I was recently reminded of a story of when I first began living in New York City. Years back before I had actually relocated there I had been going to jam sessions and gigs around town and heard this phenomenal guitarist playing these beautiful, lush chords. I introduced myself and got to know Andre Ryabov, who originally hailed from St. Petersburg (aka Leningrad during the times of Soviet Union). It just so happened that Andre and I had some shared acquaintances of musicians who were living in Germany and we hit it off right away. Whenever I was in town, I’d check out where Andre was playing and at some point during the evening he would let me sit in.

Greetings, Komrade!

For years Andre performed with a Russian pianist and bass player at a place on West 52^nd Street called the Russian Vodka Room. From time to time other musicians would, like myself, come by to sit in with Andre and his compatriots. Apart from myself, the majority were – you guessed it – Russian. There I got to know a talented saxophonist who goes by the name of Boris.

One day, Andre had a better paying job and called me to cover his solo gig at a place in the East Village called the Anyway Café. This rather tiny restaurant is another Russian-owned and operated business in the city, featuring very nice Russian food and all the wine I could drink on the gig. Boris stopped by and we had a great time playing duos.

A couple of years later me and the wife had made the move to New York City and one of the first places I stopped by was the Russian Vodka Room. Andre and the guys were still there, and Boris was busy jamming with them as well. During the break, Boris and I got to talking and I informed him that I was now a New York resident. We exchanged contact information and a short time later I got a call from Boris asking me if I would be interested in playing in a Russian big band.

Welcome to New York, Please Speak Russian

Now, if you asking where all these Russians came from, I have some news for you: according to the American Association for Russian Language, Culture and Education, some 600,000 persons of Russian background live in New York City, making up about eight per cent of the city’s population, and a whopping 1.6 million live in the tri-state area. That’s almost a quarter of all people of Russian background living in the United States! And by far the most Russian-speaking citizens reside in the area known as “Little Odessa” located at the Coney Island and Brighton Beach sections of southernmost Brooklyn. If you ever have the opportunity to venture to this part of the city, you will find signs in Cyrillic adorning the shops and cafés catering to the Russian clientele all along Brighton Beach Avenue. More about this further on.

Well Hello, Slava

After my conversation with Boris I received a call from the leader of the big band, who introduced himself as Slava. Slava, in a very thick, almost indecipherable English, said that he was putting a big band together to do a bunch of shows in the area and had heard from Boris that I was available. He went on to inform me that he had booked a number of rehearsals at the Musician’s Union building over on 48^th Street in Manhattan in preparation for our performances. As I was new to New York and looking for whatever work I could find, this sounded too good to be true. I told Slava I was looking forward to working with him and put the rehearsal dates down in my book. Little did I know what I was in for.

I believe our first rehearsal was the following week. I made my way to the union rehearsal hall and saw one or two musicians I had met before. That is one of the real benefits of playing in a big band – outside of perhaps a jam session, I can’t really think of another situation where you are in the midst of such a large number of musicians at one time It’s a really a great way to make friends and contacts.

After a little while, a huge bear of a man with a shock of silver hair entered the room and took his position in front of the band. He introduced himself as Slava and started handing out folders with our music inside.

How Not to Run a Band

To prepare myself, I started looking over the music. It was handwritten, but in a hand that appeared more used to writing Cyrillic than musical notation. Notes were hard to decipher, hanging between and through staves, and stems were often placed on the wrong side. Furthermore, the chord symbols were written sometimes in Russian, sometimes in English and sometimes something resembling a language I had never seen before.

Slava then called our attention and barked out a tune in a thick, fairly incomprehensible Russian accent, waited a couple of seconds, then picked up his baton and started conducting. There were a few squeaks and squonks, but nothing resembling organized music. Slava’s voice picked up an octave and apparently castigated us for our bad behavior and was getting ready to start again until somebody had the nerve to speak up, “What tune are we playing?” Slava muttered something in Russian and a man named Peter, who was apparently the second-in-command, explained what Slava just said and told us the name of the piece.

Relieved to now know what we were playing, Slava picked up his baton again. The band commenced to perform. About four bars into the tune, Slava stopped the band again. One of the reed players had missed a note, trying to decipher the scrawl that was posing as music. Slava began berating the poor musician. It was at this point I noticed an odd thing about Slava – every three or four seconds a tendon in his neck would tighten up and his face would make a sudden grimace. This was becoming disconcerting.

