Musical disenchantment ― II

By Chi-Young Kim

My husband and I don't often do interesting things. We'll go out to dinner once in a while. Sometimes we’ll get a hike in, or catch a movie, but such occasions are few and far between.

A few weekends ago, we decided to get a babysitter and go wine tasting. Some time ago, I was invited to a wine tasting near Santa Barbara for a cousin’s birthday, but of course my daughter got sick and I couldn’t make it.

Since then, wine tasting has been lingering at the back of my mind. I remembered a place my sister and brother-in-law went to when they were visiting; we bought cheese and crackers and drove out. I thought we would sit around, drink some wine, and have a nice afternoon outdoors, catching up; the winery boasted live music, too.

What we didn’t realize was this: everyone else in a 60-mile radius had the same idea. It was like walking into a frat party, complete with raucous laughter, tipsy women dancing, and litter. We elbowed our way to the bar area, ordered a flight, and dashed to a free table, probably vacant because its heat lamp was turned off.

A jazz band was switching from Latin Jazz to a random sampling of other styles. We huddled around our table, sipped our wine, and took out some cheese and crackers, ready to catch up on gossip.

That was when it happened. My husband stopped mid-sentence, stared at the band, and muttered, "Are they covering Béla Fleck?” I scoffed. The band was playing generic jazz, I pointed out. Plus, wasn’t that guy playing a ukulele? Whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t a banjo.

We watched in silence for a while, the horror slowly building. Not only were they covering Béla Fleck, they were making it terribly cheesy. Women were gathering in front of the stage, alternately dancing and cheering. "Was Béla Fleck this bad?” I wondered. Granted, I loved the one Béla Fleck concert we went to months ago. My husband shook his head; according to him, the band didn’t have swing.

This caused us to launch into a lengthy discussion about the meaning of "swing,” how it was possible for a band to play all the parts correctly but fail to cohere, and why in the world everyone was clapping and cheering. My husband’s expression turned morose. "It’s probably because they have no idea it’s a cover.” His theory was that the audience believed this band composed all those songs.

We gulped down more wine to see if it would help. It didn’t. For one thing, the wine was terrible and not conducive to much drinking. Also, not only were they butchering Béla Fleck and the Flecktones, the guy with the ukulele (it turned out to be a mandolin) occasionally beatboxed over parts of it. Then, the bassist dove into a solo (which I initially didn’t realize was happening because the other members of the band member were playing at equally loudly).

My husband hung his head in sadness. He informed me that the bassist was copying a solo by the greatest bassist alive, Victor Wooten, who paid tribute to the greatest bassist of all time, Jaco Pastorius. The solo included a measure riffed from Pastorius, which was apparently extremely difficult. The bassist in front of us clearly had no such skills; he glossed over the solo and fudged the hard parts. He jammed in front of the cheering ladies, and many people gave them a standing ovation.

We couldn’t talk about anything else after that, even though my husband tried to bring up other topics of conversation. I couldn’t let it go. I had too many questions: why would you cover a virtuosic band when you were so terrible? Should I be glad that they were enjoying themselves onstage, or mortified that they couldn’t tell they were so bad? Why did nobody else realize that the music was terrible? Is it odd for me to be outraged on behalf of a band I don’t really know? Why is that guy beatboxing? Who even beatboxes anymore?

When we got into the car, my husband decided to play Béla Fleck and the Flecktones, the very CD the cover band had butchered. Much to our relief, even though neither of us had listened to it in several years, the CD was as good as ever. Although I’m not a music fan, the performance at the winery disturbed me. My husband, who has been trying to instill a love of music in me for years, was thrilled that I could discern quality, although it probably helped that I wasn’t drunk like everyone else.

It did occur to me that I shouldn’t be so harsh on those musicians; as a translator who interprets other people’s work, I should understand the joy they get from playing music they admire, and appreciate the effort they put into learning the parts and practicing. But I couldn’t help myself. I just hope I’m not that atrocious in my chosen line of work.

Chi-Young Kim is a literary translator based in Los Angeles. She has translated works by Shin Kyung-sook, Kim Young-ha, and Jo Kyung-ran. Contact her at chiyoung@chiyoungkim.com or via her website, chiyoungkim.com.