SESSION shenanigans
The studio guitarist’s guide to happiness and personal fulfilment, as related by session ace Mitch Dalton. This month: Standard Practice.
Once Upon A Time it came to pass that Muhammad Ali was honoured with a gala birthday dinner at The Grosvenor House Hotel. Not for nothing is its main function space known as The Great Room. It’s the largest event venue in London and, even if observing today’s guidelines, could probably seat many hundreds of socially distanced guests. It had been deemed appropriate that this glittering array of boxing aficionados, celebrity drinkers and hangers-on in need of a hip meal should be entertained at the conclusion of the formalities. As it transpired, that conclusion was to bear comparison with other astronomical measurements: ie, the nearer one travelled towards it, the further away it seemed to become.
My bit part in proceedings was to provide Freddy Green stylings for a big band under the direction of Emmy Award winning composer, arranger and jazz saxophonist, John Altman. I would suggest that the fact that he went on to enjoy a career in music of any kind after the evening in question is testimony in itself to his talent. We were engaged primarily to accompany ‘The world’s greatest Nat King Cole stylist’. And in truth, the gentleman was not half bad at all.
The rehearsal went swimmingly, we consumed our gourmet grub, donned tuxedos and assembled onstage in anticipation. And that is precisely where we sat as time dragged, slowed and stopped entirely. And then went into reverse. A fulsome speech of welcome, delivered with a cut glass accent by old Etonian Ian Hall was merely the preface to a two-hour after-dinner apocalypse by The Great Man himself. The liberal employment of repetition, deviation (but very little hesitation) suggested that a guest spot on Just A Minute would remain an unattainable goal for the punchy pugilist. During which, I revisited personal life events, calculated my monthly professional expenses and gradually lost the will to live while a thousand guests dozed.
Aeons passed. I began to speculate as to the nature of the breakthroughs in science that might await us when we emerged eventually from this torturethon. And then, rather like war but with more after dinner mints, we scrambled into action.
BLAMMO! We were away into the intro to L-O-V-E. And...er... again. And once more. Our star vocalist seemed notably absent. An explanation was soon forthcoming. During the enforced hiatus, the Nat King Cole of cabaret had availed himself of generous hospitality and now lurched onstage suitably refreshed. With admirable enthusiasm and no little confidence he then proceeded to deconstruct the formal musical structure of Bert Kaempfert’s song with but the most fleeting references to melody and rhythm, finally reaching a belting big finish which even Ethel Merman would have envied. Perhaps it’s churlish to point out that this climax occurred about a minute before the band, taking his imaginary bow with an oblivious flourish as he did so. Or that he then followed up with Route 66, getting his specific kicks by continuing for an extra minute after the chart had ended, perhaps by way of compensation for the vocal short changing involved in the opener. With the intuitive sense of impending disaster for which musicians are renowned, we now prepared ourselves for an evening of humiliation, and memorising the exact location of the fire exits. However, even we were caught off guard by our singer’s unilateral decision to embark on his interpretation of Mona Lisa. A surprise move, because we hadn’t rehearsed it and it was not on the set list. Not that that mattered. Any semi-pro knows it isn’t possible to busk an arrangement for a 17-piece big band when there isn’t one. “Moaner Leesher, Moaner Leesher, mennave name-ed yew...” Our hero continued a capella, quite unfazed.
Hell beckoned. But suddenly... ’Sprang!’ “I think it’s in C.” ‘Sprang!’ “Is that Dm7 next? Yeah. It goes to F and Fm later I think”. And there was Ollie Halsall, legendary guitarist for Patto, The Rutles and Kevin Ayers sitting next to me, replete with white left-handed Gibson SG. He was there because he had talked John into booking him on second guitar in order to see his all-time boxing hero. And to save the day, as it happens. Our singing star completed Nat’s immortal ballad with tastefully sparse guitar accompaniment, as if it were the culmination of hours of duetting deliberation. Cue applause, a couple more items from a severely pruned concert and a swift dash to safety.
We should not have been concerned. The lights came up to reveal a deserted room. West Indian World, the voice of the community at that time, ran an account of the event on their front page. The photograph depicts conductor John Altman with arms flailing in desperation, our vocalist giving it the full Remy Martin, and your intrepid writer, feary-eyed and slack of jaw. Needless to say, the cheque bounced.
However, I went straight home and learned Mona Lisa. And a load more standard tunes during the following decades. You could do worse by doing the same. You’ll discover harmony, chord melody technique, substitution and a ton of great learnings. They’re musically nutritious and delicious. And one day knowing one could save the gig. And your career.
WE CONSUMED OUR GOURMET GRUB, DONNED OUR TUXEDOS AND ASSEMBLED ONSTAGE IN ANTICIPATION...