The Velvet Papers, Pt. 6

"How about a few cocktails, babe?"

“Then, we find a new and deeper respect for the benevolence of the creative impulse: it succeeds despite these people, not because of them.” –Robert Fripp

“You're out of touch, my baby, my poor discarded baby.”


The late 80’s were a time when synth pop and drum machines ruled. Madonna, The Police and every anemic-looking English pop band were chart favorites. And let’s not forget the forgettable hair bands like Poison who showed that showmanship above musicianship was industry standard. The three minute video with pouting, guitar slinging she-males, complete with the ubiquitous anorexic zombie cokehead models, were the video “art” of MTV. Oh, what a glorious decade (save for The Police) it was for music.

Then, there were three dudes who fit the era like a drunken cockney at a royal wedding. We couldn’t have been more out of fashion if we had tried. The thing is, we didn’t try. We weren’t rebelling. “You are what you is,” saith the Frank Zappa and in our case, that was the truth. Now, Greg had already proven himself a wielder of a mighty blues-rock axe in Brian Diller and the Ride, whereas CR and me were sort of still in that “neither is, nor is not” musical neverland. I could play Bach, Torroba, Sor, but didn’t want to be limited to one style. CR played his jazzy Vince Gauraldi funk lounge. All was well, but a new synthesis was in the works.

We were out of fashion even in the conventional sense. Greg tended toward the rocker look more than CR and me who tended towards preppy or downright West Virginia: flannel shirts, jeans and boat shoes. Always the damn boat shoes.

At some point, this lounge-rock-latin mishmash stopped seeming absurd. All the while, boys and girls, our originals were growing in number. The originals existed comfortably along side any cover song. Craigo’s Groove sat right along side Demolition Man on a set list without any irony. One Night Flingo? Corcovado? Charlie Brown’s theme song? Sure, all part of the same thing. It was Velvet.

Wedding: A Twist of Tito

Armed with a PA and a drum machine, Greg got us another wedding to play. At weddings, we knew that you have to tame things down at bit and to always be aware of your volume. The band is there only if someone wants to dance, but most of the time it was smooth background dinner music- the old soft bossa nova or an easy swing tune. We were awfully good at being invisible.

The mighty Tito: master of Latin grooves.

After the gig, an older man came up to us and told us how much he liked our sound. He went on further to tell us that he was from Puerto Rico and played drums. When he told us that he cold play bossa, merenque, salsa and all these latin beats, I stood in utter disbelief. My jaw must have been open to the floor. Glenn impressed me so that I was casting a “yes” to hire him on the spot. He gave us a business card and we promised to call him.

Years later, I asked Glenn point blank why he approached us. He told me that he was impressed with how attentive we were to the crowd. I never thought of us that way, but this was to be another characteristic of the future Veebs.

Glenn, or Tito as we later dubbed him, was the next piece of the Velvet puzzle to propel us to becoming a real gigging band. Glenn was older and had a very calming and organizing effect on us. His sense of organization was impeccable and when he would shout at a rehearsal, “Come on guys! I’ve only got an hour more,” we listened because we respected him so much. He was like a father figure to the three guys who were frequently fraught with musicianistis: a total lack of direction or organization. Musicians can fall totally love with an idea (It’s called noodling) or they babble on and on about some new fangled piece of equipment that going to change their sound into total nirvana. It’s mostly an illusion and nonsense and all musicians suffer from it at one time or another.

I distinctly remember (and have on tape somewhere) asking Glenn to show us the merenque beat. I tried to understand this Dominican Republic dance rhythm, but can safely say that it took a lot of time to for us to even comprehend the pattern, let alone contribute anything meaningful to it.

You Can’t Fake It, Baby

There is a small, but distinct Latino community in the Charleston-Huntington area and Glenn got us booked for one of their get-togethers. This was the acid test to me. Could three gringos pull off this music for a gathering of Latinos? If Glenn didn’t believe it, we wouldn’t have even been there, but to me, I was waiting for the mangos to start flying in our direction.

