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You have reminded me of one of the more unusual and enjoyable wedding jobs I've played, though it may not mean much to non-brass players.

I was playing with a 12 piece German style big band. Mostly brass (separate trumpet and fluegelhorn sections, one trombone, tuba, euph and sometimes tenor horn, couple of woodwinds). No saxes! Nein, verboten! No keyboard either, I was on trombone.

In most venues we played unamplified. On the rare larger hall jobs where we used the house sound system I have no idea how bad it sounded. It was rarely necessary because we are brass and we play LOUD. We played the usual mix of European dance music, light classic transcriptions, show tunes, etc.

But we were hired to play a wedding dinner job, and because it was a relative of a bandmember we agreed to do it for free food and no pay.

We showed up to find a bright echoey banquet room. The wedding party met us and gave instructions: we were to play background music the entire time, but there would be speeches and conversations, and people socializing who hadn't seen each other for years. So we were to play constantly, but at all times so quietly they could talk without interference. In a fairly noisy acoustic setup. So we played the entire job pianissimo. That's a whole new challenge for balance and blend, especially balance. Of course good acoustic musicians are always listening for dynamic balance (once amplified it doesn't matter, even if you do it right the sound guy will screw it up). But to some extent when playing loud the horn does it for you. After ff the sound may change character but it doesn't get much louder. Playing pp you have to listen.

Sorry to ramble, this is probably interesting only to a brass player. But it was a fun job. And the food was good. I always have to wonder if you come out ahead giving free food to a musician - probably more cost effective just to hire us.

how nice to catch up on my favorite PW thread.

Robin,

Re: A blond wig for your sub and fringed outfits:

The band I'm in was formed in 1986, I believe. Except for one, all the members have changed (some pieces several times) over the years. There used to be a guy in the band who did "Proud Mary" as Tina Turner, complete with an angular fringed minidress and a wig. I saw him do the act once, before I was in the band. People asked for it for many years after he was gone. "Tina doesn't work here anymore," was the standard answer.

Tim R,

Re: Free food for the band.

We generally get fed on jobs where there is food. When it's not a full-blown catered affair, that usually means a buffet. We're pretty polite; we wait a decent interval before getting on line. But there are always a few stragglers; guests that got wrapped up in a conversation or were outside having a smoke when the buffet opened. We sometimes hint that they have made a mistake; you never want to be behind the band at a buffet.

We're professionals. We can hold two plates and a wad of napkins in one hand. We'll put the silverware in a tux jacket pocket, sometimes accompanied by a roll or two. We will probably have scoped out the spread ahead of time and worked out a strategy like a football play, complete with Xs and Os; you don't want to be an O. We can squeeze servings of chicken francese, sausage and peppers, pepper steak, baked ziti, eggplant rollatini, sliced turkey, cubed potatoes, string beans and chicken cordon bleu on a nine-inch plate and still balance a slab of roast beef on top. The buffet table looks like a clear-cut forest when we're done.

Re: Th airplane hangar:

It was a surprise party, believe it or not, for one of the executives of a company that outfits private planes. He was flown in on the pretense of looking over some plane. It was a cool gig to do, once, if only to be able to tell the story afterward, but maddening to actually play. The reverberation was truly mind-boggling. This was a few years ago but I'd bet some of the chords haven't entirely died out yet. It was nearly impossible to hear any of what the other guys played in any detail, especially on the faster material. A string quartet playing selections from the funerary repertoire might have worked out better.

"Event horizon"--- it is tantalizing to think on, but like the famous Purple Cow of poem (if you call that poetry), I'd rather see than be one. "Black Hole" sounds so pejorative, but "Singularity" sounds special and maybe even fun, like some kind of really wild carnival ride with terrific special effects... until we consider that we meet, in order, event horizon, gravity well, spaghettification that pulls us atom by atom infinitely long (take that, bridesmaids' dresses and wedding manager---and your clipboard, too), and singularity, and then non-existence (as far as the local universe is concerned), with only a whisper of gravitation left to tell the tale. Some claim they can reconstruct the story with that alone, but I'm not so sure; it sounds like a bluff on the part of some thesis-writer who hopes the degree-granting board's eyes will glaze over and that they will wearily stamp the PhD application "Approved", although it is actually "unproved," and probably well beyond any hope of dispositive proof.

