On Friday night, I performed in public for the first time since February. The scene was surreal: a field of tableclothed dining tables, spaced ten feet apart. Mask-wearing waiters serving drinks and plates to unmasked diners sitting on the grass, and everyone slowly melting in the swelter. On one of the hottest days of the year so far, instead of seeking comfort inside the air-conditioned restaurant or even back at home, we all had chosen to be outside and sweat.
The reason to endure this torture: Wayne Wilentz’s open-mic Friday night at Normandie Farm restaurant in Potomac is back, but with a COVID twist. The band sets up against the brick wall, facing the lawn and the loyal patrons. Mask on, Wayne reigns from behind his electric piano, and we horn players, unmasked, spread at least ten feet apart. Andy the trombone player and Fred the alto saxophonist are on either side of Wayne, up against the wall. I’m out on the grass, off to the side. The audience and singers waiting to perform sit safely distant, and the singers each brought their own mic, because sharing a mic is a very bad idea these days.
This open-mic night at Normandie Farm attracts some of the best amateur and professional singers around. They’re a remarkably talented and supportive group. I started sitting in with the band last year, after Wayne encouraged me to get some real-world experience improvising in a live setting. It’s been such an enriching opportunity to play with the likes of Wayne and Andy and Fred, each of them accomplished interpreters of the American songbook. They are masters at riffing on any tune’s melody, using their considerable musical powers to create solos that feel organic and powerful.
I’m still learning, and I have so far to go, but when I solo, my goal is to hear a simple melodic line in my head and play it. That’s it. The best soloists on any instrument leave you humming bits and pieces of their lines, often with unexpected colors or rhythms. Epic solos start with a simple statement and build and build until you realize you’re listening to a master storyteller. There are clashes and partial victories, heroic undertakings, and at the end, a homecoming. When I play, I don’t shoot for Homer or Coltrane or Sonny. I shoot for See Spot Run. I tell myself to be myself—play within my means, as my teacher Noah always says—and say something simple and real.
Wayne, as I’ve learned, can play from memory nearly any tune ever written. Singers step up and tell him what they want to perform and invariably he’ll nod instantly and be ready to go. No charts, no discussion, let’s play. Pan over to me: struggling to hear the song title correctly, I quickly search my iPad for a chart I can follow. Did she say “All My Tomorrows” or “All Day Tomorrow” or “Small Day Tomorrow”? Crap crap crap they’re starting! But what key is it in?! I guess I’ll have to figure that out as we go.
OK I have the chart and it’s not freaking me out too bad with diminished chords or quick-change turnarounds. OK I’ll take a shot at this one. Meanwhile this singer who I’ve never seen before is making this song her own. I’ve had so many moments of singer-induced euphoria standing next to the piano inside in the bar—back when we could be inside—as yet another singer brings me to my knees with their emotional power. I feel another moment coming on—focus!
Is she done with the first chorus? I think so, yeah. Man, so good. Then it’s time for a solo. I look at the other horn players. Are they giving me the go-ahead? Andy? Fred? Oh crap, they are! And Wayne too. OK, fuck it, here I go, here I go, here I goooooooooo!