And none came.

The gig went very well and we were very well received which came at a great relief. We had pulled off something no doubt unique not only to our area, but even in metropolitan areas. I have heard one Latino firmly say, that in NY for instance, the Latin musical communities and those of the hombres blancos never mix. There is a fierce pride in Latin communities, a pride I have seen and experienced, firsthand. It is not a closed society, quite the opposite, but in most cases, you probably had to be married to a Latino/Latina to be accepted. But the fact we had played this music well enough to win the respect of those attending was a boost.

 (While this is truly apocryphal, when I was with a friend in Central Park, innocently grooving to a drum circle, a Latina came along and said, as if to warn us, “No whites. No whites.” Really? This wasn't a "hood," but Central Park.)

So, maybe this gig is going to work after all.

With Tito in the band, the Latin groove was for real and personally, he brought so much positive energy. When we got an "Outstanding, guys!" from Tito, it lit up the room. Musically, he was the most restrained drummer I have ever worked with. He told me that when his father (many stories there) gave him his first drum lessons, that he was going to teach him something that some drummers never learn: how to play quietly. True to his father's teachings, Glenn would play the sweetest (and softest) bossa you've ever heard. He was always telling us to keep our volume in check. Because he was always truthful and straight to the point, I can say that none of us got miffed when he told us this. Musicians have massive egos sometimes, but there's always an alpha player to keep them in check.

Next: More Tito and Should We Add Another Latino?

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 5

Preamble:
Why, you might be asking yourself, why is this blogger recounting his band days? This shit is boring.


First, I agree with that sentiment, but I hope this shit is not boring. Every musician is more than willing to prat on and on about their gigs. Every one of us musos feels that somehow we have contributed something unique to music, regardless of any supporting evidence. Plus, anybody who has been in a band for any length of time realizes a few things only after time has given them a proper perspective.


That being said, I am compelled to continue because the story only gets more complicated, funnier and I use this tiny Internet space to purge myself of my past and to tell a tale I feel is worth telling. Plus, the VBs dominated my life in a manner that I wasn't expecting and in way, we haven't stopped playing even some 17 years after we hung it up. 

“How can a loser ever win?”

After moving in with CR, I (we) started going to a lot of bars. I was a single man with no girlfriend and so I frequented the local watering holes in search of love (cough cough). Bars are very strange places, very ugly places actually with little or no redeeming value for anyone but the bar owner. They are usually absolutely filthy, filled with “regulars” of questionable character and with noise levels so dangerous that everyone should be wearing hearing protection. That said, it was in a filthy bar, Bentley’s, a shithole on Capitol Street, that I had a revelation.

 I started going on Wednesday night when a local band hosted an open mic night. I watched these guys playing what seemed to be absolutely simple music (compared to the arduous task of say learning a Bach lute suite) all while they were having fun and they drew the attention of the crowd. Me thought, “I want me some of that.”  Why should I play just for blue hairs or for the sole purpose of parental approval? This music which I had studied so diligently and that I loved had a fatal flaw in the Chemical Valley: limited audience and playing opportunities at best. What did locals know of classical guitar? Musicians were among the cognoscenti, but what about general appeal? Fuck, I grew up hearing the songs on the jukebox and The Anchor and the Vets Club and I knew this was a lost cause. Besides, I wanted attention.

Get the Hell Out of the Basement

The Velvet three began getting together on a fairly regular basis and at one rehearsal, Greg said, “Why don’t we play at open mic night at Bentley’s?” The sheer audacity of that idea threw me. Us? Are good enough? Playing in front of people? In public?

Our repertoire was very strange to say the least. Looking back on it now, it was a ballsy move. There was mucho potential to leave the audience silenced. There was piece called Karmic Backlash from the days collaborating with Greg that involved audio snippets (They did not call them samples or sampling yet.) from The Rockford Files (An episode called Nirvana Quickie). The selected episode had a hippie chick that said, “O wow, Alan, I can’t believe your lies. You’ll probably wind up getting squashed from the karmic backlash.” There were other funny phrases as well and while the tape with the voice samples ran, we played this funky tune. One Night Flingo, a rumba with an obvious topic, was another song. The third song I cannot recall. All were originals - another bold move by my estimation.

