Credit Karma

Years ago, when I was an emerging bassist with a passion for eighth-note pulse-rock, I was flown to London for a unique opportunity.  The gig was to replace a weak album track for a well-known, high-charting band whose bassist was apparently struggling with issues.  At the time, digital instruments were not common, machine-generated instruments were obvious and the management decided to 'fly in' another player.  For the biggest paycheck I'd ever received, I was to lay down a simple, basic, eighth-note, pocket-heavy part, on what was to be a chart-topping single.  I got to play along to a band whose music I paid for on vinyl, in those days.  The catch was, I had to sign serious documents swearing I would never disclose my identity.  

Of course I was told that my work only 'might' be used on the recording, although the authorship would be attributed to the regular band members.  I signed, received a fat 4-figure check, a taxi back to Gatwick where I boarded a prepaid Virgin flight home. Not even an overnight stay.  In New York City, the music scene for sidemen was pretty male-dominated.  I felt like bragging but I couldn't.  I'd sworn away my rights and I take these things seriously.  So while I banked the check, I was stripped of the notch in my musical belt--the credit, the album listing-- things which musicians crave and hoard like trophies. Still, it gave me some personal swagger.  I felt 'heard' if not seen.  

Some years later, when Bill Wyman quit The Rolling Stones, bassists world-over were salivating to audition for the gig.  I was a young single mother playing mostly bars in the city, unable to tour.  One amazing Saturday night, at a well-known dive bar in the east Village, Bobby Keys came to drink and sit in with our band.  He ended up playing an entire 7-hour marathon night-- insisting, during breaks, that I was going to be the next bassist for the Stones.  I've heard a lot of alcohol-fueled talk in my day, and every single deserving career-bassist in New York was gunning for this miracle opportunity. Meanwhile, a sober Bobby called me during the week-- left messages on my voicemail.  He'd talked to Keith, he said... and sure enough the management called me to schedule. But I declined.  They called again.  I declined again-- I had a young child-- that was my priority. Again, they offered babysitters... other kids were on the road.  Just come... play... Well, I knew I'd be a sideman, not a band member... and did I want the larger-than-life thing? Me-- in a semi-glorified studio apartment with my little boy, my books and my 8-track tape machine?  I was happy. And I couldn't really fathom Mick Jagger welcoming a woman as anything but a back-up singer.  Bobby called back; again and again I declined.  I also knew the shortlisted guys and they were my heroes... it was a place for which I didn't want to compete, nor did I really belong in their company. I mean-- Darryl Jones played with Miles. I worshipped him, saw him every chance I got.

A couple of weeks later I was on 48th Street and one of the store clerks actually noticed me... Hey, he remarked, I read you were on the Stones' shortlist.  Not me, I answered.  But from that moment on, I was given the retail-respect most players were used to.  So while I didn't share, divulge or brag... there were some perks.

In and out of college, it's a thing... people ask.. will I get credit? It seems to make all the difference. I once judged one of those King of the Blues contests at Guitar Center alongside the late Bill Sims and the also late incomparable Hugh McCracken.  Before the judging we had to fill out a form with our 'credits'.  Hugh kept peeking at my pathetic sheet and asked me what he should put down.  He played rhythm on BB King's The Thrill is Gone.  Doesn't that just about knock us all out of the park?  What a humble, quiet genius he was. Credit? Plenty.  

But how about all those amazing pocket-players who graced the old records that made our hearts jump and our feet tap as kids?  Some of them remain uncompensated, unnamed.  I think about them-- about the great talents who died penniless or under-acknowledged while instagram celebrities of this culture are regaled and overpaid for nothing but popularity contracts... hype.  It's hard to even know what these airbrushed people actually look like, let alone sound like, in the naked dark.  

I wake up to my old clock-radio alarm and there's often some ironic reminder of my past.  I Love Rock and Roll.. my dear best friend and bandmate Alan Merrill who struggled and strained for credit for his hit song.  On a morning two weeks ago, 'my' song came on.  Even with the plastic old speaker, I could recognize my bass fingers in a heartbeat.  The song will live; the credit will die.  It gave me a little jolt for about a minute-- me the aging old songwriter/poet whose anonymity is almost ensured.  

Some of us get credit for what we didn't do... taking the rap for a friend.  All those writers who claim they are responsible for anything we find in their poems or work. After a while, resonance is built-in-- a signature... a voice.  I've been reading Javier Marias... he often played with the concept of authorship... in Tomorrow in the Battle..' he ghostwrites for a ghostwriter, shows up with the imposter's identity at a government office.  It gets complicated. 

Didn't you play with Patti Smith, a medical person asked me this week as I got up from his chair? No, I didn't, I replied. Browsing the shelves in Barnes and Noble, she has her own little section.  Kind of amazing. The irony of life-- of fame, of random success or failure... the luck of some draw.  My ex-husband, the poster child of under-acknowledged rock players, was once asked, as we sat down to eat in a restaurant, 'Aren't you famous?'  He looked at me, looked at the flirtatious waitress, and replied... I'm hungry, pointing to the menu.  

To the unacknowledged, undercredited greats, I salute you, my heroes... Heaven stands still.