Life's A Good Gig: The book

From Chapter 1
Street Musicians of Tijuana
The Life & Times of Pedro Luna

This time, when I first met Pedro Luna, he was 83 years old. He was a short man, maybe 5 feet tall. His clothes were old and dusty with little holes in the knees of his trousers. His shoes were ratty with the sole of one held together with duct tape. He carried a well worn guitar with a crack running down one side. He looked like a person who has lead a physically hard life, like a third-world, poor dirty little street bum that nice Americans like you and me pretend not to notice when we’re passing them on the streets.
Upon seeing Jeff his smile opened wide with joy and you could see a couple of gold teeth surrounded by empty gaps. His face was dark, unshaven and wrinkled but he had a thick head of black hair with just a little grey in it.
He greeted Jeff with profuse affection. Jeff introduced us to each other, always addressing Pedro Luna as “don Pedro,” a sign of respect for one’s elders. We invited him to sit and have a drink. He was timid to sit with us as if his social status didn’t warrant such treatment, also because the management of the place probably frowns on such things. It’s one thing to hustle the customers, like shoe shine boys, trinket hucksters and serenading musicians, but its quite another thing for them to sit with the customers. We assured him it was alright. Don Pedro didn’t drink but he did have a cup of coffee.

Don Pedro’s Music
Don Pedro asked what we would like to hear. “I know over 800 songs,” he proudly declared, “but, my memory is so bad nowadays I have to use this.” He showed us a hand-tooled, square leather pouch about the size of a pack of cigarettes attached to his belt. Inside the pouch was a stack of cards that had been cut from the cardboard of cigarette cartons. One side of the cards I could read the trademarks of cigarettes, Marlborough and Winston. On the un-printed side of these cards he had listed by number the title of every song he knew. He took out a handful of cards and handed them to me. I scanned the titles. It was all hand written in various colors of ink and pencil. I couldn’t read the scribbled writing so I pointed to a number.
Pedro lifted his guitar and held it like a man holding a precious baby. Being a small man the guitar seemed huge and his left cheek rested on the shoulder of the guitar as he played. It looked like he was cuddling his guitar. He began singing a song I’d never heard. His voice was husky, tired sounding and full of vibrato. It had the sound of many long roads traveled. He didn’t have much range or force in his voice. His guitar strings plunked and sounded old and lifeless. On the neck of the guitar his fingers were crooked and his knuckles looked swollen like someone with arthritis. The fingers of his right hand were short and looked unusually pointed. He played with a pick.
Yet, he made beautiful music. It poured from his soul like a flood of rainbows. His dark eyes were distant and happy as he sang and when he glanced over at me I could see a spark like little suns deep inside them, perhaps the bio-electricity of his life force.
We sat with Pedro Luna for hours talking music and life. At one point don Pedro handed me his guitar and asked me to play a tune. I took the guitar and when I played it I noticed that it was tuned a fourth lower than a normal guitar. I asked Pedro about this. He explained that because of his arthritis it’s hard for him to press down on the strings to finger the cords. By tuning it a fourth lower there is less tension on the strings making it easier to press down on them and this way he can still play. He just has to remember to play the songs in a key that’s a fourth higher in pitch.
Sheffield has been visiting Pedro Luna in TJ about once a month for a few years. The first time they met, Sheffield had been showing a group of out-of-towners the tourist sights of TJ. They were drinking over priced, watered down Margaritas in a tacky tourist joint. Excruciatingly loud American disco music was blasting so they could barely hear each other talk. Into this din don Pedro Luna walked humbly up to their table and politely asked if they wanted to hear a song. Pedro played and sang apparently unconcerned that the loud disco music was drowning him out. Sheffield was impressed that Pedro maintained a peaceful attitude throughout.
On subsequent trips to TJ Sheffield kept running into him by chance, one afternoon finding him sleeping with his guitar on the sidewalk, another time at Victor’s Guitar Shop. Sheffield was buying a requinto (a ¾ size guitar used in Mexican music.) He was closing the deal, about to pay when Pedro Luna came in and greeted Sheffield. Upon seeing that he was a friend of don Pedro the shop keeper voluntarily knocked ten dollars off the price.
Don Pedro is past his heyday and the more aggressive street musicians easily out hustle him. Sheffield has taken Pedro Luna on as a personal project. “I know he’s not the best musician anymore,” says Sheffield, “it’s not about that. It’s that he’s a musician with a good soul and who is a survivor. He’s been working this street for over fifty years, man! It’s his spirit that I respect. He’s the real deal.” In spite of his poverty, his hard life and daily rude treatment by drunken American tourists, he is completely guileless and kind. If the harshness and injustice of life ever pisses him off he never shows it.

