A special situation, seven years on

When I was laid off a few years ago, a musician friend suggested I look for work as a lounge pianist. I could demo some keyboard music and send it to resorts. The idea sounded like it was worth a try. I set up a recording session with Hank Childers at VGB Studio.

Once we'd compiled a sufficient number of tracks, Hank asked me what my plans were.

"I'd like to find a guitarist and start a band eventually," I said. "Maybe in a few months. First I need to become a better singer."

"I know someone who's looking for a project," said Hank. "Would it be OK if I gave him your number?"

The someone was Ron Amistadi. He played drums, not guitar. But what the hell. I was up for any opportunity to jam, and decent drummers are hard to find in Tucson.

Ron called. He seemed nice enough. We scheduled a day to meet, and he arrived at the appointed time. After we got his kit into my living room, I played him some of my songs.

It didn't surprise me when Ron turned out to be a good drummer. Hank wouldn't have connected us if he weren't. The thing that got my attention was that Ron understood what to do with singer-songwritery songs like mine. He came in exactly where I would have asked him to. He made the songs sound a lot more like they were supposed to sound.

Ron noticed that we were connecting as well. "This is a special situation," he said. He uttered the phrase "special situation" several times that day. He wanted us to start a project together.

I told him about how I wanted to learn to sing first. That we couldn't gig with my voice in its current state.

No dice. Ron wanted to start this bad boy now. The singing, yeah, it needed work, but it would get better as we went along. Why wait?

Somewhere in the middle of my protests, the part of me that's smarter than the rest of me interrupted my thoughts.

Susan, it said. Here is a drummer who plays well, who understands your style, who's a nice guy, who shows up when he says he will, and he WANTS TO WORK WITH YOU. Don't be an idiot.

So, with many caveats about my weak vocals, I agreed. We called our new project ... our new project. The name would come later.

That first meeting happened on April 14, 2003, exactly seven years ago.

Cinder Bridge exists because Ron had enough faith that I could learn what I needed to learn, and faith in what we could accomplish together.

Happy anniversary, Ron the Drummer. Happy anniversary, Cinder Bridge. It's still a special situation.

Paws in the Plaza pictorials

More gig pics! These are from March 6, when we did the Humane Society benefit.


Setting up before the performance. On the right, Ron the Drummer is meticulously checking, er, something or another that I didn't have to worry about because Ron handles everything related to equipment. Have I mentioned lately that Ron is awesome?



The performance itself. I usually don't sing with my hat on as it bumps against the mic if I'm not careful. I made an exception because the sun in my face would have driven me crazy otherwise. Shockingly, the hat did not protect my face from getting burnt to a crisp.



Ron the Drummer!

"Hey," I wrote to Ron after cropping this last pic, "at least one of us managed to look photogenic!"

"It looks like I am going to bite someone," replied Ron.

I hadn't noticed. But yeah, he kind of does.

Anyway. See you next time we play. Grab a seat right in front. Ron won't bite. Probably.

The good room

Ron the Drummer and I gathered our equipment as quickly as we could and moved it indoors. Tonight's Creative Chaos gig, benefitting the homeless, was supposed to take place in the patio area of downtown Tucson's Z Mansion. However, the wind had kicked up something fierce and it looked as though it would rain any second. Volunteers brought in chairs from the outside and lined them up in rows.

I was bummed. Audiences can be, for lack of a better word, fragile. Give them any excuse to leave and they often will. Wind and possible showers aside, the weather had been perfect for an outdoor concert. I imagined that people would end up hanging out on the patio or just going home.

But they didn't. Coming off of a great performance from Black Man Clay, many of them gravitated indoors, where the rest of the music would be.

Next up was Thomas and Davis. Cathy Thomas sang. Doug (I think it was Doug) Davis played keyboard. Ron, who had set up his kit to the side of the makeshift stage, spontaneously accompanied them on drums, sounding as though he'd been rehearsing with their band from the beginning. They did high-energy, heartfelt covers of songs in a bunch of different genres.

The crowd ate it up. I ate it up. I also attempted not to let the duo intimidate me. We've performed after extremely talented musicians plenty of times, but most of them play guitar and don't invite direct comparison. Fortunately, it was pretty easy to lose myself in their music. At one point, some of the audience were literally dancing in the aisles. I know "literally" is a much-abused word these days, but literally literally. They were out of their seats and bopping around the room.

Then it was our turn. My fears about not measuring up began to dissipate with the first song. The crowd was into it. They were looking at us, some intently, smiling, swaying. They liked everything we did.

Everything.

After so many atmosphere gigs, feeding off that energy, pouring it back into the music, and giving it back was such a treat.

Afterwards, we didn't just get compliments. People HUGGED us. I had forgotten to bring our big stash of CDs, but we sold out the two I carried around in my purse for just such emergencies.

As an added bonus, the musicians who had played before us said they enjoyed us a lot. When people whose music you groove on like you, it's something special.

The event was running late because of the move indoors. But when Amber Gaia's band began, people didn't trickle out. They stayed, listened, sang along. We hung out and did the same.

I got to chat a little with the event's organizers. They were pleased with the way the whole thing had come off. I kept saying how great the energy was. One of them replied, "Yeah. It's a good room."

Exactly right. It was a good room. Every gig should be like this.

Paws at the Plaza postscript: Pilfering the percussionist

Geez. I went to all the trouble of describing passerby responses at our last gig -- in handy bullet-point format, no less -- and forgot the best response of all.

As we were breaking down, Ron the Drummer told me that some guy had pressed a business card into his hand. I looked at the card and shrugged. The name on it didn't mean anything to me. Ron turned it over to reveal a handwritten note. Dude was looking for a drummer and wanted to know if Ron was interested.

Ha HA! Thank you, business card guy, for recognizing Ron's incredible drumming prowess. But out of all the musicians in Tucson desperately seeking a drummer, Ron wants to work with ME.

Now that I think of it, I should've included that in the counting-of-blessings bullet points in my birthday post as well. Consider it belatedly added.

Speaking of the birthday, it actually went fine despite my prior kvetchfest. My boyfriend dutifully informed me that I was still hot, and then we ate an obscene amount of sushi.

Onward.

Dowel addendum

So now that I've told this long story about Ron forgetting his sticks, I will point out why I find the whole thing ironic:

Ron never makes this kind of mistake.

I always make this kind of mistake.

Ever since Cinder Bridge started playing out, I've been afraid that I would forget some key piece of equipment. It's a danger every time something happens to cause a break in the routine. (Which is actually what happened with Ron. He put the bag 'o' sticks somewhere else to keep his cats from getting into it, then didn't take it because it wasn't in the usual place.) This hasn't happened to me yet, partially because my fear has made me vigilant, but mostly because there's a severe lack of storage space at my house, making it necessary for Ron to stow and haul most of our stuff. He has a lot more to keep track of than I do.

So, I kind of feel like Ron took a bullet that was meant for me. Thanks, Ron. That's one more I owe you.