Just a Guitarist in the Backup Band

I'm the guy in the background most of the time. I'm nothing special. That's not to say I'm not valuable. I'm not dumb. I'm a problem solver.

I've got talents too. I paint. I cook. I ski. I climb mountains. I grow my own roses and vegetables. And I play guitar. But I never sold my paintings. I paint for my own relaxation. I only cook for myself at home, but I think it's pretty good. I use my own herbs and vegetables, so it's at least fresh! I ski well, and never fell off a mountain. And then there is the guitar.

I can play the guitar. It doesn't matter what kind of guitar, I can play it. It doesn't matter what style of music, I know how to make a guitar do the job. I've played jazz on a vintage hollow body Gibson in the Vanguard, sat in on sessions and toured with several of the top players, and even have credits on some Grammy and Downbeat poll album of the year winners. I play shows on Broadway all the time, and have a rep with several music directors of being able to come in and read a book cold. That means I'm able to sub at a moment's notice, as well as cut my part on a new show with little rehearsal. That leads to recording gigs with the same MD's when they need to quickly put together a band for an album or a commercial but don't want to spend a lot of cash on rehearsal time. There are times when I pick up a gig playing classical guitar in a high class restaurant or get the mic to sing and play a solo gig covering easy listening or folk singers. I studied the instrument so thoroughly I can also cut it on World music instruments like the charango, the mandolin and the bouzouki, and on more well known guitar cousins like the banjo and ukulele.

Still, even on guitar I'm the guy in the back ground. I never play lead. I can, I just don't. I spent years mimicking every guitar player you can think of. Stevie Ray, BB, Clapton, Joe Pass. Name a song, I can play their solo, and probably play variations from cuts you never heard. I can also play transcriptions of inventions and fugues by Bach, every étude Tarrega ever wrote, improvise on every scale and mode known to man, and play Jimi Hendricks "Purple Haze" covering the bass line with my thumb, the rhythm guitar with my middle fingers, and the lead with my index finger. But actually performing lead just isn't my thing.

You see being the guy that takes charge of a tune by standing up and burning the house down isn't my style. I'm an introvert. Rock Stars aren't introverts. I was great touring with Sinatra years ago. What a gig! The guy's ego was as big as Cleveland, so there was no room for anyone else to take over. Solos were only long enough for Frank to get a drink and wipe his brow. It worked that way with other singers, so I played with lots of them. Sometimes, I recorded with them, and some times I toured. Sometimes I did both. It was perfect for me, hiding behind the ego.

Somehow it wasn't enough for Gina. Gina was my wife, and was the most ambitious person I knew. She was also the most beautiful. We met at a charity ball sponsored by her brokerage house. I had been trying to build my career, and was playing in a wedding band while sweating my way onto the sub lists of as many shows as I could manage. My band could cover anyone, and could do the smooth jazz dinner music as well as the after dinner dance, which helped us get the gig. She was our contact, so she showed us where to set up, told us when to play and when to break, and most importantly, brought us our check.

We hit it off. When I played cover bands, I was the only guitarist. That meant I had to not only keep the time and comp the changes, I also had to fill in all jazz, rock and blues styles and take solo choruses in any style. Often these solos had to be extended beyond just a chorus. In addition, I had to sing. It was background of course, but it still added an extra layer of noticeability. Gina's eyes were on me all night, and she monopolized my time on every break. I left the gig with her phone number and the promise to meet her for Sunday brunch the next day.

I followed her directions and wound up at the most lovely restaurant, an old grist mill that had been converted to a country inn. I spotted Gina on the terrace overlooking the mill pond. She was a vision in a yellow sundress that glowed in contrast against her darkly tanned olive skin. Her jet black hair cascaded from beneath a wide brimmed straw hat that joined forces with a pair of oversized dark glasses that gave this beautiful creature the allure of a Hollywood starlet. Her smile broke sparkly white, and her face beamed as she in turn spotted me and waved me over. Just because I rarely sought the attentions of pretty women doesn't mean I didn't enjoy them, and my heart warmed while my chest swelled with pride that Gina was becoming mine. Hey, I'm quiet and maybe a little shy, but I'm not dead!

