Titles

When it comes to being creative, I’ve learned that the title is the most important part of the process.  The title has all the power.  The title is usually what will determine if someone bothers to read, watch, or listen to whatever you’ve created.

When you read a newspaper or news website, it’s the headline, or title, which entices you read the article.  When you see a book, it’s the title that will tempt you pick it up and open it.  When you go to a video store or “On Demand” to search for a movie, it’s the title that first catches your eye and hopefully, your interest.

And then, there are song titles.  They seem to have a power all of their own.  For me, song titles often conjure up a very specific time and place from my past, a vivid moment in my life that I will always associate with that song and title.

For me, that moment will bring back memories of a girl, a car, guys I used to hang out with, a bar, a ride home, a scene from a movie, or just being alone with my big speakers or headphones, listening to the song.

In the SHOUT Band, song titles are important in a completely different way.  We have no set lists.  Gerry, our drummer, “reads” the crowd as we play, and then, near the end of the song that we are playing, he will decide what we should play next, and then yell it out to all on stage.  Our goal is to keep dancers on the dance floor, whether the songs are slow, fast or half-fast.  (Sorry about that one… couldn’t resist).

This system of playing keeps us on our toes, so to speak.  It can also be somewhat dangerous, in terms of communication, or lack thereof.

When Gerry calls out a song, the title might easily be misunderstood.  The classic song title, “Misty” sounds a lot like another song we play, “Into the Mystic” by Van Morrison.  On several occasions, the band has actually started off playing two songs at the same time!  Unless you’re doing a “round,” it’s never a good idea.

The most fun parts of playing this way are those nights when certain band members are in a “Smart Alec” or sassy mood.  Gerry will call out a song to us on stage, and one of us will respond with something like, “I know, but what do you want to play next?”  It’s fun to do, and you can even participate, just like you’re a member of The Shout Band.  Try it with me now.

Gerry calls out, “I Love You More Today Than Yesterday.”  You yell back, “I know, but what do you want to play next?”

Gerry calls out, “I’m Just a Love Machine.”  You yell back, “I know, but what do you want to play next?”

Gerry calls out, “You Are the Sunshine of my Life.”  You yell back, “I know, but what do you want to play next?”

Gerry calls out, “I’m a Girl Watcher.”  And you yell back, “I know, but what do you want to play next?”

Gerry calls out, “Ain’t No Woman Like the One I Got.”  You yell back, “I know, but what do you want to play next?”

Gerry calls out, “Ain’t No Stopping Us Now” and you yell back, “I know, but what do you want to play next?”

Gerry calls out, “It’s Gonna Be a Good Night.”  You yell back, “I know, but what do you want to play next?”

And then, there are the subtle variations in that snappy SHOUT Band comeback.  Instead of saying, “I Know”, you simply substitute it with “OK.”  Here are some examples of those instances:

Gerry calls out, “Let’s Stay Together.”  You yell back, “OK, but what do you want to play next?”

Gerry calls out, “Let’s Groove.” You yell back, “OK, but what do you want to play next?”

Gerry calls out, “What You See is What You Get.”  You yell back, “OK, but what do you want to play next?”

There’s nothing more fun than watching Gerry’s reaction to one of these cleaver and creative retorts.  I’m sure he never, EVER gets tired of it.  And then, I’ve discovered that these spirited responses back to Gerry can actually be customized.  Please now observe the fine nuances in the following examples:

Gerry calls out, “I Love Music.”  You yell back, “Me, too. That’s why I’m in the band.”

Gerry calls out, “Got To Get You Into My Life.”  You yell back, “I’m right here.”

Gerry calls out, “Get Ready.”  You yell back, “For what?.”

Gerry calls out, “I’m Easy.”  You yell back, “That’s what I’ve heard.”

Gerry calls out, “Hold Me, Thrill Me.”  You yell back, “You’re not my type.”

Gerry calls out, “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You.”  You yell back, (same response) “You’re not my type.”

Gerry calls out, “Give It To Me Baby.”  You yell back, (still same response) “You’re not my type.”

Gerry calls out, “It’s a Shame.”   You yell back, “About what?”

Gerry calls out, “I Want You Back.”  You yell back, “I never left.”

Gerry calls out, “Can’t Get Next to You.”  You yell back, “That’s because Tony is in the way.”

And then there’s my personal favorite:  Gerry calls out, “Sing a Song” and I yell back, “I can’t, I’m the trumpet player!”

Playing an ‘A Flat’ Scale

Back when I went to Lakewood High School in the early ‘70’s, there were separate and distinct groups throughout the student body.  Some of these cliques were considered cool.  Some of them were not.  Those “Revenge of the Nerds” movies clearly illustrated that ongoing teen struggle to attain “coolness.”

Oftentimes, we had no say as to which clique we were in.  It was determined by how we were perceived by others and/or what activities we participated in.

I was a Music Nerd and proud of it.  I was in the group that was always carrying an instrument back and forth to school as well as from class to class.  I often came to school an hour before the first bell because that’s when band and orchestra rehearsals were scheduled.

Even though we were Music Nerds, I thought we were pretty cool.  I was proud of playing the trumpet because that was a time when great horn bands like Chicago and Blood Sweat & Tears were ruling the airwaves on my transistor radio and on my 8-Track player.

Being a Music Nerd meant that I had an intense dislike of another group within our school.  After all, they were our rivals.  They were big.  They were strong.  They were feared.  They were egotistical.  They were:  “The Jocks.”  Football jocks seemed to be the worst.  They may have been able to beat us up after school, but they could not play an ‘A Flat’ scale to save their lives.

I thought it was an interesting co-existence between the two groups.  Every autumn, both groups had their chance to shine at football games on Friday nights.  The Jocks played to score on the field and the Music Nerds played music scores on the field.

But, we did have our differences – The Jocks were always getting dirty, and us Music Nerds were always trying to stay clean.  The colors of our Lakewood High School band uniforms were bright gold with purple trim.  On top of that, we had to wear white hats with plumes, along with white buckskin shoes.  We looked like an army of golden Q-Tips marching down the gridiron, struggling to avoid mud puddles and grass stains.

On those Friday night games when it rained, everybody suffered.  I don’t know who had it worse, the jocks slipping and sliding on a muddy field in a cold, wet drizzle, or the band that had to sit through the first half, and then go out on that same field to perform.

Let’s see you march 8 steps to five yards, stay in formation, change direction every two bars, blow into a freezing cold trumpet, hit the high notes, and stay clean while maneuvering on a wet, soggy field that looked like it was the scene of a tractor pull, even before the rain started.  But I digress.

I very much like Jocks these days, thanks to my band, SHOUT.  I make a lot of money from them, playing at various professional sporting events and affairs.

In 2002, Gerry, the leader of our band, got a call from the wife of Pittsburgh Steelers wide receiver, John Stallworth.  Her husband was being inducted into the Canton, Ohio Pro Football Hall of Fame.  To honor the occasion, she was throwing a party for him and wanted our band, SHOUT, to be the entertainment.

We later learned that the party was expanded to include another Pro Football Hall of Fame inductee that year – Dave Casper, tight end of the Oakland Raiders.

So there we were, surrounded by some of the greatest to ever play professional football.  Our little SHOUT band from Cleveland was dwarfed by NFL players, coaches, family and friends.  It was a sea of three colors… black and gold and black and silver.

They were HUGE people.  I didn’t dare tell any of my Pittsburgh jokes that night…  You know, jokes like, “What’s the difference between Pittsburgh and a case of yogurt?  The yogurt has an active culture.”  Far be it from me to publicly make fun of and humiliate a fine city like Pittsburgh, PA.

