Bugs Black Blood

For the last week, I've been suffering from that bug that has been making the rounds and I'm getting bloody tired of it.

I didn't notice the early warning signs last Friday when I was playing with Wa and the boys at Seb's. I was having some difficulty playing some fairly familiar tunes, just mentally navigating the changes. From there, I raced over to 1067 to play until the wee hours.

The next morning I awoke with a very ominous sore throat and within a couple of hours, I was down for the count. I took it as easy as possible over the weekend, but I didn't want to miss playing the Cellar on Monday with a new large ensemble, Bugs Black Blood. We had a final rehearsal on Sunday night that I coughed my way through, then had a very tough night. On Monday, it was almost a coin toss as to whether or not to play, but I felt a touch better, at least until I reached The Cellar. Despite being warmly dressed, I got a severe case of the chills and just could not warm up all night.

I spent most of the night just sitting in my chair onstage as it was the warmest spot there when the stage lights were on. I was slightly less animated than Kenny Wheeler when he's not playing, in other words, catatonic. I just played my parts, stood and gave it for my solos, and otherwise just tried to get through the night without chucking.

I think things ended up OK, though my energy was seriously waning in the second set. The recording will tell the tale, for sure.

Anyways, I had to be there as the theme of the night was wigs. A bunch of people in the band and the audience wore goofy wigs. Never one to miss a chance to make a fool of myself, I opted for something much more elegant - the Austin Powers-style chest rug. There was a brief masochistic moment at the end of the night when I ripped the luxurious thatch off, with the glue ensuring that I lost what little chest hair I actually possessed.

That instance of self-mutilation done, I beat it for home as quickly as possible and had another very sleepless night.

There was only one time that I can recall being sicker onstage at a gig. It was many years ago and I was called to play a dance band gig in Chilliwack. The only reason I took it was because Dave Quarin was playing lead alto. He was the first guy in Vancouver I took lessons from and I'd never before had a chance to play a gig with him.

Mistake #1: I didn't own my own tux back then, and I borrowed a real nice one from a friend. It was a Christian Dior that he had bought in Paris. It looked great, it was just a inch or so too small in the waist and chest and two inches too long in the arms. (My friend has the build of a spider monkey.)

Mistake #2: I was running late so I didn't take a change of clothes

Mistake #3: I carpooled with some of the guys. Normally OK, but these were oldtimers who were the hardcore dance band types. The conversation was fairly limited to the various intrigues of the other bands on the circuit and about ricky-ticky arrangements. Dave must have gone up in another car - at least we could have had a fun conversation. It was a Friday evening gig, so the traffic was pretty bad. It made for a long drive.

Mistake #4: This was the killer. I wolfed down a very large meal before I left - Indian food. Rubina Tandoori was one of the best in the city, but it just wasn't sitting right.

By the time we hit the stage in Chilliwack, I had Stage One New Delhi Belly. As we played the first set, I started turning green. I hung on as long as I could, not wanting to look unprofessional in front of Dave (way too late for that!). But well before the set ended, I had to bolt right in the middle of a tune, and with my bulging eyes and cheeks, it was pretty evident to all what was happening.

Gentle readers, I will refrain from any detailed description of what followed, lest it put you all off of Indian food for the near future. I just remember feeling the incongruity of being so colourfully and violently ill while wearing a fine French tuxedo, which didn't escape unsullied.

I wobbled back onstage, only to dash off again. After a long break, I was able to play the remaining sets. As the elderly dancers would spin by, a number of grandmotherly types would ask "How you doing now, dear?" or offer advice.

The long drive home was punctuated by at least one bolting from the car. In all a miserable night. Dave wasn't inclined to hang out with a guy who was spending some serious face time with a public toilet - go figure. I don't even recall the pay being that great.

Maybe The Cellar wasn't so bad after all.