Taking – or leaving – requests
The Old Newbie Column
By Eric Kufs
Journal & Press
“Hey! Play Bon Jovi!” the woman shouted in a shrill, nasally voice that reminded me of my mother, although the accent was subtly different—Jersey, not Long Island. This was the third time this woman had made the request, and she was beginning to wear on me. Initially, she had asked if I knew any Bon Jovi. Now, obviously so drunk that she’d forgotten the first two times she’d shouted at me, she was interrupting my performance to make her demands. I told her I would try to play it.
A bass player friend always recommends dealing with unwanted requests by saying, “Sure thing, we’ll play it next set.” Most inebriated folks will have moved on or passed out in a corner by the time your fifteen-minute break is over. This woman was persistent. She was part of a rowdy wedding party from New Jersey. The wedding reception had taken place at the Queensbury Hotel and let out into the adjoining bar. This was one of my regular winter gigs.
A generous local musician had vouched for my talents and recommended me to the management. I was grateful for the work. To be honest though, I was surprised to learn they required me to sing for four hours, from 8pm until midnight, and that the gig paid about half of what I’d get for the same job in Los Angeles, where I’d made a living in music for years. I was even more surprised to learn that these terms were non-negotiable. The owner of the hotel wanted four hours of solo guitar and vocals, even if most of his wasted clientele would’ve preferred a DJ, or some guy with a good party playlist on his phone.
After packing up all my gear, I would be driving thirty-five minutes back home at 1am any time I worked there. I assumed al this effort was worth my while. With the amount of people drinking and having dinner on the weekends at the hotel, I thought I’d be making a boat load in tips. This, as it turns out, was more than a slight miscalculation.
I’ve been a professional musician for thirty years. In fact, for about ten years that’s all I did for work. It was quite a romantic lifestyle, one my parents never understood. I used to tour around the country making very little money performing my own music, only to return home to busk out on the streets of LA or play in bars. And I loved it. Until the day came when I didn’t.
My eventual transition into teaching as an adjunct professor was a necessary life change. I wanted to retain my sanity. I wanted to continue loving music. Writing, performing, the joy of singing and playing the guitar that I had as a kid, were things I wanted to cherish for the rest of my life, and so, I needed to take the financial imperative out of the equation. It was a pivotal moment for me. I gave myself the permission to explore other interests, other identities. That’s not to say I wouldn’t take a good regular gig here or there, as long as my talents were appreciated. The job either had to be a showcase with a responsive audience that tipped generously, or if I was treated as background music, there needed to be some rich folks or a corporation paying me handsomely. This hotel bar gig was neither of these.
As I was standing onstage in this bar with most of the sober people watching four TVs playing hockey and football games and this woman heckling me, I felt it might be time for a reassessment. Another personal paradigmatic shift was in order.
“Play Bon Jovi!” The woman screamed again. She was swaying, off balance, from one foot to the other, while staring with glazed eyes at the big flat screen behind me playing a college basketball game.
Now, there are certain artists I choose not to cover because I just don’t like them. Some songs are under a self-induced ban. As a point of pride, I won’t play Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville” or Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” without at least a twenty-spot thrown in my tip jar. Don’t ever ask me to sing “Hotel California.” Like the great Coen Brother character The Dude from “The Big Lebowski,” “I hate the f—ing Eagles, man!”
Call me pretentious, but I just don’t see the point in playing the same old songs you’ve heard at any happy hour advertised with a sandwich board sign on the sidewalk reading “live music” since the 1970s. There are decades of many great popular songs that never get covered regularly and I look for those. And if I must play a tired standard, I prefer to give them a less obvious arrangement, if possible.
Some music I actually wouldn’t mind singing, but I just can’t. For instance, everyone in a sports bar wants to hear Journey. I wish I could embody that vocal range, but my voice just isn’t that high or powerful—I would make an awful arena rock singer. And when I lower the key or attempt some mellower arrangement of say, “Don’t Stop Believing,” the essence of the tune is lost. There are many Prince songs I feel the same way about. There’s nothing I can personally bring to improve upon the original arrangements.
However, there are some tunes and some artists that meet both criteria, such as Bon Jovi. I prefer not to listen to their music, and I cannot hit the money notes on any of their classic tunes. (And neither can Jon Bon Jovi, anymore). And so, when asked to play artists such as these, I flat out refuse or feign ignorance. “Maroon Five? Never heard of them.” “The Weeknd? Is that a band?” If I’m going to take requests from folks who are probably too trashed to remember to tip me, they’ll have to ask for something already in my vast repertoire, or something familiar that I deem worth challenging my sight-singing abilities.
On this particular evening, I was staring at an empty tip jar after three hours of singing to an unruly loud and inattentive audience. And so, I broke my personal code and sold my soul for a buck. I pulled up “Livin’ on a Prayer” on my iPad and launched into a subdued but respectable version of the hit. The drunk New Jerseyans standing on the floor in front of the stage continued talking. The woman, the one who’d been nagging me for the previous hour had her back turned to me when I approached the chorus. I said, “Alright now, everybody sing with me! ‘Whoa, we’re halfway there, whoa oh…’” It only took a second for me to realize no one was paying attention. In hindsight, everything about this moment has slowed down in my memory, if only because of the shock of what followed. But I immediately channeled my snarky charm and stopped strumming the guitar and jokingly yelled at the crowd, “What?! After all of that begging for Bon Jovi, and you’re not going to sing with me?!”
In a sudden reflexive response, the crowd turned. A red-faced, roided-out dude with a crew cut, wide shoulders, and 12-inch biceps, dressed in a bulky wedding suit, sans jacket, holding a bottle of Budweiser, looking like a “where are they now” photo of one of the less prominent cast members of “Jersey Shore,” shouted while puffing up his chest, “What?!! You got something to say, chief? I’ll throw you through that f-ing window!”
Like in a hockey brawl, the whole bar swarmed towards the guy. Derrick the bartender came running out to get between the stage and the crowd. I realized I had thirty minutes left on the gig. Amidst the commotion, I walked back to the microphone.
“Derrick, that’s it. I’m calling it. I’m packing up.” He turned to nod at me and said not to worry, he’s shutting it down. “That’s it. Bar’s closed! Everybody out!”
The sad crowd dispersed, slowly filing out into the lobby of the hotel, wondering where they might find another drink in Glens Falls at that hour. I tore down my mic stand and PA speakers while watching a few stragglers settle their tabs at the bar. Looking down at the front of the stage, I checked the tip jar one last time. Still empty. Not a single dollar.
When I had finished dragging my equipment out into the cold and packed up my car, I went back in for my paycheck. Derrick handed me the envelope while shaking his head. I apologized for the whole scene. He said, “No way, man. You made the right call. Those people sucked. I was glad to get out here early.”
“I don’t think I can do this gig anymore, man,” I told him. “I’m done. I’m too old for this.” He said he understood. We slapped hands and fist bumped, and I turned and left, thinking that was the last time.
A few days later, I got a text message from Derrick saying he got the boss to cut the gig down to three hours and I could take as many breaks as I’d like. Drinks would be on the house.
All of this was to say, you can still catch me at Fennimore Pub at the Queensbury Hotel once or twice a month from 8pm to 11pm for the foreseeable future, or until my next existential crisis. Check their schedule and come see me sometime. Bring some cash for tips. Oh, and please, if you do come, don’t ask me to play any Bon Jovi.
Eric Kufs is co-owner of Owl Pen Books, freelance writer, local teacher and musician. A Greenwich, NY, resident, he offers perspective as a transplant and relatively new member of the community.
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