Addendum: Asking CR and Greg regarding the third tune, the consensus is that it was another original tune. To make your public splash with all originals is still ballsy to me.

We practiced like hell. We especially worked hard to coordinate our parts with the Rockford Files bits. That was tricky on a number of levels. The evening came and we drug our equipment downtown. We asked the house band could we play while they took a break and sure, we could play a few songs. So, three guys and a tape (Drum machine? Can’t recall.) made their informal debut. I have always been a performer who struggles with nerves and at that unseasoned point in my “career,” I must have been a shaky mess.

I was taken back by the absolute power and volume by the Stratocaster and the huge Roland amp the guitarist used. It was the furthest thing possible from the quiet and delicate sound of my acoustic guitar. I felt like I had gotten into the ring with a wild horse and I was supposed act like I was in complete control. Craig had his usual look of sheepish “I shouldn’t be doing this” look, but Greg was in his element. He was talking to the crowd like it had been his band playing all along. He was our liaison; selling us before we played a note.

I remember that things went pretty well; even old Jim Rockford might have smiled. The crowd seemed to follow what we were doing. After what seemed to be only a few seconds, we were done. As I was going for a well-deserved drink, a girl smiled and said, “I liked that. It was different.” Damn. The maiden voyage, with all of its weirdness, was a success. I was surprised as anyone. Greg believed, but CR and I were still doubting Thomases.

Greg was right and if he hadn’t encouraged us to step out of the safety net of the basement, we might have never continued on the path to becoming a real band. I wouldn’t have guessed in a million years it would have worked that night.

Next: Call Him Tito

The Velvet Papers, Pt.4

"We're in the pipe, five by five."

Reentry Is a Bitch

When I graduated from Peabody, I had gone through a very high pressure recital in order to receive my degree. That is to say, that if that live performance was a total wreck, then no degree for you, Senor Stupido. This was proceeded, of course, by months (4 years if you really count it) of practicing guitar music 8 to 10 hours a day. While this significantly ups your guitar game, eventually you must enter the world of making a living. It sucks, but it must be.

Adjusting to the real world was difficult. At one point, I had imagined I would want to stay in college forever. Methought I would teach college and after about a month of celebrating my graduation, I dutifully and hopefully sent out my resume to various colleges. The response became predictable and quickly became a needle that said "failure.": 

"Thank you for your interest in {insert college here}, but currently we have no opening in your field. We will keep your resume on file (file 13) in case there is an opening in the future. Yours most insincerely, Mary S. Inflated-sense-of-self Administrator, DMA, BA, LSD, BS."

Every letter I sent, save the one I sent to a local university, returned the same reply. No one had told me that you at least needed a doctorate to rate even an interview and it best be in something like history, early music or theory or to the soup kitchen for you, buddy. "Gee," me thought, "No one gives a damn that I graduated from a prestigious conservatory." I didn't expect a million offers, but none? Staying in Baltimore seemed stupid to me because I saw graduates scramble to teach at senior citizen centers. Really? This is why you spent all that time? It seemed pathetic. I felt helpless as well. (Author and guitarist Glenn Kurtz actually quit. His story is a great read and quite poignant.)

For the Blue Hairs

I played a few recitals at home, much to the delight of my parents, the local choir director, and classical music aficionados. I  teamed up with a professional singer and explored the repertoire of guitar and voice. We took our show to Pittsburgh and auditioned for a concert series. We were turned down, although the singer said they were impressed, but didn't know what to do guitar and voice as we all know violin (or cello) and piano rule the chamber music universe. Local recitals and even a master class with David Tannenbaum were part of our time together. I was still affected by my accomplishments and though no one would ever accuse me of being a purist, this time was the closest I would ever come to that description.

