"You Played Great"
by Jon Elion
"Just how well does he play?" Our friend, Jeff, had just heard a radio commercial for a competition. The best "Buffett Guitarist" gets to join Jimmy Buffett on stage to play "Cheeseburger in Paradise." Every Parrothead's dream. 'Better scope things out with my wife, Kathy, first, before telling me.
"He plays really well..." Bless her heart. Not exactly an objective review, but she no doubt gives me points for persistence. Unfortunately, persistence had not been sufficient to get us tickets to the concert, despite the standing-in-line-for-a bracelet routine and the standing-in-line-for-tickets routine. Three shows sold out in less than an hour, and they gave us no credit for twenty years of devoted fanhood, or for the number of verses that can be sung along to word-for-word. When Jimmy Buffett comes to Great Woods, there is always a Feeding Frenzy for tickets.
"Can he play 'Cheeseburger in Paradise'?" Jeff was taking things carefully. A devout Deadhead, he was still reeling from the recent loss of Jerry Garcia (for whom he bears an uncanny resemblance; he should audition as a replacement if The Dead ever tour again...). Deadhead. Parrothead. Close enough for Rock 'n Roll. He didn't want to get his hopes up just yet, but Jeff smelled a possible happening in the making. Turns out "Cheeseburger" is one of my all-time favorites, and a popular tune for play-along on the Stratocaster (all white, in tribute to Jimi Hendrix). The reconnaissance showed that things looked promising. Jon must be told about the competition.
"No guts, no glory." That was the only analysis that made any sense as I packed up my guitar gear that Friday morning. It had been over twenty years since I had "played out" in public. A rock band in high school and college, and a brief stab at local coffee houses. (I thought it would be a good way to meet girls. It wasn't.) I had played on stage with Jimmy Buffett hundreds to times (in my head, anyway), for that matter, with the Stones, Tom Petty, Linda Ronstadt, and the Traveling Wilburys, too. So here I was, going off to the preliminary competition, two hours away at a TGI Friday's. "You must be crazy," my brother had said. "If we weren't all crazy, we'd all go insane."
"And now, Pete will play 'Cheeseburger in Paradise'." Yikes. I hadn't thought of that. Of course the other contestants would be prepared to play that one, the very tune I was going to play. Why did I let him go ahead of me? Not wise to follow him with the same song. He was good, too. He is still doing the coffeehouse tour. Business cards, no less. This could be trouble. A quick change of plans. The Strat gets replaced by the Martin D-28 (folk guitar of the 70's). "Pencil Thin Mustache" is a fun one to play. Have fun, and the audience will have fun. Woops. Blew the lyrics, messed up the rhythm. Okay, play a bit louder on the chorus. If you can't have talent, at least have volume.
"We're going to Great Woods!" I had survived the preliminary round, and was one of six guitarists selected for the final competition, to be held the night of the concert. A quick call to Kathy from the car phone set off a chain reaction in the neighborhood. Jeff/Jerry was beaming, no doubt feeling personally responsible for the whole thing. Many heads were shaken in disbelief. "I knew he was crazy, but I didn't think he was this crazy!"
"You know you're all here to compete for the chance to play the lead solo to 'Cheeseburger in Paradise'?" John Vanderslice ("Slice"), one of Buffett's managers, was briefing the contestants. The days between the preliminaries and the concert were a blur. New strings for the Strat, and an all-white strap to match. Buffett T-shirt, shorts, socks, shoes all white. Subtle, huh? Things didn't start to fall apart until we got to the concert grounds. Pavilion tickets were not going to happen, just lawn seats (all the more reason to win and get the very best seats in the house!). The Strat had to go back to the car (Gibson was sponsoring the competition, and would provide the guitar. That's okay; Clapton once played a Gibson SG...). Buffett T-shirt off, radio station T-shirt on. Radio station T-shirt off, Gibson T-shirt on. Play the lead solo? We hadn't know that. Five finalists paled. I smiled. After all, I'd done that on stage with Jimmy hundreds of times.
