For the first time since 2019, I played a New Year’s Eve gig! It was special for several reasons. First, it was in the town where I grew up: Hamden, CT. Moreover, I was in NY vocalist Molly Ryan’s band, consisting of, besides me, husband Dan Levinson on reeds, Jim Fryer on trombone, Kevin Dorn on drums and Rob Adkins on bass. I’m pretty sure none of these musicians reads this column so, if you promise not to tell them, I’ll confess I’d play almost anywhere with that group for (almost) free. They’re not only consummate professionals; they’re good friends I’ve known for between five and more than thirty years. Finally, as we were playing for elderly (but swinging) Auld Lang Syners in a swank retirement community, the gig ended at 10:30 and I made it home to Mystic with three minutes to spare, so I was able to welcome the new year watching the ball fall in Times Square with my wife, Anne. Bliss! I could leave it there, but certain aspects stand out that deserve a closer look.
During the job the band got a challenging surprise. We played our first 75-minute set with good response: enthusiastic applause, singing when appropriate, a smattering of dancers (by now most of us know that these communities are often populated by a substantial imbalance of women and men, with women the reluctant majority). We felt great being together again and the gig was going great guns.
THEN,
