NEW YORK SONG

Roger Gemelle

Excerpt: New York Song:

This Shit Works

Ron White is a favorite stand up comic of mine, and his writing is especially strong in the descriptive. When he talks about his work-ethic, or more accurately, his lack of that quality, he says his uncle had once said of him ... “That boy's got a lot of quit in him!”

I would say the same. Here's the strange thing. Ron White works harder than any other comic. He is constantly on the road and does more shows than anybody in the business! But he will only do that for comedy, for a live audience, for his Gig!

And in music, few have worked harder or been more stubborn than I. But don't take my word for it, ask the lady to whom this book is dedicated.

However, in my other work experience … not so much.

When I had that newspaper route that lasted almost two weeks, ending with me pushing a shopping cart full of my subscribers un-delivered papers down a hill, on an unpleasant stormy afternoon, I had unknowingly begun a history of “quit” that would rival Mr. White!

It became clearer over time that if I loved something or was motivated by myself to do it, I could work like a slave! (Okay, as Louis C. K. says … that's one of the worst things I have ever said!)

But … if I found it boring or unpleasant or not my cup of tea then fuggedaboudit. And speaking of tea … I have stood in shit (literally) up to my ankles, and worked a sewer-rooter machine called a mytanic, I order to clear my tenants sewer-line and been as happy as a pig in … Uh well?

I have worked for two years for a doctor/surgeon (a great guy named Jim McAlexander) making his custom orthitics and ground and melted plastic into a perfection of foot support and loved the work.

If I'm building, if I'm using tools, and if my boss can keep his mouth shut when I tell him what I think, (pretty rare) I can work like the devil! If not … up your arse!

Only for music would I try to be flexible, to put up with the shit … to keep the Gig!

My mom who had learned work-ethic from my Grandma Hilda, busted her ass at night classes after work, while we had lived in the little apartment on Bell Boulevard, and gotten a degree as a Certified Public Accountant.

She worked for a true Southern Gentleman, a man named O.C. Carrol, whose company made a product called pre-stressed concrete. I think it was used in building large city watertanks or something like that.

It was a new and less expensive way to build things, and the company was growing well.

My mom said, “Rog I don't know if you'd be interested but O.C. Is looking for a kid to take apart some wooden scaffolding or about two weeks. It pays really well.”

“Hell yes, I'm broke! That would be great!”

And I soon found myself at the back of O.C.'s acreage on Long Island, shirt off, broiling in the shade, dripping sweat, as I laid large wooden scaffolds on a pair of large sawhorses and yanked out huge nails.

I'd use a crowbar to seperate the large two by ten planks and then I could lay them down and start cleaning out the nails and spikes. In the ninety-plus degree heat I had tied my long hair back with a tie and had a headband on. This time the headband was actually keeping sweat out of my eyes.

O.C. And his wife were really kind and would occasionally bring me a huge ice-tea, and brother was that delicious and life-saving in this oven environment. But I felt great, and there was something satisfying for me in reclaiming this wood.

I wished it had been more than just two weeks, but that hard work wasn't hard at all!

Often people get the mistaken impression that musicians are lazy. They think this because our neighbors see us wake up afternoon, and relaxing at just the time they are busiest.

They have no clue. No clue at all!

Had they seen us lifting a Hammond B3 into the second story of the club up a narrow flight of ricketty stairs, the tuesday afternoon before, or unloading tons of P.A. and drums, and guitar amps and lights and sound boards and instruments and extentions and lugging it all in and lifting it onto the stage, and setting up, and testing and doing a sound check.

Or Saturday niight (while they were sawing logs) seen us at three in the morning breaking down amplifiers and loading trucks, and then driving an hour home, exhausted, after five sets of Rock and Roll, only to unload all this stuff (cause if you leave it in the van, your going to be replacing it all, as sure as shit), they might have a different take on it.

But that's the Gig ain't it mate! We don't want you to see that part. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Just dance to the Great and powerful Oz-zzzy!

So yeah, you kinda get used to that neighbor coming home from work tired after a long day, and looking at you holding your morning coffee, and smiling and saying, “Well ... look who made it out of bed!”

And you smile and lift your cup to him cause, the sun is still shining and in a few hours you get to climb onto a stage and play your axe, for him and his friends, to kick off the weekend. Everybody's working for the weekend.

But for us musicians, the weekend … ah, yes, the weekends!

A jammed dance floor writhing with people, a celebration, and sharing of music, that is an amazing thing to behold. And yes I get that all that booze was probably not condusive to musical perception on any deep level, but by God, once in a while something magical snuck in there.

Once in a while, you got it, and they got it, and the stars aligned just so … and man that moment was powerful. A hell of a lot of work for that moment.