rubbing
her father’s nose in it. But up here in the suburbs, with mostly white folks?
There is something missing.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This changes everything.
CHAPTER 13
Vinnie Amatucci
Airport Marriott—The Gig—Second Set
Saturday, January 11
I step outside and get some cold air in my lungs, plus some tobacco. The thing with Jeff has me worried. I’ve looked at the
second-set playlist, and there’s a lot of trumpet-and-sax-together pieces in there, a lot of tight arrangements. It’s a little
more modern, which should be to Jeff’s liking, but it has some harmony things, which he will hate. I don’t know what’s with
the guy. He can play a little, but he always acts like it’s an imposition. Even when Paul goes out of his way to program stuff
that he likes, Jeff acts like, “Go ahead, make me fucking enjoy it.” The guy’s a head case, and tonight it’s like it’s the full moon and Mercury has gone retrograde.
I check my watch and head back inside. Paul is warming up his mouthpiece, Sidney is bowing his bass, Akiko is doing little
paradiddles on the snare drum with her fingers. She seems up tonight, but contained as always—you wouldn’t know it if you
didn’t know what to look for.
But no Jeff. Shit. Here we go again.
Paul has a thing about starting on time, not quite obsessive-compulsive, but it’s there nonetheless. All these four years,
I can’t remember him ever being late for anything. The man has some kind of philosophical position about it, no doubt. It’s
all thought out with Paul, except the music itself. When he puts the horn to his lips all that recedes into the background.
He never repeats a solo, hardly ever even repeats a phrase, which is rare, to tell you the truth. And it’s not thought out
at all; it just flows out of the moment.
He signals me to turn on the voice mike on the piano. He strides over, taps it twice, not to check to see if it’s live, but
to let the crowd know he’s going to say something. They quiet down.
“Welcome to the Airport Marriott. We’re ‘New Bottles,’ as in ‘Old Wine, New Bottles,’ and we’re pleased to be here on this
wintry night. We’re also pleased that you could be here to share it with us.”
A slight pause.
“I must have been having so much fun the first set that I forgot to introduce the members of the band. So, if you will allow
me…On piano, Mr. Vince Amatucci…”
Akiko gives a drumroll and a cymbal crash. Bah-dah-BUM. Polite applause surges out of the crowd. I do a little bow from the
piano bench.
“On the string bass, Dr. Sidney Worrell…”
Another flourish from the drums. Sidney acts like they’re applauding for somebody else, looking around, his eyebrows crinkling,
a hint of surprise on his face.
“On drums, Miss Akiko Jones…”
It would be impolite for her to give herself a little flourish, so I do the honors with some ascending chords. She bounces
up and down in her seat, shakes her head, one hand turning one of the screws on the snare.
“On tenor saxophone,” Paul looks to his left, sees no one there. This gets a chuckle from the crowd, but something more as
well, something not as nice. “On tenor saxophone, has anyone seen Mr. Jeff Fahey?”
Sidney does a comic “OOH-wahh” on the tuba, and the crowd breaks up.
Paul is almost embarrassed to be caught making fun of one of his own and mutters, “I’m sure he has been unavoidably detained,
and will be with us momentarily.” Abruptly, he hands the microphone to me. He can’t stand to announce himself. Quickly, I
add, “And on trumpet, Paul Powell,” stringing it out, like some ring announcer at a boxing match, undermining the effect his
understatement was designed to evoke. Paul bows deeply, then reaches back for the mike.
“We’d like to showcase the musical talents of one of the band’s original members. This is a composition for the piano by one
of the greatest trumpet players—actually,
her father’s nose in it. But up here in the suburbs, with mostly white folks?
There is something missing.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
This changes everything.
CHAPTER 13
Vinnie Amatucci
Airport Marriott—The Gig—Second Set
Saturday, January 11
I step outside and get some cold air in my lungs, plus some tobacco. The thing with Jeff has me worried. I’ve looked at the
second-set playlist, and there’s a lot of trumpet-and-sax-together pieces in there, a lot of tight arrangements. It’s a little
more modern, which should be to Jeff’s liking, but it has some harmony things, which he will hate. I don’t know what’s with
the guy. He can play a little, but he always acts like it’s an imposition. Even when Paul goes out of his way to program stuff
that he likes, Jeff acts like, “Go ahead, make me fucking enjoy it.” The guy’s a head case, and tonight it’s like it’s the full moon and Mercury has gone retrograde.
I check my watch and head back inside. Paul is warming up his mouthpiece, Sidney is bowing his bass, Akiko is doing little
paradiddles on the snare drum with her fingers. She seems up tonight, but contained as always—you wouldn’t know it if you
didn’t know what to look for.
But no Jeff. Shit. Here we go again.
Paul has a thing about starting on time, not quite obsessive-compulsive, but it’s there nonetheless. All these four years,
I can’t remember him ever being late for anything. The man has some kind of philosophical position about it, no doubt. It’s
all thought out with Paul, except the music itself. When he puts the horn to his lips all that recedes into the background.
He never repeats a solo, hardly ever even repeats a phrase, which is rare, to tell you the truth. And it’s not thought out
at all; it just flows out of the moment.
He signals me to turn on the voice mike on the piano. He strides over, taps it twice, not to check to see if it’s live, but
to let the crowd know he’s going to say something. They quiet down.
“Welcome to the Airport Marriott. We’re ‘New Bottles,’ as in ‘Old Wine, New Bottles,’ and we’re pleased to be here on this
wintry night. We’re also pleased that you could be here to share it with us.”
A slight pause.
“I must have been having so much fun the first set that I forgot to introduce the members of the band. So, if you will allow
me…On piano, Mr. Vince Amatucci…”
Akiko gives a drumroll and a cymbal crash. Bah-dah-BUM. Polite applause surges out of the crowd. I do a little bow from the
piano bench.
“On the string bass, Dr. Sidney Worrell…”
Another flourish from the drums. Sidney acts like they’re applauding for somebody else, looking around, his eyebrows crinkling,
a hint of surprise on his face.
“On drums, Miss Akiko Jones…”
It would be impolite for her to give herself a little flourish, so I do the honors with some ascending chords. She bounces
up and down in her seat, shakes her head, one hand turning one of the screws on the snare.
“On tenor saxophone,” Paul looks to his left, sees no one there. This gets a chuckle from the crowd, but something more as
well, something not as nice. “On tenor saxophone, has anyone seen Mr. Jeff Fahey?”
Sidney does a comic “OOH-wahh” on the tuba, and the crowd breaks up.
Paul is almost embarrassed to be caught making fun of one of his own and mutters, “I’m sure he has been unavoidably detained,
and will be with us momentarily.” Abruptly, he hands the microphone to me. He can’t stand to announce himself. Quickly, I
add, “And on trumpet, Paul Powell,” stringing it out, like some ring announcer at a boxing match, undermining the effect his
understatement was designed to evoke. Paul bows deeply, then reaches back for the mike.
“We’d like to showcase the musical talents of one of the band’s original members. This is a composition for the piano by one
of the greatest trumpet players—actually,
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