The Contest

The Contest


The contest tomorrow was the sole reason for this particular John McFarland Trio. I would play the bass. John would play the piano. Boddly was our drummer--the perfect drummer. If he were worse John wouldn't have him; if he were better, we couldn't have talked him in to it. He had aspirations--his name in the lights with John's.
We had just had our final rehearsal. I had confidence in "Bags Groove". Its base line was simple, and the chord changes were easy to hear. The month's practice showed, and John gave it the okay first time through. The other tune, "Con Alma" needed some work. A sophisticated tune, it had chord changes that were tougher to anticipate. The piano was to play a solo introduction. Its last two measures were deceptive. They sounded like the first two measures of the song itself, so it was easy to start the playing two bars early. I didn't have the feel of it. After several tries, I succeeded by disciplined counting...twelve bars of intro, then play. I hit it three times, and John was happy. We just had to do it one more time tomorrow--for the money.
We packed up our instruments and went to the party for the contestants. I had been at the edge of this group of musicians for a year...listening. Tonight I was at the party, a participant. I began talking to Lee Guilles, a guitarist who had been around Boulder for three or four years and knew John well. He asked, with his slightly English accent, "So, I heard you're playing the bass for McFarland?"
"Yes," I replied.
"John usually has Warburton on the bass. Those are some big shoes to fill. You should be proud," he said. He was smiling through the steely blue eyes that were nearly inscrutable but seemed to be laughing.
"I am. We're good friends." I was feeling some slippery footing here. My face warmed.
"I haven't seen you around much."
"Well, I'm in school here at CU." I was sweating...putting a pit in my only white dress shirt.
"So, you play for the Astronauts or something?" Lee asked with an amused smile, pleased at putting me off balance, gently accusing me of being a rock and roller. It was borderline unfriendly. If Jazz were my life, I would have spit in his drink, but I was slow to recognize the insult. He glowed with self-indulgent pleasure. He had found a soft spot and wanted to continue working on it. For the contest, as far as Guilles was concerned, there would be no beginner's permit.
I heard John over my shoulder, "He's all right, Lee. Don't put him on."
Our plan had gotten around the Boulder jazz community, and not every one liked it. They were professionals developing their careers. A bass player with one month of practice accompanying a tape recorder, learns two bass lines, and plans to win the state jazz contest on the shoulders of an eminent piano player...not so funny a joke to some of John's friends. They let us off with only this shot from Lee Guilles. It was a tribute to John, for his friendships and for the respect he commanded.
Performance day was upon us. Backstage, we set up an hour before curtain time. We were to be first up. We helped Boddly carry the drums to the stage. John played a few scales and the two handed run from "Con Alma". John, impeccably dressed, set the standard...a stylish dark suit, white shirt, and a thin black tie with a small tight knot at the button down collar...not a hair out of place. He had an eye for detail, but I was confident I could pass inspection. My once worn Brooks Brothers three piece suit should be good along with one of my father's dark knit ties. My black dress shoes had a drill sergeant shine. John did his inspection, nodded his initial approval. Then his eyes went to my tie. He grasped the knot with his left thumb and index finger and pulled the top free end until the knot was as small as he could make it. The knot still wasn't small enough. He was obsessed. He pulled several more times.
"I forgot part of the intro. I've got to go up to my place and listen to the tape," he said. He turned and left.
I looked at my watch. We had forty five minutes. "Forgot!" I said. My mind raced. I had an image of John stuck in traffic. I could plead with the contest judges ... for a later starting time...illness (the butterflies in my stomach were already in danger of becoming leap frogs.) I could lock myself in a restroom, and leave it all to Boddly for a 20 minute drum solo.
I was left with my lonely second thoughts. I began to think back on how I got here. It had begun simply enough. We were at CU in Boulder, college kids, cooking burgers when the phone rang. John answered it.
I could hear John's side of the conversation. He was organizing some work for his band.
"Yes. Speaking." Pause. "What's happening?" Pause. "No I can't. But, on another subject, can you make Aspen this year?" Pause. "I can only do a week--the week before Christmas. Can you make that?"