So, I was living at home, which was driving me insane, and only had a part-time teaching gig at the local university. I had nothing basically. Then, lightning struck!

My parents, told me that they wanted to move from Charleston to Pennsylvania so that my mom could be closer to her twin sister and family. Did I want to make the move with them?

No.

Somehow, the safe haven of one's childhood becomes a prison for the young adult. Besides, I could just picture what life would have been like, as pleasant and supportive as they were, I would have been a man-child. A rotten, spoiled, man-child sponging off his parents. No doubt fat from home cooking, mean and miserable. Besides, I was too old to be living at home.

After a glorious summer (full of "romance") spent at a lakeside cabin, I moved in with my pal, Craig.

Life at the "Transient House"

This was gonna be so cool. Just Craig and me hanging out, playing when we wanted to, partying when we felt like it. We were young bachelors, living wild and free, especially me. I had two part-time jobs ( a theme that was to follow me for quite a while) and neither of them demanded much. Craig however had a full-time gig as an architect for a company that designed coal loaders.

When the evening came around, he would wander back to the house after work, mix a cocktail and we would jam. Usually I had spent the day practicing or writing, so I was raring to go.

Craig and I weren't exactly the Odd Couple, but of the two of us, he was infinitely more social. Plus he had four brothers and a large extended family. People were always stopping by unannounced. There were times when I welcomed a house full of people and others when it felt like a huge intrusion. Perhaps it was spending so much time alone, wrestling with composing - always a private act of soul searching. Most of the day spent "in my head," as it were, always presented a disconnect for me between that quiet, sacred space of music and interacting with people. I felt awkward around some people anyway, so this isolation only heightened my reticence.

There were so many guests at the house that years later I found out that the neighbors called it the Transient House, as they could not figure out exactly who lived there. Who could blame them? We came and went at all hours of the day and night. Perhaps that's why no one ever broke in and nabbed any of our equipment. Who could guess who was home or not? Craig's brothers might be lazing on the couch when you walked in the door.

He bought a used drum machine and of course, what else? We programmed it for Latin beats, adding a soca beat for more variety. As much as we enjoyed the shelter of the basement band, this might have remained only a footnote to my musical life. One key element came into play and we dubbed him, "Greg True."

And Then There Were Three.

Why the stupid nicknames? Why did we call ourselves Johnny Velvet and CR Smoothie? That's not funny. Probably to you, it's not, but to us, it was hysterical to imagine these two lounge lizards living la dulce vita without a plan, a code or moral compass. A life of booze, broads and gigs. But as we realized, you can't sustain a joke for a 45 minute musical set. There has to be something more. And much, much more was to come.

Greg was already in one of the city's hottest bands and by the time he was coming around to the Velvet way of doing things, they had matured into quite a solid unit. They weren't fucking around. They were out to rock. But, let's back pedal a little first.

But Greg had always been an open minded musician who dabbled in just about everything. He and I had spent many an hour writing songs back in the early 80's and recording them in his bedroom (never a good place for a recording "studio"). During that time, I do believe that Greg and I were in what I call the "knucklehead" stage of a musical journey. We did what we wanted without regard to whether or not anyone but us liked it. Although it feels inferior to those involved, it is actually a very innocent time of music making. One could call it a time of "creative incubation." I can also see the sense of searching, chaos and time wasting.

He and I spent a rather dark summer where we going to bars as much or more than our pursuit of music. I remember one night when three girls walked by and one of the them, ironically the least attractive, barked like a dog at us. That hurt. We certainly did nothing to deserve it. It killed my enthusiasm for the night anyway.

During the time I was in school, Greg had gotten away from working solely for the family business and began to work as a waiter in a popular downtown restaurant. This matured him and his self-confidence blossomed. At first, I wasn't sure if I liked this new and improved Greg, but nevertheless I knew I wanted to snag him into some kind of band.

