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This sounds like a problem that could be addressed by 21st century technology, doesn't it? A video camera, a broadband connection and a couple of big-screen monitors in the remote locations ought to about do it. In fact, why travel at all? We've all joked about "phoning it in". Why not play the gigs from home? With the proper cropping, you could do the gig in fuzzy slippers.

I'm reminded of a certain date last summer, July 12th. Our drummer was on vacation that week and was going to miss four jobs. That might seem like a serious problem, but we keep a list of two or three guys we can call to fill in for each of our rhythm section players. While there can be disjointed moments, I like playing with "subs"; good ones anyway. A different player puts a new "spin" on the songs, especially because we don't use charts. The wrong player can spin the bus right off the road, of course, but that will have to wait for another post.

Back to July 12th. We were playing an outdoor barbecue at a rather nice house on Long Island. How nice, you're wondering? I'll tell you.

These people have a Fourth of July bash every year, but not always on the 4th. Our first time there was about three years ago. I made three trips past the house with my gear. Wood frame, old, a somewhat odd shape. Nice. But not quite grand enough, I thought, for people that would hire a nine-piece band for a barbecue.

As I set up under the tent by the pool, I noticed that there was a very grand house indeed on the next property, just down the hill. Three stories, wraparound porch, gables aplenty, planted on a large green waterfront spread. I was hoping that our hosts had taken the precaution of inviting their wealthy neighbors to the party. Their house was maybe 100 yards away, well within striking distance of our amplifiers.

Something still didn't seem right. Finally it dawned on me. The wealthy neighbors were our hosts. The not-quite-grand-enough house was their Pool House (formerly the Carriage House). They also had a Boat House and a private dock.

But I digress.

Every drummer we knew was booked that day. They all told the same story too; each had been offered two or three gigs for that date and had farmed the extras out to all the drummers they knew. The scramble began. July 12th was the gravity well of the percussion universe. Players that had 10 gigs booked the whole year were busy. We ended up calling 14 different drummers, ending up with the fifth or sixth call guy for a group I used to sometimes play with in the '90s.

He was on time and kept time, but didn't exert himself any more than absolutely necessary in either the musical or the social arena.

Talk about "phoning it in".

I've seen Rich Bride/Poor Bride, I've seen Platinum Weddings... and I've seen Bridezilla. And Weddings Gone Wrong.

About the last, I have no comment.

However, the happy couple decided to take a chance and invite me to the reception... here:


I've seen some (on TV) that were so expensive I couldn't get a second mortgage big enough to cover even the hors-d'oeuvres... but, never a setting any more gorgeous. And if I act up, I suppose they could throw me in the lake (I don't doubt it's at the back of their minds).

Now, I know what you're thinking: May 8th, right? But no: May 16th. Who knows, maybe they read "Let's Talk Weddings."

It's in Wyoming, a good little step away from California. I may have to send my regrets, and they truly will be just that.

Larry is a catch: straight, handsome, has his own business and his own house, and he's a very nice guy... and a bachelor; no alimony, no child support, no vindictive ex-wives. He's also given the best of them the slip, in his time. It's all but a miracle. I congratulate the bride, and wish them all the very best.

One question, Jeff: Where does the piano go in this pastoral setting?? Maybe Larry knows. But with a location like this, birdsong is music enough, I think. May 16th sounds like a perfect date for that spot in Wyoming! Lucky you, wrangling an invitation. Tell Larry if he needs a pianist to give me a call. I am absolutely free, as long as it's not the 8th.

Regarding the pool house gig, Greg: Funny how that happens. The stars collide and suddenly there is one drummer/bass player/pianist too few on the event horizon. I suspect this will be the case with pianists on the 8th.

Well. I have had quite a week after getting back from the USA. Two concerts this week and a wedding to play tomorrow night. The first concert was for an event called FESTIVAL OF THE MASTER CHEFS and featured Michelin-star chefs from various parts of Europe. Six courses, six chefs, each one responsible for a different course. The plan was for the moderator to interview the chefs before each course was served, the food would be served, and then, once people and plates were settled, I would play—3 to 4 pieces for each set. The promoters were very proud of this plan, but I had a feeling there was something off-kilter about it. But, okay, they rented the Steinway B, the place was gorgeous, advertising was spot-on, the event was sold out (200 people). Fine.