The lunch buffet was incredible, and so was the conversation. And by the end of brunch I was hopelessly in love with Gina. It seemed she enjoyed my company as well, so I took the very bold step and asked her if I could take her out the following weekend. She turned me down graciously, reciting chapter and verse of her very busy work and social calendar that would tie up her weekends and most of the weeknights of the next month. I felt myself deflate. She tried to recover and pick me up by suggesting we set a date for dinner and a movie well in advance, and maybe share lunch one day or grab a pizza when she was in town. I paid the tab and told her to call me if something opened up for her, and if I wasn't playing someplace, I'd take her up on her offer. She smiled and asked me to hang out with her for the rest of the day, but I admit I was heavily disappointed. I didn't want to show her I felt bad, so I told her I had a gig up the coast at a marina grill for the afternoon cocktail hour into dinner. I actually didn't start until 5:00, but needed to get away before I made an ass of myself.

Thursday morning she texted me that a meeting was cancelled, and asked if I could meet her for lunch. I was recording all day, so couldn't go. She tried again Friday, but albums take days in the studio, so that was no good. She was out of town for two weeks and I didn't hear from her at all. I called and left texts, but I guess she was too busy to respond. I kind of got the message and gave up in the second week. Then I got a call from one of my favorite MD's who was touring with a Broadway road company. The guitarist had sliced up his hand in a bar fight, and they needed me pronto. I packed a bag, caught a plane, and Gina was that quickly put of mind.

Playing for a touring company is good money, and they cover your expenses. Plus there are opportunities to touch base with other local scenes wherever you go. Music circles are small, and I had contacts all over the country. I had a ball playing after hours clubs and jamming with friends. I spent some time in the studio with some great musicians in LA, and sat in with a country flavored blues band while we were in Austin on a night the theatre was dark. I slipped down to Tijuana while we were in San Diego and bought a couple of beautifully crafted Spanish 6 strings. I gave a guest lecture to a friends college class in Chicago and played an impromptu recital for his classical guitar students. I tasted all kinds of local cuisines and had a lot of laughs while we were gone for three months. I didn't hear from Gina once.

I came back home when the regular guitarists hand had healed enough for him to rejoin the show. Gina dropped by unannounced with a pizza and a bottle of wine a week after my return.

"I thought we could hang out and catch up!" she declared as she breezed right in through my door way without so much as a hello. She went on a spiel about her adventures in corporate America. How much bonus money she had earned, and she knows she should have called me back or answered a text, but it was a very intense time and...dah...dah...dah...

She really didn't need me for the other end of the conversation. She did fine on her own. So I sat quietly. While she yapped on, a song came to my mind. Writing songs was not unusual for me. I wrote a lot of em. I recorded them for myself, but rarely if ever played them out. To me a song is a deeply personal thing. Honing a melody and setting it in a clever set of chords that weren't just the standard I-IV-V progression that makes up 90% of all pop songs' harmonies was a labor of love. Then crafting words that had a message that was real but not sappy is incredibly personal. It isn't easy exposing your innermost thoughts and dreams, so the whole process is usually exceedingly time consuming. So when this song came to mind, compete and fully formed it was a complete surprise to me.

I grabbed a guitar and began to play. Then I began to sing with it, and she stopped talking and listened. It was a gentle love sone. It wasn't sappy, but it was real, and what I sang was true. When I ran out of words I played. I played more than a typical pop song solo chorus. I played as if I was speaking through my guitar. Gina clammed up. Music can do that to you, you know. It's powerful. It can sweep people to a place where only the music exists. I guess my song took Gina there. I finished and the silence in the room was deafening. I looked at Gina for as long as it took her to find her voice.

"Oh...my...God...that was beautiful."

I just smiled and tuned my b string.

"People need to hear you. I mean really hear you! That was...spellbinding! They need to hear your music outside of a restaurant where you're a pleasant diversion or in the back of somebody else's band..."

She kept talking. I think she raved about how I played and the quality of my voice. There was something about getting me a new agent and a friend with a record company and on and on. She didn't need me to even be there. I pulled out my phone and opened a recording app, and started again. I added with a little lick as an intro, and surprisingly remembered my improvised lyric well enough that I could edit it on the fly. And I sang like there was no tomorrow. Remember how I told you music had power, and could take you to a place where only the song existed. I took myself there this time. Gina was speechless again. When I finished, I stopped the app and sent the recording file to my drop box account for later.