We’ve performed in the “Big Leagues” of other professional sports, too.  In their 2005 season, the Marketing Department of the Cleveland Indians hired us to play on the plaza just outside of the left field entrance when it was known as Jacobs Field.  It was the 4^th of July and the Indians were scheduled to play a day/night doubleheader against the Detroit Tigers.

The first game started at 1PM.  As soon as the last out of the ninth inning was called, we were told to start playing for the exiting crowd.  Back in those days, sell-outs were the norm and accordingly, many thousands of people passed by our stage and heard us play on their way home.

And then, about 90 minutes before the 7:05 PM game, we started playing again, this time for the incoming crowd attending the evening game.  A new throng of thousands of people passed by and became exposed to the SHOUT experience.

We’ve also rubbed elbows with some big names in professional basketball, too.  SHOUT has played two Cleveland Cavalier holiday parties at The House of Blues in Downtown Cleveland.  Each time, we shared the stage with the likes of Andy, Z, Mo, and that guy we used to “witness.”

As I thought about meeting all these sports celebrities, it all became clear to me.  Sure, they were superstars, but they were just like me.  The only difference being… they make millions of dollars more than me each and every year.  But, can they play an ‘A Flat’ Scale?

Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com

PERFECTION

As God as my witness, I can tell you exactly where I was on the cold, damp night of May 15, 1981.  Unlike many Clevelanders who will make the same claim, I truly was one of the 7290 people in the old Cleveland Stadium that evening.

It was an amazing night of baseball, history, and glory.  It was the evening that Indians pitcher Len Barker hurled a perfect game against the Toronto Blue Jays.  It was only the tenth time that had ever happened in the history of Major League Baseball.

Amidst all the jokes about Cleveland and burning rivers and mayors who caught their hair on fire, this was a lone shining moment of pride for my hometown.  We will forever be indebted to Len Barker.

Another historic day for the Indians, as well as my band SHOUT, came on April 6^th, 2006.  It was the home opener against our old friend, Mike Hargrove, and the Seattle Mariners.  For us in the SHOUT Band, it was one of the most memorable gigs of our musical career.

A few days before, Gerry, the leader of our band, got a call from a marketing person with the Cleveland Indians.  They wanted to book us to play during pregame activities from Noon until 3PM just before the first pitch of the home opener.

I couldn’t have been more excited!  We were going to be set up on the plaza outside the left field gate to entertain fans before the game.  We also found out that WTAM radio would be there, too, and there was a chance we might play live over their airwaves.

The big day arrived.  The morning of April 6^th brought terrible weather, especially for a home opener.  The forecast called for 30 degree temps with snow – and lots of it throughout the day.  I wondered how we would be able to play outside in those conditions.  Along with my band equipment I brought long johns, several shirts, a hat, scarf and gloves.

I arrived at the gig about 11:30 AM.  It was snowing hard and the plaza was almost deserted except for a few of the most die-hard of fans shivering by the main gate.  Instead of the original plan of us playing in the open, a large tent with covered sides had been set up nearby.

As I walked into the tent, I saw radio personality Mike Trivisonno sitting at a table broadcasting on WTAM.  Our band was set up directly behind him.  And best of all, heat was being blown in from each corner by huge heaters.  After a while the tent actually became quite balmy!

Outside however, the snow kept falling and fans were sparse, which worked out really well for our band.  WTAM now had a lot of air time to kill.  And so, when Triv wanted to take a break, he would ask us to play a song which was broadcast Live over their airwaves – I’m not talking about playing for just 15 seconds or so… we played entire songs and even a few medleys throughout the afternoon!

It was an extraordinary thing!  How many times can you hear a live band on the radio any more?  Not since WMMS and the Coffee Break Concerts, I believe.

We got a lot of publicity out of those three hours of AM frequency fame.  In the months that followed, we heard from many people who were listening that day.  Indeed, we gained quite a few fans and even got a few bookings from all of the exposure.

The other cool thing about that Indians gig was the parade of famous people that came through the tent to be interviewed when we weren’t playing.  We met congressmen, local personalities, and other “heavy hitters” on hand for the Indian’s opening day.

I also got to meet John Adams, the guy who beats the bass drum under the “B” of the Budweiser sign in the bleachers.  We’re still good friends today and we even “jam” together sometimes.

But, my favorite one-on-one conversation that afternoon came from “Large Lenny” himself, as in pitcher Len Barker.  There I was, in this small toasty tent with Cleveland’s very own “Man with the Golden Arm.”  I proudly told Lenny that, even though he hears it all the time, I honestly was there in person on the biggest night of his career.

The Indians pitcher and I talked about cool things around Cleveland and lots of other stuff.  Let me be the first to tell you that Len Barker is a nice guy and couldn’t have been friendlier, especially to a dude who plays trumpet in a local band.

Those three hours before game time went by like a flash.  And before we knew it, we could hear the National Anthem and someone yelling “Play Ball!”  Our band couldn’t stay to watch the game because we had a second gig that night.  A few short hours later we were playing at Carrie Cerino’s in North Royalton for an evening show.

As you probably know, that Indians opening game was later “called” in the fifth inning, just one strike away from becoming an official game because of the snow.  It caused a huge uproar and a furor throughout Cleveland.

But, for the SHOUT Band, the day was “Perfect”… as in a “Perfect” game.

Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com

THE TUNE-UP

When I was a kid, “remote” was the distance between me and the TV set when I wanted to change the channel.  For all of you young things out there, we actually had to walk or crawl across the room to watch something different on TV.  At certain times and in certain states of mind, that distance truly was “remote.”

In 1979, “remote” took on a whole different meaning for me.  That was the year I got my first video cassette recorder, or VCR.  It was huge, heavy, and state-of-the-art for those days back in the Carter Administration.  VHS tapes cost $15 a piece back then, and we where I lived, I could only find them at a camera store.

Nonetheless, this VCR was my first electronic device with a remote control, but it wasn’t what you might think.  This remote was connected to a wire that stretched across the floor between you and the TV/VCR.  As a result, you might trip while walking through the room.  But, you could also start and stop the VHS tape without getting up!  BRILLIANT!!  Unfortunately, this utopia was short lived.  My dog, Toby, loved to chew on that cable, which meant I was soon back to walking across the room to change the channel.

A few years later, technology perfected the remote and got rid of the wire.  The age of wireless remotes had arrived.  And today, wireless remotes are everywhere.  They do everything from turning on TV’s to starting ceiling fans to opening garage doors to even starting up home fireplaces.

The music world was also revolutionized by wireless remote innovations.  After years of being figuratively tied to a microphone and stand, a musician could now wear a small transmitter on his or her belt, which was attached by a cable to a small microphone, which clipped onto the end of a musical instrument.  And, just like that, music-making could now be mobile and audible at the same time.

Back around 2001, Gerry, the leader of our SHOUT Band, encouraged Steve, the sax player, and me the trumpet player to buy wireless microphones.  And so we did.

In the gigs that followed, Steve and I would leave the stage and wander through the dance floor and around tables, blowing our horn harmonies for all to hear.  We thought it was a great way to engage the crowd and bring our band to life.  Most nights it was.  It was so much fun to actually get down amidst the dancers on the floor and play our licks.

However, there were drawbacks.  Once in a while, our memories failed, as Steve and I would sometimes forget what we were supposed to play.  And then, if we tried to play and move with the dancers, we ended up out of breath and unable to blow.  And, of course, there was always the danger factor.  Someone might accidentally bump into a horn and mess up the horn player’s mouth and teeth.

