In high school I was in two bands.
One was the legitimate and pretty good Nutley High School Cadet Band. I say “pretty good” even though my Dad often said: “Shoot the clarinets!” I was a tenor saxophone player – although “holder”’ is a much more accurate description of my activity. I was a horrible sax guy and hated the instrument. On the other hand, I was an excellent marcher. Four years in high school as a non-playing, fine-marching participant of a group that performed at, among other notable venues, a World’s Fair and, in my senior year, a nationally televised National Football League game between the New York Jets and the Miami Dolphins. The day of the Jets’ game was so cold that the cork onto which my instrument’s mouthpiece was “screwed” froze and cracked. The band was kept “warm” by free hot chocolate as we waited in an area off of one of the end zones. Our stirring performance at halftime featured a marching band arrangement of Sibelius’s “Finlandia.” Unfortunately, at least 75% of the sell-out crowd was safely ensconced in the relative warmth of the inside tiers. Those left in the stands to witness and hear our work were as polite as frozen, semi-drunk New York football fans could be to a New Jersey high school band. But, still, we were there and did it.
Of course, there was no pay involved for the high school band members at the Jets game. It did not bother me; I had already performed at an auspicious sporting event for which I had received monetary compensation. And although the national audience and massive confines of Shea Stadium were impressive, they could not overtake the splendid experience of playing for pay – especially for the first time.
I was 15 years old and a freshman in high school. The sport was baseball - not football. Opening day. Not the Yankees or Mets though. It was the Nutley, New Jersey American Little League opener. Somehow, I have no recollection how or why, we were hired to perform the National Anthem pre-game and play ”Take Me Out to the Ballgame” between innings at the big event. At that time our band consisted of three guys – Vinnie on drums, Michael on electric guitar, and yours truly on piano. Oookaay.
The problems were numerous and obvious. First – Vinnie had no drum set – only a snare and a cymbal. In fact, before he owned any kind of drum, he had honed his skills playing in my basement to Beatles’ songs on my mother’s ironing board – which sounded surprisingly like a snare. Second – I played PIANO. If we were going to do this I needed to get some type of portable electric keyboard. (This was the 1960’s and things like MIDI and other digital music options did not exist.) On the positive side, the Little League officials were providing a generator to run our electric equipment.
Vinnie’s fix was relatively easy and cheap: he could borrow a base drum from a friend. For me the task was more difficult. Electric keyboards were rare in those days and I knew no one I could ask. So, I explored music stores that rented instruments and was able to find a place in Newark where I could rent a 3 and ½ octave electric organ. (Minimum rental term: three months. Monthly rental: $12.00.) I had never played an organ and was completely unfamiliar and uncomfortable with the keyboard “action.” To make matters worse, although we were certainly familiar with the two songs we were hired to play, we did not know how to play them. We could not afford to buy sheet music, so we just figured it out on our own – sort of. We practiced as much as we could and looked forward to our professional debut.
On that great day we arrived early at Reinheimer Field. (Which, apparently, still exists: https://www.facebook.com/NutleyAmericanLittleLeague/timeline) We asked where we should set up and were pointed to a dugout. Vinnie asked, “Are we playing in the dug out?” The response: “No, on top of it.” No prob. We could do it – we were professionals.
Not surprisingly, it took some effort to get everything on the dugout roof and hook up to the power. It was a noisily windy day, we had no monitors, the organ’s internal speakers were, at best, weak and inadequate, and only the guitar had an external amp. To put it simply, Vinnie and Michael could not hear the organ, I could not hear the guitar, and we were merely guessing about tempo. The only thing everyone, including those in the bleachers, had no difficulty hearing - was the cymbal.
The crowd was respectful for our highly symbolic rendition of the National Anthem. Our numerous attempts at the singular remaining piece in our repertoire were, for the most part, ignored (redundantly). The game was played. Parents yelled at coaches, umps, and players. No blood was spilled.
We did not get paid on the spot. Michael was going to retrieve it a few days after the “performance.” Vinnie and I were truly excited when Michael told us that he had received our fee. We went to Mike’s house together, both thinking about the money we were about to get and also the next opportunity for professional musical glory.
Michael greeted us at his back door. He held the cash in his hand. As he threw each one-dollar bill in the air he exclaimed, “One buckaah, two buckaahs, three buckaahs, four buckaahs.” And, alas, no more. We had been paid what was promised – a total of $12.00 - $4.00 each for our professional debut.
Forget that my pay only covered one-ninth of my organ rental. Forget that our performance of two well-known tunes was far, far less than stellar. We had done what we loved and were paid for it. Much, much better than hot-chocolate laced Sibelius on national TV in a New York winter, with cracked corks, frozen turf, and a faceless audience.
