Happy Birthday Dear Georgie

The tale of an accordion player's slightly-disastrous first paid gig.

A Sunday in March of 2012 marked my first day as a "professional" musician.  That is, I was paid by strangers to play the accordion.  I took one look at the weather when I arrived in Edinburgh, assessed my willingness to rely on busking in the cold and the rain, and swiftly put an ad online seeking paid indoor gigs.

Two months later, I got an email from a man who works in elder care who was helping to organize a 91st birthday party for a woman named Georgie.   He had seen my ad and wondered if I might provide the entertainment for the soiree, playing such classics as "Oh Danny Boy" and "My Old Man's a Dustman" along with which there would certainly be singing and dancing.  I enthusiastically agreed, and spent the week leading up to it arranging, rehearsing, and memorizing thirteen new songs, spanning traditional Scottish music, jazz classics from the birthday girl's golden years, and favorite sing-able showtunes.

My mind wandered during these practice sessions, and my imagination ran, as it tends to do, a little wild. By the day of the party my expectations had settled in, several notches above where they should have, and my image of the impending party was complete:

It would surely be a gala, such as one might find in the ballroom of an ocean liner, complete with metallic-looking balloons, photos of Georgie as a '40s beach babe, hunky nephews in kilts, and little great-granddaughters in patent-leather Mary-Janes bickering about whose turn it was to play with my puppet, Flaca. Tables would line the hall, displaying flutes of champagne, scrumptious hors d'oevres, and a tower of cupcakes.  Most illogically, due to my position as the hired entertainment, a swing band wearing white jackets would tap their toes on stage.

Winnie, the birthday girl's sister and hostess of the party, would be seen greeting guests, opening the occasional window, and hooting and hollering at stories from the past ninety years.  Most importantly, Georgie would be perched upon a comfortable chair wearing her Sunday best and a tiara, the angle of which would be continually compromised by the hands of children.  She would be slightly overwhelmed by the hoopla, and she would undoubtedly cry when I played "Oh Danny Boy." My set would turn into a comedy act as I delivered such jokes as this, which I devised on the walk over:

This next song is the classic that Europeans know as "La Mar.'" Americans only know it as "Beyond the Sea," and of course we Americans who were born in the '80s simply know it as "End credits music from 'Finding Nemo.'"

Uproarious laughter! I also played out a scenario where I would be about to announce my favorite Mexican waltz, "Morir Soñando," then quickly catch the morbidity of playing a song about dying, albeit while dreaming, in the presence of nonagenarians. I visualized myself quickly scanning my mental dictionary and introducing "Bailar Soñando" instead, which doesn't even make sense. They would certainly bailar, never knowing the half of my sensitivity.

This is not exactly how it went. As reality kicked in, the sparkling ballroom transformed into a drab assisted-living community "lounge" and the hunky nephews were replaced by chain-smoking old ladies. The swing band melded into a single unequivocally mediocre yet overdressed accordion player, and the salty taste of music-induced tears became the coppery taste of safety-pin induced blood, but we'll get to that.

The main problem was that nobody knew what to do with me. The man with whom I had been emailing wasn't in attendance, and Winnie was a bit scattered.  I took a seat with some guests, who I assumed to be childhood friends of the sisters, for a cup of tea.  I learned that there were, in fact, no friends or family in sight; all the guests were fellow residents of this facility. Their varying levels of with-it-ness became evident when one asked, several times, "Oh, is it someone's birthday?" and scoffed each time we told her Georgie was turning ninety-one, since she is ninety-six.

Finally, Winnie suggested I play, so I dragged over a coffee table to lay out some music and passed my puppet Flaca to a confused Georgie for a dance. As I positioned my accordion to start, it suddenly jerked down. Yes, this was the moment the safety pin gave out.  About a month prior, one strap had broken and was being held in place by a resilient safety pin.  During the intermediate weeks, the pin could have given up the ghost when I was busking and had no responsibility, or, better yet, when I was simply practicing at home. But instead it happened the one time people were actually waiting for me to play.

