Gisele 01

It was one of those crappy bars. You know the ones I mean. You go down an alley that you should not. There is a left turn and plain door flanked by two guys the size of Montana. You flash them your ID, which is usually a twenty-dollar bill.

So, you are thinking.

"Why is this guy in such a dangerous and out of the way place? Must have a death wish?"

Okay, a bit of background on me. My name is Steve. I am a bass player. Most say I am good. It has been a long hard road for me. Lots of sacrifice. I live in a dump. A place to sleep. My life is simple. Practice bass guitar, eat periodically, and play gigs. Why do I live this way? Easy. I like it. Most of the money goes towards equipment. I have several bass guitars and an upright bass. Why do I need multiple basses? Different instruments for different gigs. My main ax is a Fender Mustang bass from the late 1960's. The feel is unlike any other bass I own or have ever played. It is like holding a woman you know very well, and she responds in kind. Then there is Fender P bass with jazz neck, a beat-up Lotus bass with brass nut and saddles, the sustain lasts forever. The upright is a Kay. Early 60's model as near as I can guess. She needed a lot of work when I found her. Had to have the back re-glued, sound post reset, new strings, new bridge, and thoroughly cleaned. It was worth the effort. She has some miles on her but sounds wonderful.

Okay, back to the bar.

People talk you know. Well, there was some discussion of a girl/woman that played bass like no other living soul. And yes, she was playing in the dive I was entering. If she is so great? Why is she playing in this shit hole? Being great does not pay the bills. You take jobs where they are and when you can get them. You also hope to be paid in cash, not beer. I move slowly into the place. This is one the rougher ones I seen. Lots of stains on the floor. Years of beer, blood and general decay and filth. I ordered a beer and had a seat.

The chair is clean. It reminds me that I should make certain my shots are up to date. There is a band playing. Mostly they are just loud and raucous sounding. I can tell they have not played together much. They do not gel. Oh, they are okay. If you are drinking and just want loud music. The guitarist is up there trying to shred. It sounds like he gets three of every four notes. But with all the distortion, it is hard to tell. The drummer is pounding out straight rock, nothing fancy.

The keyboard player is wasted, I think. He is stuck on one chord. But there in the background, is this girl. She is leaning against the back wall and playing. The impression of one being nonchalant. But her playing is spot on. She does not even have to try; it is that easy for her.

The set ends. The band crawls off the stage. The keyboard player goes to a corner and is snorting something. Yep, he is wasted. The guitarist goes to the bar. The bartender places three beers and three shots of some brown liquor in front of him. Slam, slam, slam, and they are all gone. I am surprised he can stand, let alone play.

The bass player glides to a small table. Looks like she is sipping carbonated water. Smart girls do not fall into the trap of spending their money on alcohol. She lights a smoke and leans against the wall. Bored is the impression I get from her. I think about going up and speaking with her. I decided against this. I will just watch and listen to her for now. Listen to her tone and watch her technique. Then we will see.

The band goes back on. They must lead the keyboard player to his instrument. Why would you do that to yourself? The guitarist is stumbling badly. The drummer shakes his head and takes his place. The girl slides back on stage and picks up her ax. It is not a fancy bass. A fender P bass, standard issue, blue in color. It looks as though it has some mileage on it. The finish is worn off here and there. I can see a scratch from here. But it is doing the job it needs to. She is playing right in sync with the percussionist. She is locked in, and it is more her than him.

And it is more than just plucking bass notes. I can hear varied rhythms and timing. The way she uses non chord tones makes her sound more melodic than thumping bass. She does not fit with these guys. She is better than this. I hang and listen, mostly to her. I drink just enough to keep my seat and stay sober.

During another band break, I speak to her. I introduce myself as a fellow bass player. There is comment on her playing style that I have observed thus far. She looks at me raising one eyebrow. The fact that I recognize what she is doing has her maybe a little interested. I do not push though. She does not know me. I could be some killer/rapist for all she knows. We exchange shop talk. I do tell my name, Steve. She tells me hers, Gisèle. I ask where she is playing next. Gisèle has no idea.

We part.

