by Christopher Bacas
After any commercial job, I was a whirling particle; negatively charged. I wanted to appear simultaneously in a distant vector of the universe (preferably, garage level). Spooky action proved impossible. Quantum properties aren't conferred at loading docks. A single sound launched our universe, though. I wonder who was on that gig…
One band leader, obsessively germ-phobic, always brought food; peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches held tightly between layers of crinkled foil, fingers never touching bread. His musicianship so secure, he'd simultaneously walk impeccable left-hand bass, comp and go over details with the party planner. Preoccupied with himself, he never requested dinner service for sidemen, even when available. We usually got squashed sandwiches in clear folding trays. The potato chips inside, moistened by a pickle, bent a full 360 degrees without breaking. Once, a maitre'd bypassed him and asked the horn section if we wanted surf and turf. At break time, our boss fumed while staff uncovered our glistening plates and poured bubbly into elegant flutes.
We worked exclusively for a suburban Maryland office. They had high-end bar-mitzvah work sewn up. The chief drove a Porsche. He required us to make a new video at least once a year. The sound stage and audio/video team were part of his business; a club date version of the company store. Shoots dragged for needless hours as the "crew" struggled to properly mic and mix instruments and music they saw and heard weekly. While the smoke machine wafted saccharine clouds through skronking feedback and buzzing amps, grown-up high-school AV nerds, pocket protectors and cluttered tool belts included, scuttled around jabbering into wireless headsets.