Here's the thing: No chef in his right mind is willing to come out on stage and chat right before the food is served. This is maybe the most critical time for a chef, especially these gourmet guys who insist on inspecting every plate that leaves the kitchen. So the moderator was stuck. He had to interview SOMEONE about the food. Why not the pianist?

I am a vegetarian. If you've ever eaten one of these European fancy-pants dinners, you know they are, well, meat-laden. I was seated at the front table (the promoter graciously had agreed to feed me between sets) but there was not much there for me to eat. I mean, I was bartering with my neighbors to get the garnishes of their plates.

"I'll give you my elk filet for your baby carrot."

Things like that.

The thing was, the moderator needed someone to talk about the food. He was desperate and I felt sorry for him. What could I do? My show-biz instincts kicked in so I stood up there and lied about the shrimp and the lobster and the beef tips and the bison. Yes, bison. At one point I actually heard myself saying:

"As an American, I am no stranger to the buffalo. . . . 'Home on the Range' is one of my very favorite songs."

There was another humiliating moment when the German moderator meant to say COD FISH, but instead he said COLD FISH, which I misunderstood to be GOLD FISH.

"In America," I said, "We do not eat GOLD FISH. We name them and give them homes."

"Really?" said the moderator. "How fascinating."

The evening went on and on like this. I ate maybe six sprigs of parsley, a spoonful of risotto, and some sort of beet and spinach froth. But the evening was fine, they paid me well, the piano was a dream, and people bought a lot of CDs. Long night, though. Six courses can take FOREVER. I wasn't back at the hotel until 2 AM.

Last night I performed my PIANO GIRL show for an Amerika Haus sponsored event in Kleve, Germany, on the border with Holland. The piano was spectacular--a Steinway D that came from the Warsaw Music conservatory back in the 50's. Holy cow, was it ever great. The concert was in an art museum. BEAUTIFUL!!! (I consider this cosmic payback for having to work for years at the Waterbury Holiday Inn)

Anyway, the audience was small (50) but very appreciative. I get nervous about my all-English program when the audience is German, but they hung in there and laughed when they were supposed to. I did the Japanese F-Dancing stripper chapter (always a risk at these upscale venues) but it worked out for the best. The Titanic chapter and Here Comes That Bride were also in the program.

I play a nice normal cocktail gig this evening, and then, man your battle stations, the wedding season is officially open tomorrow. Get in the house, don't ask why, Wilma von Wiesel is donning her turquoise lace dress, counting the cupcakes, and preparing to fling her calla lily bouquet.

xoxo

Going to an out-of-town wedding can be no small expense when you add up the transportation, lodging, meals and gift, but they can be an awful lot of fun. I should qualify that - If you're the only one traveling to the affair, that doesn't really count. But if there's a substantial out-of-town contingent - in for a couple of days, freed from their everyday responsibilities and chores - that's a recipe for an excellent time indeed.

My friend George got married in Chicago back in the late '80s. Something approaching a third of the guests were from NYC and a few other places around the US. My wife and I flew out on a Thursday night and spent the day Friday sightseeing. The wedding was officially on Saturday morning, but the celebration got started on Friday night and lasted well into Sunday.

Most of us stayed in an unusual hotel. It was an apartment building in the process of being converted to condos, I believe, but was stuck in some intermediate state. The developers/owners were renting out some of the apartments as hotel rooms. Each of us thus had a whole apartment.

The first party was in George's parents' "room". As the evening went on, just about all of the out-of-towners put in an appearance, as did the bride and groom. It was crowded and loud, and it went pretty late.

George was a guitarist and vocalist in one of my early bands. A couple of the other members were in attendance, and there were a number of other musical types there as well. Those of us who hadn't yet had enough of the night-before revelry found a guitar and headed up to the roof of the hotel. We sang songs for another hour or two.

The next morning, well before some people were fully awake, we all dragged ourselves down to the church, which was in another part of the city. That went off in standard fashion.

The reception was just right - not showy or overdone - just a bunch of people, many strangers until the day before, dancing and laughing and having a good time together. George had written a song for the occasion to his wife. Some of us performed a tune or two as well.

We went back to the hotel, shed our wedding clothes and took a nap. I'm a little hazy on where just now, but I know that most of us got together yet again that evening.