Searching For Pedro Luna
It was the first week of January when Sheffield and I made another visit to TJ to seek out don Pedro Luna. It had rained hard two days before and though the sky was crystal clear and blue it was windy and cold. As we crossed the bridge over the Tijuana River I said to Sheffield, “If I was a writer this is how I’d describe this moment.” And out loud in a theatrical voice I recited the following, “As we crossed the bridge that spans the reeking Tijuana River the wind from the ocean lifted the stench sharply, and rudely slapped our faces like the cruel pimp of a drunken TJ whore.” Anyway, I was glad I decided to wear a jacket.
We tried to analyze the ingredients of the familiar yet complex stench that is Tijuana. “There’s a basic core stench,” said Sheffield, “what is that?” “I believe that would be the open sewage,” I answered, “but it’s mixed with various shades of diesel fumes, unleaded auto exhaust, smoke from burning garbage, fried onions and garlic, rancid cooking oil with thin wisps of perfume and cigarette smoke.” “Gosh, Cain,” kidded Sheffield, “if only your musical ear was as good as your nose you’d be a decent musician.”


We bid adiós to don Pedro Luna and headed back to America. We were feeling good and the idea struck us to have one last shot of tequila before we crossed the border. Sheffield suggested a funky Mexicano bar that was off the Avenida. From the outside it looked like a pretty rough place. Being basically chicken I’d never ventured into a bar like this before, but Sheffield fearlessly walked us through the door. There were no other gringos in the place. Again, the ubiquitous and excruciatingly loud Mexican cumbia and Norteña music was blasting. On the walls were hung placards of the names of regular customers with their nicknames below; “Carlos-El Puma, Xavier-el Cubano, Raul-El Loco, Chito-El Jinete, Juan-El Guapo, etc.” We took seats at the bar and ordered Bohemia cervezas and shots of tequila reposada from a chubby Mexican lady bartender. We licked then salted that little part of the back of one’s hand between the thumb and forefinger. We licked the salt, clinked glasses and shouted “Viva Mexico!” We chugged the tequila and bit down on slices of lime. The tequila had no kick to it and Sheffield wondered if was watered down. I couldn’t tell. Maybe it was just really smooth tequila.
As we sipped our cervezas Sheffield talked of how he has noticed that now days most all the street musicians in Tijuana are older men and there seems to be no younger guys replacing them. Maybe this is a dying tradition. Although their musicianship is not necessarily of the highest level, slightly out of tune, playing conflicting chords, and tempos are sometimes uneven, their music has great value. “Hey, man, this is Mexico,” Sheffield said this to me in a tone that sort of explained everything.
They play with heart, corazón, spirit and they sing the words of their songs with conviction and love. And this is what they teach my friend Sheffield and me. And we humbly and gratefully accept their great gift.

Epilogue:
Fast forward three weeks.
It had been a particularly hard day for Pedro Luna. He had spent most of the afternoon plodding up and down Avenida Revolución trying to make a few dollars. As usual most of the rowdy tourists ignored him. His knees were aching and his throat was still sore. He tried drinking a can of Ensure that Sheffield had brought him but his throat was too sore to swallow it.
He hobbled home to his room in the boarding house. His friend Paulo had given him some left over chorizo which he fed to his cats. Don Pedro was more tired and winded than he ever remembered being. He stiffly lay down on his small thin mattress to rest. As he closed his eyes there was a long howl of a coyote. “Curioso,” thought don Pedro, “there are no coyotes here in the city.” But he soon fell into a deep sleep. He was awakened by the feel of a gentle hand on his shoulder and the sound of a sweet familiar voice.
“Papito, wake up. Look, the moon is rising. Que bonita!” It was Pedro’s wife. “Come look at the moon and sing to me. Sing me the song about the noches tropicales.”
“Si, mi amor. Dame la guitarra.” He answered.
She handed him his guitar. Smiling and looking into her eyes with love Pedro played and sang to his wife. He had no more pain in his knees or throat.