"You have to marry me."

I never expected that. This girl was not in any way conventional, but I never expected a proposal because of a song. I just grinned and let a chuckle slip my lips.

"I'm serious! Marry me! Come live with me and write beautiful music to sing to me every night!"

My grin left my face when I realized she was truly as serous as she could be. It was my turn to be speechless. I looked unblinking into those big pools of brown that made up her eyes while I searched for a response. When it came it was brilliant.

"Ummmmm..."

I have a gift for words. But apparently it only functions when my guitar takes my mind off my nerves. It was Gina's turn to grin.

"I mean it! And I'm betting your very eloquent 'umm' was actually covering up for the fact you wanted to know why. I mean we barely know each other! But you should know, I am a keen judge of character. I know what I want, and when I find it, I go all out to get it. You are everything I want in a husband. Look at you! Tall, gorgeous hair, strong, and so talented it scares me. Plus you're quiet and easy going, and since I'm neither, we will compliment each other very well. You don't seem to make a lot of money, so we will have to work out something to balance the fact that I do. Maybe something as simple as a prenup, or just agreeing what's yours is yours and what's mine is mine. But baby, we can work that out. Please! Say you'll marry me? I will take such good care of you!"

Oh those eyes. The way they stood out against her tanned olive skin. That thick mane of dark wavy hair cascading over those glowing bronzed shoulders. And the way her smile flashed bright and white in the middle of those rosy red lips. Sigh. I was smitten. How could I turn that down. What did I have to lose?

"We're moving fast, Gina. Can I think on it a little?"

Oh, who would believe a smile could break even brighter? Or a face could become more beautiful? She did though. I melted.

"Ooooooooo Kaaaaay...what do you need to say yes? A ring?"

I melted. Then I laughed.

"I guess that goes with a proposal doesn't it?"

Her turn to smile.

"Let's go then!"

We did.

"I've been looking for a man just like you. You're a man of few words, Jimmy. I like that. I like it because I'm not exactly a woman of few words. I do like to talk, and you like to listen. That's a match!

I like to be out front and the center of attention. There can only be one person like that in a relationship, and you enjoy the supporting role, so that's a match. But I have a question about that. Are you going to be ok if I kinda of steer us as a couple? I mean you don't impress me as a guy who likes to take charge and run things, and that's something I live for. Are you ok just sitting back and letting me make decisions and choices that affect us both? I promise I won't interfere with your music, because I know that is important to you and frankly it makes me hot to hear you sing like you did tonight.

Oh yes and while we are on the subject of work, I will expect you to never interfere with things related to my work either. My job isn't close to my heart like yours is, but I love the power that comes with making money. I make a lot of money. That means you will get to live in a beautiful home and have all the comforts you wish, but understand I do travel a lot and I do spend many late nights at work. And I wasn't kidding about the prenup. Your money is yours, including what I give to you, but mine is mine. If we ever part ways, there will be no community property to divide, and nothing like alimony.

I will expect you to manage our household unless you are on one of your little tours. I have a live in housekeeper and a driver who is also a gardener and handyman. All you'll do is oversight."

She kept talking, but my mind zoned out. I was hearing my new song set with a string background. It was the first time in a long time I could visualize myself on stage performing my own music. Then Gina pulled me back.

"Ok so are we agreed? You're good with all that?"

I confessed I hadn't heard everything, but I loved her. She had whirled into my mind like a summer storm, and it felt good to have someone put me on a pedestal like that. Living the high life with a beautiful woman, playing and writing all day without worrying about the rent, and letting her make the decisions sounded good.

"I'll write it all up and have my lawyer craft it into a prenup agreement tomorrow. Everything you missed will be spelled out in black and white, so you can be sure of what you're getting into."

She pulled into a parking space on a deserted street in front of a small jewelry shop. She hopped out of the car and scurried up to a side door as I lazily unfolded from the front seat of her low slung Porsche. I watched as a light went on first inside the apartment above the shop, then inside the side door. An old man answered, and smiled as he gathered her into an embrace. They babbled together in Italian, I think, until I grew close. Then he pulled me into a hug as well, and congratulated me on successfully capturing his "Bella Gina."

