The gig itself (with cones)

Why are we here? This isn't the start of some existential query. Every day I wonder why did they choose to put a modern jazz trio on this boat? And why do they want us to stay longer? Hasn't this failed social experiment gone on long enough?

In fairness, there are always a handful of people on every cruise that really enjoy the jazz. They watch us play each night, they applaud, they occasionally buy our CD or buy us a drink. Typically these are either senior citizens, homosexuals, or dangerously depressed individuals. For whatever reason, every guy whose significant other divorces or breaks up with him on the cruise (which isn't that rare of an occurrence) becomes our biggest fan and best friend. They'll buy us a drink or a copy of our overpriced CD if we listen to their sad story on the breaks. Unfortunately, these wonderful guests are as much of a minority as Americans are in the crew.

The other cones ("guests" to all the lay people) are indifferent at best, and at times openly hostile. One night we were playing outside the 21st Century bar when this charming middle-aged woman began dancing up a storm. Spinning and bouncing, shaking and shimmying across the floor. When the shipped rocked towards the starboard side, she staggered thisaway. When it rocked towards the portside, she staggered thataway. After a while, she started pulling people off of their barstools to dance with her. Men, women, and small children were all fair game. One cat resisted her arm drag and she fell headfirst onto the floor. When she danced with all of the people at the bar, she began grabbing random people as they walked by to dance with her.

After a while, she shimmied up to Preston and pleaded,
"American music! Play Brown Eyed Girl. Something American. The people want to hear some American music!

To which Preston replied,
"We're a jazz trio. We just play Jazz."

"No! American music. Play that Funky Music White Boy. Sweet Home Alabama. The people want some American music!"

"We do play American jazz." he responded, still soloing over Giant Steps

"No! No jazz. AMERICAN MUSIC!!! Play something American!"

We took a break and after about 5 minutes, this woman gets everybody at the bar to stomp their feet and chant,

"MU-SIC! MU-SIC! MU-SIC!" for like 5 minutes straight.

We succumbed to the pressure and resumed playing. The woman grew tired of trying to dance to the Wayne Shorter ballads and up tempo Coltrane tunes we were playing and began to hang out with some other cones. 5 minutes into our second break, she got everyone stomping their feet and chanting,

"MU-SIC! MU-SIC! MU-SIC!" for like 5 minutes straight.

So we went back to our regularly scheduled program of All The Things you are in 5/4 and How Deep Is the Ocean? in 7/4 . No matter how frustrated this woman got trying to dance to our music, she would get everyone at or around the bar chanting for us to resume playing the moment we stopped.

Another night, this cone came up to us and said,

"We wanna hear the Electric Slide. Why don't y'all play that next?"
"We're more of a jazz band. We just play jazz. We don't have a mic even if we wanted to play that song." I replied
"Alright. Alright. So I'll sing it," he said after some deliberation.
"We don't know that song. We just play Jazz. Sorry." I replied.
"Alright. Alright. Alright. Just do the Cha Cha Slide then." he said.

One night, this heavyset frat boy tried to dance to our music. By dance, I mean bending over and backin' that thang up to every man and woman that walked by, occasionally smacking his own butt in rhythm and screaming some primal fraternity battle cry. This went on for about 20 minutes before he started doing his own version of the pole dance. He went over to the Roman pillar near us and began to hump it rhythmically while he stuck out his tounge and headbanged. After his friends cheered and took a few dozen pictures, he lifted up one leg and acted like a dog peeing on a fire hydrant while he made howling noises.

Chaz (our drummer) got so fed up with this cone he decided to take matters into his own hands.

The cone told all his friends to "Check this out!" and started backing it up to an oncoming group of senior citizens when the drum trades came.

Chaz proceeded to play the most sparse, out of time stuff he could on every trade. The cone looked around trying to figure out what had happened. He tried to keep time slapping his own butt but I guess doing that without a swingin' beat behind it would just look silly. He left and Chaz gave him the Fangul while he played with one hand.