Epilogue to the epilogue:
I got bad news the other day from Sheffield. He had gone to Tijuana to see Pedro Luna and found out that don Pedro had passed away about three weeks after we last saw him. Sheffield was by himself and not knowing how to express his feelings did what many guys do in this circumstance, he proceeded to get shit-faced drunk. He started by visiting all the funky bars we usually visit then hit every other one he’d never been to throwing back straight tequila shooters till he ran out of money. He was so drunk he got lost and couldn’t find his way back to the border. He even tried hitch hiking but not even a taxi would pull over. Hours later he finally found his way across and forgot where he’d parked. When he finally found his car he didn’t have enough money to pay the parking fee. His ATM card didn’t have enough funds to pay either. After some argument the attendant finally let him go.
The next morning, Sheffield tells me, he woke up vomiting chunks and shaking like a wet Chihuahua on a windy day. So ends the saga of Pedro Luna.

From Chapter 2
Music Philosophy 1 and a 2 and a 3.....
The Value of Music

Really music is nothing but air. Scientifically music is a series of sound waves traveling through the atmosphere and landing on a listener’s ears. These impulses are transformed bio-electric-chemically by the human body into “brainwaves” that are somehow interpreted by the human mind as the experience of “music.”
Yet what amazing power this moving air has over human beings! It makes people dance and sing. It makes people happy, sad, nostalgic, horny, angry, and even violent. It makes people fall in love. People have been jailed and beaten for music. People have killed and been killed for music. Music has a tremendous emotional value.
Music is air. Unlike other mediums of art music has no “object of art” like painting or sculpting. It is a fleeting temporal creation that happens quickly. Each note and beat once played gives way to the next and the listener must be receptive, very open minded and aware to appreciate it. I believe that this is why music is the closest art form to the human soul; it has no solid physicality yet it exists. Music in this way is similar to the art of dance. A dance only exists while it is being performed by the dancers. The dance and the dancers are one in the same. So it is with music. The “piece of music” only exists when musicians are performing it. (The exception, of course is in the case of sound recordings. But, it could be argued that a sound recording, no matter how technically well recorded, is never the same as a live performance.)
Music has no “survival value.” It is something that is not necessary for physical survival like water, food, air and shelter. It is sheer leisure. But therein lies its value. This sheer leisure to stop being concerned only with survival activities and to take time to listen to elaborate sound patterns and rhythms is what makes us civilized. As a species, because of music and all art, we are beyond mere survival. Art is the indicator of civilization.
You could say that part of the magic of music is that you can literally make a fortune out of thin air. Think of the financial fortunes that are made from these “little songs,” these elaborate and temporal sound patterns. I could sight many examples, but here are just a couple. Over the years Irving Berlin’s “White Christmas” has made millions of dollars and is still. The collected works of The Beatles is easily worth a billion.
But, if you’re considering a career as a musician to get rich I would suggest…don’t quit your day job.
At the Pearly Gates of Heaven St. Peter asks the first guy at the head of the line,
St. Peter: “How much money did you make when you were alive?”
The first guy: “About $400,000 a year.”
St. Peter: “And what did you do?”
The first guy: “I was a lawyer.”
St. Peter: “Come in. Next!”
He asks the second person in line, “How much money did you make when you were alive?”
The second guy: “Oh about $100,000 a year.”
St. Peter: “And what did you do?”
The second guy: “I was a plumbing contractor.”
St. Peter: “Fine, come in. Next!”
He asks the third guy: “How much money did you make when you were alive?”
The third guy: “Oh, maybe about $30,000 sometimes about $35,000 in a good year.”
St. Peter: “And what instrument did you play?”

