I play low key shows fairly frequently around Vegas. You can find me in various guises depending on the occasion or the venue, but generally it’s just me, as me, fiddling with my huge organ and sweating a lot into my polyester suits. Sometimes though, if I get a booking someplace fancy, I go all out and hire my friend Pedro to accompany me on bass. This fills the sound out a bit and gives the impression of a band as opposed to just one sexy dude in a tux singing the bossa nova to some foxy ladies.
Pedro is one of my oldest friends. He’s Mexican. Straight up Mexican too, not one of those types who were born in the US and have a social security number. He floated across the Rio Grande to Laredo in a tractor tire or something, so the story goes. He fitted right inside the rim seeing as how most Mexicans aren’t known for their expansive size. So yeah, on these occasions, Pedro and I will do a rip roaring set of Bacharach covers and lively Tom Jones numbers for an audience of seven mean drunks and a whore. They don’t pay any more than usual gigs, but I get around it by a neat little trick. Just as the dude running the show is getting out his wallet to pay us, I say, “Wow, that dude from the INS is sure hogging the bar tonight, huh?” and before you know it there’s a sound like the Road Runner and suddenly there’s only one of us awaiting payment.
You do what you gotta do.