John shook his head. "No. I'll just call Ken at the Onion and tell him we'll take that first week." Pause. "Seven hundred and fifty a night for the group, just like last year. I'll set it up. Yep. Bye."
John hung up the phone, pulled apart two frozen patties, and asked, "You want to ski Aspen for the first week of Christmas vacation?"
"Just like that?" I was incredulous.
"We do it every year."
"Play music all night and ski all day...for seven hundred and fifty bucks a night?"
"It’s a gas. We get room and board too. There's room for you."
"I can't. I'm going home."
He would earn enough on his Aspen ski vacation, playing music, and chasing the girls to pay for a year of in-state tuition at CU. But there was more to it. John assumed an adult persona...control of his life, negotiating contracts, and lining up the club owners. He was at ease doing the business.
When he hung up, I realized that he had a reputation, more than a kid with promise. Some of that promise had been delivered.
That was enough business for John. He had an urgent announcement. "Peterson is going to be at the Band Box in Denver...tonight only. We've got to catch that. Can you swing it?"
John's idol was in Denver. That was big news.
"How did you find out?"
"My old music teacher. He called my folks."
"To tell you about Peterson?"
"Since we won the scholarship, he calls any time Peterson comes to town."
"A scholarship? " I stopped eating and looked at John.
"Not for school. Music."
"What kind?"
"To study with Oscar Peterson for a year. Piano."
"Was there some kind of contest?"
"Not exactly. You have to be recommended by a teacher," he replied. He was going to another thought, and I stopped him.
"So the private music teachers decide?"
"No. The master decides."
"How?"
"He listens to the tapes. You send him a tape...a thirty minute tape."
"How many slots are there?"
"Three."
"Where is the school?"
"Toronto."
"He's the best isn't he?"
"In my book. But that's hardly an objective opinion," John said through a mouthful of hamburger, putting on his coat. "We'd better hit the road."
We were driving the Denver Turnpike, always fun in John's sporty two door Buick with bucket seats, four on the floor, and G force acceleration. John was telling me about this prize possession.
“It was a gift from my grandmother.”
“There is nothing quite as grand as a grandmother is there?”
“Mine certainly is.”
“My folks weren’t so happy about the car, though.”
“Why?”
“They felt like it predisposes to a life style. Fast cars, easy money, loose women, the night club circuit, even drug addiction, which is what they are really worried about.”
“But you are squeaky clean.”
"But its little reassurance. And they're right about some of it," John explained. "But not every jazz musician has a drug habit...which is close to what they believe."
"You're already in the business. How do they feel about that?"
"Nervous. But it pays a lot of my expenses."
"What do they think about the scholarship?"
"On the one hand they're proud parents, but they are really scared that I'll do it."
"Couldn't you do it...?" It was part question, part suggestion.
"Sure. They could live with it...if they had to." He nodded approbation of his parents.
"Tough choice." That scholarship was a chance for John to fulfill a dream.
"Yeah...and basically, I've chosen. It’s hard to hit the big time in music, a lot of luck involved. Look at Grusin's brother. Getting that gig on the Andy Williams Show was all luck. He could still be playing the bars and living on the road."
We drove in silence, absorbed in John's chances to hit the big time.
We had arrived in Denver. As we walked down the alley to the front of the Band Box, a tall figure passed us headed for the rear of the building, big, black, and decked out...suit, tie, and an expensive black overcoat. Just as we passed in the alley, John gave me an elbow, and when we rounded the corner, he looked at me, his eyes slightly widened, and said, "Himself."
Near to greatness, we stayed for both shows--Oscar Peterson at the piano with Ray Brown on bass. John listened...absorbed some of the magic. "Con Alma" was John's favorite tune for the evening, I think because of its technical difficulty.
John listened to the bass as much as to the piano. Sometimes it seemed like he had come to hear Ray Brown play the bass. I began listening to bass lines...to all of the notes. John would point out the difficult parts, the chord changes, and especially Ray's distinctive licks.
Back in Boulder we stopped for a nightcap at the Lamp Post, the watering hole for fans of hard drinks and jazz. John was invited to sit in at the piano for a number. He played a tune. "Sound familiar?" He asked.