The next morning the bride's family had everyone who was still in town and still marginally ambulatory over to their house for breakfast. Afterward we said goodbye to our newfound friends, fellow veterans of the party that wouldn't end.

My wife and I, the bride and groom, and two of our old band members hung out for a while longer, spending part of the time trying to remove blue dye that had bled from the "Just Married" ribbons into the paint of George's '60s Ford Mustang.

We had a brief tour of their apartment and then went on a breakneck ride through Chicago traffic to the airport. It was like something out of the Blues Brothers. We made it to the plane with seconds to spare, the hatch closing behind us with a crunch.

I'm sure we were out cold within minutes of finding our seats.

I've only been to a handful of occasions like that, but they've all had that sense of fun, the camaraderie (even among strangers) and the extended hours I've described above. I wouldn't recommend getting behind in the mortgage, but if it's reasonably possible you might have a memorable weekend.

ROFL!!

--From a woman who *still* has on her kitchen counter two bowls of the descendants of the "one guppy" she agreed to take from child's science teacher over 5 years ago, said "one" guppy somehow turning into six remarkably fertile guppies.

That really made me laugh. I am not a vegetarian, but I'm pretty limited as regards meats I consider edible. Chicken, beef, turkey, pork in a pinch. Chinese people can occasionally feed me shrimp. That's it. I'll try most any vegetable concoction, but I'm squeamish about unfamiliar animal bits. Is the story? Why yes.

We were staying in Geneva. It was 1989, I think. September. A woman named Colette had invited us out to dinner. She had previously worked at the local office of the commodities company my wife worked for. She and my wife had spoken many times on the phone, but had never actually met. Nevertheless she treated us as if we were old and intimate friends, chattering rapidly in a blur of French and English, offering life details that might have been best reserved for people she'd known for longer than an hour.

She met us at the Flower Clock in the center of town and drove us a short distance from there to the restaurant, stopping briefly at her apartment on the way.

We were near the end of a three-week trip around Europe and had been traveling fairly frugally. It was our 6th day in Switzerland and we had a good feel for the exchange rate which was approximately 1.25 Swiss Francs to the dollar.

We were already a bit apprehensive about what sort of food would be available, as our dinner companion was something of a gourmet cook whose tastes ran to the exotic. Her personal specialty was tête de veau. Even the more familiar parts of the veau are not my favorite, but I have a general rule against food can look back at me.

Collette said that the place was a favorite of hers. I can't remember the name, but it was advertised on the sign outside as a "Restaurant Dansant", which made us chuckle. And indeed, there was entertainment, of a sort. Under a mirror ball in the corner of the room was a man playing an elaborate multi-tiered organ with auto-accompaniment. The songs tended toward Euro-Disco arranged with the cartoon-inspired sounds of a home organ.

With some trepidation we opened the menus. The place was dim and the print was small, and in French, but I scanned the page as quickly as I could. To my initial relief, there appeared to be several entrees that looked edible. Whew! Feeling a little better I slowed down to decide what I'd have.

But then I glanced over at the prices. The very cheapest entree was over 90 francs. That was some liver abomination that I couldn't possibly order. The cheapest item I might actually eat was 125 francs.

I looked up at my wife's face. Without exchanging words we knew that we were both thinking the same thing. There was no way we could let this woman treat us to what would surely have added up to a $250.00 meal, but that amount would have been a real budget buster on what had already been a very expensive trip.

I'll add that we had plenty of time to reflect on our predicament. Collette was engaged in a protracted and animated argument with the waiter and then the restaurant manager about only being able to order one variety of wine by the glass.

It was a blur, like being in a horror movie with eerie slow-mo carny music. Then, out of nowhere I had a flashback. I saw us in the car en route to the restaurant. I leaned over to my wife and whispered "We're in France!"

Geneva is a small finger of Switzerland surrounded by France. Collette lived in France and worked in Geneva. She had special plates on her car that allowed her to drive through the border crossings without stopping at all. I had just barely remembered such a crossing on the way there.

At the time the exchange rate for FRENCH Francs was about SIX to the dollar. All of a sudden my 125 franc entree was only 20 bucks!

We had nice dinner and listened as Collette spoke at high velocity and great length about what poor businessmen the French were, surely obvious to anyone who had witnessed the house wine brouhaha; The Germans would swallow them up when the Euro came about.

