So, here I am again, buckled to a seat that "may be used as a flotation device." The well kept, but haggard looking stewardess (I believe flight attendant is the pc term now) is explaining what to do in case of an emergency. Trying to ignore her and the idea of an "emergency" over say, Siberia, I notice the young Chinese couple sitting next to me, switching off the cell phones and blackberries they've been tethered to since they sat down. They seem pleasant enough, though luckily not "too pleasant." I'm not big on airplane small talk and we're in this one for the long haul. Sixteen hours plus to Hong Kong International from LAX and no end in sight. I glance around the cabin and see people from all walks, also in the assumed position staring into their hands, getting that last game score, sending that last text, or announcing their whereabouts to the twitsphere before reluctantly severing their connection to "the world." I suddenly realize that I'm turning into my father, who still uses a manual typewriter. The pilot pleasantly chimes in through fuzzy speakers and we're backing out onto the tarmac.
Why am I on a plane to Hong Kong? The simple answer is work. A couple of years ago I got the opportunity to perform and live in The InterContinental Hotel in Kowloon, Hong Kong. I'm back for more. I am a musician. More specifically, I'm the "featured artist" in the lounge, or singer/songwriter/guitarist as it says on my business card. Mostly, I call myself a "lounge singer" because of the amusing visuals that phrase gives me... the "lounge lizard," martini in one hand, microphone in the other, tuxedo donned and singing shoddy versions of anything the audience requests while making bad jokes. There's usually dim lighting and velvet in this scene, reminding me of a gig I once played in the "private" room of an old Italian restaurant. Absolutely everything in that room was covered in velvet, including the chandelier and piano (red tiger print). Yes, there was a very large picture of Elvis.
I'm not however, that kind of lounge singer and don't think they even exist in the US anymore. Those acts are relics relegated to Cold War days, comedy skits (thanks to Bill Murray for doing it best) and apparently... Asia, where you can still find the occasional keyboard/drum machine and usually a tux or evening gown on the stage, and though not as extreme as the parody, still gives me a jolt of culture shock. Though I'm just a country boy from the south who made it to LA in a pickup truck, then to Asia in this damn plane (did I mention I don't like to fly?), because of my unrefined musical style and American persona, I somehow manage to get away with wearing jeans, an untucked shirt and no jacket in these up-scale joints. I honestly don't know how I was able to land such a gig. I'm either lucky, or cheesier than I'm willing to admit, but I still ain't wearing no monkey suit.
I sometimes fantasize that I got this job on the merit of quality musicianship. Coming from Nashville and Los Angeles, it's refreshing to be a bigger fish in a smaller pond and I tell myself that in Asia, people "really get it" and appreciate the "best quality musicians." I enjoy toying with this idea as it's in stark contrast to the reality of a town like LA, where what usually separates the wildly successful from the nobody's are often things like nepotism, dumb luck or the complete absence of scruples, and anyone who can fart into a kazoo thinks they're a musician... and probably plays in a band to prove it. This is not to take anything away from the many talented artists who benefit from universal law or to begrudge the mediocre from having fun with the art form. Regarding the people with the scruple deficiency, I have no comment. I only bring up the point because it was mostly luck that got me said job to begin with.
Either way, it's good work. It doesn't pay lots of money, but it's steady and living in a five star hotel is relatively easy to get used to, though I'll start to eventually miss little things like cooking my own meals and mindless, relaxing tasks like raking the yard or doing dishes... appreciating the simple things in life. I'll get back home to LA and that'll last about a week. I'll then start to miss the simple little things like having my t shirts neatly folded in cardboard frames and 24 hour room service on silver platters. "Would you like a side of caviar with your foie gras, sir?" Yes, I think I would. Next stop, Hong Kong.
