Sharing Knowledge Isn't Easy

When I started playing music, there weren't videos, tabs or the internet for that matter, just hard work and ears. Struggling to decipher a guitar part from an LP and thinking you had it right, until a more seasoned player came around.    Compared to today, the pros weren't willing to show you what they spent most of their life time learning, except MAYBE if they were paid, or if you were family. 

Now, practically everything you want to know is accessible and free. And most pros and seasoned players are all more than generous in sharing their knowledge. This is great. 
On the other hand,  there seems to be a reluctance to except the fact that it's still the students job to work and think things through.  If they don't understand what you're doing, it's always a good idea to ask questions and so forth, as opposed to not liking and criticizing something because they don't understand it.   

Private lessons is perhaps a whole different criteria because you're paying for something that hopefully you as a student have made clear to your teacher what your goals are. That aside, a teacher is just a guide to your own creativity. 
  
In my series, I've pointed out that I'm just sharing ideas and challenging the viewer with learning as I've learned. Thinking and listening.    It puzzles me that with the thousands of other videos out there, why someone would be … disgruntled with something shared at no cost to them. 

I thought I explained myself in the intro:
Here's the video - Lesson's from a Lefty 

On we go. 

5 Characters and Music

We musicians all have our war stories. Here are 5 tales into some of the characters I've encounters.  


The Honesty:

Twice I opened up for a major acoustic guitar veteran.  The first show was very humbling.  When I first started playing as a soloist, it was just a novel thing I did just for fun. Fun is good. I'd just get on stage and sweat through the things I was trying to do.  However, when you open up for someone who is clearly more devoted than just having some fun, you can look pretty silly up there.  I learned my lesson.  The second time I opened up for this icon it was a noted difference.  My attitude.  We got to be chatty acquaintances.  I mustered up the courage to ask him for any help he might be able to provide another striving artist.  He said flatly, "I can't offer any help to you. I'd be creating my own competition…".  Although this took me by surprise, I did appreciate his honesty.  

The Brotherly Love:

On the other hand, some artists are not so honest or forth coming.  Years ago, I reached out to a performer that I admired and was excited with the possibility that we might work together.  I wrote him several times about my enthusiasm.  Perhaps it was naive of me to think that because we were both African Americans in a field where there aren't too many, that he'd at least want to connect with me on some level.  I'm talking about acoustic song / songwriters btw.  Anyway, it never happened.  He never responded. I thought, maybe he never received my emails.  I ran into him at a conference in an elevator. He knew who I was, which surprised me.  So I guess he had received my messages. He wouldn't have known who I was otherwise.  Anyway, while in the elevator, he never mentioned anything about it. Neither did I.   Oh well.  I let it go.

The Elitist or Eccentric:

I did a show with a famous concert pianist.  I was struggling to find an accompanist.  Getting desperate, I called him.  
I never expected that he'd say yes.  It was getting close to show time.  I was sweating bullets thinking that maybe I had given him the wrong date.

Finally he showed up. What a relief. I asked if he needed help to bring his gear in.  "There's no piano? You didn't mention that I needed to bring a piano".  Of course he hadn't asked either, and he didn't have a 'portable' one at home.   

Most musicians I've ever played with, have always brought their own gear. What if he hated the piano?

I did the first set with just bass and voice, while we waited for a piano delivery (thanks to one of my friends).   I guess when you're working with the elite you have to be mindful of their requirements. :)

I should point out that this pianist was absolutely worth the wait.

The Ego or Tired Artist:

At a conference I ran into one of the events featured artist.  He and I, along with a few other artists were sitting together and someone said,  "You should let Miche sit in with you".  YES!  He was up for it.  I had to perform earlier that evening at a different location.  I busted my butt to get back to the conference in time just so I could play with this amazing musician.   As his set was coming to a close, I was a little disappointed that he had forgotten about me. These things happen. He was about to play an encore, when someone from the audience shouted "You should bring up Miche…!"  How cool was that?  Too Cool?

This turned out to be one of the most unfun things I've ever done. He never connected with me on stage. No looking at me. No smiling. This was more like work.  After we got through one jam, the audience wanted another song.   Again he never connected, it was stiff and cold.   Afterwards he never said a word to me. The next day at the conference he ignored me.  I fumed about this for hours.  As far as I was concerned there was no reason to be that rude.  Even if he thought I sucked, he could still at least be polite. I have no idea what that was all about.  Maybe he was just tired.

The Good Musicians:

I was in DC for a few days. I reconnected with a woman I used to date in high school (another embarrassing story).