"How many pick contestant number three?" My heart was in my throat. As a cardiologist, I know that's anatomically impossible, but that's sure how it felt. The crowd would select the finalist. I braved a quick look. They were cheering. Not just Kathy and a small circle of my friends (come on guys louder!), but perfect strangers were clapping and cheering. And smiling. All of those tourists covered with oil. "And our winner, from East Greenwich..." My arms were in the air, and I was jumping up (and down!); a spontaneous imitation of Rocky on the steps of City Hall. "Buffett Guitarist." Damn!
"Welcome to our home." That's all I could think of as I met more of the Buffett entourage. Slice vanished, and was quickly replaced by Tom (another manager), Shoes (the guitar technician), and Peter (the real Buffett Guitarist). These guys had made the road their home, and like gracious hosts, warmly welcomed me for a visit. "My face hurts." Kathy was grinning more than ever, and her dimples were getting sore. I was not much help, as a grin was stuck on my face, too. "Keep that up soon your face will get stuck like that" Mom used to warn. She was right. It had.
"What do I do?" The reality of the situation had suddenly caught up. I had never rehearsed with these guys. Would they play it like on the record? How do I know when to come in? "Don't worry just follow me. I'll take care of you!" Peter looked confident. He had caught The Grin. Kathy can do that to people.
"Stand on the X. Get introduced. Move to the second X. Play. Shake Jimmy's hand. I'll pull you offstage." Shoes was all business, choreographing a tight production script. Why would I think this wouldn't be a professional production? After all, Buffett's been doing this summer job for thirty years now. Shoes puts a cheeseburger hat on my head. So much for professionalism.
So, I stood on the X. Got introduced. Moved to the second X. Buffett was Grinning. Welcome to my home. I Grinned back. This was it. Finger a barred B-minor (the opening chord). Okay, I'm ready.
Nothing happens. Something's wrong. Buffett's still Grinning, but now he's staring at my feet. Oh, no! On a whim, I had pulled off my shoes and socks before going on stage, matching Jimmy's bare feet. Woops. Maybe he's the only one supposed to go barefoot. He's coming over to me. I just Grin. Pinching my leg. Grin more. He's shaking his head. I'm starting to grow my own dimples. "I haven't seen that much white meat since Thanksgiving!" Okay. He found me out. I don't get outdoors much. We both Grin.
A tapping noise. Now what? Hold onto that barre for dear life. Does any else hear it? Drumsticks. That's what it is drumsticks. My god... drumsticks get tapped together for a count-off... it's starting! B-minor, A. B-minor, G. B-minor, A, then D. Nailed it! When the roller coaster car pulls out of the station, there's no point looking back, trying to steer, or looking for what's just over the top; just hold on for dear life and enjoy the ride. "Tried to amend my carnivorous habits..." Grin. I scan to crowd trying to find Jeff/Jerry. Only there's 20,000 of him out there.
Welcome to our home. Can I get you something to drink? Wanna blast out some chords? Are you comfortable? Wanna sing along? I know what's just over the top it's the solo break. Peter leans forward. Grin. Nod. Here we go. Keep it simple. A pentatonic major riff. Nobody has to know it's the only riff I know. As Martin Mull said, "It's just licks off of records that I've heard." 15 seconds in the solo spotlight. Andy Warhol promised me 15 minutes. Ah well. "I like mine with lettuce and tomato..."
Thanks for coming over. Hope you had a great time. A handshake. A wave to the crowd. Shoes is pulling on my guitar cord. Thanks for letting me visit you on the job. Come visit me at my job some time maybe we can watch some open heart surgery. I won't quit my day job just yet.
Things are settling down now. People have stopped dropping into my office to remind me how crazy I am. Neighborhood kids have stopped coming over the admire the Gibson guitar I got to keep. We've run out of reviews to clip from the paper ("he played a darn hot solo..."). But there is one review that stands out above the others. It's the one written in gold ink on my new Gibson. It's signed "Jimmy Buffett, Great Woods '95", and simply says: "You Played Great!"