I am sure I'm talking about what I don't know, so don't pay any attention. This is what happens when I make the coffee too weak on a cold morning. The synapses fire, but the engine never turns over; eventually we call the tow truck.

TimR—I love your post. When it comes to playing a wedding, it doesn't matter what instrument's your specialty—we're all in the same soup.

And speaking of soup, I have a real issue with the food thing, because I play at a place with a Michelin 3-star restaurant and a chef who has been voted (several times) the best chef in Europe. So, you know, they're not serving buffalo wings or chicken fingers at the castle weddings. The castle director is extremely generous with food and drink for musicians, plus the guests usually insist on feeding me. If I actually ate what was offered, I'd look like the tattooed bride in my story. On the other hand, how can one say no to this kind of cuisine? It was fun fun fun for about a month, then I noticed I was having trouble zippering up the old ball gown.

Not good. So now I decline politely.

Most nights I end up eating a cheese sandwich when I get home. The wine is another story. I can't drink more than a glass of wine at night—PUI (playing under the influence) is something I try to avoid. But customers are insulted if I turn down the mega-bucks wine they send to the piano, so I accept it, then pass it off to one of my co-workers on my break. Yes, I have been known to pour perfectly good glasses of Chateau Bombastic down the ladies' room sink, or worse, into the planter.

I know I'm incredibly lucky to be in this situation. I know things are MUCH different if you're playing in a band, or if you're playing a solo piano gig at the Redwood Motor Inn on Banksville Road in Pittsburgh (where I had one of my first gigs). There, you're lucky if you get a Frito and a half glass of Dr. Pepper in a lipstick-smeared glass.

Jeff, I'm focusing on the event horizon and staying away from the Black Holes. I have a novelist friend who writes Fantasy/Science Fiction and she is working on a book called The Black Hole Singer. My husband says that pretty much describes every singer he has ever worked with.

I do like the idea of the event planner and her clipboard going through spaghettification. Let's hope they don't wind up on the buffet, next to the three-bean salad and the tortellini.

Greg, PLEASE tell me you have photos of your Tina Turner. Please.

I didn't mean to alarm the buffet browsers--- the wedding planner and her clipboard don't turn into real spaghetti--- and I'm sorry if that's disappointing news to some. Spaghettification is just some Celestial Mechanics wonk's idea of a dry witticism. Actually, angry sorcerers turn offenders into Buffalo Wings. What, you didn't know? Take a closer look next time you pass the buffet table...

My lesson about this came when I did a stint as a taxi driver, many years ago. I used to take pride in knowing where the best doughnuts in town were, but I gave it up when I started to notice the doughnut around my waistline. It never got to the point that I had trouble zipping up my ballgown, and anyway, a taxi driver's idea of dress-up is a kevlar vest. But I gained a special gratitude for you authors during what was otherwise the job from heck, because I had time to read between fares. Arthur Conan Doyle used to live in San Francisco, right across Lafayette Park from Danielle Steele. Mark Twain, too, though I never found out where--- but what difference does "where" make when we're talking about the world of a writer; "where" is right there in front of your eyeballs.

Another TITANIC moment:

Just when I thought it was safe—I've actually managed to play all summer without a bride requesting the TITANIC theme, and I was kind of hoping that particular musical phase of my life was over. The end of an error, so to speak.

Wrong. On Saturday I was asked to play the theme as background music for the bride's poem to the groom. I don't know, but a song about a sinking ship doesn't make sense to me for a wedding, yet so many people insist on using it. And what's with the "My Heart Will Go On" lyric, anyway? It sounds like the theme song for Bodyworld, that exhibit with all the skinless dead bodies, doesn't it?

I'm thinking about getting one of those Kate Winslet Titanic tailored burlap-sack outfits for gigs, but I'm worried the corset might be uncomfortable while playing.

I think I'd rather listen to the Titanic theme than the bride's poem, though. Unfortunately, the number of people who think they can write good poetry far outweighs the number of people who actually can.

I had a great-aunt who was on the Titanic. It was a traumatic experience that left her with tremors for the rest of her life. It certainly was not romantic!

Yes, Monica. I agree! Although I have a soft spot in my heart for anyone who tries to write anything at all. It's the mom in me coming out.

Because I'm listening to self-composed poetry in German, it takes the edge off—I'm just grateful if I can understand it. But I suspect it's still pretty bad.

