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After a surprise birthday party at the Arts Council office, I pack up my instruments and leave Bakerfield, heading for
LA. I have a St. Patrick's Day gig the following morning at the Boeing factory in Long Beach. Get to film-maker Spike Stewart's
house in Laurel Canyon around 9:30 PM and wake him up. Spike hobbling around after throwing his back out. Good conversation,
a light supper, and another birthday cake! Wake up in the middle of the AM momentarily unable to breath and gagging - so this
is life after 50?
On the road feeling strangely hung-over (I hadn't been drinking) heading to Long Beach by 8:00 AM. I arrive just before
10:00 AM. Boeing security assures that all my papers are in order; the services committee escorts me past two gargantuan C17
airplanes into a cafeteria where a sound man is setting up for me on a high stage. I have two direct boxes for my guitars
and within moments I hear my instruments back through the monitors sounding like they are supposed to. Party! Bonus!
I notice as I sound check, that quite a few tables are being set up near the stage so that the Boeing Eiromanes and Celtophiles,
should there be any, can sit there. "Play 'La Bamba,'" says a smart-ass helping to set up the tables.
"Which version?" I ask, smart-assing him back. "The LA version or the Vera Cruz version?" He looks
at me incredulously. "In Vera Cruz back in the 1930s they used to play it on the harp," I continue. He continues
to look at me incredulously. "La arpa," I add.
"The EAST LA version!" he says definitively.
"Yeah," I nod. "The East LA versions are pretty good. But check out an old Vera Cruz version. You would
like it."
Ross, the soundman plays my CD to get the employees all misty grey and introspective as they enter for lunch.
Carol or one of the other committee members asks me to write an intro for myself and asks if during my set I could explain
who St. Patrick really was. Without mentioning religion. I say that that would be hard to do. Another committee member agrees
and they discuss how some of Boeing employees get freaked out at Christianity and others at Paganism. I offer to tell the
story of "Ossian and Patrick" which, I say, usually offends everyone equally and gets a laugh. Cautiously they laugh.
I explain that I teach in schools and that I know the difference between teaching and preaching. At last they seem relieved.
I wonder at why they want a story at all: it's a large cafeteria and I had assumed it wasn't particularly a listening
gig. I'm only in it for the money, as they say. And it's a green St. Paddy's day indeed. They are paying me $900.00 an hour!
By now, several friendly looking people are indeed sitting at the tables reserved for fans of the contemporary folk arts.
The committee decides that after I tell my tale (if it's OK with me) they will give away some prizes. It's OK with me. The
lady who will introduce me has a panic attack and the rest of the committee assure her that she will be fine and to get up
on the stage and read the introduction simply as I wrote it and just as she has been practicing it for the last few minutes.
She trips up the stage steps and speaks into the microphone. "Ladies and Gentlemen, David Nigel, our special guest, asked
me to introduce him. I'll now read what he wrote about himself." [and she does]
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[Some of my favorite Non-Boeing Airplanes]
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| The Lockheed Constellation |
I trot up on to the stage and play 'DNL Calling' followed by 'The Son of Old Rosin the Bow.' The applause from my 20 or so
fans up front is not quite drowned out by the sound of talking from the back. So I tell "Ossian and St. Patrick"
which gets a faint laugh.
Next, a woman rushes on stage to tell me how much she enjoyed my CD while it was being played before the performance.
There was a song she remembers from when she lived in Australia. "'Moreton Bay?'" I ask referring, of course to
the song and not the place.
"Yes!" she says.
I tell her my CDs only cost $15.00 and she might like to have a copy of the song.
"But I have to get back to work now," she says.
"There's a clipboard on the sales table," I say. "Just clip the money to it and take one of the CDs."
"Unfortunately, I don't have any money," she explains and leaves, seeming very upset that I would reduce everything
to money.
The committee give away some prizes. As I go back on to the stage, Carol asks if I could play some fast songs so that
everybody can clap along. (Airplane builders love to clap along, apparently.) I explain politely that I do what I do; that
quite a few people seem to be enjoying my performance; and that the two songs I had already played were fairly brisk by Celtic
standards. I play "The Whistling Thief and the Gentleman Thief" and then "Farewell to Liverpool/OFF2CA"
and call it 20 minutes.
I get to the sales table in time to see a woman walk off with a copy of my "Bards and Troubadours Today" chapbook.
I tell one of the committee members. "Is that OK?" she asks.
"Not without exchanging it for five dollars," I say.
The committee member gives chase and eventually returns with my little book. "She's insane," she explains.
A man walks past. "How much are your CDs?" he asks.
"Fifteen Dollars," I say.
"Good!" he says heartily and keeps on walking.
"I'm so sorry," says Carol. "The audience was so rude!" I explain that I had people to sing to. The
committee members speak politely about how much they enjoyed my set-let. I ask what the evening crew was like? "Much
worse," says Carol. "There won't be anyone on duty. It would be OK if you want to bail."
I figure I'd had about as much fun as a Celtic Balladeer and song-poet could have at a Boeing factory and announce I would
be leaving. Next, they kindly escort me through one of the nicest cafeteria's I've encountered ever. A Caeser Salad is made
for me on the spot and I grab a slice of veggie pizza to go with it. No beer I notice. As the committee member pays for my
food, another woman asks if I would sing 'Danny Boy.'"
"I'm so sorry but I think I'm done," I say. Translation: "NO!"
Leaving the plant, I take a wrong turn and lose a contact lens. On the Riverside Freeway at last, I begin to fall asleep.
I exit, find some shade and ten minutes of sleep. Back on the freeway, I round a corner and everything is at a dead crawl
--about 4 MPH. The cell phone rings. It's daughter Ursula. "What's taking you so long!?" I explain. She sighs. At
last I arrive at UCR to pick her up. I tell her the tale over dinner. "Another DNL adventure," she cries with delight.
She really likes the part about the contact lens.
We drive home to Bakersfield. The End.
[Some favorite WWII Non-Boeing airplanes]
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