. I have a weekly gig playing
bass with a jam band at a bar, am in an acoustic band who rehearses weekly and
gigs every so often, and I live in a house filled with instruments and have many
other chances to jam with friends and interact musically often with my very
musical family— most of whom are, in fact, professional musicians. After a week or two that’s gone particularly well
musically in these various settings, I can start to lose perspective of where I
stand on the spectrum (at advanced amateur, and no farther along-- period), and start to think that I'm pretty hot shit. Then something happens which sets me straight-- the lessons of the Tangleweed debacle have
taken deep enough root in my musical psyche to pay some benefits. First: no matter how swelled my head gets, my bandmates
and I are always very careful to make sure no one whose chops will blow ours
away plays before us on a gig. This usually
means we try to play first on a multi-band bill, which is also good because our
crowd (older now, like us) are not generally late-nighters. This has also put us in the role of the Local
Opener several times recently, and this, I have come to realize, is a role with
a sublime and powerful beauty.
What do I mean by a “Local Opener?” Simply: we are a local band who opens for a
band or musician from out of town who is touring. Our role is to set the musical table for the
evening (usually openers work in similar musical styles or genres as the
touring musicians) and to add some additional local folks to the audience who
might stick around and enjoy the national performer…
I walk in to the bar about 6:15 on Thursday evening this
week schlepping my guitar cases and Aldi bag full of cords, stands, and other crap, excited though a bit flustered to have an extra weeknight gig. We’re the opener, starting at 8. The national
headlining band— The Appleseed Collective, 4 guys— is onstage holding their
instruments, already set up: an acoustic guitar, a mandolin, and stand bass,
and a washboard with cymbals and a few other percussive odds and ends. We introduce ourselves, shake hands, and the
Appleseed guys ask if they can have the stage for another 20 or 30 minutes to rehearse
some stuff. No problem for us, we reply—
we’ll just get a drink, start to unpack and tune up and set up out front, and
then just carry our stuff—tuned and set up— on to the stage when they’re
finished. Some banter and noodling between
the Appleseed guys onstage, then… layers of rich tenor harmonies, intertwining
fiddle, vocal, and guitar lines, shaking grooves from that washboard and
standup bass all come rolling off the stage in waves… and then… whoa… I’m weeping.
They’d spent the afternoon working out the harmonies as they drove, and
now were adding the instrumental parts to the chorus of a new song, and.. well
holy crap the voice of God was pouring out of these 4 guys out on the road
making music together and it was a joyful and breathtaking sound to hear. These fellows were not amateurs. They spent dozens of hours every week honing
their craft, had devoted and given over their lives to the pursuit of beauty,
had chops and vision and battle-hardened stage savvy, and executed with skill
and precision and clarity that clearly demarcated the difference between the
pros and the amateurs. I grinned, happy
and honored to be in the role of the Local Opener, and thus privileged to be
able to witness the Real Deal at work firsthand. “And so basically you just drive around every
day, and then do that at night?” I asked from the floor as they put their stuff
away. A smile, a chuckle, “Um yeah,
basically.” Wiping my eyes, I drop to one knee, bow my head, and
doff my hat.
