"This is shit!"

This one occurred a while back, during one of our weekend live music gigs. We had booked an improvisational jazz trio billing themselves as TRiP (each capitalized letter representing the first letter of each guy's last name, and the word 'trip' perhaps signifying the mind jarring, if not hallucinogenic experience their music would impart to the listener). The instrumentation consisted of electric cello, upright bass, keyboards and accordion and all three artists were highly trained and skilled musicians with years of performing and teaching experience under their collective belts. It was strictly and entirely improvisational, non-melodic and experimental jazz...really more discordant aural stimulation than what most would consider music in any traditional or recognizable sense.

We had quite a crowd this particular evening, young and older, individuals, families and couples. And the response from the audience to what they were hearing was as varied as there were people in attendance. "I like it. "I don't know if I like it." "I'm not sure what to make of it but it is interesting." "Kudos for bringing in something so different." "I don't care for it." Personally, I thought it was very cool, not especially for the the music but rather for the experience of watching these guys play off of one another. The audience response was also so dynamic and diverse that it added another dimension to the overall experience.

The kicker, and real subject of this story has to do with one particular gentleman's response to the music of TRiP that evening. He was an older gentleman, maybe 75 or so, a regular customer and friend, and something of a cynic and curmudgeon. The fact that he was in the audience at all was a little unusual. His musical tastes pretty much ran the wide ranging gamut of 1950s polka music to 1960s polka music (perhaps it was the mention of the accordion in the concert posters that persuaded him that the music would be comfortably familiar and nostalgic. Little did he know, this wasn't going to be your mama's accordion music).

He sat right up in front, two feet from the band, at the smaller and higher two-person table, wincing and grimacing with every sound that TRiP made. I took a break from making drinks and was making the rounds to say hi and chat with folks, but I knew if I went over to his table that he'd give me an ear full about how he didn't like the music or that it was too loud or when are we going to have some good music here (translation: polka music).

Well, his critique was even more pointed than what I expected. "Hi _____ ," says I. "Good to see you here tonight. Interesting music, eh?"

His eyes widened in mock astonishment. "Music!? Music!!? I sure as hell wouldn't call it music!" Then he tilted his head slightly toward the band, which, again, was just a couple of feet away, and said loudly, "THIS IS SHIT!"

Whooaa... While I didn't expect him to like TRiP's music one bit, I was nevertheless angered and embarrassed by his loud and rude pronouncement. "All right," I said, "that's enough. I'll talk to you later." I got up and went back to chatting with other people. He left shortly after, obviously having heard more than enough shit for one night (and frankly, I was amazed that he stuck around as long as he did).

At first I was pretty ticked off. But after a while I started to think about what fun I could have with this by needling Greg, the keyboard and accordion player, with our friend's critique of his music. Greg is a serious musician with a serious musician's background, but he also has a wry and sardonic sense of humor. I figured he would get a kick out of it.

And so, after the last set and after most everyone had left the café, the three guys and I were sitting around idly talking about the evening's performance. Greg asked, "How do you think it went? What do you think people thought?" I told them most people indicated that, if not necessarily easy listening, they did find it interesting and dynamic, and certainly different from the usual music scene offerings in the area.

Then I asked if they recalled the older gentleman who sat right in front of them. "Oh yeah, he didn't look like he was digging it too much," said Greg.

"You didn't hear what he said when I sat down with him?" I asked.

"No, we weren't really listening to anything other than what we were doing."

"Well, it's even better than that!" I replied gleefully, ready to smack him with the zinger. "I asked him what he thought of you guys and he practically shouted, and I quote, 'This is SHIT!' "

Immediately they all started laughing. "Oh that's funny!" "Oh man...well you can't please everyone." "We have to use that! You gotta blog that!" "We're changing our name now...from now on we're SHIT." "When can we bring our shit here again?" "SHIT returns to Stumpjack!"

Of course now we were on a roll. "I can't play with you guys anymore, you both sound like shit!" "What a shitty thing to say. I'm way shittier than you." "You can't even come close to my shit!" "This whole deal is shit!" "We gotta get our shit loaded into the car." "You need help loading up your shit?" "This is the shittiest place we've ever played!" "Why thank you, we're shit and proud of it." "Okay, thanks guys. Thanks for the shit performance." "Our pleasure. Have a shitty night."

All truly is well that ends well.

The moral of this story: Sometimes people say some real shitty things, and it's often better if you can respond with a laugh and have some fun with it rather than getting bent out of shape over it.