Me and the Rolling Stones
By: William, Dollar Bill
Tags: Life Lessons, Culture, Life, Rolling Stones, Music

How many musicians (or wannabe musicians) can honestly say that The Rolling Stones went to one of their concerts? Not many…but I’m one of them. Unfortunately, the story’s not exactly as glamorous as it sounds. In fact, it was a disastrous affair I’d rather have played for an audience of no people. Here’s how it happened:

Many years ago an old friend of my father’s tracked Popsicle down to see what he was up to. And when the old man found out Paul (his name) was contracting for Steven Scott Orchestras, Pop represented, suggesting that his long-lost friend hire me for the next wedding date.

Steven Scott Orchestras was (and maybe is — I don’t know) the premier “club date” booker in the New York area. A club date is exactly what it does not sound like! “Club dates” in this context were weddings or bar mitzvah receptions whose sponsors wanted live music to entertain the guests. It had nothing to do with playing music at an actual club!

Anyway, as a full-time musician hell-bent on eating something more exotic than red beans and rice — and living in a dwelling which didn’t require that I share a bathroom with ten immigrants — I used to do this crap to augment my income. The bands were always unrehearsed and the musicians generally brutal. But what can I say? I wasn’t fully-employed playing jingles, records or the major league stuff to which I aspired. So I played fucking weddings. It could have been a lot worse. Playing Italian functions was the bomb. Man, did we get fed — and treated with respect! But at the snootier functions, the musicians used to get stuffed in a closet on breaks like we were fucking chamber maids…and fed nothing!

Back to the subject! So Daddy’s friend hired me for some douchey gig out at El Patio in Atlantic Beach, the joint where all the local nouveau riche smarmy swells just had to have their wedding or bar mitzvah. I’d never met or played with any of the musicians and didn’t know their repertoire. And I was playing bass and not guitar, which was my first instrument.

Clearly, this was not a venue for me to showcase my abilities. But that wasn’t the point. The point was to sleepwalk through “the date” and get paid. Nobody that mattered was going to hear me anyway.

Whatever (and into the present tense for effect)…I wheel my crap into the joint….get set up…plunk a few notes to make sure everything is good to go…and turn around to face the guests who were beginning to trickle in. And whose eye do I catch? Keith fucking Richards! And right next to him is Ron Wood! What the fuck? So I kind of shake my head in disbelief and exit to the bathroom to take a leak…and the guitar player is inside freaking out with the drummer sputtering “Oh my God. It’s The Rolling Stones. I can’t play! I can’t play!”

And I’m thinking “Just my luck. I’m gonna perform for The Stones with a bunch of Long Island hacks I’ve never seen before. I’m gonna sound like shit. They’re gonna sound like shit. And I wish I had a fucking paper bag. I just wanted to make my hundred fifty bucks and get the fuck out of here without the embarrassment of anybody knowing I’ve lowered myself to doing this kind of shit work for a living. And look what happened!”

Well…as you can imagine…we sucked out loud. The core of the band hated me and made it very obvious that they would never be hiring me again. So I hung out with the other add-ons (trumpet and conga player) who also got the outsider treatment.

I loved the trumpet player’s take on the “core” which condescended to him: “Hey! Blow it out your ass, bitches! I’ve fucked up gigs for better musicians than you!” Perfect. Couldn’t have said it better myself.

And now for the cosmic moment: We’re on break and I, the trumpet player and conga guy (who was latino) are sitting around impressing each other with our respective wit when the conga player gets a gander at Keith Richards talking to somebody about 30 feet away. Keith was easily the worst-dressed guest at the function. Particularly, he had a ratty pair of boots for footgear not appropriate for the swell wedding he was attending. But the conga player hadn’t gotten the news — and had no idea that this guy was a rock star. And he began railing “look at that fucking guy! What kind of asshole wears shoes like that to a wedding? What’s wrong with that mother fucker?” Too absurd. I live for shit like that.

Whatever…I’d like to tell ya that Keith and I got together and wrote a # 1 hit but of course, that wasn’t the case. The reality was that I was mostly mortified at being associated with such a horrible presentation, and essentially bolted right after the last note never to play with any of those musicians ever again! Not exactly a moment of glory or my 15 minutes of fame. Oh well!