But my favorite wireless microphone drawback occurred at an outdoor festival we played at one summer.  Steve and I were playing along with the band, but were horribly out of tune with each other.  It’s hard to tune up in that loud environment when the rest of the band is playing.

Fortunately for us, the next song called by our drummer, Gerry, had no horn parts.  It was our chance to tune up.  Steve and I got off the outdoor stage and walked back about a hundred feet into an open field.  It was quieter there and we started playing notes back and forth, trying to get into tune.

Suddenly, we heard someone screaming!  I looked up and saw Tony the guitar player, standing on the back of the stage waving at us.  We were too far away to hear what he was screaming.  Steve and I just stared at Tony, and wondered why he was making all the fuss.  After a few seconds, Tony turned away and went back to his place on stage while their song continued.

Steve and I decided that Tony must have been yelling at someone else.  Just in case, we took a few more steps further away and resumed playing our tuning notes.  The screams from Tony began again.  We had to be 125 feet away.  What in the world was Tony all mad about?

Steve and I finished tuning up and walked back toward the stage.  We got there just as the band ended the song they had been playing.  I looked up at Tony and asked, “What was so important that you kept yelling at us?”

Tony responded, “Your wireless microphone is on, and the whole audience just heard you tuning up while we were trying to play our song!”

Oops!!!  My bad.

Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com

Reaction Time

This blog entry is going to be a painful one for me to write.  I don’t mean that I’m all emotional and weepy right now.  I mean that I’m in pain.  My left hand really hurts as I type this.

My story begins a little more than a year ago.  The SHOUT Band was booked to play at a wedding reception in the Bertram Inn in Aurora.

I arrived early to help Oscar, our sound guy, unload the equipment from our band van.  Apparently, there is a mysterious science as to how you should pack a band van.  According to Oscar, our van is easier to drive when we put the heaviest stuff towards the front.

If you think that theory through, you will soon realize that during the unloading process, the heaviest stuff comes off the van last.  Coincidently, that’s when I start getting tired.  I’ve always been skeptical about Oscar’s weight disbursement theory.  It must be a “manly” thing for him.

Those last pieces of equipment are what I call “The Widow Makers”… two huge 5 foot tall, 100 pound public address speakers.  On this particular day at the Bertram Inn, Oscar and I wrestled and hefted those Widow Makers onto our dolly cart.  Whew, the hard part was now done.

Oscar pushed from behind as I started pulling the heavy cart up the sidewalk towards the door that leads into the Grand Ballroom. Everything was going just fine.  We had done this hundreds of times before.  And then, like a cobra lying in wait, coiled and ready to strike, we were attacked.

Well, “attacked” may not be the right word, but it felt like it.  As I simultaneously pulled and steered our heavily laden cart towards the door, I managed to find the only imperfection in the sidewalk.  And I happened to find it with the left front wheel of the cart.

It was a corner of a concrete section that had been broken off.  The affected area measured about three square inches.  But more importantly, the missing chunk left a hole about two inches deep.

On that day we learned that a difference of two inches is all that it takes to upset a heavily laden cart carrying over two hundred pounds of weight in band equipment.

Like a ship whose cargo had quickly shifted, our cart suddenly listed badly to the left.  Before we knew it, the top-heavy Widow Makers were obeying gravity and now rapidly sliding off their perch.

Both Oscar and I recoiled, trying to catch The Widow Makers before they each fell off the side of the cart.  Oscar was successful and caught his speaker, which was good… except for one little thing.

As he jumped to successfully catch the speaker, his right foot was now in my path.  Well, not in my path, but in my speaker’s path…  the speaker I was trying to catch… the speaker that kept falling… the speaker I couldn’t get to in time…  the speaker that landed on Oscar’s big toe.

We both heard the sickening crack.  I couldn’t have felt worse about it.  Once inside, I got Oscar a chair and a bag of ice to put on his foot.  That night, he ran our sound board while seated on a stool.  The next day, I called Oscar and got the news about his newly broken toe, courtesy of the trumpet player in the SHOUT Band.

It’s been an ongoing joke between Oscar and me since that night.  In fact, it was just three weeks ago that we again played at the Bertram Inn.  That chunk of sidewalk was still missing and Oscar made sure everyone in the band saw the exact place where I had broken his toe.  All I could do was walk away in shame, shrouded by my guilt.

There’s some law of physics that says for every action, there is an equal reaction.  And last weekend, that law visited Sagamore Hills to return the favor.

We had just finished a great night playing at the Loose Moose and we were taking everything out the door.  We also had our stage that night, which meant our load-out was a bit more extensive.  Oscar and I were in the midst of rolling our cart filled with sections of the stage back out to the van.

At the Moose, you have to roll down a short hallway, and then make a sharp left turn to get out the door.  We were on our last trip out.  Oscar was pushing while I was pulling.

As we paused to make the big turn, Oscar gave a big push from behind.  Unfortunately, we had not yet cleared the doorway and the cart crashed hard into the door frame.

Oh, I forgot to mention one thing.  My left hand was directly between the cart and the door frame upon impact.  I heard a crack and then I saw stars.

I could not believe how much pain I was in, and it wasn’t the kind of pain that you could just walk off.  Next came bleeding and swelling.  A baggie of ice was immediately put on my hand.  Oscar said, “Sorry about that.”  The memory of his toe was now officially haunting me.

As everybody stood around and watched, I had my moment of truth.  I tried to move my hand.  Painfully, it moved… which meant it wasn’t broken.  But did I mention that it really, really hurt?

It’s getting a little better every day now.  And even though this event didn’t result in an official breakage of bone in my hand, I now consider Oscar and myself even.  This matter is now closed.  I no longer owe him apologies for any past transgressions.

Oscar and I are now warriors, comrades in arms, buddies in the fox hole.  And we have the scars to prove it.  Maybe the leader of our band, Gerry, should just give us each Purple Hearts.  At least mine would have matched my hand a few days ago.

Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com

Cosmic Zen

Whenever you leave your house, you never know who you’re going to run into.  That’s just one of the reasons I wear clean underwear every day.  Thanks, Mom.  And, if you happen to play in the band SHOUT, you can bet you will get recognized, often in the most unusual places.  This next story should clearly illustrate my point.

Several years before I joined SHOUT, Tony, Rob, and Gerry were driving down the highway, heading to a gig in Erie, PA.  At some point near the Erie city limits, their vehicle caught the attention of a law enforcement officer, who promptly turned on his red lights and siren.

After stopping, a state Highway Patrol trooper wearing a big hat and tall boots approached the car and asked for driver’s license and registration.  According to the guys, “intimidating” was an excellent adjective to describe this trooper.

The trooper informed the guys that they had been pulled over for speeding.  As he stood outside their car, this law enforcement officer seemed to be a particularly curious sort, pointing his flashlight here and there, examining every inch of the car’s interior.

After surveying the faces in that car, the trooper asked who they were and where they were going.  They said they were a group of musicians in a band from Cleveland, and were traveling to a gig at a restaurant in Erie.

To everyone’s relief, the officer said, “I’m going to let you guys off with just a warning.”  And then he added, “Would you like to know why you’re not getting a ticket?”  (If ever there was a question that begged an answer, this was it).

“I’m not giving you a ticket because your band is booked to play at my daughter’s wedding in two weeks.”

Now I wasn’t there, but I was told that jaws dropped in both the front and back seats.  Call it Divine intervention, or call it dumb luck, but the boys in the band had managed to find the only law enforcement officer in the state of Pennsylvania who was willing to cut them a break.  There they were, ninety miles from Cleveland, and this Highway Patrol trooper totally recognized them.  No bookie in Vegas would have given odds on that long shot!