I hopefully closed it, and it reopened.  I tried it a few more times, keeping my fingers on it a second longer, as if that would make a difference.  I may have even surreptitiously executed the tried-and-true repair technique of blowing on it.  As I frantically tried to get it to stay shut, poking it through other parts of the strap but only bending it, I stabbed my thumb, commencing the bloodshed part of the party.  It was flowing well enough that I had to tend to the puncture in addition to solving the "safety" pin snafu.  I asked if there might be another safety pin somewhere, or an elastic band or some sellotape. The guests, dutifully paying attention, politely laughed, as if it were part of the routine. I excused myself and snuck into the kitchen, opening drawer after drawer and finding nothing. I considered my resources, and paused on the long strips of adhesive Velcro stuck to my accordion from a previous decoration. Perfect! I tugged one off, and used it to wrap the pin in place as I smeared my thumb on my fortunately black skirt.

This quick repair wasn't enough to save my act. I was nervous to have an audience, overcaffeinated, and frazzled from the strap mishap.  It's safe to say that this wasn't my best performance.  I made the mistake of starting with new songs, when I should have confidently launched into the songs I can play in my sleep and given the impression that I actually know how to play the instrument.  A hearty sing-along would have worked wonders to mask my ineptitude, but most of the guests remained silent.  A woman named Margaret saved the day when she arrived with both her marbles and vocal cords intact and loudly sang in both English and French, saving me from a deeper level of discomfort.  Between each song, Georgie alternated singing this other silly song that had the word "polka" in it and making a comment about finally being ninety, after which someone would remind her of her slightly more advanced age.

The entire set wasn't a nightmare, however.  After looking at blank stares for the duration of "Ba Mir Bist Du Schoen," I switched to a song that I can always play well: "La Donna é Mobile." This was a big hit!  Subsequently, during "Lady of Spain," Georgie grabbed the woman next to her, got up, and began the short-lived dancing that my imagination had promised me.  After the final cadence, I launched straight into "I Would Have Danced All Night," which, perhaps due to the context, was much more popular than the previous showtunes I had attempted.  By that point, Georgie had brought me a slice of cake, which was mostly frosting, sans utensil.  I wolfed down pink bites between songs with my fingers, accidentally using my hair as a vehicle for increasing the stickiness of my lowest accordion keys.

With most of my planned songs crossed off the list, I headed into the surely safe territory of traditional songs, beginning with Loch Lomond. I tried a few different pronunciations of the title before Georgie understood what song was coming, but it was worth it for the rousing chorus that finally ensued.  Thinking the traditional stuff was my ticket to success, I began "Flower of Scotland," which immediatley put a sour expression on Georgie's wrinkled face.  I stopped and asked if the song was the cause of this, which she confirmed to be true.  I suggested that I do "Wild Mountain Thyme" instead, and she surprised me by professing that all of these songs were "too modern."  I was at a loss for what to play, which Georgie remedied by suggesting we do "Oh Danny Boy."  I refrained from pointing out that I had already played it earlier in the set, and pumped the opening chords for a second time.  Georgie was not happy with the key, and started singing in the one she wanted, along with which I limped.  She shed not tear one.  I entertained myself with the inappropriate thought that when you play for people in this age bracket, you really only have to know one song.

With each wrong note and poor song choice, I became increasingly concerned that Winnie wouldn't want to pay me. I tried to predict what she might say, and what I would do to compromise, since I had given up a beautiful sunny Sunday (which happened to also be British Mother's Day) for the event. I also wondered how long this mutual torture would continue, since I was running low on songs that weren't "too modern." Finally, halfway through "Bella Notte," Winnie sauntered up and declared, her speech more comprehensible with the post-cake insertion of her dentures, "That's super, but that's enough for you now, dear." Phew! She paid me the entirety of the pre-established sum, and I quickly packed up to escape before my conscience got the better of me and I handed back the wad of bills.

This party was a thrilling turn of events for my busking career, but also reminded me why I haven't sought such gigs before.  The humiliation, confusion, and waste of a sunny Sunday was worth learning the lesson that I am indubitably a street musician; that I prefer to play in settings with an implied disclaimer that I might, you know, suck.  I am nothing without the power to bail halfway through a song, inconsequentially strike the wrong chords, not worry about tempo, and stop to eat an entire slice of frosting if I feel like it.  I will agree to such gigs with caution in the future, and only play songs I've known for at least a year. Alternatively, I can practice hard, become the master accordion player of my imagination, and find that cruise ship for a real gala.  The safety pins will stay at home.