So finally the big day came, the day Lennon/Tabacco/Zappa was supposed to perform at the Zappanale. It also happened to be the last day of the festival. We were the next-to-last act to perform; after us came the Grandmothers, who were the final band (in more ways than one) and official festival closers.
Now, as has been previously mentioned, Bad Doberan wasn't near anywhere in particular. People attending the festival had driven in from numerous far-flung locations, coming in on Friday, setting up camp (car, truck, van, tent, motorcycle-with-sidecar etc.) and having a lost weekend with plenty of the local Bier (Rostocker Pils...highly recommended, by the way) and other substances up to and including live music. However, most of them had jobs to which they had to return on Monday. So, by the time our gig rolled around on Sunday evening, the crowd had boiled down by about a third from the previous day.
That was definitely a bit disheartening, however predictable, but I had other, more immediate concerns...namely, my guitar had suddenly gone on the fritz. One of the pickups had begun cutting in and out. Hysterical jiggering and tinkering with it, in all imaginable combinations and permutations, had yielded no improvement. The obvious solution -- replacing the offending pickup -- wasn't possible in a hurry. The nearest reliable source of Ibanez hardware was 200 kilometers distant, in Berlin. I debated borrowing another guitar, but my Ibanez was specifically set up for playing slide and I was used to it. I was also reluctant to retune someone else's instrument in my open tuning, which would have put the neck under some strain.
By the time twilight had fallen and it was time to get onstage, I had more or less decided not to play. I realized I was going to look a bit strange, standing there like a dodo with this shiny black appurtenance slung flaccidly over myself; and the solo spots where I had intended to blaze forth would have to be filled up with something else (charming banter, perhaps?), but I couldn't think of another solution. Besides, how many other female performers use an electric guitar as a prop? basically, all of them (with a couple possible exceptions, and Emily Remler has been dead awhile, let's face it).
When we took our places on the stage and did a quick soundcheck, it turned out that my onstage amp wasn't working either. This demonic Twin Reverb and my guitar were in cahoots...when the guitar pickup was working, the amp wasn't; when the amp worked, the guitar cut out. Too late to worry about it now. Meanwhile, there were no music stands to be seen onstage...relatively few of the bands (besides us and Ed Palermo) seemed to use charts. We had specified six music stands in our performance contract, but what the hey. Several wobbly relics were eventually rounded up from somewhere, probably the local elementary school...and it was finally time to rock and roll! The first song began, I went on auto pilot, and for the next hour and a half we were inside the music and time ceased to exist. I don't know what the audience thought about my silent guitar, but we were surprisingly well received. The only sour note in the proceedings came after we had perfomed "Cosmik Debris," a Zappa tune, and a loud voice called out "Play something we know!" It took a masterful effort, but I restrained myself from responding, "Then we'd have to get offstage!"
After our performance came grim reality. I had to collect the payment from the promoters. The amount had been agreed upon when we signed the performance contract, but there were suddenly "issues". Attendance at the festival had been less than expected; the lodgings and airfare were suddenly not only being charged for, but extravagantly; and there were other outrages as well. Disgusted, I ran out of things to say and stalked out of the "office" (a little shed in one corner of the racetrack). Eric stayed behind, arguing magnificently and drunkenly in German which Goethe and Schiller would definitely not have recognized. Somehow, he prevailed. The next morning as we were boarding the bus to go back to Tegel airport, a sheepish promoter shuffled up to Candy and slipped her an envelope containing most of the disputed amount, in American dollars. As Eric explained, "I basically told them [the promoters] their word was no good. To a German, that's the ultimate insult."
At Tegel, many of us raided the duty-free shop. I got the bargain of a lifetime: a 1.5 liter bottle of Cointreau for 14 Euros. (Here in New York, that same bottle of Cointreau sells for about $35.) Ray Marchica somehow found a bottle of mead...honey wine. Strange stuff, that. Joe Meo got his shoes abused again, going through security. On our flight from Paris to JFK, Ike Willis, former Zappa frontman, sat in front of John, who recalled Ike's mantra: "...the thing I will remember most on the trip back home is Ike Willis behind my plane seat whispering in a deep black voice 'ring tip sleeve, ring tip sleeve'. It was too surreal. Too surreal...And that's the way I like it."
Me too.
Final note: As I've been writing these entries, another Zappanale has come and gone. At Ed Palermo's Bottom Line gig last Friday, I shared lots of good memories with the L/T/Z and Palermo band members who were involved in last year's festival. We will all be reunited onstage in the coming months...and rest assured, next time my guitar (and I) will be working. (Note to self: Sadowsky Guitars, 30 Jay Street #5C, Brooklyn...)
