by Joel Meyer
NARR
The New York City subway's rules of conduct are vague about what you can and can't bring on the train. Section ten-fifty-point-nine, item g, states that an item can't hang out a train window or block the door. It can't interfere with the operation of the train. And it can't pose a danger to other passengers. After that, all bets are off.
(CUT: I'm Doug Largent and I'm thirty one years old. I'm a jazz bass player and I'm headin' out the door right now to go to a gig in Manhattan from my Brooklyn home. And i'm going to take the subway here. I've got this double bass here with a wheel attached to the bottom and it's in a case. And I push it along sort of riding on my shoulder take it on the subway about an average of five times a week.
Doug Largent's bass is seven-feet tall and weighs forty pounds. When unsheathed from its rolling case, it looks like a gigantic plywood violin. Largent owns two other more expensive basses, but this 1939 King bass is his coffee-colored workhorse.
(AMB: "OK, we're going to the Cafe DeVille in the East Village of New York on 13th Street and third avenue...")
It's hard to imagine transporting an object the size of another person on the subway every day. Largent does it in stride, decked out for a Sunday brunch gig. Coat and tie. Jet back hair perfectly groomed. A jazzy, boyish Elvis.
(CUT: OK, Iit's looks a little crowded here...but you know what, I think we'll stand today. I think it's easier to stand rather than jostle into a bunch of people that are sitting.)
Largent's is self-taught, save for some piano lessons in the second grade. He earned a degree in computer science from a hometown college, the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. But he liked playing bass in Chapel Hill more than he liked computers. He and his wife Nancy made the jump to New York in 2000. Largent decided to carry his bass fifteen blocks to his first gig on a hot August day. He quickly realized his mistake.
(CUT: After the first couple of blocks of carrying the bass with no wheel, I was already dead. So I just had to stop and rest every couple of blocks. I just didn't have the muscles. In North Carolina, you don't need muscles to carry anything. )
The bass nearly touches the top of the subway car. And remarks from New Yorkers are nearly inevitable.
(CUT: Why didn't you learn to play the flute instead or is that just an over grown guitar.)
Largent has an electric bass that is considerably smaller, but he rarely plays out with it. He says jazz fans insist on authenticity.
(CUT: People like the look of the acoustic bass, it looks old-fashioned and jazzy. And it sounds that way too, so a gig sometimes requires an old-fashioned thumpin' acoustic bass.)
(AMB: Tuning)
Largent arrives at Cafe DeVille in the East Village with plenty of time to tune his bass. He beats drummer Vito Lesczik (less-check). He needs about five minutes to assemble a specially-made, collapsable kit that he brought on the subway, strapped to a luggage cart.
(AMB: Clacking)
(CUT: For a little bit, I was carrying a big bass drum on my shoulder, but I started to walk tilted. I saw myself in the mirror one day and I said, that has to change somehow.)
Singer Vanessa Trouble arrives next, carrying a small amplifier. Her car is parked illegally outside the front door, within view of her spot at the microphone.
(AMB: Song, "Everybody's Movin' Too Fast")
Three days after the brunch gig, Largent is en route from Prospect Heights, Brooklyn to Midtown Manhattan. It's afternoon rush hour, the worst time to bring an instrument on the subway. This time, the usually modest bassist adds a degree of difficulty.
(CUT: Do you mind if I stop for a cup of coffee?)
Largent didn't spill one drop on the B train. One kindly old lady even switched seats to make room for him and his cargo. With twenty luxurious minutes to remain seated, Largent talks about his parents back home in Chapel Hill. He says his parents think he's famous simply because he lives and works in New York.
(CUT: Parents)
But Largent isn't famous. He hasn't played on a major label release. And even though he can navigate a 40 pound bass through Times Square with surprising ease, it's harder to stay employed. He's a member of the musician's union, but most of his gigs come without the benefits of guaranteed work and higher wages. He didn't have health care coverage until his wife found a teaching job with benefits. But confidence in his abilities prevents him from being discouraged.
(CUT: Like, I'm a great listener and I'm a great follower. I do everything I can to make the other people in the band look good, as opposed to showboating myself. I'm not the flashiest player, but I'm a great person to have in the band.)
After an elevator ride, a hike up an out-of-order escalator, and a roll down Sixth Avenue, Largent arrives at the Mansfield Hotel's M bar. He sizes up the room:
(CUT: Pretty fancy, recently remodeled hotel lounge with fake flowers and mood lighting. Acoustic paneling on the wall. Fake bookshelves with a dark oak veneer. All black books on one shelf. All white books on the other shelf.)
The leader of tonight's trio is J. Walter Hawke. He says New York might be the only place where he could make a living playing ukelele and trombone. By day, he makes music for a national children's television program. By night, he plays ragtime and swing stands that refuse to sound old fashioned. He hauls several instruments on the subway, to and from his home in Long Island City, Queens.
(CUT: Hawke...bandleader "they don't bring their axe to work")
Orchestra players and world famous musicians don't have to worry about transporting their instruments. They earn cartage fees to send instruments from place to place.
(AMB: Doug largent bass solo)
Until Doug Largent makes the big time, you'll continue to see him on the Q train. And maybe a nightclub or two.
Columbia Radio News, Joel Meyer reporting