By the time we left we were the last people in the place. The organ player was still going strong as we walked out the door.

Lesson: Always try to know what country you are in.

Birdsong, I think not. Of course it wouldn't have been in the photo, made so long before the actual wedding, but I don't doubt that there will be a special barge on that lake, with a concert grand and possibly a reed and brass ensemble to accompany it (and a string bass). The guests will be accommodated in more modest craft for the twilight concert, lighted by Japanese lanterns with candles, and dinner (served by waiters in swift canoes, lest the food grow cold).

Now that leaves the problem of dancing. If we left it to Guarino, there would be synchronized swimmers with flashlights, who after the performance would toil through the waters doing a rescue carry with one arm, while bearing trays with chilled champagne and glasses up to the guests' boats. Party animals that they are, there would be sure to be quite a few mishaps involving plunges into the lake in full evening dress. Not yet rowdy enough? How about the spectacle of members of the wedding rocking their boats so as to create bigger and bigger waves. Picture how risky life on that barge could become. The worst-case scenario could also be the best case--- for decades to come, tour boat operators would guide divers to the very spot on the lake where a nine-foot concert grand had come to rest on the bottom. Or am I just telling the same story over and over...?

The spectacle of swimmers bearing flaming desserts through the waters would be gossiped about from Pocatello to Jackson Hole. I can see the headlines now: "The Sins of Lycra."

Anyway. You can see why I've thought twice about going. There I was, wrapping up a gravy boat to send off, when I remembered that lake and got to thinking.

"Yes, bison. At one point I actually heard myself saying: "As an American, I am no stranger to the buffalo. . . . 'Home on the Range' is one of my very favorite songs."

You know, against my better judgment, I actually believe this. Some reporter nagged Franklin Roosevelt to reveal his favorite song--- a surprise question in a "news interview." Caught off guard, he blurted out, "Home on the Range." And sure as you know, the band struck it up at every single event during his entire Presidency--- four terms. Patrician FDR! Well, he paid for that slip of the tongue.

"There was another humiliating moment when the German moderator meant to say COD FISH, but instead he said COLD FISH, which I misunderstood to be GOLD FISH. "In America," I said, "We do not eat GOLD FISH. We name them and give them homes." "Really?" said the moderator. "How fascinating.""

We know, of course, that you meant to say, "In America, we do not eat goldfish, we eat CARP." Yet, that is a dangerous word, very easily misspelled by reporters and just as easily overlooked by erring editors, malicious proofreaders and careless compositors.

"Really?" said the moderator. "How fascinating."

In Boston, a fish house popular with tourists used to sell t-shirts, which we would see all over town (and from a distance). They read, "I Got Schrod Last Night--- at Legal Seafood." But I'm sure Robin was in glamorous evening wear, and in that kind of outfit you can say just about anything and it comes out sounding all right. Even, "CARP."

I love this FDR story. See? I knew I was on to something with the "Home on the Range" comment. I also know that my best friend Robin Spielberg just recorded it for her new CD. This has been kind of a HOME ON THE RANGE theme week. It's a pretty melody. The lyric? Well. Any lyric that uses the word buffalo is immediately suspect. Anyway, I am now afraid that everywhere I go, someone will play HOME ON THE RANGE. But better that than "Titanic" or "Tie a Yellow Ribbon" or some hideous thing from "Phantom.".

I know that goldfish are little carp but I couldn't think quickly enough in German. It's a problem I have. My brain works much faster in English than it does in German. I have no clue how to say CARP in German. Goldfish is easy. GOLDFISCH. Just put that Colonel Klink spin on the pronunciation and you're, well, golden.

Greg, I love your Swiss-French border story!!!! Things are easier now that most of Europe uses Euros, but those Swiss still stick to their own currency. We live in a corner of Germany that is very close to Belgium, France, and Holland, and when we first moved over here we were always trying to convert everything into dollars. This period of my life may account for my current state of craziness--math is not my strong suit. Anyway, Collette sounds like the kind of person I would love to know.

Bad news: my first wedding of the season was cancelled twenty-four hours before the scheduled ceremony. Scheisse. Nobody knows why. The banquet department was afraid to ask. I was paid, but I almost feel guilty. Almost.