I strained. I didn't recognize it.
"It's 'Con Alma'," he said. "The one with 'Blue Moon' chord changes."
"You played that from what you heard Peterson play tonight?"
"I have to work on that run, but I've got a pretty good start on it."
"Amazing...to be able to do that" I gasped.
"It wasn't always so great. In second grade, the music teacher pointed at me and screamed ‘You've got perfect pitch.’ I was branded on the playground.”
Now he was used to his ability. It was just something he had, like having freckles.
We were in our final semester, and it was cake. We had time for music...sometimes at the clubs, sometimes on campus, sometimes at a jam or a dance where John played. I spent a lot of time with the jazz crowd listening to music. Listening to bass lines. John would sing along with the bass making a sound that was a mixture of grunting and humming. The lines were made up of single notes--played one at a time. It was easy to distinguish from other instruments and to follow.
One Friday night, we took in the jazz at the LampPost, and ended up sitting around at my apartment. John subconsciously picked up my guitar and played a few measures of a blues scale bass line that he made up on the fly. Then, he put the guitar down. I picked it up, and noodled around a little.
I tried to play the bass line that John has just played. I came close.
His eyebrows went up in surprise. Suddenly interested, he grabbed the guitar from me. He played the line again and he handed me the guitar.
On the second try I got it. I played the echo, almost.
He took the guitar back. He added a few frills and a turn around.
He had to show me the turn around twice, but I caught on.
"Well. The man has a black soul."
We had a few beers and got...not quite wasted. We had windy wide ranging discussions with random topics-- from childhood memories to imagined adventures. We let our imaginations weave dreams. You're in a plane crash at Independence Pass, you have only a pocket knife. How would you survive without matches...make it to Aspen? We fondled solutions. Then, we would pick a new hypothetical topic and start again.
In that spirit. John said, "You know...something...something we could really pull off?"
"What?"
"Enter the state Jazz contest...here in Boulder in about a month. I could teach you the bass lines to a couple of tunes. We might even win."
I had been tagging along for months, listening, talking music, and being the only one who didn't play, a voyeur. Now I could play, thrilled with the sense of belonging. We were going to surprise people, fool them, and we were excited to be doing it.
"Play the bass for you? In this contest?" I asked.
"I'll write you an easy line all quarter notes. We'll keep it simple, but you'll have to learn a solo."
"Solo? "
The solo almost did me in. Almost. But we had passed the bounds of good judgment.
"So how do they judge this contest?" I asked.
John was nonchalant. "Last year it was in the theater of the student center. They had a table with the four judges--guys who pretty much knew their stuff. There were all the other contestants. The audience is pretty small. There will be five or six bands. Each group plays two tunes. I won it last year with 'Bags Groove'."
"And if I screw up?"
"You die," he answered off hand, dead pan serious.
"No. Really," I persisted.
"We could lose. I've done this contest every year since I was in high school. I've won it four times. I don't need to win it again. But it would be a gas if we pulled it off. We'll play 'Bags Groove'; and if I can get through 'Con Alma', we could win." That’s how we got here.
John finally reappeared back stage, and I returned to the present with great relief. He was back. "I've got it," he said. "Plenty of time." He pulled a thin black tie out of his left coat pocket and handed it to me. I changed the tie. John tightened the knot himself. He was happy. He didn't forget the tune. That tie had been his true mission. He relaxed. But my stomach was roiling.
"Would every one please clear the stage, except for the John McFarland Trio," came a voice from the wing. We got in position. It was clear: I was going to have to play.
A voice on the PA system began a speech introducing the master of ceremonies. It got quiet. I realized how much crowd noise there had been -- crowd noise -- a crowd?
"Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to welcome you to the 13th Annual Colorado State Jazz contest. We have a wonderful evening of Jazz. There will be five groups. Many of the artists are returning competitors of previous years. The first group on the stage is a newly formed group, The John McFarland Trio. John has played piano for the winning group the last four years of this contest."
My stomach began doing back flips. My right foot began jumping around; I stood on it, put all my weight on it. The left foot began jumping around. I stood flat-footed with equal weight on both feet. My feet stopped jumping, but not my stomach.