The next day, I dragged my butt out of bed for some serious practice. Gisèle has inspired me with her technique. I tried a few of the things she did last night. It is a little tough for me, but with practice, I could do it. Nice to know I can be stimulated to learn. There are several hours of practice involved. Scales, arpeggios, bass chord and finger picking exercises. I do not overdo it.

Gotta gig tonight at a country club. Suit and tie stuff. Classic jazz with walking bass lines and fancy fills when allowed. The folks I am working with, I have before. They are solid and know what they are doing. Tonight, should be a cakewalk. The crowd is the grey-haired crew. Well-dressed men and women with entirely too much money. Dry martinis, Old fashioned, High Balls, and dry white wine abound. I am sure they are not paying any attention to what we are playing.

We provide background music and dance tunes. The pay is decent, so I do not say much and be professional as possible. Then at about 1am, it was time to go home. A few of the other guys want to go out for a drink. Not me. Home and bed.

Being proficient is not enough for me. Crap, I must work hard just to be good at what I do. You can imagine what it would take to be great. Sometimes I think it would be nice to focus on one style of playing. One genre that really piques my interest. But who wants to starve because there isn't enough work? Let us face it, I know I am not going to get famous doing this. I do enjoy it though. Have been able to play with some great musicians. There was a percussionist from Africa once. He had a whole different take on rhythmic ideas. He was a challenge to play alongside. I learned much from him. There was this older gentleman. His name was Roger, and he was a pianist. The piano was an extension of his mind. He could make it sound like an orchestra or a simple instrument. Very expressive. His wife Jessica was a singer. A low sultry alto. She made you hers in a single song. I learned a lot from them as well. I have learned that is the key to growth and staying in the game. Learning, listening, and trying new things.

But enough about me. I suppose you want to know what happened with Gisèle? Well, that is a cool story.

Gisèle and I would go to one another's gigs when we could. Not a creepy thing but watching the other play. It was a relationship about learning and watching. This I will say. Gisèle had a much smoother and quicker technique than I. Watching her play, at times her fingers were a blur. Now I can play fast, but not like Gisèle. The fluidity with which she plays is astounding. This was the totality of our association. Strictly professional. We both played as often as possible and made what money we could. For myself? I had given up trying to have a romantic time with anyone. My apartment was a dump and I had little money for entertainment.

The instruments I played require upkeep. Without this of course, there is no working. I did not ask Gisèle, but I imagine her life was similar. There have never been any long-range plans made. Now that I say it aloud, it is depressing. I guess what Gisèle, and I have is a shared professional interest. But that would change over time.

We met like this for several months. Watching the other play. Then Gisèle showed up one evening with a bass. She sat and observed. I had become accustomed to her watching and was no longer threatened or concerned about it. She was the same when I watched her. Anyway, she shows up with a bass. Once my gig was done, she asked if we could jam a little together. Gisèle plugs in her Fender.

I ask.

"What style do you want?"

Her response.

"Just play whatever you feel, and I'll follow."

So, I launch into a blues progression. Gisèle chuckles and begins to play in the high of her bass. It would have made BB King proud. I shift gears and go into some progressive jazz. She proceeded to weave a tapestry of rhythm, melody, and chords around my bass line.

Gisèle was amazing. She was going places melodically I had never dreamed of. I was in awe. About this time the drummer, who had stayed, asked if he could jam with us. Gisèle nodded yes but did not seem too excited about it. I will give him credit. He attempted to be as intricate as Gisèle but did not have it in him. He was a rocker. I think eventually Gisèle became annoyed, and we stopped.

So, I asked her.

"You want to find some coffee?"

She answered.

"Yeah sure."

There was an all-night coffee shop nearby. I ordered espresso and so did she. We had our coffee likes in common. We chatted about our playing experience that night. What we were trying to do. Playing gigs was boring much of the time. On this we agreed. Too many out there just drinking and playing loud. Not so much musicianship. We sat there for an hour, then it was getting to be sunrise. We both had to work the next evening. We opted for heading out and getting to our respective apartments.

Sleep was in order. I asked if we could do this again.

All she said was.

"Yeah, I'd like that."

The walk to my place is okay. Traffic was picking up. I kept going through how and what she played in my mind. I need to pick her brain some more.