The grateful musicians said thank you, and then legally resumed their drive to the restaurant in Erie.  But more surprises were yet to come.

Later that same night at the gig, the band had an unexpected visitor in the audience.  The trooper who pulled them over, the very same trooper who had given them just a warning because of his daughter’s upcoming wedding, walked into the restaurant.  He was now off-duty, wearing street clothes, and even brought several of his friends to hear the band.

In a moment of cosmic Zen, a round of drinks was ordered for the trooper’s table.  Though no one ever bothered to confirm it, rumor has it these that refreshments arrived free of charge, courtesy of the boys in the band.

Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com

Freaky Things

There are certain things that happen in life that just defy explanation.  Spontaneous Combustion is one of my favorites.  And I’ve discovered, over the years, that a band stage can be a powerful magnet for the unexpected and the unexplainable, as well.

Before I became a member of SHOUT, I lived in Columbus, Ohio and played with a band called the Pink Flamingos.  One night at a bar, we were singing a cappella (without instruments) to a Doo-Wop classic that that has these lyrics: “It’s all right to have a good time.  It’s all right, yeah, it’s all right.”

Suddenly, on the second chorus of that happy, feel-good tune, nothing less than a huge fist fight broke out right in front of us on the dance floor!  We kept singing and they kept fighting.  The irony was not lost on any of us.

Years later, after I joined the SHOUT Band, we were performing at the outdoor plaza at Legacy Village one Sunday afternoon.  We were doing one of our Motown medleys when the bizarre struck again.

Right in the middle of The Temptations hit song, “I Wish It Would Rain,” we looked out and saw that it really had started to rain.  The skies opened up, as if granting a request from our song.  The band was sheltered under the roof of the gazebo, but the people on the grass had to run for cover.

And then, sometimes the “unexpected” can walk right up onto the stage as we’re playing.  At a private party in Youngstown, the company president who had hired us suddenly appeared on stage next to our lead singers!

In one hand, he held a bottle of Jack Daniels, and in the other was a tray full of shot glasses.  The eyes of everybody on the dance floor were glued to the stage.  He ordered us to stop playing and then made each band member do a shot of “Jack.”  We obliged.  After all, we didn’t want to insult our host.

Strange things have also happened when I was on stage doing introductions for the “Legends of Soul” show.  During my welcome to the audience, I always use the phrase, “Ladies and Gentlemen.”  But if no children are present, sometimes I will go for a laugh and say, “Ladies and Gentlemen, and those of you somewhere in between.”

One night, about five years ago, we were playing at a private party in Indiana.  I was on stage doing the introductions, and I used the above mentioned line.  As soon as it came out, I happened to make eye contract with someone in the crowd… someone who looked, well… different.

As I squinted through the bright lights, I realized that I was staring at a person who was very obviously a transsexual… and this transsexual was smiling back at me.  I quickly retreated back to my horn section and never left there for the rest of the night.

Yet another curious moment came during an evening when we were playing at an Italian restaurant.  We had just finished our “Legends of Soul” show.  I came to the microphone at the front of the stage for the Legends’ final bows.  Normally at this point, I re-introduce everyone in the band, announce that we are going to take a short break, and then come back for one final set.

Before I could even mention that we were coming back after the break, the owner of the bar stormed up to me on stage.  Standing in front of me under the bright lights, I could see that he was very large and very Italian.  We were face to face, almost nose to nose.  His face was red.  His eyes were HUGE.  He was breathing hard.  He looked as mad as anyone I’ve ever seen.  The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up.  I wondered what I had done to make this man so angry.

The band continued to “vamp” while everybody watched this drama unfold.  My only consolation was that if anything really bad happened to me, there would be witnesses.

From my place behind the microphone, I calmly asked, ‘Can I help you?”

He retorted, “Are you playing another set?”

I said, “Yes, of course.”

He said “OK”, and just walked off stage!

I stood there, dumbfounded.  Apparently, he had mistakenly thought we were done for the night, and he was not about to let that happen.  I was so flustered by this event that I skipped the introductions and just yelled out, “We’ll be right back,” as I exited, stage right.

And then there was the time I freaked myself out on stage.  We had just finished our “Legends” show at Slim and Chubby’s in Strongsville.  I was at center stage introducing the band.  I was holding my trumpet and actually using it to point to various band members as I mentioned each member by name.

For some unexplainable reason, just as I was pointing to Craig, the bass player, my horn left my hand.  It just slipped from my fingers and was suddenly airborne!

I watched in horror as my expensive, professional trumpet flew threw the air towards Craig.  There was no getting it back.  And then, gravity took over, altering its trajectory to a downward path.  In the blink of my unbelieving eye, my trumpet crashed onto the stage floor, bouncing several sickening times.

The gasp from the crowd was audible.  I felt like I had just murdered my best friend.  I raced over and picked it up.  I could see that it was heavily dented on one side.  I tried pushing down the valves.  Amazingly, they still worked.  And then I tried blowing through it.

To my relief, it still played, like a trumpet should.

My best friend was still alive.  The dent represented yet another scar from the road, inflicted over decades of performances.  And yet, this scar was different; it was a scar caused by an unexpected, unexplainable event; an event that I can only describe as, “Freaky.”

Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com

More Coffee Please

In the SHOUT Band, there is one topic that seems to be discussed and argued about more than any other.  It’s a topic that transcends our music, our hopes and our dreams.  It’s a topic that men usually ignore and women usually dread.  Of course, I’m talking about that age-old question, “What are we going to wear tonight?”

Whenever we have a band practice, it is always held in the basement of our guitar player’s house in Strongsville.  Surrounding us on the walls of that basement is a gallery of photographs portraying the SHOUT Band throughout the years, going all the way back to 1989.

Each of those hanging images attests to a respective fashion mode from “back in the day.”  Head hair, facial hair, and wardrobe stylings from bygone eras are all photographically documented, wall by wall.

I joined the SHOUT Band during their seventh year of existence, which was 1996.  I was happily absent in those early days when photographs show that a band member had to wear pastel satin shirts or maybe even stripped T-Shirts with suspenders.

Apparently, and thankfully, my arrival in ‘96 coincided with the next generation of SHOUT apparel.  This period was characterized by the traditional white tuxedo shirts, black tuxedo pants, coat, and cumber buns.  The secret was in the cumber buns, which were like really thick waistbands for men.

We don’t wear them anymore.  To this day, I still have no idea what purpose cumber buns served.  They had odd buckles in the back, which often unfastened at the wrong time.  Or, they would end up sliding sideways around my waist, until I looked like I was wearing a strange version of a cumber bun thong.

We were each issued three separate cumber buns…  shiny red, shiny gold, and shiny multi-colored.  The idea was that we should always look the same, but have varied looks at different gigs.  Matching was key.

Not surprisingly, wardrobe communication and coordination did not always occur.  It seems there was always somebody who didn’t get the word about what to wear on a given night.  And if you were that night’s sinner, your punishment was to stand on stage and stick out like a sore thumb all night long.  I learned early on just to bring all three cumber buns to every gig.  I kept them in the trunk of my car.

As the band grew in popularity and got more gigs over the years, our wardrobe expanded and even became seasonal.  Summer-wear was probably the most hotly debated subject.  We tried everything.

We’ve worn T-shirts, buttoned down shirts, denim shirts, and shirts I’ve seen worn on the Sopranos TV show.  I remember once being given something to wear that resembled a bowling shirt.  I complained bitterly because I guess I’m just not a bowling shirt kind of guy.  At that point, I suggested we change the name of our band from SHOUT to “The Strikers.”

