by Phil Swann
“That should be interesting.”
He went on, “The rest of her orchestra has been together for years, so you four are the outsiders. Try to fit in.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Levine stood up from the stool and squared off with me. I had to look down to make eye contact with him. “So, here’s the deal, Callaway. I don’t know why Colson insisted I put you on this gig, and I don’t want to know. That jerk had me by the short hairs, so I had no choice. All I care about is you showing up on time, doing your job, and not causing any problems. It’s my reputation on the line, got that?”
“I do.”
“I used to be able to book my own players. Now, I don’t even get to do that. But I’ll tell you what I told Colson. I won’t hesitate for a second to fire you if I hear you’re not delivering the goods. Is that understood?”
“Completely.”
He pulled a sheet of paper from his clipboard and handed it to me. “Here’s the schedule. Star today, guest stars tomorrow, prerecord the next day.” Then he handed me a business card. “Here’s my card. The address of the recording studio is on the back. Put it in your wallet, and don’t lose it. And don’t call me unless it’s an emergency. Show tapes Friday. Questions?”
“Pre-record?” I asked.
“First TV show, huh? That’s just great. Yes, all the music is prerecorded for broadcast, but you still play live. Get it?”
“Got it,” I answered.
“Anything else?” Levin asked.
“Who are the guest stars?”
“Berle, Benny, and Vic Damone.”
“Cool,” I replied.
“Whatever,” he said back.
“So, where are the other musicians?” I asked, scanning the room.
Levin looked at his watch. “You got me. Like I said, Gabriella has had the same band for years. They have their own way of doing things. Who knows, maybe they got lost. It’s their first time in the good ol’ U.S. of A.” He motioned toward the bandstand. “All I care about is the people I’m responsible for are here. That means my job is done.” He put his clipboard in a black satchel and tapped out his smoke in an ashtray sitting on the piano. “Typical union rules apply, breaks, meals, etcetera, and all complaints go through me. So, don’t have any. Have fun, Callaway. Try not to screw up.”
And with those final words of encouragement, Levine waddled away.
I looked over to the bandstand. By Vegas standards it was small, but still a riser with white box stands in front of each chair. The name Gabriella was stenciled in red on the front of each box. I was most surprised by its location, not tucked off to the side out of sight, but dead center on the stage, in front of the cameras. It appeared Yours Truly was going to have his picture taken, and I made a mental note to visit the barber before Friday.
I saw the drummer setting up his kit, and the trombone and wind player already in their seats messing with their horns. The wind player was a girl—a very attractive girl. I also noticed all three were wearing tantalizingly toasty sweaters. This was the cruelest cut of all. Why had they been informed the gig was in Antarctica, and I wasn’t?
I walked over to the bandstand, ascended to the second tier, set down my axe, and plopped into a chair next to the bone player. “Trip Callaway,” I said, extending my frozen hand.
“Daniel Glass,” the man answered, shaking it.
“Nice to meet you, Dan. Can I call you, Dan?”
“Sure, but I might not answer,” he replied with a grin.
I smiled back and nodded. “Daniel, it is.”
He was the sort of fella who wore a smile easily. He was about my age, and though I was no expert on who young ladies might find attractive, I was reasonably certain Daniel Glass had no problems with the fairer sex.
“You know them?” I asked, nodding toward the other two musicians.
“Yeah, we’ve played some dates together. Hey, Sid!” he yelled back to the drummer. “Say hi to…”
“Trip,” I said again.
“Say hi to Trip.”
The strapping young man with close-cropped black hair and the whitest teeth I’d ever seen looked up from his drum kit. He removed a toothpick from between his lips and smiled. “Hiya, Trip,” he said, adding a twirl of a drumstick between his fingers. “Looking forward to playing with you.”
I had no idea if any of these folks could play or not, but they were undoubtedly the best-looking lot of musicians I’d ever run across. I suddenly had the strangest desire to comb my hair. “Same here, Sid,” I replied.
Sid saluted and went back to positioning his cymbals.
“And the girl?” I asked.
“That’s Miriam.”
“She’s lovely.”