Next: Do We Have to Pay the Drum Machine? and The Kids Get Their First "Real" Gig

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 3

"Perhaps you can join us for some cocktails
and dee latin music, yes? You are such a pretty lady."

"Turn a seeming disadvantage to your advantage. 
The greater the seeming disadvantage, the greater the possible advantage."

To say, at this point in the Velvet game, that we took ourselves seriously would be erroneous. Far from it. We just lacked confidence in our music. We lacked confidence, period. What to do then? If there is the smallest of thread of hope, then there's something from which to move forward. That thread for us was "fun." Serious, kick-ass musicians we were not, but our enthusiasm helped us through.

C Minor Swing was one of the earliest original pieces that turned our disadvantage of piano-guitar instrumentation to an advantage. A relatively simple jazz attempt, it had one thing that kept it from being totally dismissible: it was fun to play. Plus, it had character. As a girlfriend once described it, who was normally very picky about her compliments, called it, "playful." That was good enough for me. It was the first instance where Craig wrote everything but the melody. That was left to me. Funny thing, I have never imagined myself as a terribly melodic player or writer, but this was to follow us.

There were some other originals, all with a latin beat, that varied from the merely trivial to the ridiculous: Bossa Nova Baby would top the latter of that list. One Night Flingo was a song I wrote one lonely summer to a rumba beat supplied by a drum machine. At some point, The Police's De Do Do Do was given a gentle bossa nova send-up by Craig. (I loved and still do our version and the very imperfect demo we recorded of that song.) The joke of lounge, laced with latin beats, hung over everything we did. (I do believe that, at a DNA level, if lounge gene markers could ever be detected, Craig would have the highest count of anyone I've known. He IS lounge. Well, I'd probably be a close second.)

A Velvet New Year's Anyone?


We came up with the idea that we should play New Year's Eve at the Cantina. We enlisted two of my college buddies, Robert on bass and Bob on auxiliary percussion, plus our friend, Robbie who had just purchased a new drum machine.

The long ago halcyon days when our schedules were so unfettered by adult responsibilities that we could rehearse for hours on end are like a dream to me now. But, back then, Robert would come up for a week and when we could corral the discursive Craig, we "worked" on some covers and originals. I don't ever remember the whole band being together except at the gig, but nevertheless the goal was the gig. When you have a gig, the scatter brain musicians will focus for one reason: no one likes to suck in public.

Craigo's Groove was an instance where CR wrote the chords and bass line and then I came up with the melody. Robert, despite the guitar being his first love, sounded like he was born to play the bass. The idea was coming together. I even borrowed a PA system for the gig. Hot damn.

Craig really wanted to cover Elton John's Saturday's Nights Alright (for Fighting). I kept having trouble with the guitar rhythm plus the song was clearly out of my vocal range. Instead of thinking to change the key, we kept plugging away at it. I remember the strain on my poor vocal cords and after one run-through, I asked Robert about how I was doing. He paused and stated, "More reverb." Then bowled over in laughter, unable to maintain his composure at his own statement. This did not bolster my confidence to say the least, but what the hell? The gig is the gig. Plus, we didn't do things like key changes back then. The tune was hard enough to learn, let alone change it all. Fuck no.

Robbie came over one night, brought his fancy drum machine and he took notes on the proposed set list. I remember during the "stolen tango" that Craig innocently told him to open the fireplace stove for one reason or another and to "grab that black thing there." Instantly, we heard a howl: "GODDAMMMM!!!"
"What happened?"
"I burned the shit out of my thumb, man."
Craig apologized profusely, but no one, not even me, went near that black bastard of a fire place again. Let Craig do it.

Craig gingerly asked Robbie, who had a mucho brief stint in a new wave band, if he thought that our music was appropriate for a New Year's evening? He gave a direct, but comedic answer:
"Happy ......New...(he then feigned someone falling asleep). Backing of fellow musicians? Check.

Play the Fucking Gig Already!