From Chapter 7
Latin Lovers
COSTA RICA
Nick’s Magical Mystery Tour
Carlitos the Singing Dog

When I got back to the hotel with my new guitar Nick was sprawled out at a table in the street side café having a cup of coffee. I noticed right away that he had a funny “shit eaten’ grin” on his face. He had a strange aura about him. I could almost see little sparks and stars floating over his head like someone who’s had a spiritual experience, or like someone on LSD. He tried to control his laughter but couldn’t stop and went into a 30 second uncontrollable laughing jag bending over the table--very unusual for Nick who has a mind like a steel trap. It started to crack me up. I grabbed his arm and like Captain Kirk from Star Trek dramatically said to him “Control your emotions! Remember…you’re half Vulcan!” He wiped the tears from his eyes and regained his composure. “Hey, bro, you okay?” I inquired. He had a couple of after-shock giggle spasms, then, like flipping a light switch, his mood became somber. He grabbed my wrist, looked me straight in the eye and as serious as a gun shot wound said, “Cain, you’re not gonna believe what I did today and what I saw and heard.” Then he told me the story.
After I went off on my music store quest Nick decided to do a little sight seeing. He headed out on foot for the National History Museum. (Nick and I both are history buffs.) He took a rest on a bench near a park and took in the ambience of the area. An old bus with an unusually colorful paint job pulled up and opened its door in front of him. The driver looked at him with an inviting smile and asked, “Vamos?” On a whim Nick abandoned the museum visit and impulsively got on the bus. “Pura Vida!” said the driver. “Pura Vida!” said Nick back as he gave the driver a few colones. He figured he’d ride it for a few minutes then get off and grab a cab back.
He took an empty seat near the back of the bus and stretched his legs out across the empty seats. Nick fell asleep on the bus and woke up about an hour later in a rural area. He immediately asked the driver to let him off at the next stop. “Si señor,” answered the driver, “la proxima parada en cuarenta minutos.” (Yes sir, the next stop is in forty minutes.) Nick was stunned. How could this be happening? Then Nick asked the big question, “A donde vamos?” The driver proudly and happily chirped, “Vamos a Puerto Limón!” Then Nick asked “Donde estamos ahorita?” “Estamos hasta Siquirres,” was the answer. “Gracias,” said Nick then shuffled back to his seat. He was in the middle of nowhere almost to the town of Siquirres on the Caribbean coast. All he could do was sit back and ride it out.
The bus pulled over at a little covered shed by a crossroad in the jungle. The driver told Nick to wait here for the return bus to San Jose in an hour.
Tico Style Mini Mart and Big Gulp
Alone now, Nick noticed the beauty of the place, silent except for the gentle wind in the leaves of the tropical forest and the occasional cawing of exotic sounding birds. He heard faint music floating in the air. Down the road he saw Marlborough and Coca Cola signs nailed to a power pole that indicated the presence of a soda (the Tico term for a little store) in the middle of nowhere. He found the soda nestled in the jungle, the typical small Tico cement block building with a corrugated metal roof. It had a large attached porch covered with giant palm fronds.
There he saw a black man in a Panama hat sitting in a hand made rocking chair with a dog. Barefoot with the soles of his feet thick and cracked like shoe leather, the man cradled a fat guitar. Of indeterminate age, he could have been an old hombre in great shape or a young one in bad shape. There was a tall, unusually shaped round bottle covered in spotted animal hide next to him. Light brown, golden, white with dark spots like a leopard, it was hand stitched together on two sides with leather strips. The old dog was a large mixed breed--golden lab, shepherd, beagle and whatever else. The dog had a big nose with scars on his muzzle.
“Pura Vida,” greeted the man. “Pura Vida,” Nick greeted back and asked, “Aquí se vende agua?” (Do they sell water here?) With kind, young smiling eyes he asked Nick, “Tienes sed, hermano? Tome eso, por favor. Pura vida!” (Are you thirsty, brother? Please drink some of this. Pura vida!) He handed Nick the beautiful dark colored bottle. “Que es esto?” Nick asked what it was. “Ron! Yo lo heche,” replied the man. It was moonshine rum that the he had made himself. He sensed Nick’s apprehension and said, “Mira, está bién,” (Look, it’s okay.) The man took a big gulp. Wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve he said, “Ay, pura vida!” He poured some into a bowl for his dog who voraciously lapped it up. Then Nick took a swig, bigger than he intended because of the unusual shape of the bottle. In a whispering voice he sang “Pura Vida! Whew!” The rum was smoky, light and sweet with a light after taste like crisp bacon. As the flavor lingered on his palate he tasted hints of Italian truffle and Spanish Manchego cheese with bing cherry preserves. Heavenly!
