Worlds Collide

”Here they come!”

“...”

“There they go!”

Parking is always a nightmare in the particular section of Queens where I played a small procession Saturday night with one of my bands. I navigated a maze of one-way streets, strewn with potholes, double-parked cars, and the occasional ambulance squeezing by, sirens ablaze. I found a spot though, and accompanied by my dad, the bandleader, and a trumpet player, we left the car and proceeded to the Italian club. When we rounded the corner, our presence and subsequent departure were announced by a girl hanging on the railing of a corner laundromat. The above commentary was lost as we took in the sight before us. The street, blocked off on either side by blue wooden police horses, greeted us with music, barbecues, tents and chairs as a Brazilian festival rocked full swing. “Can you believe it?” asked a random local, reclining on his front steps, “they granted two permits for the same day on the same street.”

We made our way through the crowd, greeted by the same requests and propositions any musician receives when passing through a large group of people. Inquiries ranged from asking us to play a song to volunteering to play a song for us. Smile and nod, smile and nod. Inside the club, the women from the society prepared for the procession, balancing vases upon their heads, an old tradition. One of the officials greeted the band leader enthusiastically, and reminded him to walk slower when the event began. Apparently last year we got too far ahead of the ladies, and were around a corner while they were still balancing several feet behind.

The band leader’s son, our snare drummer, arrived with his self-dubbed “girlfriend-fiancée-whatevah”, functioning as his driver and complaining about the traffic and the parking. “We saw something so friggen’ disgustin’ walkin’ down here; I don’t even wanna tell ya!” she exhaled, collapsing into a chair. “Should we tell you?” asked the son, eyes gleaming eagerly. “You might as well...” I said hesitantly, dreading the outcome. “We saw this woman go behind a car at the gas station...” began the girlfriend-fiancée-whatevah, even as the son proceeded to mime the bathroom-challenged woman’s actions. I was way ahead of both these Hemingways though, and quickly waved my hands to indicate they’d given us enough to get the picture.

The girlfriend-fiancée-whatevah began to complain about the gig, pointing out that they had tickets to a baseball game. I told her it was actually a short job, no more than an hour to an hour-and-a-half, and they’d make it to the stadium easily. We simply had to go up to the local church, play the crowd down the hill, past the society, around the block and back to the club’s backyard, where they’d have an outdoor mass. We’d probably hang around at the end and play one or two songs in the yard. “OH NO,” she gasped, “When this is ovah, we’re leaving.” Smile and nod. She set her sights on nagging her boyfriend about the vase tradition, unsatisfied with his response to her persistent inquiries of “WHY?”, as tradition and “’Cos that’s what they did back in Italy!” didn’t seem to be enough.

At this point we were instructed to move outside and up to the church, three blocks uphill. The procession began as soon as everyone was lined up, meeting one minor snag when the police car leading us turned down the wrong block as a frantic society member ran after him. Our route had to take us back to the street the club was on, and through the Brazilian street festival. I wasn’t sure how we’d be received, but the crowd enthusiastically applauded both the American and Italian national anthems as we played them outside the club. They clapped along with the drums as we moved past the tents and chairs, launching into one of our Italian marches. Worlds meshed seamlessly.

When we arrived back around the block, only 45 minutes had elapsed. True to my experience, we played two more songs while everyone found seats. the bandleader’s son and future daughter-in-law/whatevah bid him a quick farewell, and likely made it to their game on time. We grabbed a few bottles of water before making our own exit, back through the street fair at the end of which a gentleman on the corner asked if we were going to be playing. The band leader assured him that we already had, and as for me, I just smiled and nodded. On the ride home, the band leader agreed to meet my dad and the trumpet player at the subway station where I’d be dropping them off later today, before moving on to the baptism of a friend’s firstborn. I think my dad will be fine, and the bandleader confirmed that he found some other players to cover for me. Feasts, street fairs, baseball games and personal time can coexist. When it looks like worlds are going to collide, sometimes you just have to smile and nod, and it will all work out.