On the day of the gig, when we set up, I had another ridiculous idea. "Why don't we go on stage one by one?" You see, despite my perceived, real or imaginary, musical limitations, I loved all the theatricality of Peter Gabriel or David Bowie. The "one by one" idea fit perfectly with our whole ridiculous notion of the Velvet Brothers - a name which was no longer any question as to the who, what or why of it. It was a perfect band name.

Robbie came on stage first (stage in this case was a small ass platform that was used for who knows what during the Lazlo Steak House days) and began the swing beat. Robert, Bob, Craig and I followed last. Silliness and fun were the order of the evening, with many cocktails consumed by the band plus try to play the right damn notes.

Robert's friends and family showed up and took a huge table close to le stage. Their literal screams and cries of enthusiasm mostly trumped the redneck element who tried in vain to heckle us. If we were out in the boonies, say five minutes out of Charleston, he might have won the evening and might have had a good opportunity to pick a fight, but he was outnumbered. He requested something like Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer or something inane and out of place like that. Craig, ever willing to please, exchanged friendly banter with him while I kept my mouth shut. I have little patience with those who want to heckle or disturb the band. Get your own goddam band and I'll come and yell stupid requests at you.


Greg or the Weg (an old pal of us both) was in a successful band called Brian Diller and the Ride. They were a serious and well rehearsed band with a good local following. Greg was their lead guitarist and he stopped by, in full 80's rock regalia complete with earring, to play a few tunes before his "real" gig started. He certainly had attained a professional edge to his playing and we appreciated him dropping in.

He was encouraging to the loser duo from the beginning. Our rehearsal with him of a few Beatles tunes and one or two of his originals was a blast. "You guys ought to play out." I was beaming inside. To have one of your peers give you the thumbs up means more than can be described.


The gig went well, much rum/gin/beer was consumed and afterwards, we had the run of the kitchen. Tony evidently had gone home with a lady friend and left us alone to lock up. We made the mammoth Cantina burgers and ate like pigs.

Still, we were not a band, but a ragged, loose conglomerate who were just having fun, never in a million years dreaming of what was to come.

Next: And Then There Were Three

The Velvet Papers, Pt. 2

Somewhere in a warehouse is the sacred
faux wood Zodiacal plaque, but this is close enough.

The Cantina in Kanawha City is pretty much today what it was back in the 80's: tired, seedy, and generally quite depressing, but the food was decent. Tony offered all-you-can-eat snow crab legs (One night I ate sixteen orders.), a decent if not small filet mignon accompanied by a tired potato and a burger that was so huge that cardiologists would shudder. Specials included Tacos on Wednesday or $5 pitchers on Tuesday and any other scheme he could use to get customers in the door. For us locals, it was a casual place to get stuffed or hammered in an environment that was mostly free of fist fights and the usual rough trade brought by the redneck fringe.


 But, Uncle Tony, Craig's dad, at least had a regular customer base and despite this being a West Virginia working class bar/steak house, there were were signs, literally, of lounge.

The grandest and most inspirational to us was a huge Zodiac wheel, made of some synthetic material, that hung high above one of the booths. However ridiculous this was, this no more appeared out of place than any of the other decorations as the interior was a mishmash of junk. The Ton-ster was a regular at estate sales, state auction and going out of business blowouts. All ended up in storage somewhere or as decorations.

This motherlicker was heavy.
 Back then, Craig played a Rhodes 88. This now classic keyboard has become the keyboard to sample or emulate in the digital world. Trouble is, in the real world, it was heavy as as a mother. And then some. I remember having to avoid having my fingers crushed or clipped neatly off while loading this beast into the back of the CR mobile. 

My equipment was a 1977 Kramer electric guitar complete with aluminum neck (I paid $200 for this back in the day. I see one listed at $1299.99.) This is one heavy guitar. I had a 50 watt Peavey amp.