We were walking around Georgetown and came upon a club that was having entertainment that night.  We decided to hang around. When the band showed up, I asked the drummer if they let people sit in.   "Ask Tony."  "Sure man you can sit in."  They brought me up for a song.  What a fun night.  I eventually played most of the evening with them.  At the end of the night, Tony came up to me and handed me some cash.  I was floored.  To pay someone who walked in off the street was beyond the call.  Most musicians who play for a living would never care to be so generous.   To this day, the thought warms me up every time I think of it. These were some very "good" musicians.

http: www.michefambro.com
https://www.facebook.com/miche.musician

Looking Up From The Bottom

They say "You have to hit the bottom before you can rise up…  ".   I've been living with depression all of my life.  I never called it that. In fact, I never thought much about it.  I just excepted an existential perspective on life and events.  Besides, I was much too consumed with playing music to pay attention to such things as the state of my soul, or if I had one, among other things.  

My life as I lived it had exhausted me.  Having distanced myself from music in the last few years, I felt I had no place to go and no place I wanted to go.  I finally broke.  I was in a dark and empty place.   "You have major depression."  I was very uncomfortable, annoyed actually at the suggestion that this was a medical issue.   "Look, it's not like I don't have a ton of reasons to feel the way I do. It's all overly depressing wouldn't you say?!!!".  There's silence and there's silence.   However, it was clear that I needed help… 

Interestingly, it's amazing the things you can see in a dark place.   So I'm now looking up from the bottom.

And as always, I'll do my best to climb out of here. 

Dire Limbo

I've died so many times, but I've always escaped.  I always found my way back. 

Mason got frustrated with me, He knew he would get me, he just didn't think it would be so hard or take so long.  He cursed every opportunity for my baring fruit in a life long struggle and I would not give up.  How can someone, not ever in their lifetime, come on top or ahead of anything? Anything. 

I'd only fall and standup to fall again and again and again.

I've been relentless. In my defiance, I'd better myself, improve my skills and assets, in vain.  A curse? Indeed. 

The curse extended to my personal life as well as my professional. I was not able to feel wholly, love wholly.  The good things I did have, I was unable to thrive in it's joy. 

Now, when I think of it, it makes so much sense.  Benevolent Torture.  Mason was toying around with me.

He made things tangible to touch, then it would disappear. He did that a lot.  He laughed at my efforts in thinking I was a good person.  My willingness to help and give to others would only weaken me instead of lifting me.  I was tricked.   I was never a good person. I thought I was, it was a just deception.

I never had a heart. I never had a soul or should I say,  it was his soul all long. The heart was mine, that was the aid for treachery. I had to believe what I thought I was. 

I was stuborn and defiant, I thought I could beat him, ignore him.  He wore me down.  Of course he would win.  HE? Who the Devil?  I don't know for sure.  A bored angel perhaps? I call him Mason. I don't know why.   All I know is, something has to make sense of my life. Nothing else does.

Mason got tired of playing me. It was time to put me in my place. It was time to let me know what "I" was messing with.  Unfortunately in my being humbled, Mason would not only take me, he would hurt everything and everyone close to me. Simply because, why would he care?  I'm in fatal limbo.  

So to make things really fun, what's life without a little sordid drama?  Enter Mason and his chick with serpent eyes, to finished the job. Believe me, there is nothing more humiliating than watching these two look and laugh at you. 

I have to admit, Mason is to marvel at. He designed the perfect torture, almost pretty to look at.  Your reservation drops. Your mind goes, so does you reasoning.   There's no point in trying not to make a fool of yourself. You're helpless.  You're tired and no one can help you.   All you can do is pity yourself and watch them laugh.  

The least I can say for me,  I didn't make it easy.  

The big question is, why am I writing this?  If I didn't know any better, I'd blame Mason for giving lonely, sick people a cheap thrill into thinking that a life in the narrative means anything more than the 3mins someone 'might' give it.  It's all part of the curse. All part of making me a bigger fool.   Obviously I've conceded.  

The Hair Cut

I've always been a little uncomfortable in barbershops. Probably because as a kid, it was the first place where my shyness was publicly displayed.   For some reason, every Saturday my mom would give me a quarter and send me to "Nate's Barbershop" to get a haircut.  That's right.  Every Saturday.  What the heck can you grow in a week? 

Nate's Barbershop was on the corner of 42nd and Mantua Avenue, facing the "Mantua Bar" directly across from the shop.   Now that I think of it, this explains why Nate was always drunk.   The weekly routine was to give Nate a quarter and ask for the "hustler" (the hair style of the day).   

The barbershop was an interesting place for a kid to be hanging around in.  Listening in on adult conversation, I'd wonder what some of the laughter was about.  I recall hearing them talk about "Maggie red drawers".  It could have been a military term, something or someone else.  Whatever the case, I laughed along with them because the name was funny.   