When it comes to trousers, it’s the same story.  We’ve been seen in everything from black pants to white pants to khaki pants.  As often was the case, someone would wear the wrong pants, as well.

But in my opinion, the crowning blow of wardrobe malfunctions endured by those of us in the SHOUT Band had to be our sparkly, silver sequined shirts.  It was as if the silver, mirrored ball that hung in the gymnasium during my high school dances had crashed to the floor, broke into a million pieces, and then somebody had swept up all those pieces and decided to make shirts out of the debris.

That description doesn’t even begin to explain how scratchy those shirts were.  But, when we wore them we did, indeed, stand out on stage.  There was no mistaking that we were the entertainers.  We looked like extras left over from an old Siegfried and Roy show in Las Vegas.

There was nothing like the feeling of walking through a crowd of people while wearing that scratchy shirt.  I learned that “breaking the ice” is never difficult while wearing sequins.

These days, we no longer wear the white tuxedo shirts.  Whenever you come to see us play at formal gigs, we’ll be sporting black pants with black tuxedo shirts almost exclusively, and there’s good reason for that.

At many of the places we’ve played, the standard uniform for bartenders and table servers seems to be black pants with white tux shirts.  Previously, after having played a set of great dance music, we would come off the stage and walk through the crowd towards the back of the room in our black pants and white tux shirts.  Inevitably, we were often mistaken for the servers.

And once, while our bass player, Craig, was carrying his guitar, somebody at a table glanced up, looked right at him and requested, ”More coffee, please.”

Craig simply replied, “Sorry, this isn’t my table.”

Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com

THE UN-NATURALS

At NewsChannel 5, where I work as a TV producer, one of the most popular TV news promos ever produced was called “The Naturals.”  It was made in the mid 1970’s and featured anchormen Ted Henry and Dave Patterson.  They were portrayed as a couple of guys who just naturally worked well together.  Here’s how it went:

Without either anchor ever looking at the other, Dave threw a paper wad over his shoulder and Ted raised a trash basket and caught it.  Then, Ted got up off a swivel chair and Dave sat on the same chair when it rolled to his position.  On the third shot, their arms reached across, over and under each other as they grabbed various scripts lying on a table.  It was perfect synchronization.  On the final shot, Ted tripped forward while carrying a cup of coffee.  The liquid coffee flew through the air and “magically” landed cleanly in Dave’s cup as he sat at his desk. (The video was played in reverse).

This promo was so popular with our viewers that the next year, a sequel was produced called “The Un-Naturals.”  In this promo, all the synchronization, coordination and timing was completely off, leading to major mishaps in every scene.  In the final shot, Ted’s coffee flew through the air and splashed all over Dave, soaking his head and clothes.

Just like those Ted and Dave promos, the SHOUT Band has had many nights when we were “The Naturals,” as well as a few rare nights when we resembled “The Un-Naturals.”

One such “Un-Natural” gig occurred at a wedding reception at Oakwood Country Club in 1999.

When it comes to bridal dances, some brides and grooms have no special requests for the band to play.  They leave the song selection up to us.  And then, there are other couples who have very specific requests for what they want to hear.  This night in ‘99 definitely belonged in that second category.

Gerry, the leader and drummer of our band, had his hands full that evening.  In meeting with the bride and groom a few days earlier, Gerry learned that they had very specific requests for their bridal dances.

First of all, they wanted us to play a song we didn’t know for their first dance as husband and wife.  That meant the band would have to learn their new song quickly.

For their second request, the bride and groom wanted our sound guy to play a song from one of their cassette tapes.  This would serve as the music for their father-daughter dance.

Since there was no time for a full band rehearsal, each of us was told to learn our individual parts at home.  Then, at the reception, we would simply play what we had learned, together as a group.

Gerry even went out and bought a brand new cassette deck for the occasion.  It replaced the old deck in our sound rack.  (Our sound rack is our cabinet on wheels that holds the sound board and all the electronic equipment).

The week passed quickly.  On Saturday night, we all showed up for the wedding reception.  Each of us was confident we could pull this off … each of us, except one.

I watched the blood leave Gerry’s face when our male lead singer at the time, TR, told Gerry that his tape deck at home was broken and that he had not even listened to the song.  YIKES!

After scolding him, Gerry sent him out to the band van, which had a tape deck, and told him to learn the song, ASAP.  The hall was almost full with guests by then, and the festivities would soon begin.  As they say, time was of the essence.

As the singer headed for the van, we all looked at each other.  We quickly realized that there was a better chance of pigs flying that night than TR singing the special song.  Our theory was confirmed in exactly ten minutes when the singer walked back into the hall and said that he couldn’t learn the song that quickly.

At this point, Gerry, our “ashen” drummer, walked up to the bride and groom and confessed our dilemma.  In a quick, huddled discussion at the bridal table, it was decided that the Best Man could sing the song, accompanied by our band.

We were all nervous.  The speeches began and then the toasts were made.  And then, it was time for the bridal dances.  The Best Man joined us on stage and we started playing the new song.  To everybody’s relief, this guy was great!  He sang the song perfectly and at the end received a big ovation from the guests.

I then looked over and saw Gerry wipe his brow as he did a “Whew.”  He looked so relieved, like he had just dodged a bullet.  The worst was now over.

Gerry then looked at Oscar, our sound guy, and told him it was time to play that taped song on the new cassette deck for the father-daughter dance.

Oscar put the cassette tape into the deck and hit the “Play” button.  Silence.  He hit “Play” again.  Still silence.  Oscar looked at Gerry, shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

As the father and daughter stood motionless on the dance floor waiting for the music to begin, all eyes were on Gerry and Oscar, leaning over our equipment rack.

For Gerry, the feelings of dread had now been replaced with feelings of panic.  The un-thinkable had happened.  In a moment of desperation, Gerry had us quickly play some other song for the father-daughter dance.  It was nice, but not their first choice.

Upon later inspection, Gerry discovered why there was silence when Oscar hit the play button.  As it turned out, when Gerry bought the new cassette deck, he drilled holes in both sides of the unit, so he could mount the deck into our rack with screws.

In a moment of “DOH,” that Homer Simpson would have appreciated, Gerry realized that he had accidently and literally drilled holes right through the circuit board of his new cassette deck.  Silence explained.

I don’t think the warranty covered that.  It was a move truly worthy of “The Un-Naturals.”

Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com.

“Four Letter Words”

Being a musician in a working band like SHOUT means I have to be a good driver.  During a typical year, I average about 6500 miles on the road, just going to and from gigs.  I know this because I claim every inch of that mileage on my tax returns.

If you multiply those 6500 miles by fourteen and a half years of playing in SHOUT, the answer comes out to be 94,250 miles.  To give you perspective, the circumference of the Earth is about 25,000 miles at the Equator.  So that means I have now driven completely around our planet almost four times!  That’s a lot of potty breaks.

A vast majority of those miles have been smooth sailing.  But then, there have been those other times, too.  Painfully, I must admit, they usually involved a four letter word.  It’s a word that I hate to say out loud.  It’s a word that makes people gasp.  It’s a word that always gets a strong reaction.  You guessed it.  The word is… SNOW.  And therein, lies the problem.

I like sporty, muscle cars.  That’s all I’ve driven for the past 30 years.  I’ve actually owned five Pontiac Firebirds in a row.  Yes, I said FIVE.  Blame it on Burt Reynolds and Smokey and the Bandit… or blame it on David Hasselhoff and Knight Rider, but I just love those cars.

Here’s the interesting fact about muscle cars; since they are light in the back and have rear wheel drive, they totally suck on snow covered roads.  Traction is just a memory at that point.