We must have looked ridiculous. At some point, Craig found a black velvet smoking jacket with gold trim collar and sleeves. I can't remember which one of us wore it first, but we dressed up lounge style for the gig. Plus whole black pants, shoes and white shirts kinda "professional" look. The jacket went out of style at least 20 to 30 years ago, but nevertheless, it was essential. At least to our serious notion that smoking jackets, bossa nova and drinks with parasols should not be merely relegated to the golden era of the Rat Pack, but should be a lifestyle to be fully embraced, wardrobe included. (Note to readers: this belief has not changed.)

We must have sounded ridiculous. I remember that songs included Mister Magic by Grover Washington Jr., How Long by Ace, The Big Country by Talking Heads and selections from Vince Guaraldi-the composer behind the Peanuts cartoons. A wire music stand held the small yellow tablet on which I had scrawled chord changes. This stand also served as a mic stand; the mic being plugged into my amp. As I stated, ridiculous.

My singing voice has always been a source of self-ridicule. It has gone from being dismal in high school with practically no sense of pitch, developed a tremendous "wobble" of a vibrato during college with a propensity to wander, and pretty much was a hit-or-miss during the early Velvet days. Mostly miss. Still, nothing can come between a fool and his dream. Mine was to sing and with more guts than talent, I plowed through.

Craig insisted we do The Eagle's Tequila Sunrise and I would most likely count this as the worst of my singing. I never felt like I could do the job adequately anyway, but he insisted. So, with mic dangling from a cheap wire music stand, I groaned out the tune.

The Dynamic Duo

I cannot say how many gigs Craig and I did as a duet at the Cantina, but there are some highlights.

I remember one where a family sat close to the "stage." There sat a little girl who just keep looking up at these strange men, one in a smoking jacket, while they played their music which may have fit some pine paneled diner of yesteryear, not the Cantina. Part of me felt like she was interested in the music and part of me wondered if she thought us from another planet.

There was also the first time I experienced hecklers. At a table sat a group of men who all wore RC Cola logos on their shirts. The RC Cola plant has long since shut down, but these yahoos were pretty vocal at their displeasure at what they no doubt considered horrible music. It was during the Talking Heads' Big Country that I heard them repeat the lyrics I was singing. Their nasal tone spoke volumes. Still, even though I was a very green public performer at this point, I ignored them, although I was furious and hurt inside.

Craig never ever seemed to be hurt by anyone's criticism. At his core, he really believes that he is not a good player and his modesty is not false. He is a rare musician that has no ego. (This fundamental difference between us has never been divisive, but has served as a form of yin and yang: "CR Smoothie"- the smooth and calm one and "Johnny"- the ego driven front guy. While Craig would never be the guy who would set the room on fire, without him, Jim wouldn't have the badly needed support to have the confidence to try. Even if I failed to light a spark, Craig's there as a bedrock.)

There was one occasion that changed my musical life forever. It can only be described as a
peak experience. On a tune called Super Strut, when it was my turn to take a lead, I turned on the reverb and distortion on my amp and let my fingers fly. I went into a mental and physical state which, if talked about in ordinary terms, sounds unconvincing and if talked about in flowery, metaphysical terms sounds far fetched. Let's just say that music decided at that point to show me another world of experience.

One other thing came out of these very humble gigs: original music. We found a great deal of joy in the little ditties that we wrote and this was the first sign that maybe, just maybe, there was a little more to this than two losers in polyester.

Next: Evolution - Let's Add More Guys?

The Velvet Papers, Pt 1

The Background in Brief

At first, there were two. Two guys: Jim, who played guitar and Craig, on piano. (They were high school friends, but never played together in high school.) Both felt their musical abilities were dubious, but one had an insurmountable ego, despite any supporting evidence. The other, decidely humble even to this day. Ask either one to describe themselves (then or now) and one word would emerge in perfect syncronization: "Losers."

 The other considered music more to be a diversion, a hobby. Personality wise, they were exact opposites: the excitable German and the laid back Italian. Both shared an equal interest in crafting a good buzz and having fun. All was well and innocent in those long ago days.