"Please welcome the John McFarland Trio playing 'Con Alma'." the emcee said. The curtain went up slowly--for ten seconds. It took a year. I had time to see several individual couples exchange comments...several times. I saw one of the judges point a pencil at John--no, at me, "Bill, who's the new bass man?"
A hush fell on the crowd. No big deal, McFarland? There was a full house, an ocean of dark forms, thousands of them, formally dressed, their white faces and expectant eyes upturned like hunters in a blind. I was in trouble.
"Oh. Please don't let me vomit," I silently petitioned fate. It was going to be close.
Then, there was applause that went on for a while. My nausea eased. John stood up and took a bow. The applause subsided somewhat abruptly. Recognizing trouble ahead, I rotated the mike over my bass to a new position over the piano sound board. Just being able to do something made me feel better. "Count," I told myself.
John began the Intro. I concentrated on counting, doing fine. Then, an adrenalin rush as Boddly came in on the fake, two measures before the end of the intro. Confused, I began on the next beat. Boddly recognized the error and we were both abruptly silent for the last measure of the intro. I was mentally scrambling to start again at the real beginning of the tune. But McFarland began playing something that I had never heard--not the intro and not the tune either. Then Boddly started again. For me school was out. I had no idea where to start. So, I pantomimed facial expressions, body movements, and stroking the strings as if playing... all performed in absolute silence. After a few measures, I began to hear a "Con Alma" that I could recognize. John was delivering a praiseworthy technical performance on the piano, keyboard wizardry in the face of our trio's disintegration. I gave my entire concentration, to listening for the cues to my approaching solo with a grim determination. I hit the solo right on the money, and I made it all the way-- a simple but near flawless solo. I was immensely relieved. I also had my place back in the song, so I was able to play the last part of the tune with the group. There was applause as the curtain came down. John took his glasses off. He looked up into my face, but his eyes were focused on his suffering miles away. He rubbed his eyes hard with his index fingers, said "Jees-us" in a whisper of miserable disbelief. We hadn't counted on this.
The Master of Ceremonies was introducing our second number. "Ladies and gentlemen, the John McFarland trio again with 'Bags Groove'."
We played. It wasn't perfect, but I did play well enough to get "in the groove" a little. Mercifully there was applause, and it was over. John walked with resignation to a sympathetic reception from the other musicians backstage. He was talking to his friend Grusin as I got the bass covered and ready to travel.
John was shaking his head saying, "Boddly was two bars early, and I was vamping, waiting to pick it up at the top."
Vamping. That explained the totally new tune I had heard at the end of the intro...a kind of musical holding pattern. John's comment gave me my only clue to the meaning of this new word.
"It wasn't Boddly who killed us," I said, eyes to the floor. "But he did provide me with the opportunity," I added, unable to resist the offered scapegoat.
Grusin clapped me on the shoulder, got eye contact, and grinned. "You did okay," he said. "It was right... when you played." It was a perfectly timed kindness. He whispered something to John that brought a smile and some color back to our leader's face.
Our friend took his leave, "Well, we're up next."
I looked at John, shrugged my shoulders and raised my eyebrows. He said, "Right." His tone conveyed understanding but also his need to give it a rest and have a little time alone. He paused, then said, "Let's go sit out front." I nodded, and we went. After ten minutes of anonymity in the crowd, we were able to almost enjoy the remaining performances. During a short break after the last had played, the judges made their final choices. Then, one of the judges took the microphone for the awards.
They went through the winners, beginning with third place. The Bill Branson Trio was finally announced as the first place winner. We were not called.
Sitting next to John I could feel his relief.
Then, the emcee announced, "We have made an additional award this evening. Unanimously the judges award honorable mention for best the piano performance to John McFarland." The applause made John groan. He needed to be finished with this contest..
Thirty years have passed.
"I feel badly for John. That he didn't go for the dream...the big time musical career," I tell my wife.
"Bull," She says. "Whose dream are we talking about here?"
My bass lesson is Tuesdays, 7 PM. She's right. It's my dream now. I've kept my day job. But there's always hope for a born again bass player.