Good grief, BDB, a great aunt on the TITANIC???? That's amazing. I've often wondered how relatives of survivors related to all the Titanic mania. And especially that song! And why of why would someone choose it for a wedding theme?

Report for this weekend:

No weddings, no nightclub, no church BYOB dinner-dance, no Oldies Show, no 50th birthday, no nothing. My collection of black pants and shirts stayed on the shelf, untouched. Unfamiliar people read the news to me on TV last night. Who knew they had a weekend crew?

Saturday stretched on forever. Having gotten to bed at a more sensible hour than usual, I got up pretty early. I did the crossword with breakfast, put away some clothes, took out some window air conditioners for the winter, took my daughter to dance school, got a haircut, took the air conditioners to storage, went to a local music store to buy some spare cables, picked up my daughter, took her for a late lunch, came home, took a nap (a Saturday habit before a gig), went with my wife to the supermarket, came home and it was still only eight o'clock or so.

Except for when we were on vacation, I'm pretty sure I haven't had an entirely free weekend since...well, I don't know when. It's nice, actually, but I feel a little out of sync.

Today we're driving a couple of hours into Upstate New York to see the Levon Helm Band outdoors and watch people launch pumpkins with medieval technology. It should be fun.

Happy weekend all!

Weekend wedding report: Smooth sailing. Really, I think someone could do a scientific study of brides who chose to marry off season—I think they are much saner than their June counterparts.

On Saturday I played for a wedding party of 16. Quiet, tasteful, and really nice folks.

The castle is full of Americans this weekend—the specialty food convention is happening in Cologne. Lots of coffee, chocolate and olive oil buyers from New Jersey hanging out in the lobby. It warms my heart to hear those American accents.

Greg, enjoy the time as a civilian, and have fun at the pumpkin launching. I had pumpkin soup for lunch, in between sets. The fall/winter Sunday lunch buffet is lethal.

I served coffee for sixty at a new-volunteer training weekend at the state park, where I also work as a volunteer. There's nothing that's such a big deal about that, except that it's WAY out in the backcountry: no stoves, no electricity, but lots of campfire light and starlight--- a perfect October day. One gets up at 4 AM to start water heating for the morning coffee. I lapsed one year and got to see what those people are like when they don't have that first cup when they think it ought to be there, and it's not a pretty sight. Otherwise, they are lovely people, and I learned my lesson. It so happens, it's just beautiful at four in the morning.

I started a hiking group ten years or so ago--- nothing to do with the park--- and two different times, people met through the group and later married. One man proposed in front of all and sundry, after we had summited a peak near Lake Tahoe--- down on one knee and everything. The ring would have knocked your eyes out (jaws dropped, eyes bugged out, and some ladies looked rather coldly at their own husbands, clearly saying with their look, "Do you see that?"), and he had swapped packs with his intended, so she had actually carried it all day long. "That little devil," she remarked later. When he proposed, she was speechless for so long I started to fear she was going to say no. But the suspense was for naught; she accepted him and all was well.

They met at a previous retreat. She came with one man and left with another, the one she eventually married. Not the best of form, I suppose, but in the circumstances we'll have to overlook it. There's no arguing with the force of destiny... and they're still together, so that undermines any further argument. It supports Robin's theory that October brides really are happier--- or did she say, "less crazy." Anyway, this one was happy.

The other wedding makes less of a tale.

I lent Robin's book, Rhythm, to my friend Darlene. I thought it was a very fine book and considered that Robin had made very significant growth as an expert teller of tales, which is saying something considering what a wonderful book Piano Girl is. Rhythm is a dramatic story about musicians (though not pianists), which rotates in an elliptical but very satisfying way around a music conservatory... but I don't like to say too much for fear of giving anything at all away. It would rob readers of the enjoyment, and the surprise... though I can tell you that weddings have their day within its pages. Nothing will be taken away by my telling you Darlene's report: "What a great story!" she exclaimed. "I couldn't put it down." I don't think either of us are that easily impressed, either.

I'm now reading Keven Bazzana's biography about genius pianist Ervin Nyireghazi, entitled Lost Genius. Think it's just another book review with nothing to do with weddings? You're so wrong; he had ten of them. I think there are some in whom the flame burns so brightly, it's more than anyone can bear. If you have a spark of it, be happy with that.

Wow, Jeff, thanks for the nice words about RHYTHM (my novel), and thanks to Darlene as well. I had a great time writing that wedding scene. For anyone who wants to read it, here it is. Not sure if the chapter stands on its own (without all the backstory) but maybe it does. In any case, this is one wedding I'd like to attend!