Easier, yes, but there's a certain romance lost for the traveler. On some level we all expect even the land to look different - a different color, like on the map - when we cross a border. Adjusting to new conversion math and inspecting pointillist renderings of a new country's war heroes, staple crops or landscape on their coins and bills enhances the experience. We've got a jar somewhere filled with 20 year-old Francs (French), Francs (Swiss), Schillings, Deutschmarks, Liras and even Forints from that trip.

A single currency, and ever more signs in English, can be convenient, but I liked the old way better. What's foreign travel without a little confusion? Narrow corridors on international trains are good for that. You have to excuse yourself more or less continuously on the way to the salle de bain/bagno/WC, but how? Con permesso? Entschuldigung? Pardon?

My surname is Italian. In the US, even in places where an Italian name is pretty exotic, people seldom assume I'm from Italy. But it has happened quite frequently on our three trips to Europe, in several different countries (excluding Italy, of course). The morning clerk at our hotel in Vienna greeted me each day with a cheery Buon Giorno!

On what was probably the day before our dinner with Colette, we checked into our hotel a little way up the lake from Central Geneva. Although we had driven to Geneva, we stopped at the train station hotel booking desk to find a place to stay.

We greeted the clerk in French and explained that we had booked a room from the train station. He asked our name. "Guarino, G-u-a-r-i-n-o". He decided to do us the courtesy of addressing us in our mother tongue: Italian. He asked a few of the standard questions.

My Italian is pretty basic, but even I could tell that his was markedly more limited. We had gone from a language that one of us spoke fluently, to one that neither of us spoke well. Finally he asked to see "i passaporti, per favore'.

Out came our navy-blue US passports. He put his hand to his forehead and shook his head a little. He regrouped and continued in English. One conversation, three languages. Would I remember (twenty years later) anything about that otherwise standard exchange if it had all occurred in the nearly flawless English that seems to be an employment requirement at international chain hotels? I doubt it.

Currencies, languages, signs and menus should present at least some challenge. It's more fun that way.

Who knows, maybe I'll get my wish, about the currency anyway. There was an Op-Ed piece in the NY Times just yesterday advocating a more stable Uber-Euro, excluding all the messy southern nations.

Oh Greg, I hear you! When I was just visiting Europe all of the currency differences held a certain charm. Now that I live here, though, I love the convenience of the Euro. Both my husband and I work all over the place, so you can imagine how confusing things get with billing and conversions. Almost put me off the deep end when we first moved here in 1994. So my fondness for the Euro comes strictly from a practical point of view.

The cultural differences, thankfully, are still plentiful and wild. And you don't have to go far before you reach a no-English village. I live in one, and I'm only 30 minutes outside of Cologne.

Hope to see you over here sometime !!!

My most embarassing moment was the attempt to find a used CD store in downtown Wurzburg. I'd been there before, I was within a block of it, but couldn't find it in those twisty streets. I didn't know the word for used (gebraucht, past tense of need). After a protracted conversation auf Deutsch, the man said imploringly, "Please sir. Just say it in English." An unforgettable exchange even years later.

Well, this was one busy Easter Sunday. I played for lunch, tea, and cocktails. Six hours total. That's a lot of solo piano. I used to do this all the time when I was a few decades younger and the gigs were plentiful in the New York hotels, but my back just isn't as strong as it used to be.

Today I gave two little girls (sisters) maned Hannah and Anna a CD copy of my musical for kids. Their parents are good customers and they were cute in their fluffy lavender Easter dresses, and I was feeling generous. They were suitably impressed with the CD, but upset that they didn't have something to give me in return. They went off exploring and came back and presented me with a free sample of WRINKLE CREAM they had found in the Ladies' Room, along with a chocolate egg.

I have eaten the egg and have now applied the wrinkle cream.

I can't divulge too much, but we have, uh, VISITING DIGNITARIES from a far-away land staying in the hotel. This is causing all sorts of intrigue, much of it involving large good-looking security guys in expensive suits hanging out by the piano. You can just imagine. I only hope Buttercup makes an appearance and attempts to curtsy.

soo... how are the wrinkles?

did it work?

Much better, Apple. Wrinkle cream plus chocolate bunny is an unbeatable combination!

Ah, the innocence of a child, offering a gift of wrinkle creme. Anyone else would have their face slapped and their eyes scratched out on the spot.