“Me llamo Nick. Yo soy músico también,” he told the man. (My name is Nick. I’m a musician, too.) “Mucho gusto, me llamo Don Arsenio y eso mi amigo Carlitos.” (It’s a pleasure, my name is Don Arsenio and this is my friend Charley.)
Nick went inside the store to get a bottle of water and cigarettes for the return trip. He heard Don Arsenio playing guitar. Then he heard singing--one of the most beautiful tenor voices he’d ever heard in his life, pure and golden, clear and strong with a wild, primordial and magical quality to it. It sounded like Spanish but the accent was peculiar. The girl behind the counter smiled at Nick and said, “Que bonita la música, no?” (Isn’t the music pretty?)
When Nick came back to the porch the cigarette dropped from his mouth. The dog was singing, not the man! Carlitos was not merely singing; he was evidently interpreting the songs, pouring raw emotion into his renditions and cleverly choosing his notes and phrasing like an experienced jazz musician.
Nick was amazed as Don Arsenio played “Solamente Una Vez” by Agustín Lara, and Carlitos sang emotionally and melodically, easily hitting the high note on the last “…el corazón.” Nick was speechless. Don Arsenio chuckled, poured another shot onto the dog’s bowl and passed the bottle to Nick. Dumbfounded, Nick took the bottle, chugged another big gulp and offered the old man a cigarette. With a shaky hand Nick lit the cigarette for him. Don Arsenio took a drag and put it in Carlitos’ mouth. The dog puffed contentedly.
Puffing away on the cigarette, Carlitos looked up and smiled with his big brown eyes. “Carlitos would like to invite you to sit with us a while,” said Don Arsenio. Nick sat cross-legged on the porch, drank moonshine rum, smoked cigarettes and sang songs with Don Arsenio and Carlitos. The entire event was so crazy and unreal that Nick laughed until he cried, and Carlitos’ voice was so beautiful Nick cried until he laughed. “I must be going crazy,” he thought, “or, there’s some kind of hallucinogenic in the rum.” Don Arsenio smiled at him kindly with a look that said, “I know. I know… it’s alright, my friend. Isn’t this strange and wonderful?!” Don Arsenio also had tears of joy in his eyes.
Nick asked where Carlitos had learned to sing. “He’s never had a lesson in his life. He’s a natural talent,” Don Arsenio declared proudly. “Early one morning about 12 years ago I heard a terrible fight in front of my house. I saw a much younger and macho Carlitos tangling with a manigordo that had raided my chicken coup. It was a hard thing to see because I like the manigordos, they’re very beautiful, but Carlitos won that fight and killed the manigordo. This covering on the bottle is the skin of that manigordo. I don’t know where Carlitos came from. I doctored his wounds and he decided to stay. A few nights later I was sitting with Carlitos on my veranda playing my guitar and I spilled my bottle of rum. To my surprise Carlitos lapped it right up! I poured some into his bowl and he drank it all down. After a couple of bowls of rum he just started singing! Believe me, señor; I had the same reaction as you did when I first heard him sing!”
Don Arsenio said Carlitos understands Spanish but can’t speak. He can only sing. Nick noticed some flaws in Carlitos’ pronunciation, mostly consonants, Ds, Ts and Fs, difficult sounds to make through dog-shaped lips and palate.
Nick asked if they knew “Volver Volver.” Don Arsenio shot Nick cautionary side glance as if he had broached a touchy subject. Although they knew the song, Carlitos refused to sing it because it made him sad. “We always try to be happy.” explained Don Arsenio. “Life brings enough sadness on its own so we don’t like to sing sad songs.”
Time disappeared and Nick lost all anxiety over being lost in Costa Rica. The three of them finally finished the bottle of rum and smoked the pack of cigarettes. Then Nick remembered he was stranded. “Don’t worry,” said Don Arsenio, “You’ll be fine. Pura Vida!” Feeling very high, Nick went around to the back of the little store to relieve himself in the outhouse. Don Arsenio humorously called to him, "Watch out for the manigordos-they'll claw your balls off!" When he got back Don Arsenio and Carlitos were gone. So was the girl behind the counter. Not a soul was in sight and all he could hear was the sound of the wind in the palm trees. He called out, “Hola, hola!” but no one answered. Nick staggered back down the road to the bus stop. Curiously, as soon as he got there, the same dusty bus pulled over and offered him a ride back to San Jose. Nick fell into a deep rum-soaked sleep. He awoke on the outskirts of town and the bus dropped him near the hotel. Nick felt amazingly refreshed and happy as he sat at the street side café for a cup of coffee. That’s when I showed up.
Nick is not a boaster or bull-shitter. He had no reason to fabricate a tall tale. I believed him whole heartedly. On subsequent trips we searched for that place, Don Arsenio and Carlitos, but we’ve never been able to find them.