Note: Mary Two is a housekeeper who comes from England. Please excuse her foul language; she really can't control herself. Mary One is also a housekeeper, as well a Billie Holiday expert. Olivia (the bride) is a music teacher. Jane (the narrator) is a teenage drummer, watching her widowed father re-marry.

RHYTHM: A Novel
©2008 Robin Meloy Goldsby
Song lyrics by Robin Meloy Goldsby
Chapter reprinted with the permission of Bass Lion Publishing

Blushing Moon

A lot of aisle marching is taking place this season. First graduation, now the wedding. It’s funny—we spend so much time spinning in messy little circles, but for benchmark occasions, we stop whirling, recover from the dizziness, focus on what we want, and march, in a tidy line, up one aisle and down another.

Olivia asked me to choose the color of the bridesmaid dresses and I picked red, since it’s always been my best color. Olivia, the Marys, and I went to the fancy bridal department of the Joseph Horne Company in downtown Pittsburgh, and were snubbed by a snotty saleslady. She took one look at the four of us, and immediately pretended to be busy rearranging her display of lace gloves. But Olivia stood there and stared her down until she helped us. The saleslady, who fell all over herself once she recognized the Bowman name, said—with one of those fake frozen smiles—that in the entire history of the Joseph Horne bridal department there had never been a single instance of the bridal party requesting red dresses. She tried to convince us to go for aqua, but we refused. She filled out the order form and we made appointments for fittings.

My dress has tiny straps and a long tight skirt with some sort of stretchy stuff in it. André will probably have a heart attack when he sees it, cause it makes my butt look even curvier than it is. Junk in the trunk, he likes to say. Mary One and Mary Two are also wearing red dresses, but with different styles. Mary One’s dress has a huge chiffon skirt, trimmed with sequined bumblebees, and Mary Two’s outfit has a long tailored jacket and a fishtailed skirt. Plus, she’s wearing one of those royal wedding hats—a wide brimmed red straw number with a big puffy veil. Leo says that the three of us look like some sort of mismatched fire brigade, but what does he know.

Grandma Millicent offered her formal living room for the wedding, and Dad and Olivia jumped at the chance. It’s more of a ballroom really, and there’s enough space for a large crowd. For today, Grandma’s furniture has been cleared and neat rows of taffeta-covered chairs line both sides of a long aisle. Octavious and Leo, dressed in dark blue suits with red rose buds in their lapels, practically blind me with their movie-star good looks as they greet guests and escort them to their seats.

“Friend of the bride, or friend of the groom?” they ask, over and over. I wonder what happens if you can’t make up your mind.

I see through a crack in the dining room door that Olivia’s side is overflowing and that Dad’s side is half empty. I also notice that the room is full of men and boys, most of them arriving unaccompanied. Wow.

“Hey Olivia, it’s a packed house and we still have fifteen minutes before show time. How many people did you invite?”

“Let me think. Sam’s list had about thirty people on it and mine had about the same. Then there were some last-minute invitations. I’d say total about 85.”

“It looks like they all brought friends and relatives.”

“Really?”

“Look for yourself.”

“Oh my God,” she says, peeking into the room. “They’re my old students. I haven’t seen some of these boys for years. Look! There’s Louis Shore! I can’t believe he’s voluntarily wearing a tie. Oh, oh, oh—Ralph Haverman is out there next to Manny Lazzaro and Stinky Grimm.”

“Stinky?”

“Don’t ask.”

“We have way too many people. I hope no one calls the police.”

Mary Two, who is repairing her scarlet lipstick for the fifth time, stops preening long enough to look at the crowd. “Jesus m’beads! Look at all those [censored]’ people.”

“There are no more chairs,” I say. “SRO, Olivia.”

“I can’t believe all these young men have come,” she says. “Some of them live really far away.”

“I’ll be buggered,” says Mary Two. “How did they know?”

“Oh!” says Olivia.

“What?” I say.

“It’s Franklin! All the way from Boston!”

“Franklin? Franklin the drummer?” I say. Uh-oh. I still get nervous whenever I hear his name.

“The one and only, and he’s talking to Leo.” She leaps away from the door like a nine-year old. “They’re coming back here,” she says. “What do I do?”