And yet, somehow through many a cold, snowy evening over the course of several decades, I’ve managed to maneuver my poor Firebirds through blizzards and white-outs.  Amazingly, my track record is really good.  My Firebirds and I have gotten home from gigs, safe and sound, about 99 percent of the time.

The remaining one percent of the time includes a wedding reception SHOUT played in 2004 in Akron.  During every break that snowy night, I went to the window and looked outside.  And at each break, I felt a greater and greater sinking feeling in my stomach.  The snow was constant, relentless, and piling up by the hour

At the end of the night, I got into my driver’s seat and began my trek back towards Cleveland.  Navigating the hilly streets of downtown Akron was tough enough, but Interstate 77 North was just horrible.

There was no pavement visible. I had to drive by memory, trying to guess where the lanes might be.  I don’t know if I ever got over 15 miles per hour.  The crowning blow came just before the Fairlawn exit.  It’s a stretch of road with a very long and gradual uphill turn to the right.

My Firebird was fish-tailing more than a barracuda on a deep sea fishing expedition.  By the time I finally inched my way up the snowy incline, I knew it was time to bail.  I crawled off at the Fairlawn exit, and checked into a motel for the night.  Indeed, Mother Nature had beaten me.

But, my most memorable “aborted mission” occurred this past winter at the “Up a Creek” Tavern in Howland Township, near Warren, Ohio.  It was the same story.  The snow piled higher with every set we played.  By the end of the night, the snow was up to my fenders.  I decided right then and there that I was just going to find a motel for the night.

I was told that there were two motels within two miles of the Tavern.  “I think I can, I think I can” became my mantra as my car slipped and slided its way towards overnight accommodations.  It took me nearly 20 minutes to travel that two mile stretch.  And then, things went from bad to worse.

Hotel number 1 was full.  Across the street, hotel number 2 was also full.  I went inside and asked if I could stay in their warm lobby for the night.  I was told, “No, it was against their policy.”  I wondered if the publicity of finding a frozen body in front of their motel the next morning would force them to change their policy.

I went back to my car.  I was now stuck in the snow, unable to move.  I made a few calls on my cell phone, but no one had any ideas for me.  I had a half tank of gas.  I sat there idling for five minutes at a time to warm up, and then turning off the engine to save gas and fumes.

I closed my eyes.  I cursed the snow.  I thought about my buddies who live in warm places like Tennessee and Florida.  I said a prayer.  I started to nod off.

And then in the darkness and cold of my car, I heard my cell phone ring.  The call was from Mark Matash, the owner of the Up a Creek Tavern, asking where I was.  I was thunderstruck.  He said he was on his way to rescue me.  What a guy!  Hollywood couldn’t have written a better script.  I thanked God.  I started the engine, and cranked the heat.

As it turned out, someone had called the manager at the Up a Creek Tavern and told her about my hopeless situation.  The manager then called Mark, who had already gone home for the night.

Mark’s day and night had been filled with lots of drama, too.  He had spent this long day in Cleveland attending to family matters.  That night, he drove back to Warren, came to the tavern to check on things and hear my band play for a while.  At some point before we finished, he had gone home to bed, exhausted.  Then, he was awakened by that phone call from his manager.

Fifteen minutes later, Mark pulled up in his four-wheel-drive SUV, plowing through the snow with ease.  I couldn’t thank him enough.  He drove me back to his place and put me up for the night.

The next morning, Mark drove me back to my car.  The snow had stopped and plows were clearing the roads.  Mark helped push me out of my snow bank and then waved goodbye.  Soon, I was Eastbound on the Ohio Turnpike, finally making my way back home.

I’ll never know if I would have survived that night in the cold car.  But I do know that thanks to Mark Matash, I now have another four letter word:  Hero.

 

“Hitting the Road”

When musicians say they’re hitting the road, most people think they’re going out of town to play some gigs.  But in the SHOUT band, we’ve taken that idea a full step further.    

The year was 1996 and we were playing at an outdoor after-work party in Akron.  I had just joined the band as the new trumpet player and was getting a sense of how this group operated.  Our performance went well that afternoon.  After the last song, we all helped load up our band’s equipment van and then headed home.

Since I wasn’t all that familiar with Akron, I got behind the wheel of my car and started following our drummer, Gerry, who was driving the equipment van.  I settled back into my seat for a nice, quiet ride back to Cleveland. 

We were traveling about 25 MPH through the streets of downtown Akron when, suddenly, one of the rear doors of Gerry’s equipment van flew open.  Through my windshield, I watched in horror as things like microphone stands, PA speakers, and drum cymbals began to cascade out of the back of Gerry’s van. 

It was a painful sight.  Our expensive musical equipment was bouncing several times on the hard pavement before rolling and then coming to a complete stop, strewn across several lanes of roadway.

Since I was following so closely, I had to quickly navigate my car through this musical mine field.  At the same time, I frantically pounded on my car horn to get Gerry’s attention.  I was bobbing and weaving, trying to dodge snare drums and music stands that were coming at me from all directions.

In reality, this event lasted only a few seconds, but it seemed like an eternity until Gerry realized what had happened and stopped the van.  Fortunately, there were no cars directly behind us.  Seeing that this was only my third gig with SHOUT, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. 

As we gathered our battered equipment and loaded the van for the second time, Gerry discovered that the van’s door latch had let go unexpectedly.  I guess this was not really a surprise.  This van was old, really old.  This van was not even what you would call a fixer-upper.  It was worse.  But it still ran, doors opened OR closed, as we found out.

Soon afterward, Gerry bought a new van to carry our equipment and happily, the doors of this vehicle have withstood the rigors of the road.

But believe it or not, today in 2010, that original equipment van is still in service for the SHOUT band.  It’s old and creaky and rusty, but it still runs.  That old van now carries our band’s stage that Gerry sometimes brings to our gigs. 

On those nights, I usually help load the stage into that old van.  It’s like getting back with an old friend.  And when we’re all loaded, I usually give that rear door a good kick…  for security and for luck.

And on the drive out, if I’m behind that stage van, I keep both hands on the wheel and always make sure I stay back at least 100 feet. 

 Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com

“Going Number One”

At the risk of sounding like an episode of the Dr. Oz show, the theme of this blog entry is “Urination…  Sometimes Good, Sometimes Bad.”

Back when I first joined the SHOUT band in 1996, one of our frequent club gigs was the original Cleats Bar in North Royalton.  I loved playing there.  The owner was very kind to us and the customers were friendly. 

There was also a lot of paraphernalia on the walls that was interesting to look at.  I particularly enjoyed the framed photographs of glory moments from bygone days in Cleveland sports history.  Unfortunately, the glory moments from today’s current teams probably wouldn’t cover a bathroom tile.

But the best thing I liked about that Cleats bar-restaurant was where our band always played.  The building wasn’t all that large, but filled with lots of tables and booths.  On gig nights, two booths in the very back of the room were physically picked up and carried out to the rear parking lot.  This little corner of Cleats became our base of operations for the night, where we set up and played.  It was a little tight and cramped for us, but I didn’t mind.  Why?  Because…  our band was set up next to the Ladies Room.

That’s right.  As the night progressed, I was witness to a parade of beautiful women answering nature’s call, often several times throughout the evening.  Nobody in that place saw more women than the band.

Now, I don’t know much about Ladies Restrooms, but I do know that bottlenecks and back-ups can occur in there.  And when they do, it  causes a line of women to grow and often form outside the Ladies Room door.  And in this particular Cleats, that line formed directly in front of the Horn Section.