It was another week before we ran into each other again. Gisèle showed up at my Country Club gig. I do not know how she got in. But she was dressed for it. Looked like she belonged there. A nice dress and shoes showed a little leg too. Gisèle picked an out of the way place to listen and watch us. She even scribbled some notes. We I had time, I watched her from the corner of my eye. Gisèle was a pretty girl. Could not make out her heritage. Her name was French I think, but she looked as though she may be Latino in part. It did not matter to me. As I said, she was pretty, and she has more talent than anyone I know. But I have no reason to think about her like this. Her only interest in me seems to be music. So, I should not screw things up by trying to be all romantic. I do not have much to offer anyway. Need to focus on playing right now and not die of starvation.

During the next few months, we met when able. We always had basses out and played together. Sometimes the discussion would center on theory, chord inversions, chord voicing and alternative chords. They were always lively talks. The best discussions for me centered on technique. I learned far more from her. There were also opportunities where we looked at each other's instruments. Sharing insights on set up, tuning, strings, bridges, nuts, and string height. We adjusted, filed nuts, raised, and lowered bridges, discussed the positives and negatives of various strings, string gauge and brand names. We both concluded you do what is best for you. I have to say, I learned a lot and appreciated it all. That is the thing about knowledge, you never know when it will come into play.

Gisèle normally played "lead" when we jammed. I had no problem with that. She was better than I. But I noticed some of our theory talks were beginning to make their way into her playing. I was cool providing the bottom end. The next few months had several of these sessions. One night she gets out this Fodera Guitars, Presentation II, six-stringed bass. For what I know about bass guitars, that one cost a fortune. I was in awe. Then Gisèle began to tune it and proceeded to warm up. I thought I was impressed before. Now I am overwhelmed by her abilities. Her fingers danced in a blur and impossibly smooth and intricate melodies issued forth. I listened for some time and then began to play along with her. We jammed for an undetermined amount of time. Yes, it was that good and that much fun.

It was morning before we stopped. Gisèle said she should go home. So, we packed her up and we left. I walked her home. The city is not a safe place for a girl alone. I thought I lived in a dump. The place she lived in looked scary. As in vermin ridden and suspicious characters lurking. But we got to her door. Gisèle unlocks it and places her bass down. Then she turns to me and gets close. A smile on her lips and then Gisèle plants a small kiss on my cheek.

"Thanks" she says, "We should do this again soon."

The door closed and I went home in a haze and in the early morning sunrise. I stopped by a café just to have some espresso and think about what just happened. Was I reading too much into it? But I hope not. Double espresso, got to love it.

I had a gig that night. Sleep was a necessity. I went home to my apartment. My shithole did not look as bad as Gisèle's. I counted myself fortunate. Stripped down and crawled into bed. Played that night in some dive. Straight forward rock. Came home with a few more dollars than I had before and proceeded to immediately flop on the bed. It was the last thing I remember. Woke up naturally and was still in my clothes. Got up, showered, dressed, and went in search of espresso. I was sitting there in daze, eyes closed and meditating on my espresso.

A voice I quickly recognized says.

"Got one for me?"

There stood Gisèle. So, you know I asked her to sit, and I ordered her an espresso. We had never met like this. Always in some venue that let us jam. This was nice. Gisèle asked about my last night's gig. Not much to say. I made money. She had a gig as well. Not much there either.

Then she asks.

"Do you have a Blu-ray?"

Well, that kind of caught me off guard. But I did and said so.

Then she asked.

"Do you like old westerns?"

Once more I answered in the affirmative. Then I ask why. Well, she likes old westerns and has no player. Would I like to make an evening of it with her watching movies at my place? It seems harmless to me. We made a date for it. Our next night off, which was a Wednesday. I receive another peck on the cheek, and she leaves. I am not imagining this. Am I? I gotta go home and clean the shithole.

The apartment was a garbage bucket. No, I had not cleaned since I could remember. I turned on the lights and opened the ratty curtains. Even I was shocked at the amount of crud on the floor. The dust on the floor and furniture could be measured with a ruler. Not a big ruler, but thick enough. I had a vacuum cleaner someplace. I wonder if it still worked. The closet door opened, and an avalanche of junk tumbled out. I had to jump quickly to avoid the onslaught. There should be a large dumpster outside. It took several trips. The vacuum was in there and yes, it did work. I started at the top and worked my way down to the floor. There were too many trips to empty the canister. I admit, I am ashamed that I let it get this bad. But I did not want Gisèle to come here and see this mess. I did not want her to think I was a slob. Even though I am obviously a slob.