“Hide behind the china closet!” says Mary Two, pushing Olivia to the other side of the room. “It’s bad [censored]’ luck if they see you before the ceremony.”

“I think that rule just applies to the groom, Mary Two,” I say, as I open the door enough to let Franklin inside. He and Olivia stare at each for a moment.

“Hello, Miss Blue.” He’s as close to tears as a guy can get without actually crying. “Congratulations. Wow. You look just beautiful.”

“Oh Franklin,” she says. “How did you know to come? I didn’t invite you. I mean I would have, but I didn’t want you to go to any trouble and—”

“Your husband-to-be invited me and sent me an airline ticket. Mr. Bowman asked if I would walk down the aisle with you and give you away, you know, sort of as a representative of the Gateway Band. We’re all here, Miss Blue, just about all of your band students.”

Holy cow, I think. Dad did this. He invited Olivia’s students as a surprise to her. At this instant, I love my father more than ever. I peek into the living room and see Octavious opening the huge glass doors to the conservatory. Waiters appear out of nowhere with more of the taffeta-covered chairs.

Leo, playing stage manager for the day, sticks his head in the door. “You ready back there?” he says. “I’ll cue the band to start the overture. Five minutes to show time, Ladies and Gentlemen, five minutes.”

“Leo,” I whisper. “Did you know about this? That all of these people would be coming?”

“Are you kidding?” He looks in the gilded mirror hanging on the dining-room wall and slicks back his long golden hair. “I helped your dad plan it.”

Typical Leo.

“Where are my manners?” says Olivia. “Jane, please meet Franklin Boswell! Your predecessor in the Gatehouse Band!”

Franklin Boswell has dark brown satiny skin, a perfect blend of cookie and bird-face, and has the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. “Hi,” I say, “I mean, how do you do?”

He laughs. “I’m fine. I hear you’re tearin’ it up over there with Gatehouse boys. Glad to hear the drum chair is in hard-hitting’ hands.”

“Thanks.” My knees feel weak.

“Careful there Miss Jane,” says Mary Two. “June is bustin’ out all over.”

I look down and see that my boobs are about to pop out of the top of my dress. Mortified, I turn away from Franklin and make some minor adjustments. André, playing my grandmother’s 1923 Steinway art-case grand piano, begins a rhythm and blues version of the old standard “Second Time Around,” accompanied by Carlos on electric bass and David on alto sax. Octavious goes to the front and begins to sing.

God, this band is groovin’. They slip into a funky version of “All the Things You Are.” I turn back to talk to Franklin again, but he’s leaning over and whispering in Olivia’s ear. Oh my. He looks as good from the back as he does from the front.

I sneak another peek out front and see the backs of the guests’ heads bobbing up and down in time to the music. Even Grandma Millicent, who had seemed a bit shocked when Dad announced his engagement to Olivia, bounces in her front row seat. She sits between Grandpa Vernon and dear old Grandpa Jack. Jack has left Grandma Isabella in the care of her nurse. It must have been hard for him to be without her, even for a few days, but he wanted to show his support for Sam and Olivia. Sometimes I think Grandpa Jack is the bravest man in the world.

Mary One hands me my bouquet of red and pink roses and André and his band begin playing a very funky “Here Comes the Bride.” Dad waits at the other end of the aisle, looking wired, happy, and maybe just a little bit afraid. Sort of like me.

Leo throws open the big mahogany doors leading into the living room, and I step through the threshold. The band would sound better with me playing, but even without a drummer, André rocks along at a tempo that manages to be both sexy and powerful. The music builds. I think about Mom and I’m sad and joyful all at once. I look over at André and he smiles at me. Then, as the guests rise to pay tribute to the bride, Olivia enters through the big wooden doors. Ribbons of sunlight shine on the uncluttered path leading to my father. She walks down the aisle, with Franklin holding her arm. She turns to face Dad.

The judge asks, “Who gives this woman in marriage?”

Franklin clears his throat and says, “I do, your honor, Franklin Boswell, her former student.”

“And what,” says the judge, “did this lovely woman teach you?”

“Everything,” says Franklin. “But mostly, how to play the drums.”

“Hey!” shouts a voice from the back. “I give this woman in marriage, too.”

“And who are you?”

“Louis Shore, first trumpet.”

“Me, too” says a familiar voice. “André Kenyon, keyboards.”

“Carlos Vierra, bass.”

“David Herman, alto sax.”

