LET'S HEAR A TRUMPET SOLO

As a Roadie for a local traveling band operating on a broken shoe-string budget, you get used to getting by with what's on hand to get the job done. Rule number 1... duct tape fixes everything. Rule number 2, don't run out of duct tape.

The other thing you get used to, is wearing a bunch of different hats. One day you're a shade tree mechanic helping to change out the starter on the equipment van. And the next day you're your own make-shift travel agent... figuring out how to get from Southern Illinois to the Hush Puppy Saloon in Cape Girardeau, Misouri, with pocket change pooled together with your fellow Roadies (this happens when you spend the van gas money on fishbowls of beer instead of gas).

For a young guy in the 70's, who had recently graduated from high school... 'Free Beer' because you're with the band... and 'hot girls'... didn't sound bad. In fact... it sounded great! The truth of the matter though, is that the 'free beer' wasn't always a thing. Even when it was free, you couldn't drink too much or you'd be too drunk to haul the equipment in and out of the club. And as luck would have it, the 'hot girls' didn't want to stand around watching you tear down gear and then pack it into the van. They preferred to go hang out with the band members who (let's be honest) were better looking, and had *recreational* supplies.

Being a Roadie is more of a life style than a job. The money isn't great, but you love your band mates and the guys you roadie with... at least I did. They were pretty much all friends I had grown up with, except the leader Danny. He was a few years older, really funny - great sense of humor, and a really good musician. He was more like a brother than a boss.

Remember the hats I was telling you about? Well... there was this one night at the Hush Puppy Saloon. Danny comes to me and tells me that the Union is giving him crap because we only have four players, and we need five on stage or we won't get paid... and we'll have to pay a big fine. He puts both hands on my shoulders, looks me straight in the eyes and tells me he needs me to be on stage for only one set (when the Union guy will be there). He clamps down on my shoulders when he gets to the 'me be on stage part', because he knows I'm like HELL NO... I'm out! Because one... I ABSOLUTELY HATE being the center of attention. And two, I'm not the guy IN the spotlight, I'm the guy who operates the Spotlight and shines it on other people.... band people... people who WANT to be in the spotlight.

The other guys start pressuring me a little, and finally I'm like Okay... but I don't know how to play any instruments. They all chuckle a little and tell me they don't want me anywhere near a musical note... I just need to stand up there with an instrument and pretend like I'm playing. In that moment it didn't seem like it would be too bad... plus we would get paid, so I relent.

The first set goes smoothly... lights look great, band sounds terrific, and the crowd is having a good time. In between sets I'm having a beer or two with my Roadie brothers, and not feeling too bad about doing the little stage thing. Third set rolls around and Danny says it's time... that the Union Rep is there.

Ronnie (one of my fellow Roadie cohorts) takes over the spot light and I jump on stage. Danny tosses me his trumpet and tells me to just hang back by the amps. And that when he sees the Union Rep, he'll wave me up to the front of the stage where I'm to act like I'm playing the trumpet. Easy-peasy, right?

Second song in Danny nods me up to the front of the stage by the mic and gestures for me to act like I'm playing. Which I do... like the fool that I am. And I was really hamming it up too -like I was the second coming of Louis Armstrong. The next thing I hear are the five words I'll remember till the day I die. "LET'S HEAR A TRUMPET SOLO!"

And then all the guys stopped playing. Dead silence. The stage lights went out, and Ronnie hit me with the brightest whitest spotlight I've ever seen. I was mortified. 300 - 400 drunk people all standing in an inch of stale beer on the floor (and whatever else it was), stopping dancing and waiting for me to do a trumpet solo. I could hear Greg, Robin and Pat all laughing behind me. Danny had set the whole thing up, of course.

In a desperate attempt to shift attention I point to Danny at the keyboards and say "let's hear a piano solo". But Ronnie keeps the spotlight on me and Danny says into his mic "no... no I think they really want to hear a trumpet solo". I was sweating bullets and about to have a panic attack, when they all started playing again. It was only like 30 seconds or so... but it seemed like an eternity. Now it's hilarious to me, but at the time it wasn't even in the same vicinity of funny.

Danny has since passed away... but this will always be my favorite memory of him.