Never since I was about 15 have I understood what New Year’s Eve hoopla was about. I hate fireworks and since we have a sensitive, super anxious dog who has to be heavily medicated to get through NYE and the 4th of July - I hate them even more. From about 1990 on - and occasionally prior to that - I have always worked on NYE. In fact, it was the most lucrative gig of the year. As the year 2000 was approaching (anyone remember the lunacy around “Y2K”?), musicians negotiated fat fees for that special night, the beginning of the new millennium (which didn’t begin until a year later but who cares). I negotiated an unheard of sum of $3,000.00 for what was meant to be four sets of music. Alas, the night was a bust. The hotel had assigned two ballrooms for the event: one with a DJ, one with a band (me). As it happened, the DJ ballroom never filled up and my band was instructed to play one set, then go up to our 4th floor green room and come back to play another set later. If you know anything about this biz, you know that a band CANNOT follow a DJ, only the other way around. The DJ played all the latest dance hits at 100db. The band played 1960’s and 1970’s rock tunes at 80db. The dance floor emptied. We were told to go back up to the green room and were never sent for again; the DJ played right through till midnight. About ten minutes to midnight, all guests were instructed not to use the elevators because, we all feared, the world was coming to an end, planes would fall from the skies, power grids would shut down and plunge us into freezing darkness. Everyone dutifully obeyed, except me and my band who said “screw it, let’s take the elevators and see what happens” Alas, burly uniformed hotel employees saved us from certain death and didn’t permit us to enter the elevators.
At the stroke of midnight, instead of continuing to merry-make till dawn, the crowd yelled “Happy New Year”, drained the last champagne flute and headed home. The DJ packed up his gear, lit a cigarette, looked at us and said: “What a fiasco. How much you makin’?” We told him. “Not bad,” quoth he, “I’m getting 10 grand” and with that he grabbed his last big speaker cabinet and, cigarette glued to lower lip, glided into the icy parking lot. I went to the office to collect my check. They made me wait till 1:30, then handed it over with a scowl. I had been working in that hotel regularly but knew I wouldn’t be coming back. Here’s to you, Y2K!
The 21st century began in earnest on September 11, 2001. Time has a way of doing that. Eras begin and end as they will, not at our command. I celebrate Jewish New Year in September or October - the lunar calendar is a fickle mistress - by eating chicken soup and apples dipped in honey. I usually celebrate the calendar New Year by playing old jazz standard to middle aged dancers, then yelling HNY at the stroke of midnight, collecting my check and heading home. This ritual became much more pleasant for me in 2011, the year I moved to Florida. Driving home was a lot safer than on Ontario icy highways, through frequent blizzards. That is - if I was able to dig my car out of the snow drift that had accumulated while we were entertaining.
March 2020, aka “le pandemie”, put an end to my music career…or at least slowed it down. No gig tonight. We will go out for pizza, then watch Netflix, then put earplugs in our ears while the cats hide under furniture and the dog is zonked out on heavy tranquilizers. We’ll go to bed, and wake up to 2023, another year of riding the biggest clown car ever built,
Happy New Year to all y’all
HNY
Happy New Year George! First I heard you was on the Shaun Newman Podcast last year. Thank you for helping me keep my sanity by putting all things in perspective!
Not sure the stage will be better in 2023 but we will be better at navigating the show. Happy New Year to you and yours George 🥂