An hour later, her left ring finger was dressed in a carat and a half of diamond, and she and the old man were carefully picking through a tray of diamond earrings, looking for a match. I sat in a seat, and my mind wandered back to my song, and an idea for another formed. I wasn't aware of time, or of Gina and the jeweler's musings, just my song. I was barely aware of them fussing over my ear. Even though Gina was moving my head into position and the jeweler was swabbing my earlobe with alcohol. Suddenly I felt my ear sting, and something was inserted. I looked into the mirror on the counter and saw a diamond stud in my ear.

I was stunned. Gina was ecstatic. The old man was several thousand dollars richer. I was engaged. I was pierced. I was claimed.

The next four months were a whirl of excitement and activity, I wrote an awful lot, but aside from some recording gigs didn't play much. I was paraded out at company social events, parties with her friends and family, charity benefits and just about anything you could imagine that enabled Gina to be seen with her new fiancé. We were married in a big white wedding with 400 of our closest friends. Well, there were 375 of her friends, my Mom, a couple of people I like to play with, and 15 members of the press to put us in the society pages. It was a bit much. And the worst part of it was, they didn't even have live music. She hired a DJ.

The wedding night and honeymoon were much like the engagement had been. We followed her script and checked important details off as we went. Wedding night sex...check. Champagne breakfast...check. Luggage in car...check. First class seats to Bermuda...check. Sightseeing, photos, intimate romantic dinners where paparazzi could catch this young rising star in the NY financial sky with her gold digging ne'er do well journeyman musician husband...check.

The words stung when I read them in the caption beneath the picture in the paper. Gina consoled me over breakfast, then spent the day on the beach to make me feel better. Apparently that could be facilitated by plenty of flirting with other guys while her newly acquired husband sipped hurricanes under the beach umbrella. Alone.

Yep, I did it. I got drunk. I fell asleep. When I woke up, she was gone, but had left me a text that she went up to the bar at the pool. When I walked by, she was there, flirting with her new friends. I strolled up, expecting some kind of reaction. Sympathy would have been good. A friendly introduction would have been good. A show of embarrassment or shame over the blatant flirting wouldn't have been good, but it might have been appropriate. I didn't get that either. I got worse. I got a cold shoulder. She looked at me with no show of recognition in her eyes whatsoever. I was inconsequential at that moment, a moment in my honeymoon. That was wrong. I turned and left without a word.

I guess I could have fought, but I'm not a fighter. I certainly didn't want to press myself into a place where I was as inconsequential as her look indicated. So I walked away with the thought in mind that I wasn't going to live like this. I was all the way to the door of the hotel when she called after me. I didn't even look back. She caught me by the elevators.

"Jimmy! Stop! I know you heard me calling you. Listen, this is a big deal. These guys are actually looking for the kind of business I can provide...!

Rare that I cut in on her mid sentence.

"I'm sure they are."

It took her a minute to combine what she had said with my answer and the fact that I dropped my eyes to scan her well endowed, scantily clad, Zumba four days a week body that was testing the holding power of her minuscule bikini she sported. Her response was a slap to the face. I didn't blink. I had another cheek.

"We agreed to stay out of each other's business pursuits. This is business. I can bring a lot of trade to my company with a little schmoozing today."

"It's our honeymoon."

"You got drunk and fell asleep on the beach."

"Sorry. I guess I was a little sensitive about being labelled a gold digging bum."

"You're not a bum, you're very talented. Now be talented without me for a while. I'm going to spend some time getting these guys to commit, and I may be out late. But when I get back, I want you to sing to me. You know, it calms me down."

She air kissed my cheeks in that annoying habit that preserves lipstick at the cost of intimacy, and turned to find her herd of studs. I went to our room and showered. I dressed well, and went into town. The shuttle driver took me to a pawn shop that he knew had instruments. I hadn't taken a guitar on the trip, since I thought a honeymoon should be a business free time. But what's good for the goose is good for the gander, so I bought a nice little Martin 6 string. The owner pointed me to a bar with live music, and I arrived on time for happy hour. The little trio was happy to have a sit in, and soon a crowd collected.