What better way to start a conversation with a pretty girl than to say, “I’m in the band” while you are actually standing in the band.  “Here’s proof.  I’m about to play now.” 

And those poor women, they had no options.  All they could do was stand patiently, arms folded, holding their purses, and praying for the line to move before they went deaf from the band. 

And then there was the time when we played in a city festival south of Cleveland.  They had closed off the road and set up various booths and attractions right there on the street, along with a nice five foot tall stage for our band.

As we were playing on the stage that warm afternoon, several homeless men wandered past and started dancing on the street in front of us.  How nice, I thought, that we could provide some free entertainment to these poor, unfortunate souls.

A few songs later, I happened to look behind me to the rear of the stage and was startled by what I saw.  Staring back at me with only his head visible above the five foot stage was one of these homeless guys.  He was smiling with a look of contentment on his face.  Again I thought, how nice. 

But then, I realized something else.  The homeless guy wasn’t smiling because of our great music.  He was smiling because he was taking care of a personal need, right there on the back of our stage.  And the only ones who realized this were him and me. 

I’m sure I had seen Port-a-Potties just down the street.  But apparently this guy didn’t want to miss a note of our music. 

The next thing I knew, our stage had become the prime “Splash and Dash” spot on Main Street.  During our next song, his homeless buddy also paid a visit backstage and left his “calling card” as well.  I suddenly felt like I was playing at a Turnpike Rest Stop.

We all have needs, and some of us answer the call in different ways.  At the end of that gig, everybody left happy.  And so were we, once we removed our equipment from the SIDE of that stage.

Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com

“Am I Close”

Gerry, our drummer in the SHOUT band, does a great job of managing this whole musical operation and business.

He has to talk to potential clients and bridal parties in order to book gigs.  He has to send out the invoices so he gets paid.  He has to make sure all our band equipment is maintained and in good working order.  He has to make sure the band’s two equipment vans are maintained and in good working order.  He has to write checks every week to pay each band member.  Along with all that, he has to try to keep all twelve band members happy.

Yes, Gerry does all of these tasks, and many more, quite well.  He’s also a great friend.  But when it comes to giving directions, sometimes Gerry can be as helpful as a trap door on a canoe… which brings us to the SHOUT Band itinerary.

At the end of every month, Gerry sends us an itinerary which lists the upcoming gigs for the following month.  It tells us when and where to be on any particular night that we are playing.

In the days before GPS, Gerry used to actually write the directions to the gig on the itinerary page.  Maybe it was because Gerry was distracted… or maybe because he’s not a “detail” person…   but every once in a while, Gerry would write down the wrong directions on our itinerary.

Actually, he usually gave us the correct directions, but he would forget to list one of the turns we were supposed to look for… useful information, indeed.

As you might expect, this caused many a band member to visit a gas station or a convenience store in search of an elusive address printed on our itinerary.

Rob, our keyboard player, told me that way back in the early 1990’s, he never even made it to one SHOUT gig.  He drove around searching all night long, but could not find the address where the band was playing.  Cell phones were not commonplace back then.  Thankfully, Gerry now includes the phone number and full address with zip code for every gig on the itinerary.

But the most famous “Getting Lost” story in the history of the SHOUT Band involves a certain girl singer who arrived two and half hours late for a gig.  Back around 1997, we were booked to play a party at the Catawba Island Yacht Club, which is not far from Cedar Point near Sandusky.

After waiting as long as we could, the band had to start playing without her because she had not yet arrived.  We made it all the way through the first set and she still hadn’t shown.   We then played the second set without her, too.

One of our theories involved her being too sick to call us.  Another theory held that she had become angry about something and suddenly quit the band.  The truth was, we didn’t know and we were worried.

During our last song of the third set, she finally appeared  and dragged herself across the dance floor and up to the stage.  She was visibly upset and in tears.  We all knew this story was going to be a good one, and we were not disappointed.

She told us how she had read Gerry’s itinerary and followed his directions carefully.  Sure enough, when we checked the itinerary, Gerry had, in fact, written to get on Route 2 and head EAST.  The rest of us in the band had realized that this had to be a mistake, since we all knew that Cedar Point is WEST of Cleveland.  Apparently, the girl singer was not familiar with The Blue Streak or the Millennium Force.

Drive EAST she did, and did, and did.  After many minutes and many miles, she decided to stop at a gas station and ask for directions.  I wished I could have seen the attendant’s face when she asked if she was near the Catawba Island Yacht Club.  I’m sure he looked at her like she had a hole in her head because her present location was now Ashtabula County!  Yes, our girl singer had nearly made it to Pennsylvania, the “scenic” route to our gig near Sandusky.

A lot of people would have just turned around, headed back to Cleveland and gone home for the night… but not OUR girl singer.  She gassed up, did a one-eighty, and followed Route 2 WEST faithfully… too faithfully.

Route 2 crosses through Cleveland’s west side and then through Lakewood and then across the Rocky River Bridge into Rocky River, where it continues westward.  It just so happens that at this particular time back in 1997, the Rocky River bridge was closed for construction.  Maybe it was because of her fatigue, or even her frustration, but for whatever reason, our girl singer didn’t see the sign that said “Bridge Closed” or the other sign that said “Detour.”

She told us about trying to navigate across a dark bridge filled with wooden horses that blocked her way, along with various pieces of construction equipment like backhoes and cement mixers!

But that wasn’t the hard part, she said.  The hard part was DRIVING IN REVERSE, trying to get off that dark bridge filled with wooden horses that blocked her way, along with various pieces of construction equipment like backhoes and cement mixers.

As she finished her story, the rest of us in the band stood there with our jaws dropped.  It reminded me of that old saying, “You can’t get there from here.”  But you really can, if you have good directions.

So, the next time you get lost while driving, just remember this piece of advice from our former girl singer…  “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com

“Beat It”

I’ve worked many years as a TV producer.  As such, I can tell you personally, that when you go “Live,” anything can happen, and often does.  And with the SHOUT Band, there is no exception.

We are first and foremost a “Live Show” band.  By definition, that means we put on a “Show” and we do it “Live.”  And some nights, these “Live” shows can contain unexpected “Live” surprises.

Such was the case one evening when we were debuting our brand new Michael Jackson medley.  The song sequence consisted of “Thriller,” “Billie Jean,” “Bad” and then the big finish, “Beat It.”

As you may know, “Beat It” has a monster guitar solo in the middle of the song that was originally performed by Eddie Van Halen.  Not many guitar players besides Eddie can play it.  Once it was decided that SHOUT would tackle this challenging medley, our lead guitar player, Tony, devoted himself to the task.  He spent hours and hours listening to the “Beat It” solo.

It was such a fast and intricate solo that Tony had to learn it in small sections, note by note.  He said it involved a lot of “tapping” on the neck of the guitar as the solo progressed.

With each weekly band rehearsal, the medley and Tony’s solo started coming together.  And then finally, at the last rehearsal, the band was able to smoothly perform the entire medley, and Tony played the complete Eddie Van Halen solo flawlessly.

The next gig on our schedule was a SHOUT concert at St. Noel’s Church Hall in Willoughby Hills.  The band decided that this would be the perfect venue to debut the Michael Jackson medley.

The big night came.  Several hundred people showed up to see and hear us.  We had a bright spotlight at the back of the hall which illuminated our stage like the sky of a Hollywood movie premier.

Everything was perfect.  We started off the set with some of our best material, which got the people up and dancing.  And then we counted off “Thriller.”  The reaction was instantaneous and loud.  The dance floor was packed!

