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February 01, 2006

The Monster Waits

I used to be a hipster. I had all the right gear and lived in the Haight. I wore thrifted guayaberas and jackets, Dickies pants and faded jeans. My Timbuk 2 messenger bag carried my sketchbooks, a portable CD player and books by Ellroy, Leonard and Hiaasen. I was surrounded by aspiring film makers, painters, DJ’s, designers, seamstresses, actors and musicians. Though money was tight I never considered the sacrifice of dropping $200 on shoes purchased at Hayes Valley boutiques. I saw every movie by the Brothers Quay as well as the Brothers Cohen. Over Mission Street burritos my friends and I would discuss and debate and reference the topic most near and dear to our hearts: pop culture. We were the enlightened ones after all and it was our duty to spread the word to the godless and uncircumcised.

I drove a ’64 Ford Econoline van that toted my drums from gig to gig patiently waiting for the day when someone famously connected would recognize my talent. I worked a slacker job at a café, where the food benefits kept me from whittling away and the flexibility allowed me to go on the road and play the occasional afternoon recording session. I made concessions to feed my musical pursuits. I worked hard, practiced obsessively and blew most of my income on research CD’s & LP’s readily available a couple of blocks away at Amoeba Records on Haight St. My collection was blossoming ranging from Buck Owens’ Roll Out the Red Carpet all the way to Fela Ransome Kuti’s Los Angeles Sessions ‘77.

Though the pretense was thick and altruistic thoughts cast away, this was my life. I was content on my University drop out status as nobody seemed to care about a degree on the bandstand. I figured that it was a matter of time until I would really be able to live full-time as a musician. I kept plugging away and putting myself out there, networking up a storm. After five years of holding true to my game plan the successes began mounting and I was able to say no to work that didn’t pay well or seem interesting. Suddenly I found myself in a good position playing great music with people who inspired me. I juggled between a number of obscure bands with recording contracts: Oranj Symphonette, The Old Joe Clarks, Jim Campilongo and Action Plus. I also played on many albums with other bands and songwriters: The Lullaby Baxter Trio, Austin Willacy, The Court & Spark, Blaise Smith, Tin Hat Trio, Jallen Rix, Garrin Benfield and dozens of others that I can’t seem to remember right now.

One day I was taking a break at the café and checked my messages on the phone. “Pat, this is Tom. I’m a friend of Joe Gore’s and he recommended you as a drummer. My number is 707 461-XXXX. Thanks. Hope to talk to you soon, bye.”

I used to get a lot of calls like this but this one caught me off guard as I didn’t get many calls from the Marin County 707 area code. I hit the repeat button to make sure I had all the numbers when I realized half way through the message that Tom Waits was “Tom” and that TOM WAITS WAS CALLING ME. Holy crap! The king of all hipsters Tom Waits was CALLING ME! It took me a couple of minutes to register what just happened as I listened to the message about fourteen more times, but it really was him with that famously raspy voice seeking out my services.

While this call did come from out of nowhere, it didn’t really come that far out of nowhere. I have several musician colleagues who are Waits alumnus and are tapped in. I heard through the pipeline that he was about to record an album and figured that I was just as qualified as anyone else. After all, I knew his work and felt like I would complement what he does. I champion the spirit of Harry Partch and make my own percussion instruments. I know Captain Beefheart and Kurt Weil’s entire catalogue. I get his bag. I get it real good.

So I call Tom back. We play phone tag for a week or so, and let me tell you I dropped in that little caveat EVERY CHANCE I COULD. I recall telling the postman. My boss. Everybody on the bus/MUNI train/BART. Of course, what kind of hipster would I be if I didn’t use this little nugget to leverage my status. I was king. King in my musician circles. King in my social life. King of the café.

So we finally talk. We shoot the breeze while I do my best to pretend like it’s just another transaction. Yep, just another gig. No big whoop. We talk about our mutual love for the Staples Singers, Bulgarian folk music and unconventional instruments. I ask questions about his personal life and am surprised to find out that he is a dedicated father. He has three kids and at one point I am put on temporary hold where I hear a grizzly “Hold it down!” Bizarre. So he asks me to send him a tape of my work and I oblige. A week later I get another phone call from him telling me he likes my work and that he’ll call me when he needs me. Cool. Very, very cool.

I wait. I wait for that call that is sure to come. Standing by. Yep. Any day now. One week passes. Then another. I plug away at the cafe checking my messages every chance I get. The boss ain't too happy and gives me the beans as I explain the gravity of this one phone call. Another week passes and I hear through the pipeline that it is “go time” for Waits. The red light is on and tape is spinning at Prairie Sun Studios in Cotati. Any day now I’ll get the call. I can feel it. Be ready, man. Just be cool.

Behind the scenes there is talk. Musicians always talk. Usually about money, but this time it’s all about the Waits man. He’s greased pig slippery after all. Not many people get in his circle and the man hasn’t recorded for a long time. His last studio album was Bone Machine in ‘92. Utterly brilliant. Revolutionary. Rocked my world and turned it upside down. It even won a Grammy.

Time burns at the café. Productivity drops as I’m freakin’ out about the phone call. Gotta be ready for the big time. My coworker friend Matt calls me on a Tuesday night and needs me to cover for him on Wednesday morning. Matt does voice work and has an audition. “No problem,” I say. Matt has covered my butt about thirty times.

So I go to work Wednesday morning. 10 am rolls around when best roommate of all time Spanky runs in. “Pat, Jeff Sloan called this morning and wants you to call him back as soon as possible.” I mad-dash it to the nearest phone and call Waits’ assistant Jeff. I take a couple of deep breaths lift up the receiver and press the digits.

“Hey Jeff, it’s Pat calling you back. What’s going on?”

“Hi Pat. Yeah, hey Tom wanted to know if you could come up today, but it looks like we already have another drummer on his way. I wish you would have called back sooner.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah man. I’m real sorry. But hey, I’ll try and get you in on something else. As you probably can assume, Tom is pretty spontaneous so stay close to the phone and don’t leave town.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Thanks again Pat and have a good one. Later.”

“Later.”

I never did speak with Jeff. He never called back. I later found out that this other “drummer on his way” was my friend Andrew Borger. He stayed up there for a few days and recorded three or four songs. A few months later Andrew went on tour with Tom to promote Mule Variations. I saw him on Letterman, Leno and Conan. He played in the most beautiful theaters Europe and the States had to offer. And if that isn't enough, for the last few years has been Norah Jones’ drummer where even more fame and notoriety have come his way.

Man, what could have been?

Posted by patatomic at February 1, 2006 02:44 PM

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