The Free Lance

THERE’S A REJOINDER common to gigging freelance musicians, when invited to play a job for no money but with guaranteed “exposure”: “People die of exposure.”

I’ve had my share of such entreaties. I was naive enough – oh, let’s just say stupid enough – to think there might be credibility in that offer. There never was. It was just a horseshit move by a promoter or head of an entertainment committee or other such booking agent figuring that the place to save money was on the performers.

Because it’s tough to get catering on the cheap, and printers and other event-adjacent workers don’t make a habit of cutting their fees for the magic allure of “exposure.” By extension, of course, plumbers and electricians and other similar professionals have to make a living off what they do – but when it’s some manner of entertainer being considered, there’s a too-prevalent mindset that doesn’t take that seriously as a career choice. If you’re a professional in an entertainment field, I’m preaching to the choir. If you’re the kind of asshole who seeks to short-change your gig-workers, I’ll never convince you.

As I noted here a couple of weeks ago, I pursued a kind of literary piecework forty years ago, writing arts-related stories for Albany, NY-area publications. It started when a touring production of “Sweeney Todd” arrived at Proctor’s in Schenectady and I couldn’t afford tickets. I had a failed marriage (but remained married) and a new girlfriend. I was working the afternoon shift for an AM radio station that played second-generation big-band music and easygoing jazz; because of its daytime-only license, I had to shut down the station at dusk, which arrived earlier and earlier as the year waned and meant that my hourly wage paycheck diminished accordingly.

So I couldn’t afford those tickets, but it occurred to me that, if I could parlay my knowledge of music and shows into some kind of work for the theater, I might at least get a discount on those seats. Putting aside my novel-in-progress, I wrote what I considered some sample press releases, and when I say “wrote,” I mean “typed,” on an actual typewriter. I took the pages to Proctor’s, asked my way into their press office, and presented my work. It just so happened – here’s where stories like this one take their least-probably, most-fascinating turns – that the theater’s PR person was recovering from car-accident injuries. The woman temporarily replacing her did in fact need some help, and put me to work. By this time, “Sweeney Todd” had come and gone, but I did score tickets to some of the events that arrived in its wake. Most importantly, the woman I was working with suggested that my talents might be better used as a reviewer.

With five daily newspapers and a couple of weeklies in what was termed the Capital Region – Albany, Schenectady, Troy, and Saratoga Springs – I figured I had a shot, especially if I sold myself as a classical-music expert. With the arrogance of a 27-year-old, I typed up more samples, this time reviews of three events I pretended I’d seen. I photocopied them, and made my rounds, introducing myself at the arts desk at each publication and handing over my samples.

My strategy paid off, at least in theory. Within a few days the Schenectady Gazette dispatched me on a couple of classical-music review assignments. Where it didn’t pay was in actual money. The going rate was twenty dollars per review, to run about 600 words. “And you get free tickets, of course,” the arts editor murmured. I would soon realize that this job was intended for a retiree, or at least for someone with a day job.

Not long after that, I heard from Metroland magazine. This was a free weekly distributed at bars and coffee shops in the area, concentrating on the local entertainment scene. Would I cover classical music?

Nobody was picking up Metroland for classical-music coverage. The idea was laughable. That’s why it appealed to me. I’m a fan of lost causes. My first piece for them ran in February 1984. But just a month later, I got a call from Albany’s Knickerbocker News, the city’s afternoon daily. (The Times-Union was the morning paper. Was that ever once upon a time!) Would I cover classical music for them? Of course. But I’ll need more than twenty bucks per piece. Sorry. That’s what we pay. And you’ll need to have to stop writing for Metroland – we need exclusivity here.

Being a complaisant idiot, I said yes. And B.A. Nilsson, as I bylined myself, stopped writing for Metroland and George Gordon took his place. (Look up Lord Byron.) At Metroland, I was morphing into something of a utility player where the more rarefied arts were concerned, soon taking on theater and opera and dance – or, pardon me, George did. Best of all, I could attend a single event and write and get paid for two reviews, taking care only to keep the verbiage different, usually moderating my opinion in slightly different ways.

It couldn’t last. The Knick News knell was sounded about a year later. The publicity director for the Lake George Opera, whose name I can’t recall, phoned the Knick News one afternoon looking for me, which was stupid. I was a freelancer, and gave all my contacts my home phone. But she doughtily asked “if B.A. or Byron or George Gordon or whatever he’s calling himself now” was there, and the editor who’d answered smelled a rat.

I was fired by letter, a self-righteous-sounding missive from a very self-righteous fellow, scandalized that I should have engaged in such immoral duplicity! “I’m trying to make a living from this work,” I fired back, “and you’re too cheap to pay anything at all commensurate with what I do and the knowledge I bring to the table.” Or words to that effect.

Metroland got rid of George Gordon and I settled back in for what would be a long run. I wrote more reviews for the Schenectady Gazette, which had no hang-up about exclusivity; I even got them to double my miserable rate of pay.

Publisher Peter Iselin had founded Metroland in 1978 to cover the then-burgeoning disco scene, gradually transitioning to a more generalized perspective. In 1986, I pitched the idea of adding a restaurant-review column to be magazine, noting that I, a former chef and waiter at white-linen joints, was more qualified than any of the daily-paper arts editors who awarded themselves that task. Not surprisingly, this is what I would become known for, if I’m known at all.

Metroland also joined the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies, restyling itself into a tab format and putting news stories into the front of the book – news stories with the kind of liberal slant missing from the supposedly objective dailies.

Because nobody is more fascinated with my life history than I am myself, I’ll return to this topic before too long to look at some of the more scurrilous aspects of my free-lance life. I need the exposure.