It was very frustrating to me that in the Barbershop there didn't seem to be a system.  If there were three people in the room, after the second person got his haircut, I would clearly be the next in line, but someone would walk through the door and jump in the chair.  Now there's seven people in the room and everybody's getting their haircut but me.  It was every man for himself.  I'd be in the barbershop for several hours before Nate would say, "Let the boy get in the chair.  Get up here Mickey."  

That was indeed frustrating.  On a positive note, I loved listening to the music Nate had playing on the radio.  Jazz.  Adult music.  I'd get lost in the sounds while staring at the comb sterilizer with the blue water.  When I finally got to sit in the chair, Nate was pretty drunk. He'd carve my head and send me home.  When I got home, my mom would start shouting at me because Nate had messed up my 'head'. 

"You go back to Nate and give him this note."  "He ain't have

ing my boy walking around looking like a pumpkin. Look at you!"  I would have rather been a pumpkin…

After waiting another 2 hours or so , Nate would acknowledge me.  He took a look at the note and calmly threw it in the trash.  He then gave me a quarter and a hat and shooed me back home.     To this day barbershops unnerve me. 

The song "The Hair Cut" was a piece I wrote, reminding me of the sounds I'd hear in Nate's Barbershop.  

Listen to : The Hair Cut



www.michefambro.com

Virtual Shows?

I'm looking forward to the idea of doing virtual concerts and shows.  I like the notion that if no one shows up, at least you're right in your home.  My last few shows have been well attended, but generally there's a major decline in live show attendance.    I also like the idea that I can connect with people all around the globe.  Most of my proactive fans live outside of my home area in Upstate NY.  True, there is a time zone issue but no problems with parking. :)   A 7 PM EST show is at 1AM in London.  Two London-ers have already purchased tickets so apparently they're night owls.   When I was doing my variety show (which I thoroughly enjoyed) renting a venue and paying a band made the venture too expensive for me to continue.   A virtual show may be a great alternative.   I have no idea how I'm going to format the show. I just need to jump in and get a feel for it.  

 I'll kick off the idea this Wednesday Oct 17. 7:00PM.  It will be a House Concert and the first half hour will be viewable online.   My guests will be two fabulous musicians from Argentina (currently living in NYC).  Andres Rotmistrovsky (Bass) and Marcelo Woloski (Percussion).   I played with Andres when I spent a summer working in Rockaway Beach (near NYC).   I'm hoping to do a virtual show every two weeks, perhaps at different locations.  I'm sure it's going to take a few shows to get a flow, but I'm excited to give it a try.

I hope can join me live or virtually.  :)

If you live in or near Rochester NY you'll find info on FACEBOOK:

https://www.facebook.com/events/481365378551543/

(or contact me)

If you're out of state or the US

you can see the show on STAGEIT: 

http://www.stageit.com/miche_fambro_with_andres_rotmistrovsky_and_marcelo_woloski/the_miche_fambro_show/14757

Serendipitous Jerk

When I lived in Maryland, I played an open mic near the U of M, about 40 minutes from my home (not counting the traffic).   Aside from watching people stare at their computers or listening to their ipods with ear buds while people were playing, I managed to check out a few impressive performers before I went on.  After I played I was anxious to get out of there.  The whole vibe of the place was confusing to me.  And there's the trip home. DC traffic is always a pain, even in the evening. 

Weeks later I ended up in a songwriters competition.  Why? I don't know, just to get out and play I guess.  In the lobby I ran into one of the performers I saw perform at that open-mic. I'll call him Willie.  Willie took the time to tell me that I was full of myself, and a jerk for leaving the open mic and not listening to the artists after me.   I was so ticked at his audacity and arrogance, that I couldn't stop all the crap the came out of my mouth.  
Earlier that evening,  a nice woman shared a few kind words to me and approached us as I was chewing this creep out. It was his mother.   Of all the luck. I tried apologizing to his mother for my being forward.   This was awkward to say the least.   Then to make matters grand, Willie turned out to be one of the judges in the event.   Of course I didn't win, but apparently I was a jerk.

Jazz Guitar

As a vocalist, jazz came very easily to me. I was very comfortable with singing melodies and scatting.   It was never something I had to work at.  I do recall in the 80's I was criticized for having lousy diction.  I realized that to fix the problem, I simply had to learn to 'speak' more clearly.  When I moved to Maryland I found myself being asked to do jazz gigs as a vocalist. I was learning a lot of material and how different the jazz world was compared to the pop/folk world I was used to. 

As a guitarist, I dreaded the subject of jazz, I never felt I could do it.  I knew enough to sound jazzy but not enough to want to accompany myself or anyone else for that matter.  Besides, I always preferred singing with pianists. I love the harmonic colors jazz pianists tend to have, compared to most of the guitarists I was familiar with.  

