Journal Post #8 - August 1, 2015

I'm journaling today from the stage in the main room of Cipriani Wall Street, a former mercantile exchange space with imposing granite pillars and an extraordinarily high ceiling. A trading floor of the Guilded Age, it has since been converted into a posh downtown catering hall in which the aristocracy can have their weddings and special parties. I've played lavish bar mitzvahs here. I played P. Diddy's 35th birthday party here. 

As a venue for plying my craft, it is terrible. The acoustics are a cavernous nightmare of reflections off of hard, smooth surfaces.

Also, I'm a substitute tonight. This particular bandleader requests me to fill in when his normal bassist is not available. I was emailed a half-dozen requests to prepare for tonight but I am being trusted to know whatever other tunes he calls. I hope I do.

Rehearsal is practically unheard of in this business. I'm expected to show up and help the entire band sound like they were born knowing what to do.

I'll be on my feet a total of 7.5 hours between the 2-hour cocktail, 4-hour reception, and 1.5 hour after party. Bathroom breaks will be at the bandleader's discretion, not mine.

Sound familiar, teachers?

Two major differences: politicians don't make a regular practice of insulting me in the mainstream media, and I'll get paid far, far better for my work today than what I figure would be my per diem teacher pay.