“Yes, that she is,” he replied, in a tone that can only be described as wistful. He went on. “And talented too. She can basically play anything, clarinet, sax, oboe, flute, you name it, she’s brilliant at all of them.”
“If she plays trumpet and trombone, you and I are out of a gig.”
He looked at me and smiled. “Oh, she does.”
Seconds later, the lass in question was heading our way. She wasn’t dwarfish, but definitely on the diminutive side. And even though she was a bit boyish in her gait, I found something elegant about her. She wore a black skirt with a white blouse under a gray cardigan. Her hair was dark and pulled back into a ponytail. By Hollywood standards, she might have been described as plain. By Trip standards, I found her impish, plutôt mignon way, quite fetching.
“You going to introduce us, Daniel?” she asked, removing a reed from between her lips.
Before Daniel could respond, she gave me her hand. “I’m Miriam Kaplan,” she said, with a slight accent.
“Trip Callaway,” I replied, shaking it.
“Where you from, Trip?”
“Las Vegas…at least for the last few years.”
“Really? Can a musician make a living in Las Vegas?”
“If you’re lucky…and good.”
“And of course, you are both,” she said, with a slight smirk.
“I have my moments,” I said back, mirroring her expression.
I couldn’t place her accent, but images of Ingrid Bergman began popping into my head. Then again, images of Ingrid Bergman were always popping into my head.
Miriam said, “Well, this would be a good time for you to have one of those moments. Have you seen our charts?”
I looked at the black folder on my stand. “Not yet. Why? Are they difficult?” I picked up the folder and opened it. As I did, I noticed Miriam raise her eyebrows to Daniel.
Daniel answered, “Let’s just say, it’s obvious they’re not accustomed to having horn players in the group.”
“They can’t be that bad,” I said, glancing over the arrangements.
“Right,” Miriam responded.
After only a few seconds of review, I understood Daniel and Miriam’s concern. The charts weren’t just bad, they were nonsensical. The trombone and wind parts were written in completely the wrong register, and the trumpet part was thrown together so slap-shot, it was as if someone had chosen the notes by throwing darts at a piano keyboard. “Oh, heavens,” I muttered.
“Yes,” Miriam said back. “We definitely have our work cut out for us. Sid’s giving odds we don’t make it through the first rehearsal.”
Daniel said, “And I turned down a Perry Como record for this gig.”
“Peggy Lee, for me,” Miriam added.
Just to be clear, I do care about my brothers and sisters in song, and only wish health and prosperity for all of them. However, I will admit to selfishly feeling a bit elated at the prospect of getting axed from the Gabriella fiasco on day one. If we all got fired, I’d be able to resume my life in Vegas, and D.A. Colson could just go pound salt. Hope sprung eternal.
I was relishing in that possibility when I heard someone yell, “Watch where you’re going!” I looked over and saw five gentlemen, each carrying a musical instrument, emerge
from behind the cameras. The men were purposeful in their stride, but had to be more than double in age to me and my three cohorts on the bandstand.
The two violin players and the bass player went directly to their chairs. The two bandoneon players stopped at the piano to have a smoke. The interesting thing was I could tell instantly the bandoneon players were brothers. Not because I was psychic, but because they were nearly identical twins. One wore eyeglasses and was slightly heavier than the other, but still, there was no question as to their familial relationship.
Now, when it came to gigs, I’d been in all types of situations. From wedding bands to the orchestra at the Sands, I’d plied my trade with friends and strangers alike. I’d been the new kid in the group, the old hat, the last-minute sub for a player who had gotten sick, or the replacement when someone had been fired. I’d been the only white guy, the only sober guy, and the only guy not originally from New York City. I’d been the best player, the worst player, the youngest, oldest, richest, and the poorest. In short, there weren’t many circumstances, and interpersonal dynamics, I hadn’t run across and had to learn to negotiate in my years of toiling on the bandstand. However, the one thing I could always count on, no matter what the situation, was the natural camaraderie and indissoluble bond that existed between those of us who chose to live the life of a professional musician. It was as if we were all soldiers in arms against the common enemy of respectability, a special tribe of misfits who marched to the beat of a different tom-tom. It was, for this reason, the conduct of Gabriella’s tango band was so off-putting to me. It wasn’t only that not one of the old fellas bothered to say hello to the four of us, they didn’t even acknowledge our existence. It was beyond rude—it was weird.
