As bass players, we can, if we choose, quite easily find ourselves in a wide variety of situations without having to change much about our sound or our playing. If your time is good and you’re able to help those around you feel good and sound better, the telephone will pretty much always ring.
Playing jazz as an electric-bass player living in New York City from 2000 to 2010 was somewhat of a fool’s errand in terms of getting work. No one wanted electric bass, and bandleaders would go to the bottom of a list of 100 upright players before they would even think about calling you. Not only that, but I wasn’t even at the top of the electric list when I first moved there. Not even close. Anthony Jackson, Richard Bona, Will Lee, Tim Lefebvre, James Genus, Lincoln Goines, Mike Pope, John Benitez, Matthew Garrison—that’s a who’s who of the instrument when I first moved to town, and I was very much a freshman with almost no experience. Almost…
I’d been lucky enough to play extensively with Kenwood Dennard (Jaco’s drummer), and a little with Hiram Bullock (Jaco’s guitarist) before moving to NYC which helped create a little momentum, but only a VERY little.
This is where the story begins:
I’d sent Mike Stern a demo back in late ’97. He’d not only taken the time to listen to it but had called my parents’ house right after I moved to the U.S. to tell me he loved it and wanted to hang. I missed the call but eventually met him at a clinic he gave at Berklee.
Of course, I was buzzing about all of this. It helped me stay laser-focused on practice and on moving to NYC as soon as possible. I got the typical “look me up when you get to town” invitation from Stern and basically counted the seconds through the three semesters I stayed at Berklee until I could split town.
I arrived with a ton of confidence but zero gigs. And nothing happened overnight. It really took saying yes to literally everything I was offered just to keep a roof over my head. Through that process, I felt like I was getting further away from playing with my jazz heroes.
The early gigs were far from glamorous—long hours, terrible pay, and sometimes, after travel expenses, they cost me money to play.
When Stern finally called, a few years into living in NYC, things started to move pretty quickly. I began playing a lot of gigs at the 55 Bar with him, and short road trips became a thing—a four-night stint at Arturo Sandoval’s new club in Miami, gigs in Chicago, Cleveland, and upstate New York, and then some international work, including a tour of Mexico and a trip to Brazil, if I remember right.
But the hardest phone call of my career came from Mike not long into my time touring with him. It went something like this:
“Hey man, what’s your scene in April? Lincoln can’t make a trip to the West Coast. It’s just one gig. Trio… with DENNIS CHAMBERS.”
Mike didn’t shout Dennis’ name, but that’s how I heard it. My all-time hero. Someone I’d been dreaming about playing with for over 15 years. And here’s the kicker: I had to say no.
I’d just committed to six weeks with Jojo Mayer’s band Nerve in Asia and Europe, and there was no way I could bail on him. And there was no way I could afford to ditch six weeks of work for a single gig with Mike. To say that haunted me for years is an understatement. I was destroyed that I had to turn it down.
The tour with Jojo was amazing—the posters hang in my studio as a reminder of those times to this day. And thankfully, I was able to go on some years later and play dozens of shows with Mike and Dennis all over the world—truly some of the highlights of my career.
I still think about that phone call, though. Whenever I have a single moment of doubt, I think about the time I had to say no to my heroes—the reasons I moved to America, the reason I do what I do. I get emotional writing and thinking about it even now. But I've learned to never have regrets and understand you just have to believe in the process and maintain the willpower to continue—no matter what.