“Manny Lazzaro, vocals.”

“Stinky Grimm, lead trombone.”

And so it continues, with each of Olivia Blue’s former students—dozens of them—standing up, going to the front of the room, and giving away the bride.

I know what I have to do. When the guys finish, I make sure the top of my dress is in place, step forward, and join the crowd of boys and men huddled around Olivia.

“Jane Bowman,” I say. “Drums.”

****

The reception, held in Grandma Millicent’s terraced garden—overlooking the Ohio River—is one swingin’ party. At first, the Sewickley Heights neighbors huddle in a cautious group on one side of the lawn. They sneak peeks at the Gatehouse boys. But before long, everyone is mixing it up, dancing, eating and drinking, laughing and telling stories. The musicians take turns on the bandstand. Even with the touch of Lycra sewn into my dress, there’s no way to play the drums in it, so I’ve changed into the jeans and t-shirt I brought with me. When I’m not playing, I check out Franklin Boswell, former drummer and future heart surgeon, as he takes charge and guides the members of the Gatehouse Band, past and present, through stinging versions of their favorite tunes. He may not be playing much these days, but he sure sounds good. I’d kind of like to dance with him, but since one of us is always playing the drums I never get a chance. We pass each other on the way to and from the stage. He nods, I nod. My skin tingles whenever I look at him. Something about Franklin makes me want to talk to him, to touch him, oh man, to just jump on him right here in Grandma Millicent’s back yard. Poor André is oblivious to all of this; he’s way into the music.

As the sun sets, Mary Two—full of champagne punch, her royal wedding hat slightly akimbo—takes the stage and grabs the microphone.

“Ladies and Gentleman, Miss Mary One and I have been working for Mr. Bowman for almost fifteen years now. I used to think Jesus was a good boss, but he doesn’t hold a [censored] candle to Sam Bowman. Anyway, Mary One and I love Mr. Bowman very much and we’re ever so thrilled to see him this happy. Miss Olivia, you’ve seemed like part of our family since the minute you walked into our house. I’m glad that now it’s official. So, to celebrate the coming off of your nuptials, Miss Mary One and I have prepared a little musical selection as a gift to you. André is going to play for us.”

I can’t imagine what the Marys are about to do. I’m almost afraid to look. André slides in behind his keyboard. Franklin leaves the stage and stands next to me. Mary One, a little bashful, walks center stage and takes the mike.

Look at the blushing moon,
Swimming in cherry light,
How can I feel so fine?
I've just had one glass of wine,
The thought of a simple kiss,
Could light up the sky in shades of bliss,
I’m swept away by your love.

Mary One sings like an angel, doing her very best Lady Day impression. A piano-solo begins, and right then, Mary Two lifts her long skirt, grins, and performs a perfectly rehearsed little soft-shoe dance, while Mary One stands to the side with one arm held out.

The guests go wild, Dad and Olivia embrace each other like they’ll never let go, Grandma Millicent cries, Grandpa Jack leans against a magnolia tree with a wistful look on his face, Leo and Octavious lock arms and hope that nobody notices, Franklin places his hand on the small of my back, and I look up at the dusky sky and wonder if it’s possible to actually see stardust.

Oh, yes, Robin--- I think it stands up just fine... just fine. But, if people think the book is just an extra-thick version of "Brides Magazine," they're in for a very big surprise. When I said the story was elliptical, what I had in mind is the way an ellipse is formed. You can tie a loop of string and anchor it with a thumbtack and draw a circle. If you use two thumbtacks, your pencil will draw an ellipse. It is like a circle with two focal points; the oval-shaped orbit is complete, perfectly inevitable, mathematically predictable, and totally beautiful. This story traces its path around two focal points (the conservatory is one)... but I certainly didn't know where I was going until I got there. Maybe some other people are smarter.

The ICBP part of the afternoon turned out to be just one home-built air cannon (I guess you can't just get one at Home Depot) with a 97 foot barrel. The muzzle velocity was allegedly 600 miles per hour and the 8" pumpkins supposedly fly about 3700 feet. I say allegedly and supposedly because although many people pointed at the sky and claimed to see the orange missiles, I never did. They say you can more easily see them if you stand behind the gun, but each launch was accompanied by an ear-destroying blast of noise. I decided to forgo it.

Levon Helm had throat trouble and couldn't sing, but there were enough vocalists to go around among the 11 pieces. He looks small and seemingly frail these days but played the drums with authority, always with a wide grin on his face.

