Air Guitar

My husband Ron lives, breathes, eats, sleeps, and emanates music. He half-plays piano and sax. He completely plays drums. He sings. He does a decent job on the bass guitar. Music is his passion. Unfortunately, music is not his profession (he would like it to be). In his spare time, he DJs a couple radio shows. When the opportunity arises, he jams with friends, usually playing the bass guitar, often singing as well. He knows the words to every R&B and Soul song produced since Soul was defined.

So when our friend Scot asked Ron to sit in with a family band and perform with them at a local restaurant, Ron said “sure.” Scot’s two children, then teenagers, are extremely talented and play about five instruments proficiently between them. Scot’s son composes music and writes lyrics and is a local heart throb as a result of his compelling performances. He won best musician at the County Fair two years in a row. The family band was to include Scot on lead guitar, Scot’s daughter on flute and piano, Scot’s son on lead guitar and sax, Scot’s neighbor’s teenager on drums, and Ron on bass guitar. Although Scot tried to arrange a time for the band to practice beforehand, it just never happened.

Ron and I arrived at the restaurant a half an hour before the gig. It was a lovely warm summer evening and the band would perform on a platform outdoors as guests dined at tables under the trees and flowering vines that surrounded a picturesque courtyard. The dining area was packed with friends and relatives, as well as fans of Scot’s children (particularly the heart throb son). The band quickly set up, checked the microphones and instruments, warmed up, and, without much fanfare, began to play.

I ordered a plate of pasta with pesto and a garden salad and chatted with Scot’s wife and family, swapping local gossip, admiring everyone’s children, and talking about our gardens. I was busy hanging out and even though I applauded at the end of each number, I confess that I was not listening that carefully. The band must have been five or six songs into the first set when I really paid close attention to the music. I couldn’t hear my husband on the bass. He was playing alright. He looked good. Pretty sexy in fact. He was getting down. But for the life of me I couldn’t pick out the bass in the palette of music. I tried turning up my hearing aid, but I still couldn’t make out the bass line.

After they finished the first set, the band took a break. The musicians came over to our table for something to drink. The teenagers went to talk to their friends. Scot ate a little bit of his wife’s leftover dinner. Scot’s mother gushed to Ron about how great he sounded. Others at the table chimed in and complimented Ron. “You sound terrific,” they said. Ron laughed and humbly thanked them. Then he stood and headed into the main restaurant to find the men’s room. I followed close behind.

When Ron emerged from powdering his nose, I cornered him, “Would you please turn up your amp for the second set? I can’t hear the bass whatsoever.”

Ron laughed, leaned in close, and confessed, “The amp is turned off.” I looked confused. He continued, “I was messing up so much I got embarrassed so I turned the amp off.”

“You turned the amp off?” I echoed. “But no one can hear you.”

“Yup. I’m having a great time and I’m not worried about making any mistakes,” he explained.

“I can’t believe all those people were complimenting you.” I shook my head incredulously. “They think they can hear you.”

“It’s all in the style, Babe,” he said.

“You do look pretty good up there,” I grinned. “But then you always look pretty good to me.” I got a kiss from the bass player.

At the end of the evening, Ron continued to receive compliments. Only the other members of the band and I seemed aware that Ron had effectively played air guitar for most of the gig.