From Chapter 11
Don’t Take It Too Seriously
Now that you’ve been “hipped up” and have learned some insights of what it’s like to be a gigging musician here’s a collection of old standard musician jokes. None of these are my original material so of you don’t find them amusing…hey, I didn’t write this crap!
One good thing about being a musician is that if you screw up on your job no one gets hurt. It’s just music. If you were an airline pilot, a surgeon or even a bus driver and you screwed up on your job people could get hurt or even die and the consequences would be serious indeed. So, in this respect being a musician is a low stress profession. Yet some musicians take it too seriously. So to lighten them up the less serious guys kid them with these kinds of jokes.
Musicians Jokes:
Q. What do call a successful musician?
A. A guy whose wife has 2 jobs.

Q. What's the least-used sentence in the English language?
A. "Isn't that the banjo player's Porsche?"

Q. How many drummers does it take to change a light bulb?
A. None. They have machines to do that now.



Q. Have you seen Ray Charle’s new album?
A. Neither has he.
(This one also works with Stevie Wonder, Jose Feliciano, Ronny Milsap, and Dianna Shure)

Q. What's the difference between a violist and a dog?
A. The dog knows when to stop scratching.

Q. What’s the difference between a guitar and a tuna fish?
A. You can tune a guitar but you can't tuna fish.

Q. Why do bagpipers walk when they play?
A. To get away from the sound.

Q. How many girl singers does it take to sing “Crazy?”
A. Evidently, all of them

Q: Why is a terrorist like a girl singer?
A: They both destroy bridges.
(In music the “bridge” is the middle part of a song between the verses.)



Q. How do you get a guitarist to play softer?
A. Put a piece of music in front of him.

Q. How many country & western singers does it take to change a light bulb?
A. Three. One to change the bulb and two to sing about the old one.

A violinist says to his wife, "Oh, baby, I can play you just like my violin."
His wife replies, "I'd rather have you play me like a harmonica!"

Q .What happens if you play blues music backwards?
A. Your wife returns to you, your dog comes back to life, and you get out of prison.

Q. What do you get when you play New Age music backwards?
A. New Age music.
Arrogant Musician Jokes:
At the end of a gig a woman goes up to a jazz musician and says, “I heard you play tonight and your music just turned me on. I want to go home with you and make mad passionate love to you.”
The jazz musician answered, “Really, which set did you hear?”

A teenager tells his parents that he wants to be a musician. He wants to be a bass player. His parents tell him if he’s going to be a bass player he has to be serious about and take lessons. So they go to the music store and buy him a nice electric bass and amplifier and sign him up for lessons.
At the first lesson the teacher tells him:
“We’ll start out simple. Here’s the first string. It’s called “E.” Pluck the “E” string evenly four times in a row. That’s called “quarter notes.” Can you do that?”
The teenage student does it.
“Good,” says the teacher. “Go home and practice that for a week and come back for the next lesson.”
The next week the teenager comes back for the lesson and the teacher tells him:
“Here’s the next lesson. This is the second string called “A.” Pluck the “A” string eight times in a row evenly. That’s called “eighth notes.” Go home and practice that and we’ll continue next week.
The next week the teenager doesn’t show up for his lesson. Concerned, the music teacher calls the students parents and says, “Hi, it’s the music teacher. Your son didn’t show up for his lesson today. Is everything alright?”
And the mother answers, “Oh, didn’t he tell you? He couldn’t make it today. He has a gig.”