thoughts on being recognized
Several times recently, I've been treated like a celebrity. The Protags are a well-known group around town, but hardly what you'd call celebrities. Still, I had the experience of talking with a guy who's maybe just out of college, who, as soon as he found out I was Barry Brake of the Jazz Protagonists, got a little flustered and said it was an honor to meet me, and thereafter called me "Sir."
I welcomed the gradual process of getting called "Sir" by waiters and clerks — it's as good to be a "sir" in the world as it is to wear a slamming suit — but this was different. He didn't call me that until he knew who I was.
I came across a couple of jazz fans, maybe boyfriend and girlfriend, who reacted the same way. They got a little starry-eyed and deferential. How strange, to command that reaction! What mystery is music, this nothing-but-tones, that it has such an effect?
Yesterday the jazz station played something that sounded just enough like Erroll Garner to give me a little doubt. Very cooking, but maybe not quite his style. I called in and asked. Sure enough, it was late Garner, a little past his prime but, man oh man, what a player. The announcer recognized my voice and thanked me for calling in. When the song was over, the guy back-announced it, and then added that no less than Barry Brake, of the Jazz Protagonists, had called in to "endorse" the number.
When I was in high school and college, I assumed, as we all do, that I would be a household name in a few short years. That hasn't quite turned out as I'd expected. But something far more interesting has happened: I'm known to people who care.
After all, household names belong to households. Whenever I express enthusiasm for, say, Jessica Simpson, experts and regular folks both raise their eyebrows, a bit surprised — as if caring about her music is missing the point. I know she's involved with someone named Nick, but I have no idea who Nick is. A dancer? A singer? Who knows? That's just my own bias showing through: apparently the whole matter is enormously entertaining to millions of people. More entertaining to them, in fact, than Simpson's performances, which can be spine-chilling. She has the best vocal cords of that entire remarkable set of young pop singers (though unfortunately she doesn't choose material that would really set her apart), but you'd never know it just from her media coverage.
On the other hand, being moderately known to locals is a joy, unalloyed by getting hounded on daily errands or while sunbathing naked on the Riviera. I've been asked if I were the Barry Brake, who recorded the Passion CD, something never released by a label but which I blanketed local stores with a few years ago. I've been greeted with an "Oh! It's a pleasure to meet you!" by the conductor of the San Antonio Symphony, who brightened on hearing my name. I've had people waiting at the bottom of the stairs after a performance so they could ask me, "How did we get you to play here?!" (Answer: by hiring me.) I've had drinks bought for me.
And it's not about my weight or my changing hairstyle or my love life or anything else but the music. Ahhhh.
I welcomed the gradual process of getting called "Sir" by waiters and clerks — it's as good to be a "sir" in the world as it is to wear a slamming suit — but this was different. He didn't call me that until he knew who I was.
I came across a couple of jazz fans, maybe boyfriend and girlfriend, who reacted the same way. They got a little starry-eyed and deferential. How strange, to command that reaction! What mystery is music, this nothing-but-tones, that it has such an effect?
Yesterday the jazz station played something that sounded just enough like Erroll Garner to give me a little doubt. Very cooking, but maybe not quite his style. I called in and asked. Sure enough, it was late Garner, a little past his prime but, man oh man, what a player. The announcer recognized my voice and thanked me for calling in. When the song was over, the guy back-announced it, and then added that no less than Barry Brake, of the Jazz Protagonists, had called in to "endorse" the number.
When I was in high school and college, I assumed, as we all do, that I would be a household name in a few short years. That hasn't quite turned out as I'd expected. But something far more interesting has happened: I'm known to people who care.
After all, household names belong to households. Whenever I express enthusiasm for, say, Jessica Simpson, experts and regular folks both raise their eyebrows, a bit surprised — as if caring about her music is missing the point. I know she's involved with someone named Nick, but I have no idea who Nick is. A dancer? A singer? Who knows? That's just my own bias showing through: apparently the whole matter is enormously entertaining to millions of people. More entertaining to them, in fact, than Simpson's performances, which can be spine-chilling. She has the best vocal cords of that entire remarkable set of young pop singers (though unfortunately she doesn't choose material that would really set her apart), but you'd never know it just from her media coverage.
On the other hand, being moderately known to locals is a joy, unalloyed by getting hounded on daily errands or while sunbathing naked on the Riviera. I've been asked if I were the Barry Brake, who recorded the Passion CD, something never released by a label but which I blanketed local stores with a few years ago. I've been greeted with an "Oh! It's a pleasure to meet you!" by the conductor of the San Antonio Symphony, who brightened on hearing my name. I've had people waiting at the bottom of the stairs after a performance so they could ask me, "How did we get you to play here?!" (Answer: by hiring me.) I've had drinks bought for me.
And it's not about my weight or my changing hairstyle or my love life or anything else but the music. Ahhhh.
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