Now, this would be a good time for me to talk a little bit about that “Live Show’ component I mentioned earlier.  The main focus of our show is usually the Legends of Soul.  These are four guys who sing as well as do choreographed dancing as part of their performance.

As if that wasn’t enough to satisfy your entertainment dollar, the three of us in the Horn Section (Nate on sax, Tim on trombone, and me on trumpet) often like to make up our own choreography when we’re not playing.  I like to think of us as the “Alternative” show.

Unlike the moves being performed by the Legends of Soul, which are practiced and rehearsed, the moves being performed by the horn section are… well, spontaneous.  All I can say is, we just go with the feeling and the spirit.

Meanwhile, back on stage at St. Noel’s, we were playing the new Michael Jackson medley, and it was going well.  In the first song, Nate, Tim, and I were doing a re-enactment of the Thriller music video.  Just like the scene in which the ghouls dance with Michael in his red jacket, we were swinging our stiff, outreached arms in time to the music.

During “Billie Jean,” Nate pulled his pant cuffs up high and did his best MJ dance moves, right there in the middle of our Horn Section!

And then came the big finish.  The spotlight landed on Tony as he launched into his challenging and long awaited Eddie Van Halen guitar solo.  At the same moment, Nate and I had an idea that, in retrospect, probably wasn’t a very good one.  We decided to pay our own tribute to the “Beat It” video by re-enacting the knife fight scene that occurs in the Michael Jackson video during the Van Halen solo.  It’s the scene where someone ties a rope around the wrists of the two gang leaders, and they proceed to circle and attack each other with knives in their opposite hands.

On paper, the fight scene re-enactment was a terrific idea.  But on stage, performing it less than one foot away from Tony as he played his guitar solo, turned out to be not so good.

As Nate and I held wrists and started circling each other with imaginary knives, my foot caught a cord laying on stage.  It wasn’t just any cord.  It was the cord that connected Tony’s guitar to his sound processor on the floor.  It was a cord nothing less than crucial.

Yes, with one kick of my foot, I had pulled out Tony’s most important cord.  And suddenly, the sounds of Eddie Van Halen became the Sounds of Silence.

As the rest of the band kept playing, Tony stood there with upraised hands, looking down in utter disbelief at his sound processor that was now dark and silent.  His hours and weeks of practice that had culminated in this big moment were now rendered useless.  For Tony, defeat had just been snatched from the jaws of victory.

When he saw the end of his cord lying on the stage, about 8 inches away from where it had been plugged into his processor, Tony just glared at Nate and me.

I will admit I was horrified as well.  I suddenly felt like Inspector Clouseau in a Pink Panther movie, bumbling around, wreaking havoc on everything in site.  I knew this was a sin for which I would pay dearly.  My profuse apologies to Tony fell on deaf ears that night.  For the rest of the gig, I just stayed as far away from Tony as I could.

This one event prompted a policy change in the SHOUT band that remains in effect to this day:  Whenever the band begins to play “Beat It,” those of us in the horn section have strict instructions:   We are to “Beat It.”

Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com

“Neighbors”

Three years ago after becoming divorced, I suddenly needed a place to live.  As luck would have it, the girl singer in our band at that time, Jeannine, had recently moved in with her boyfriend.  As a result, she was trying to sell her condo, but having no luck because of the recession. 

Gerry, the drummer, came up with an idea that was completely brilliant.  He told me, “Hey Dale.  Why don’t you rent the condo from Jeannine?”  I said, “Gerry, that’s an idea that is completely brilliant.”  And so, the hot Girl Singer of my band also became my Hot Landlady.  It’s been an arrangement that has worked quite well.

Ever since then, the owners and residents of the seven other units in my building have had the pleasure (or punishment) of hearing me play my trumpet on a nightly basis.  To all of them, I say, “Thank you for not calling the Brecksville cops.” 

I have to practice every night because I need to keep my “chops” up.  Those are the muscles around my lips that tighten so I can play high notes.  If I miss practicing for a couple of days, I won’t be able to hit those high notes, or at least hit them for very long at a SHOUT gig.  Let me tell you… You have to be faithful to be a trumpet player in a working band.

In the interests of being considerate to my neighbors, I usually close all my windows every night before I practice.  I also usually play my trumpet with a mute in the bell.  The mute makes the sound of the horn quieter, yet I can still hear myself.  It’s a nice way to get my work in, and not really bother anyone.

As for what I practice, I play a lot of scales to keep my fingering technique sharp.  But scales really get old in a hurry.  So after a few minutes of that, I play real songs.  But these tunes are not the songs I play all the time in the SHOUT Band. 

At home, I have a completely different musical repertoire.  I have written out the actual trumpet parts to dozens of songs from horn bands that I really like.  On each song, I went “note by note,” writing the trumpet part on a staff, exactly as it was played by the original artist.  It’s much more detailed than you would find in a music book. 

And because of that, I can just put on the CD and then play along with my trumpet, just like I’m in the band. 

I can play tunes from so many great bands…  Blood, Sweat, & Tears, Chicago, The Blues Brothers, Huey Lewis and the News, Steely Dan, Southside Johnny, and many, many more.  It’s a great diversion and outlet to play different stuff whenever possible.

As for the volume of what I play, I seem to have gotten braver during recent months.  Given the fact that I’ve lived in this building almost three years now and no neighbor has ever complained, I’ve recently started playing my horn out loud… with no mute, and with the windows open.  Happily, several of my neighbors have even given me complements when we pass in the hallway. 

In fact, there was one neighbor that didn’t even know I played the trumpet.  He happened to hear me for the first time only recently during an “Open Window” night.  His name is Mo, and he is a legally blind man who works at the V.A. helping war veterans who lost their eyesight in battle. 

I explained to Mo that I am in this band SHOUT and that we play out every weekend.  And that’s why I need to practice every night.  He seemed impressed and said that was pretty cool. 

Later that week, I was at home playing “Make Me Smile” by Chicago, and playing it loudly, with the windows open.  About midway through the song, I hear a banging on my door.  I tried to ignore it, hoping whoever it was would go away.  But the banging persisted.  I thought to myself, “Oh no.  Someone called the cops.  That’s the end of this practice session.”

So I stopped playing, turned down the music, and went to open my door.  Instead of a police officer, standing there was my blind neighbor, Mo.

Startled, I said, “Oh, Hi.” 

He said, “I can hear you playing your horn.” 

I said, “I’m sorry.  If I was I bothering you, I’ll stop playing.” 

His response blew me away.

He said, “No.  I was just wondering if I could come inside there and listen to you play.”

I was stunned.  I said, “OK, if you really want to.” 

Nobody had ever made that request before.  And so, I grabbed Mo’s arm, and guided him to the end of my couch.  I then went out my kitchen and got us a couple of beers. 

And suddenly, Mo had a “One Man” show to enjoy, and I had a “One Man” audience to entertain.  Being only five feet away from me as I played, Mo got quite an earful that night… and he said he loved it. 

It was nice for me, too… having a captive, appreciative audience right there in my living room.  At the end of our little “jam session,” Mo thanked me for the beer and the concert and went back downstairs to his apartment.

Two weeks later, I had the windows open again, this time playing with The Blues Brothers.  At the end of “Soul Man,’ there came another knock on my door.  This time I wasn’t afraid to open it.  Standing there was my number one fan Mo, back again for another concert. 

I remember reading an interview with Tom Petty.  He said being a musician is a noble thing, and he was right.

It made me realize that at least part of the reason I’m here on Earth is to make people happy by making music for them… and myself.  And that’s a gig that I hope to play for the rest of my life.

Dale Kirk can be reached at kirk@wews.com