THE MUSICAL BAIT AND SWITCH

As a positive result of attending the San Diego Bridal Show, we had decided to go with a solo acoustical guitarist for the ceremony music. The simple and elegant sound would further enhance the giddiness of the crowd gathered to bear witness to our ceremony. We simply needed to track one down and get a contract negotiated. We were referred to the Office of Musical Attractions at Indiana University. This is a place where all the gloriously talented music students give notice that they wish to be a musical gun for hire. I’m not sure if they all sit in little boxes waiting to be adopted, or if it is merely a bulletin board with a phone placed in front, where anyone can answer and try to match you with someone’s flyer.

We placed the call and were matched with a classical guitarist who was pursuing a Master’s in Performance Guitar, or something close to that. The price was very reasonable, as starving student-artists do have a benefit to society. We were given his contact info to get in touch with him and get a feel for what he was like.

As the communications continued, every few days, the contract arrived in the mail. We held it for a couple days and then sent it back, opting for the “bill me later” payment option. A situation where demand is much less than supply must be celebrated. I was in the driver’s seat. I will not pay you now, and you will like it.

It was the following day that we received a voice message from the Office of Musical Attractions that stated: “We’re sorry, but your guitarist has just realized that he has a scheduling conflict, with his wife having a family reunion of some sort, and he can’t get out of it. We have found someone to fill in, who I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with.”

This message did not sit well. First, our new guitarist had a name we couldn’t pronounce. Not that that reflects on his playing ability, but it certainly affects our comfort level. I called back to the office and left a message politely paraphrasing the following:

“What’s going on? The contract is in the mail back to you, with guitarist Number One’s name on it, signed and dated. You can’t be pulling this crap, and if you are, you need to spell out guitarist Number Two’s name and e-mail, because I can’t sound out what you said, and I don’t want another random pen pal from Eastern Europe.”

The next day, we received another message restating the apology, spelling the name, and saying that the replacement was a very accomplished player, whom we should be more than happy with. As it turns out, that was the caller’s last week on the job. She hosed us and skipped town.

We took the new name and went online, where the guitarist was supposed to have a website. We found it, and was it ever interesting. He had a series of photos which made him seem a bit self-absorbed. He was dressed like Michael Jackson from the “Smooth Criminal” video, had it been filmed in Havana with mirrors and a guitar. He tried to verbalize his oneness with his instrument in a monologue similar to the following:

“I open the door, and music comes in. It makes my fingers hot, and my hands sweat. I get the fever in my eyes, and I vibrate with the strings. Blood is pulsing, and its rhythm drives harder and faster. I am becoming the instrument. Its will—my own. Waves are crashing. My pants have vanished.”

That left us a little concerned. “Let’s send him an e-mail, and see what he says,” we decided.

The concern continued, when we received our first correspondence back from the artist known as Number Two. He used the word “plane,” instead of “plan.” I shrugged the first one off, as I talked myself through it. He is an artist. He types what he feels. Sometimes he hits an extra key that is nowhere near the “n.” Then it happened again. Then he “planed,” instead of “planned.” His entire English dictionary was printed a line off or something. We could tell he could play. His musical samples and resume told us that. We had to hope he could understand that it was our day and our music. We hoped he didn’t add random letters to what he read or played as well, so he wouldn’t think we were inviting him to play at our bedding: “Perhaps something for the lady to get her in the mood, so you may bed her. Although, I am already here; and again, my pants have vanished.”

The whole situation was like switching to Diet Coke. It left a bad taste that you had to adjust to.
- Drew Lloyd
From "Will You?" to "I Do.": A Groom's Tale of Survival