After being consistently frustrated with finding piano accompanists who were usually too busy or too expensive, I decided it was time to take on the challenge of trying to play jazz guitar.  At first I wanted to take some lessons, but then things just started to come to me and I started to understand things that had never connected before.   Being self-taught has created certain habits for me. For example, I respond more to concepts rather than somebody saying "put your hand here".  And of course did I  mention that I was left-handed?    Recently I  spent some time with a friend who had some rare workshop videos of a legendary guitarist. He would zip past the dialogue to a song saying, "listen to this." I was more interested in hearing what the legend had to say.  I want to know how a genius thinks. 

I've spent many years practicing and practicing , but I was never organized or structured in any way.  Now I'm pretty thought out with what I'm trying to do before I start my routine. I even keep a practicing diary, it helps me to stay focused. I still need a lot of work, but I'm having a lot of fun.  That's what it's all about, right? :)

Here's a piece I'm working on.

Nice Work If You Can Get It

Historic Colored Musicians Club

A couple of nights ago after singing a few songs at the "Historic Colored Musicians Club",  I was approached by a tall distinguished older gentleman wearing a cream colored suit and a sharp hat.  He took the time to share some kind words. He spoke rather close to me, which surprised me a little. What surprised me even more was how fresh his breath was.  He thought these were tough times for a black male crooner, he being a vocalist himself.  "The Europeans care about this music, but here in the states…" 

He mentioned that he couldn't find much work in Buffalo. "How are you doing in Rochester?"  Somehow I managed not to answer the question. Though I don't sing in Rochester much, that's why I took a trip to Buffalo.

It was an interesting conversation. It was a little hard to hear every word he was saying because of the music and the bar ambience. When he took to the stage, every song he sang was new to me. Not the usual selection you hear most vocalist sing these days.  He was very smooth, reminiscent of Johnny Hartman.  

The band was hot btw.  I knew immediately that I wanted to get to know and play with some of these guys.

I'm hoping to get back there to interview some of these remarkable musicians that hang out at the "Historic Colored Musicians Club".  So many fascinating people with fascinating stories.  I can't wait to return.

The Historic Colored Musicians Club

Rochester and Me Part 1

I've always had a special feeling for Rochester.  Sort of like the experience of that first kiss.  It holds a place, not necessarily a good place, but something that makes a mark in your life.  I came to Upstate NY in 1979 to the little college town of Geneseo, NY.  In the beautiful month of May, most quaint little towns in Upstate are irresistible, as compared to the month of November where a Philadelphia boy freezes to death and wonders why he never wore long underwear before.  When I first came to town, I had no desire to play music.  After two years on the road with a hotel band, I had had enough.  I saved up enough money to rent a place for several months and I was promised a job as a waiter.  I was all set.  Then came the first let-down, the waiter job fell through.   "...but you can wash the dishes."   I was too pissed to take that job.

After a while my savings were drying up.  I was getting desperate.  I should have taken the job washing dishes.  Looks like I'll have to play music again.  Through an ad in the paper I got to audition for a band.  I didn't have a car so I hitchhiked.  I had never hitchhiked before, and apparently it was obvious.  "You got to put your hand out there like you mean it, boy."  The old black dude reminded me of my grand-pop. He took me and my guitar to Rochester.

My audition went well.  Greg wanted me in his band. I was embarrassed to have to tell him that I was broke and didn't have bus fare to get home, let alone return to Rochester for rehearsals and gigs.  Greg was generous and kind.  He gave me enough money for two bus trips - one to get home and one to come back for the next practice.

I was dropped off at the bus station late in the evening.  There wasn't a bus back to Geneseo until 6 am.   I decided I'd stroll around downtown to pass some time.  I found myself in the "Pussycat Lounge" (I think that's what it was called.).  One of my last gigs before coming to Geneseo had been at a hotel in Quincy, Illinois, where I met a guy who wanted to pimp me.  I have no Idea how this discussion came about, but initially I had envisioned the glamour side of the issue - lionesses, tigresses and cougars!  Oh my!  Fortunately, I left town before I could see what I would really be getting into.  

Now here I was in the "Pussycat Lounge"  in a stank bathroom being stared down by an old crusty "Bobcat," and trying to guess what I would charge.  I was clueless and because I had money in my pocket, wasn't as desperate as I might have been. Exit.   

To add to my lack of luck I had spent the remainder of my bus fair on food, so no returning to Rochester for a while.  I couldn't bring myself to give Greg another sob story, so I said nothing.  Basically, it appeared that I had ripped off Greg.    

I ended up finding a job - actually I ended up finding a friend who set me up with a job working at the migrant camps in the area as a tutor.  There was not much to do in Geneseo.  Everyday I'd take a walk and stop in at the local music store, "Buzzo's."   When my job ended at the migrant camps, Buzzo took pity on me and hired me to work for him.  That was the beginning.