But as peeved as I was by their dismissiveness, Miriam and Daniel appeared to be downright livid by it. Daniel’s jaw tightened, and Miriam just stared at the men with as venomous a gaze as I had ever seen.
“Not the friendliest of chaps, are they?” I whispered to Miriam.
“Exactly what I would expect,” she responded.
I had no clue what she meant but didn’t have time to inquire further, because seconds later, another man emerged from behind the cameras.
He appeared even older than the others but larger in stature. He had broad shoulders, a thick chest, and arms the size of my thighs. His long, rectangular face, which easily could have been lifted from Mount Rushmore, came replete with cliffs and caverns, all under a mane of bushy, gray hair. I’m not one to judge a book by its cover, but he was so solemn and foreboding, I speculated a smile might literally crack the old fella’s face.
He approached the piano, which caused the bandoneon twins to quickly snuff out their smokes, and go to their chairs in the front row. Without uttering a word, the goliath sat behind the piano, crossed his hands on his lap, and then stared out into the studio as if he was waiting for doom itself. I’d sat in front of some scary conductors before, but this Frankenstein was another kettle of monster. I was about to make some pithy comment to Miriam, but she had already scurried back to her chair and was tuning her clarinet. I decided to mind my Ps and Qs and follow her lead.
I remember I was blowing air through my bugle when the tornado touched down. Also, not unlike many witnesses to those deadly forces of nature, I can report I heard it before I saw it.
“Esto esta todo mal! Esto esta todo mal!”
I’d seen pictures of her, of course, but to see her in person was another matter. She wore a tight, red sequined dress that brilliantly showcased her perfectly sculpted legs, accessorized by a snow-white cape that flowed behind her like the contrail from a jet airplane. Her mouth was wide, lips full, and her cheekbones were so high I could have done summersaults off them. She was not freakishly tall but definitely defined the term statuesque. And although she was far from being what anyone would describe as overweight, she was substantially curvaceous—I believe the correct word is Rubenesque. But by far the most striking feature about the woman was her flaming red hair, billowing from her head and cascading down her back like lava flowing from a volcano. She was, indeed, something to behold. And although I’m not the customer for the type of product Gabriella was blatantly peddling, I will admit that keeping my gaze from becoming an inappropriate leer proved to be a Herculean challenge.
“I want these music stands red!” she yelled, pushing her way past a cameraman and nearly leveling a boom operator. “How many times must I say it? I want everything red!” She strutted up to the bandstand, her black stilettos clicking so loudly on the floor it sounded like the studio was being invaded by the Rockettes. “Red! Red! Red!” she yelled, stomping out each word.
“We’ll change them, darling,” said the man following close behind her.
Gabriella had drawn so much of my focus, I hadn’t even noticed him. Which is saying something, because he was not the type of guy one generally overlooked. He was slightly older than middle-aged, with salt and pepper hair combed straight back. He had a square-jaw, deep-set eyes, a prominent nose, and a bronze tan so perfect, you knew he must have spent a fair amount of his time outdoors—golfing, not working the fields. He wore a beige suit I was certain was of Italian design, a periwinkle blue tie over a white shirt, and brown oxfords buffed so thoroughly they glistened. In short, he was the type of guy you knew by just looking at him that he smelled good too.
My suspicion about who this Don Juan might be was quickly confirmed when Gabriella whined, “Tony, it must be perfect,” colored by her native tongue. “Why don’t people understand? It must be perfect.”
“I know, my love. And it will be,” he replied, patting her on the back.
“My show is going to be broadcast in color, Tony. Color. That means I want color. Lots and lots of color.”
“Where’s Charlie?” he called out, looking around. “I want the director.”
A young man with a headset hanging around his neck ran up. “He’s in the booth, Mr. Cabaneri. He told me to tell you he’s on his way down.”
Cabaneri nodded to the young man and then patted Gabriella on the back again. “We’ll take care of this, darling. Don’t you worry.”
A few seconds later, an utterly disheveled looking man with sagging eyes hurried up. “Yes, Mr. Cabaneri?”