It was a treat to see someone else play for a change, and the band was very good. They charted a variable orbit around the meeting point of Blues, Gospel, Country and Rock & Roll. It was a reverent Sunday devotion one minute and a raucous New Orleans party the next. One song would feature acoustic guitars and mandolins, the next razor-timbred guitar, the next the four-piece horn section, sometimes including Tuba.

The "venue" was nearly as primitive as some of my own stories -- a small field next to a farm stand -- but that only added to the atmosphere. There was a good-sized crowd for the site, maybe a little over a thousand, but you could easily walk back and get a cup of chili or corn chowder, or watch kids chase each other through the cornfield. All in all, an enjoyable afternoon, especially as it gave us yet another chance to demonstrate to our daughter that her parents are a little odd when it comes to music appreciation. What's the use of having a teenager if you can't embarrass and bewilder her from time to time? I think of it as returning the favor.

We had another such opportunity on our recent summer vacation. We had arrived at the Gare du Nord train station in Paris and were taking a fairly long cab ride to our hotel. The cab driver must have been from one of the former French possessions in Africa and the car stereo reflected his heritage. He launched the car into a series of narrow streets well before he really knew where he was going.It was a little disconcerting to see him consulting the fine-print index of the Paris Atlas while driving and honking the horn.

Our hotel was seemingly on a major street, but was technically on a tiny alley; it was a pedestrian walkway for most of the day. The address was entirely unknown to our driver. There we were, jawing back and forth in his African French and our New York French, marking up our map with a highlighter pen, scraping past famous monuments as we hurtled through Paris, all the while bopping and singing along in 6/8 time. Our daughter, sitting between us in the back, shook her head with that "Parents" look on her face.

I get a warm feeling inside just thinking about it.

I played a wedding last week and was waiting for the bride to come out so I could start up "here comes the bride". as soon as I begin playing a brides maid comes running up to me and starts telling me to play something else because it was written by an anti-semetic composer. This was a jewish wedding by the way. So I start just pulling out a bunch of epic-sounding major chors in classical cadences, but seeing as I had just watched star wars earlier that day, the tune was stuck in my head. That poor couple is going to watch their wedding video in the future and expect Han Solo and Chewey to walk down the aisle instead!

Very funny, Eric! You start improving with majestic sounding march music and something goofy is bound to happen. One time, when I was in a similar situation, someone asked me if I was playing the Burger King theme song.

Greg, I have two teenagers here at home, actually three, if you count our South African exchange student. I do my best to embarrass them as often as possible—I think it builds character.

this is the best thread ever.

"I played a wedding last week and was waiting for the bride to come out so I could start up "here comes the bride". as soon as I begin playing a brides maid comes running up to me and starts telling me to play something else because it was written by an anti-semetic composer. This was a jewish wedding by the way."

I looked around and was unable to find any mention of anti-jewish prejudice on the part of Felix Mendelsohn, author of "The Wedding March," which became popular with brides after Queen Victoria's daughter, Princess Victoria the Princess Royal, walked down the aisle to it. It is true that Abraham Mendelsohn, his father, a wealthy banker, joined the Lutheran church and added the surname Bartholdy to the family name. That does not amount to being anti-semitic; in fact, he may have been trying to protect his family from anti-semitism. It seems, actually, that Felix was subject to anti-jewish prejudice himself, having been harshly criticized for being Jewish by Ricard Wagner.

That bridesmaid may have gotten things backwards. I'll say no more about bridesmaids; they're clearly identified by ugly uniforms for the protection of the marrying public. This is no more than truth-in-labeling.

The hottest thing about Felix was that there seems to be some evidence, suppressed for the last 100 years, that he (a married man) wrote a sizzling-hot letter to Jenny Lind (a married lady) begging her to elope with him to America (then very distant). She declined. Now, a bridesmaid could make something out of that, but it was such a long time ago. And can bridesmaids say any better for their own conduct? And does it really make a case for walking down the aisle to "The Burger King" theme--- doesn't that go "Aren't you hungry/ For Burger King now?"

I suggest wedding musicians be on guard for this sort of thing. If you can't put up concertina wire, you could at least feign deafness and keep playing the Wedding March. A bride who steps out to "Burger King" doesn't have much further to fall in this world, not with camcorders and those syndicated shows everywhere.