10.25.07

improvise |_impr__v_z| |__mpr__va_z| |__mpr__va_z| |__mpr_v__z|
verb [ trans. ]
create and perform (music, drama, or verse) spontaneously or without preparation : the ability to improvise operatic arias in any given style | [ intrans. ] he was improvising to a backing of guitar chords | [as adj. ] ( improvised) improvised humor.

Cuates y Cuetes is a restaurant that consistently came up when Andy was researching places the play jazz in Puerto Vallarta. No matter what book or website he found, it was Cuates y Cuetes at the top of the list. He also found a PV musicians’ message board where locals and potential transients post and respond to messages in the hope of booking gigs in the Puerto Vallarta area. This is where Andy found Mr. Bugeyes who cordially invited Andy to Cuates y Cuetes.

Let me take a moment to describe Mr.Bugeyes. He is probably in his late forties, early fifties. He is also a bass player. He wears a very shiny head to match his very shiny face. His skin is burnt amber. He sports round frames across his eyes and white button down linen shirts. He is always smoking. He speaks through a bizarre, indefinable accent. This is possibly a result of being raised in the UK, and then living fifteen plus years in Minnesota before moving here to Puerto Vallarta. He is very nice and forthcoming with information for gringos. You can see, behind the severely nearsighted eyes, a slightly debaucherous back-story. He has done a significant amount of touring and recording as a successful musician. I am sure that he has sniffed everything that can be sniffed and smoked twice as much at one point in his life. I don’t think that Mr. Bugeyes likes me very much and that is all right. He has several expensive basses he plays that we have met and one supposed wife he speaks of that we haven’t met. He likes Andy in a weird competitive way. At least it was enough to invite him to the open jazz jam last Monday.

Andy’s steps were hesitant and slow as we rounded the corner to the restaurant. I could hear the horns first followed by the rest of the band.

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t just bring your bass with you,” I whispered in the ear closest to my mouth.

He paused, looked at me and said, “I told you. It’s in poor form to just assume you can play the first time you go to one of these things. It’s better to network, meet people and wait for the invite.”

Once underneath the overhang we identified the one familiar face, Mr.Bugeyes with a white linen button down and a half smoked Mexican butt. He smiled halfway before motioning to the two empty chairs next to him. As they began talking shop I scanned the perimeter. There were more empty chairs than taken ones. The majority of drinkers and listeners were white tourists enjoying retirement. There were seemingly way too many older drunk women with leathery tans and fringed t-shits migrating towards the cluster of musicians. It wasn’t so much a stage as it was a corner near the bar where the music was coming from. Later we were introduced to the bass player and his wife, the singer. Mr. And Mrs. Rio were both new to Puerto Vallarta via Brasil, their home country. Behind them was El Dartho, the naughty little drummer who learned English by watching Star Wars. Keys was this incredible piano player who propositioned me to be a backup dancer for his solo gigs. Lastly we met Chimbo whose skills on the saxophone and flute go far beyond his ripe old age of twenty.

We ordered two Negro Modellos and participated in broken conversation with the band during their short break. Actually I did a lot more uncomfortable smiling than anything else. It just so happened that earlier that day Mr. Rio had just bought this cheap upright bass and had brought it to the gig. Andy went over to the stone corner where it was propped up and ticked it with his fingers. I noticed some nodding and laughter exchanged between he and Mr. Rio and next thing I knew they were shaking hands and Andy was on stage with Chimbo, El Dartho and Keys. After a four count they began playing. I watched as Andy molested her strings with his hands. As the music sped up his face intensified, stance deepened. Before I knew it he was soloing and everyone was watching. I was nervous, carefully examining his choice in notes and scales, as if I had any idea what he was doing. Applause filled the space as he finished and passed the floor over to Chimbo who then took a solo of his own. After a drum solo the music raced to the finish, completing Andy’s unexpected audition. There was much more clapping and Spanish hollering as he shook Mr. Rio’s hand and smacked his right shoulder at the same time. Mr. Rio walked back to his seat, encouraging Andy to play some more.

The second song was more of a swing than Latin jazz, but again, what do I know? I did notice that the music seemed a bit faster and Andy’s participation in the melody required much more finger work. All of a sudden I observed a “not so typical” move on the bass, which immediately drew my attention to his right hand. After every few measures he pulled his hand back, shook his fingertip close to his hip, examined them and kept playing. I then peered down at the ground directly below his busy hands. There were small, round, dark drops scattered around his feet.

“That can’t possibly be blood,” I thought to myself, as my concern grew greater. I was worried about Andy but was equally worried about what Mr. Rio was going to think if that was blood all over his brand new bass. I figured it was just sweat and tried not to think about it. The music spiraled upward and climaxed. Another round of applause was followed by a crowd that gathered around my little music maker. He was smiling and laughing and proudly showing of his right hand. One of the trumpet players, who we had not seen play yet, stretched out his arms and embraced Andy who was now omitting steam from under his wet t-shirt.

“Yew plae widt thiz,” Passionate Pedro said protecting his heart. “Mos plae widt cabesa bit yew, yer hoe hart.” I thought he was going to cry. I took this as a sign that Andy had successfully accomplished what he set out to do, redefine himself as a Latin Bass God. He swallowed from his bottle and came back to our table.

I looked at his hand, which was now wrapped in napkins. “Are you alright? Did you cut your fingers or something?”

“Ummmm, yeah. You could say that. I just left all my finger tips in the strings of his bass.” The blood was now seeping out the wrinkles in the napkin. “I wanted to wipe it down but he just grabbed it back.”

We sat there as we watched Mr. Rios hands run up and down all four strings, Andy’s plasma and all.

andy playing at cuates y cuetes a few nights later