But I think there is something in this. I've noticed that as my face fattens up, it pushes out the wrinkles (knee injury plus narcotics plus Easter candy... it's a simple calculation).

Since the conversation has strayed so far from weddings anyway, please allow me to observe a couple of special occasions: the birthdays of Billie Holiday (today) and Aretha Franklin (last week). The other forums are making so much of the birthdays of Chopin, Rachmaninoff, and Bach, and rightly so, yet the modern masters have gone unmentioned.

They might prefer not to be associated with a discussion of wrinkle creme, of course.

I think my most embarrassing moment trumps yours, Tim. I was in Italy, in a restaurant, and needed to go to the bathroom. Bitterly regretting my lack of forethought to research the appropriate Italian equivalents, I looked in panic at two doors with two words on them, neither of which I understood, and nary a diagram of universal male/female silhouettes to be found. I decided to go with the door boasting the multi-syllable word on the reasoning that it seemed more similar to "women" than the door with the short, single-syllable word on it.

I guessed wrong.

Imagine how difficult it is when someone from another land and unfamiliar with our idioms comes across doors with dogs...Pointers and setters!

European embarrasing moments?

i moved to Greece in 79 for a grant thing. I was sooooooo poor traveling and had only allowed myself about 20 dollars for a weeks worth of food.. I pretty much only ate bread and cheese. By the time I arrived in Greece I was both starving and constipated. There had been an earthquake right before I arrived, and I was essentially cashless because the banks were all closed. A few days later I found a pharmacy that was open close to my apartment and asked for constipation medicine. They couldn't understand my Greek.. AT ALL. I went back everyday trying to explain what I wanted. Finally I took in a piece of paper with a drawing of human butt with a plunger next to it. Oh, how the owners (a couple) laughed. I still didn't have enough money to pay for it. They told me (I think) to eat the kumquats which grew on the streets. I had been eating them and in the end, everything came out ok.

Monica and Apple! My life is one big humiliating European pointer-setter moment, so I'm not even going to go there. I was thirty-seven when I moved over here, and it has been one big adventure ever since.

Back to weddings! Last night I played for a proposal. I played while the man took the woman out onto the castle balcony. In the garden below them, there was a giant heart made out of candles. How romantic is that? He did the one knee routine and everything. Of course she said yes. What women wouldn't after that spectacle? We'll see if I get the wedding gig. It'll probably be on the 8th of May with my luck.

Meantime, the royal family staying in the castle has me bursting with curiosity. The other night the head of the security team came to the piano and said,"Her Royal Highness sends her regards." (I guess that's better than OFF WITH YOUR HEAD). As you know, I've been doing this for a lot of years, and this is the first time I have gotten a missive from someone called HER ROYAL HIGHNESS.

I read an article once about the ROYAL HARPIST, the women who plays for Queen Elizabeth. Now there's a fabulous cocktail gig. But then again, when you play the harp you have to do that whole dress like an angel thing and that gets old once you pass 45. How many flowing white dresses can a gal own, anyway? And don't get me started about wings.

As I was playing tinka tinka tinka for princesses and the newly betrothed my husband found himself backstage at a big concert where he was forced to participate in a prayer circle before the gig. Both of us feel pretty strongly that if you have to pray to the Good Lord for help before a concert, then you probably shouldn't be on the gig to begin with, since, let's face it. the GL has better things to do than worry about the whether or not the pianist or bassist remembers to jump to the coda at Letter D.

I'm thinking now I should hold a prayer circle before every cocktail/wedding gig, you know, hold hands with the Turkish bartender, Monsieur the Maitre 'd, the Sri Lanka valet , and Hans the International Tenor (he shows up every other month and terrorizes all of us). We could pray for happy brides, leftover tidbits from the kitchen, and a freshly tuned piano. Who knows, maybe it might work.

xoxox

now my weddings are played on organs. There is so much variety. One never knows how the organ will sound exactly. The first moment is crucial with no pre-performance time.

I am definitely not the world's best organist. I have to practice quite a bit. All the old favorites that slip effortlessly from my hands to the keys on a piano are a new challenge. It's like starting over and is very nerve racking. Saturday I have my biggest wedding yet on a quite large pipe organ built here in Kansas.. it's quite nice, but as of yet, I haven't had a chance to give it a test run.

I need prayers if anyone is saying some extra ones.