With a suitcase full of contraband, she walked into the club and asked the man behind the bar where could she set up.
“You must be with the band,” replied the man behind the bar.
“I AM the band,” she said.
“Yeah, of course, sure you are. Well, since you’re here already, go ahead and do your thing. Just let the soundman know before you start to sing.”
She unpacked her suitcase and proceeded to plug in several little boxes and an electric violin.
“I don’t really sing,” she told the soundman with a grin. “What I do is more abstract— kind of like Laurie Anderson.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” the soundman said, perplexed. “But go ahead and play and I’ll try to get a good mix.”
A couple of hours later, a few old punks straggled in and waited like prisoners for the show to begin. The violinist pushed a button and looped a crazy beat. Then she scraped a bow across the strings and unleashed a sonic beast.
The audience whooped and hollered, and the club owner was impressed. “Let’s book you again next month— a weekend might be best. The only thing you need, the only thing I would suggest, is add a bass player . . . and a drummer . . . and a keyboard player . . . a rhythm guitar . . . and a horn section . . . some backup singers …”
The one-man band, well, she contemplated, and–to everyone’s surprise– she said, “OK, you know the music biz, I’ll follow your advice.”
So the club owner printed flyers and informed the local press of the big return engagement of the Sonic Abstractionist.
Saturday night, the club was packed, a line around the block. The crowd let out a touchdown roar when the house lights went dark. And there up on the stage, for every hipster to see, was the one-man band plus seven, rockin’ to the beat.
The sound it was colossal, heavy on violin. But on closer inspection, there was something odd about the band. The players all looked like twins, and they never seemed to breathe. Surely this bandleader had something up her sleeve.
Right about then a roadie turned on an electric fan, and the horn section blew over, face forward, on the bandstand.
The club owner quickly pulled the plug on the strange, virtual band, and said, “Don’t ever try to pull a stunt on me like that again.”
Well, the violinist packed her suitcase and set out on the road. She never (ever) tried again to pretend to do what she was told.
Now her career is taking off, and her solo gigs have doubled.
All because she learned the lesson that bands are always trouble.
