I've been playing since I got my first guitar in June 1963. By late 1964, my buddies and I were trying to put together a band. And I joined others quickly and started getting gigs. Not just talent shows, but parents hiring us (money!) to play at daughter's birthday parties, and the occasional school dance. By July 1965 I was on stage with a band who made a couple records and were on TV.
Auditions were fun, if nerve wracking. No one hade tapes or CDs, and this was decades before internet. You'd go in, chat while you set up. Someone would tell you songs they did, maybe ask what songs you liked and knew. Keys would be discussed, maybe they had a chord chart, or you'd pull out paper or a notebook and write down their changes.
You'd play. Tempos would get wonky, chord changes would be missed. How quickly you got up to speed might make a difference in whether they liked you or rejected you. It would be rare... extremely rare... that they'd insult you, even if you were terrible, or did not have a tenth the experience they needed. Even if you were awful, they might say nice things, or at least encouraging things. Maybe you'd never hear from them even if someone said "We'll let you know."
And no matter what, you learned something good. You might learn you are better than they are. You might learn a new song. You might learn how good or how bad a drummer they had. You might learn a new technique.
Over the past half century, I have auditioned many, many times, and I have held auditions nearly as much. Adding a guitar, a keyboard, a sax or horn, hearing a singer. Finding a drummer. I never imagined it would be reasonable to make the person auditioning uncomfortable, or insulting them.
But over the last few years, I have yet to go on an audition where someone didn't treat me like crap.
Dobro player looking for guitarist/bassist to accompany him. He wants to play rock and roll on a dobro. No drums, just a duet with either bass or guitar depending on his whim. No sweat. "I like surf music," he says. Hey, I've been in a surf band since 1996, and played surf the first five years I was playing. "Yeah. I saw a surf concert this year at the bowling alley in West Sac. It was terrible." Oh? With the Lava Pups, the Retronauts, and the VibroCounts? "Yeah, that one. They were horrible. Way too loud, and nobody could play."
Hmm. I played guitar and bass for the VibroCounts at that gig. "Yeah, I saw you."
What was wrong with my playing? "You were all too loud." Those were the smallest amps we had, and it's difficult to play soft with a drummer. "Yeah. You shoulda not had drummers."
Then it's not surf music. "Yeah. And that one guitarist in the band that opened wasn't very good." I think that's why they opened.
"Okay, let's play Mr. Moto in its original key." Great. Bass or guitar? "Bass." I'm ready.
I'm playing in the Bel-Aires' key of Dm; he's playing in Em. I thought you said original key? "Yeah. I have to play it in Em because the dobro ain't as good in Dm." But that's not the original key. "For me it is."
He proceeds to insult me, my instruments, all keyboard players ("They can't change keys without new charts.")
He wants me to play Walk, Don't Run with him. I haven't played it in a decade. I ask for bridge chords. He laughs and says "work 'em out for yourself." Then cuts the song short when I don't hit the right ones the first time.
And insists that instead of an electric bass, or acoustic bass, or U-Bass, I need to get an upright bass, but it won't matter because he's way too good for me, 'cause he's the best dobro player in northern California. Sure he is. I am certain Rob Ickes or Norm Van Maastricht might take offense, but sure. I call Norm when I get home. He never heard of this clown, but he'd check with some younger hotshot dobro players to see what they know of him. Norm calls back. "Nobody ever heard of this guy. Did you give me his name right?"
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A "blues jam" wants to add guitarists and another bassist, so they can rotate in and out. I go without a set list. Get there, it's an apartment living room with no drummer, three guitarists, a bassist/guitarist, and me. No room for my amp (either the guitar or small bass unit), so I have to plug into the PA. "No, put your guitar back in the case, use his." pointing to the bassist. I get out my bass. Every song is classic rock, no blues. I ask for chords, she gives them to me wrong, and keeps changing her mind about how long to play each one. She wants to do Uptown Funk and shows me the bassline she wants. She's in a different key than the chords she gave. I wind up playing that guy's guitar (not my '57 Strat, but some pointy thing with a 15" radius fingerboard and fret the size of my little finger). He plays my bass (AVRI '62 Jazz Bass) and tells me how much better my bass is compared to his. I go into a nice Sly or James Brown funk rhythm on the two chords. She shuts down that song, let's try some mid-1970's pop tune. Again, will not give me the chords, then expects me to take an ad lib solo on a song I've heard once in 1974 and never played.
"I'll get back to you." Three months later, my phone rings. "Yeah. Why do I have your name and number in my cell phone?"
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Two of a dozen auditions where I was made to feel like a turd on their shoe. No one welcomed me. No one wanted to know what I had done. I was supposed to know their songs, in their keys, with their changes to the structure of the songs without sharing that information with me.
I guess I will forever be a band leader, helping musicians who audition for me.