The cleaning continued until I was exhausted. I had to play tonight, so some food and rest was in order. The great cleansing will continue tomorrow. I made some noodles in a quasi-clean pan and feasted. They say a steady diet of this stuff is bad for you. It is a cheap meal, however. I was pleased when I flopped on the sofa, a cloud of dust did not leap forth. It took a lot of vacuuming to get it there. Nap time. Normal rock gig that night. Money was okay. Then home and sleep.

The alarm sounded. Yes, I set an alarm so I would get up and continue to scrub the place. Today's mountain? The kitchen and the modern sculpture of unwashed items. Some of this stuff may have to be sand blasted. A couple of hours later, it was all clean and even stored in cabinets. I cleaned before putting the dishes away. I had a countertop. Good to know.

Next stop, laundry. I made a pile in the middle of the bedroom floor. I gathered it into bags. A few pieces tried to escape. I was faster. The laundry downstairs was inadequate. I figure if I go to a laundromat, I can run several machines at once and get it all done. It cost me more but saved time. A few hours later, it was all done. Before you ask, yes, I put it all away properly. Even hung stuff up in the closet. The place looked good. I opened the window and let some fresh air in. As fresh as city air can be. I had time to practice. Sat down and began the scales and arpeggios. Added some "Gisèle" moves and ideas to my playing. Then relaxed until tonight's gig. More rock, classic rock tonight. Tomorrow will be Wednesday. Gisèle night!

Wednesday morning, I got up to do more cleaning. The first stop was the bathroom. I remembered my mom had a thing about clean bathrooms. I thought the kitchen was bad. If Gisèle walked in here, she would run screaming. A hazmat suit should be involved. I opted for rubber gloves, brushes, and rags to clean. It was a small room and did not take as long as I had anticipated. I gathered the towels and rugs; downstairs laundry could manage this.

I also looked in the pantry and fridge to see if I had anything to snack on. Nope, I was Old Mother Hubbard. While the towels dried, I did some grocery shopping and went to a local place. Some water, chips and other snackables made it into the cart. By the time I was home again, the towels were done. It occurred to me to change the bed too. I did not think that would happen. But everything was clean. I was ready.

I sat and waited for the arrival of Gisèle. There was some nervousness involved. I was not sure what would happen. Watching movies and munching out. I was okay with that. I wondered if she would bring her bass. I sat down to snooze until she got there. When I woke, the sun had set, and the place was dark. I turned on a few lights, picked up my Lotus and played some. Forty-five minutes later, a knock at the door. I jumped up and there she stood. A pizza in one hand and a couple bottles of something in the other. Took her stuff and gave her the grand tour. Gisèle had a backpack too. This she put down in the living room. I was asked to get a movie going and she would bring the pizza and plates.

There was quite the collection. John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, and Clint Eastwood movies. I put in "She wore a yellow ribbon." We settled on opposite ends of the sofa to watch and eat. The other bags Gisèle had brought had Peach wine in them. There was a glass of that for each of us. The first movie ended and the second began. "The Searchers," more John Wayne. Oh, and more pizza and wine.

Somewhere in the movie, Gisèle asked.

"Steve, I feel like some physical contact. Can I sit next to you?"

My one-word answer.

"Sure."

More pizza, more wine, more movies. The movie ended and it had a happy conclusion. You got to like that. "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly" was next.

Gisèle then asked.

"Can I sit on the floor in front you? And could you rub my neck and shoulders?"

Uhhhh, yes. I can do that. If you do not know this, I will tell you. Musicians have strong hands and fingers from years of using them. I trembled just a bit when I touched her first. I kneaded her muscles, and she moaned in pleasure. I felt them relax in my hands. After more wine, the pizza was gone. I excused myself to the kitchen for some munchies while Eastwood stared down bad guys. Upon my return, Gisèle insisted I take the same position. She wanted more massages.