On college breaks, our dubious twosome could be found, amidst the chaos of four other siblings and a house where everyone wanted to congregate, trying to make something worthwhile out of their limited musical imaginations.  

There were problems. Neither of us could play rock or jazz very well-although these were influences. What the hell could we play? Original music and music that held a common thread-Latin music or more specifically, bossa nova was one recurrent theme. Though early attempts at composing were usually pretty lame affairs. In fact, upon reflection, this was an odd couple from the start. Think of all the great piano and guitar duets. Yeah, that's right. None come to mind. Losers.

Lounge god Nick Winters - the template for all
things Velvet and lounge.

When you fail at rock and jazz, what can come? Lounge. Yes, Lounge, that truly American "art" form that Bill Murray so accurately parodied on SNL. Lounge existed before Murray and still does.

 Oh yeah, we could lounge, baby.

These casual musical meetings continued over the years as both tried to get a college degree.  The pianist sought a practical degree in engineering or something of a technical nature whilst the guitarist pursued a music degree with an emphasis in music education. (As blogged before, the desire to learn about music was a fixed star for the young six stringer despite the hellish conditions of the state college he attended.)

It's Go Time


Addendum: we called our first outing, The Candle Light Tour (86-87) because of some leftover electric cheezo candles that were near the "stage." 

No completely private music making can ultimately be satisfying to the musician. Music must be shared. An audience changes, revises, weighs and ultimately gives meaning to the work of the musicians. Even at our wretched level, we knew we had to play out to grow as players.

Even if it's played at a dive steak house owned by the piano player's dad.

Yes, it has always looked this sad, run down
and generally lower tier.

Craig's dad owned the Cantina. Formerly Lazlo's (?) Steak House. Uncle Tony ( as I and others called him) ran the joint with a careful, if not slightly chintzy, business sense. T knew the bottom line: get a crowd of regulars. There was Taco Wednesday and Three Dollar Pitcher night, etc. He developed a bar that felt like your neighborhood pub, but with an odd mix of socio-economic levels.

We had to play there because we were too weird to play anywhere else. So, the Velvet Brothers were born.

Digression: The name came from a fake interview I was doing of Craig. See? Even then, I was a faux journalist. I asked him about his time in the Velvet Brothers (This was long before Spinal Tap which came out in 1984). " The Velvet Brothers?" was his confused reply and the seeds were planted in the lounge soil.

Next: You can't play at a dive without the right equipment or wardrobe. Or can you?

Johnny Velvet Made Flesh

Note to readers: I saw this cat in Charlotte. I was gobsmacked. I knew lounge existed, but I didn't think I would ever see something this authentic.

Arboretum Location
9:30 pm
Live Entertainment: Bobby Ryder

Bobby Ryder performs live at Mickey & Mooch - the other joint from 8:30 p.m. until 12:00 a.m.

Jazz Corner has some of the most popular local bands playing nightly. They include the Earl Williams quartet, and Bobby Ryder, who played for years at the Hilton.

 

BOBBY RYDER

If longevity is the goal of most professional entertainers; then Bobby Ryder has proven himself a master. Now in his fourth decade of entertaining, Bobby has allowed his music and his creativity to flourish with fresh innovative performances night after night. Over the years Bobby has developed into a lead nightclub singer with a musical range that extends from 50's and 60's oldies to ballads, blues, shag and his current favorite, Sinatra. He had been a headliner at various Playboy Clubs, the Peppermint Lounge, Radio City Music Hall (198 shows!), The Sheridan in Atlanta (3 years) and the Royal Hawaiian Hotel on Oahu (3 years).

Bobby has also appeared on numerous cruise ships and has released two CD's of his music. Bobby Ryder is one of those truly talented professionals who will captivate an audience with his energy and with his ability to play or sing virtually any request. He performs regularly at The Jazz Corner in The Village at Wexford where he performs all styles of jazz including big band, blues, ballads and the music of Frank Sinatra!