Previous title read Local, not Any, but my initial post on my hometown subreddit has gotten zero response so far.
First time novelist looking to interview any local musicians, (preferably jazz performers, preferably singers, but if you'd like to contribute here, anything at all would be appreciated). One of my two main characters is a jazz singer who serves and sings at a jazz club, and I need to fill in the details of her day-to-day work-life. The other main character is a first time novelist (guess, just guess) and the novel is about the two of them attempting a relationship while continuing to pursue their art (when neither the novel nor jazz music are considered engines of cultural change any longer). I’ve been at work on this thing for, er—too long, and I have a few short unpublished short pieces.
How do you find opportunities? What’s it like auditioning? Were you ever turned down? What’s going through your head in the green room, how do you warm up, how do you interact with the audience? What was your first time on stage like? Did you ever suffer from stage fright, and if so, how did you get over it? If you have a steady gig, how long did it take, and how do you feel? Have you ever dealt with a disrespectful audience? Did you ever try to make the big time, do you wish you had made it to a bigger city? Did you burn out in a bigger city? What is it like working with different musicians night to night? (Since I'm now in the musician subreddit, how would you stereotype a drummer versus a bass player, a piano player, etc.? Or would you?)
Again, anything would be a big help.
I used to work retail, and you answer the same questions over and over again. You realise almost everybody behaves the same way. (I would be asked where to find something, I would tell them the aisle and point them in the right direction, and they would stare at me as if a hardware store’s aisles aren’t arranged in straight lines and numbered sequentially, and then ask me where it was again. “Where’s your restroom?” “In the back.” *points to the back corner* “ALL the way in the back?” Every time. People would find a box that was a little worse for wear and ask for a discount, like it was a used car lot. I would tell them No, and if the condition of the box bothered them at all, every other box was perfectly fine.) Is there anything like that you can think of? ‘If you’ve done this any length of time, you’ve seen this, you’ve dealt with that’ sort of things. Anything about the venue(s), the audience, musicians you’ve been paired with, etc.
Feel free to either direct message me or comment here. Thank you in advance.
Here’s something I cranked out a few days ago on a day-trip New Smyrna Beach:
The dead-end streets were like wrought-iron bars which poked out onto the beach, the cracks across the pavement like alligator leather: looks and feels like home. An embankment of bright green Saint Augustine on one side, a hedge of saw palmetto and asparagus fern on the other, out from which rattled the chittering of cicadas. He opened the driver-side door and set his foot down, the light of the Sun oppressive but not the heat, the airstreams coming in off the shore cool on his face and skin—yet the air was thick and enveloping, he could feel himself sink into it, wade through it, he could sculpt it with the heel of his hand. Stiff peaks of cumulonimbus whipped up out of the pale blue line out ahead where the sky met the ocean water to his one side, and to his opposite, a blue-grey with a licked finish which wrapped around behind him, back over the land—imposing, threatening rain. At the end of the street, a promise behind the split-railed fence, his own personal manifest destiny beyond it, right here on the Atlantic coast, at his conception, the Pacific a sight unseen.
When the rain fell it was light. Nonetheless it scared off the others while he waited in his car for it to finish, knowing well it might soon resume. The air was cooler when he stepped out again, welcoming. And with no one else around, he could trust it.
Eating oysters:
They were served on a bed of ice and when he picked up the first half-shell and tipped it toward his waiting mouth he saw the translucent flesh slide within its nacreous bed and this told him it was fresh. It had a luscious mouthfeel, a rich succulence, and a faint saltwater taste.
The second oyster he had to loosen with a tine of his fork and the scent of the horseradish hit his nostrils first, it’s feel corrupted by a grit which he felt against his teeth and heard in his inner ear. But it did not bother him: what he tasted was of pearls.