“Charlie, Gabriella wants these boxes to be red.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll need to change the backdrop though because right now it’s red. If they’re both red, then—”
“Just make them red, Charlie.”
Charlie, the director, ran his hand through his oily gray hair and nodded. “Yes, sir. Okay, fellas, let’s get these stands painted red.”
“Not now, you nincompoop!” Gabriella yelled. “We have a rehearsal.”
“After the rehearsal will be fine, Charlie,” Cabaneri said.
“Yes, sir.” The director nodded and then hurried away.
Gabriella put her head on Cabaneri’s shoulder. “Thank you, Tony.”
“You’re welcome, my love. Now relax and have a good rehearsal. You know you always feel better after you sing.”
“I do, don’t I.”
“Yes, you do.”
“You know me so well, Tony.”
“That’s my job, my love.”
Sweet Lord in heaven, I wanted to throw-up.
Anthony Cabaneri kissed her on the cheek and then disappeared somewhere behind the cameras. Gabriella slinked over to the piano and said something to Chuckles. I couldn’t hear what, but Chuckles nodded and then raised his hand in the air as if preparing to count off a song. Problem was, he hadn’t told the rest of us what the song was. That only seemed to be a problem for me and my three musical carpetbaggers, as Gabriella’s band seemed to know exactly what song they were getting ready to play.
I looked over at Miriam who was sitting close enough to the violin players she could see the chart they had in front of them. She looked back at Daniel, Ira, and me, and mouthed the words, “Midnight Tango.” Daniel and I raced to get the correct chart in front
of us and raised our horns to the ready.
Gabriella took her place at a microphone that had been set up in front of the bandstand. She caressed the mic stand with her long, red fingernails, and then took a deep breath. She dropped her head back, closed her eyes, and after what I could only assume was some sort of meditation, reopened them, straighten her head, and then nodded to Chuckles. Without so much as glancing at us, our cheerful conductor waved four, and we were off.
There’s a euphemism used when a particular performance of a song goes particularly terribly wrong. It’s called a train wreck. That clever little catchphrase, however, doesn’t come close to adequately painting the picture of what our rendition of “Midnight Tango” sounded like on that morning. A more apropos description would be a disaster of biblical proportions. Miriam, Daniel, and I were blowing notes that had no business being anywhere near the song, and poor Sid was doing his best to keep a tempo that the rest of Gabriella’s band had no use for, at all.
“No!” Gabriella yelled into the microphone, bringing us all to a stop. “Again, from the beginning.”
We started again. It wasn’t any better.
“Stop,” she blurted out after only a few bars. She put her hands over her ears and looked at me. “Honk, honk, honk. What is that?” And then she pointed to Daniel. “That’s awful. What are you playing?”
“The notes on the page, ma’am,” Daniel answered.
“The notes on the page, ma’am,” she spat back. “You’re ruining my song. Again, from the top.”
This time, we got two bars in.
“Stop, stop, stop. Horrible. What are you playing?” she growled, pointing to Miriam. Before Miriam could answer, she glared at Sid. “And you, bang, bang. That’s not music, it’s noise. You are just making noise. Start again.”
And we did.
“No!” she yelled, stomping her foot. “It’s wrong, wrong, wrong. Who taught you nincompoops to play music like that? You are all worthless. Do you hear me? Worthless and useless.”
Let me be clear. Trip Callaway is known far and wide as a pleasant, cheerful chap, who seldom utters a cross word to anyone. I’m legendary for my easygoing temperament, and cool disposition in the face of the uncool, a personality trait I no doubt inherited from Pop. The man was as steady as a flag pole and cuddly as a puppy. I believe the harshest name I ever heard him call anybody was leveled against a man who Pop believed had over-charged him for work done on his tractor. He called the man a rascal. That was strong language for Pop. This Callaway characteristic has served me well over the years, and I’ve even gone to some lengths to exploit it. However, Gabriella had crossed a big red line in Trip’s book of dos and don’ts, and I wasn’t about to sit by and let her get away with it. Disrespecting me was one thing. Humiliating my fellow musicians was another. I like to think Pop would have concurred.