Somehow, with many stops and starts we managed to get through a number of pieces of music that day. In spite of his tick – and it was difficult to overlook his constant gulping and grimacing – it was hard to build up any sympathy for this man. Slava proved to be an impatient person one can only assume came up through the rigidity of the Soviet system. The rehearsal continued apace and woe to the musician who made a mistake. Each time Slava would immediately stop the band, yell something at the offending musician and then we would start the whole piece over again from the beginning. When a strange section of music or odd harmonies would sound and someone would suggest an alternate, perhaps more musical idea, Slava would insist on playing the music as it was written. There were a lot of these places.

Our rehearsal the next week was at the same place and same time, but I noticed a couple of new faces in the band as some musicians had already quit or given up. This continued for the next couple of weeks. I stood it out because I needed the work. But what work was there? I asked Slava when we were performing. Each week I got a different answer. First we had eight gigs, then six, then four. Finally we were given dates for two concerts.

When I Point, You Play

By the time of our first engagement, located somewhere deep in New Jersey, about half the band had changed due to attrition. At the concert hall I saw a guy setting up a bass rig and asked who he was. He was our new bassist! Very interesting. Dressed in our tuxes, and with no catering besides water, we began the concert. We played a couple of songs, then a man came out in a bright suit and started speaking to the audience in Russian. I knew he was telling jokes because after he would stop speaking the audience would then laugh. I was sitting next to baritone saxophonist Max Schweiger, who has a very dry sense of humor. Max and I looked at each other, and after the next joke and anytime thereafter, whenever the audience started laughing, we would move our shoulders up and down with a smile on our face in pantomime of laughing along with the general hilarity.

I would guess the band, in its various incarnations, had rehearsed 8-10 times at this point. During the final few rehearsals some singers had joined in and we had worked through arrangements of their numbers. Now at the concert, one of the female singers came up to the mic and Slava, gulping and grimacing as usual, took his baton in hand. Suddenly, as we were about to begin playing, her song started coming out over the PA system. It was a recording – in a different key and tempo than what we had rehearsed! Slava, totally nonplussed, just started waving his baton in front of the band as if nothing was happening and gestured as if we were playing. In the middle of the song he pointed his baton at me. I looked at him, “What?” I gestured. He starts moving his fingers as if he is playing the guitar and I notice that there is a guitar solo on the recording. Finally it dawns on me, he wants me to fake the guitar solo!

It was one of those moments I am not much looking forward to reliving. I was in a dilemma – do I go along with this ridiculous charade, or sit there with my hands folded? I went for Option 3: I moved my hands all over the guitar making faces and grimaces like I was the baddest cat who ever played six strings. Of course, I had no way of knowing that the solo was only eight bars long and managed a good extra three or four measures of kickass air guitar playing before I noticed that my moment in the spotlight had ended.

Somehow we survived the concert and that weekend we played our second – and final – performance at the Milennium concert hall on Brighton Beach Boulevard in the heart of Little Odessa. This time we were all prepared for the crazy Russian shenanigans, the canned music and, in general, to expect the unexpected, Russian style. The hall filled quickly to capacity, the excited crowd jabbering away in every Russian dialect known to the sun. The concert went off as was to be expected, everyone seemed satisfied, we musicians received our pay, topped off with some vodka, and everyone went home.

Postscript

Some time later I got a call from Slava asking me if I would like to do some upcoming gigs with the band. When I heard the rehearsal schedule and the little money that was being offered, I think I mumbled something about being busy and luckily never heard from the gulping bear again. Nevertheless, I’m sure he’s out there, waving his baton and screaming at some unsuspecting musicians somewhere in the world. God help us all.

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Russ Spiegel
www.russguitar.com
russ@russguitar.com

Russ Spiegel was born in Los Angeles, and raised in Santa Monica, California. He studied Composition, Arranging and Guitar Performance at the Berklee College of Music in Boston on a scholarship, and went on to get his Masters degree in Jazz Performance at the City College of New York. Russ is a commissioned composer who has released several CDs, written music for film, TV, and musicals, toured Europe and Asia, and much more.