Every working musician has a "worst gig" story. You truly have to experience these to believe what people are capable of putting musicians through. There's always "the organist didn't show up, so I did the whole wedding by myself a capella" stories, or "it was August in the northern hemisphere, nobody thought it would be freezing cold and our fingers were blue" and then of course the drunken idiot who comes up on stage and wants to jam with the band and usually ends up falling face first into a monitor. BTDT (been there done that) to all of the above, as have most musicians. To be fair, the vast majority of people who hire me or any group I perform with, treat us very well and working with them is a delight. But the story I am about to tell you takes the cake in my book.

About 15 years ago I used to play piano for a Celtic dance band. So of course on St. Patrick's day we got booked to play a party. To this day no member of this ex-group admits to being the one who booked this gig. I only know for sure it wasn't I!

It was already shaping up to be a terrible gig in many more normal ways:

• They expected us to play for four hours for a ridiculous pittance. (I made the mistake of assuming whoever booked it had negotiated a decent fee for us--WRONG!)
• There were no free drinks or food for the band.
• They provided uncomfortable chairs.
• The sound system they agreed to provide was garbage. The Chieftans would have sounded crappy in that hall.
• Finally and worst of all, we were the wrong kind of band for the crowd. The guy who booked us was a big fan of our music, but this was before genuine traditional Celtic music had become "cool." Most of the people there would have preferred country western.

So, as the evening was wearing down, I just wanted to get it over with and go home. The band took a break at about 22:30. We had brought in a substitute for one of our regular band members who (fortunately for her) couldn't make this gig. The sub announces that he " is artistically offended, and just can't play any more under these circumstances," packs up his instruments and goes home. Like the rest of us weren't! Of course we had paid him in advance. What are we going to do, chain him to a chair? We wanted to go home too. We were down to three: me and the two regular guys. And we were contracted to stay there until midnight. Sigh. It's going to be a long hour and a half.

The party's host (who appeared to be absolutely sober, unlike most of the guests) comes running up and says he needs one of us to help him. Mannnnn! We're supposed to get a 5-minute break every hour and we're supposed to be having it NOW. The guys had already run off to BUY themselves a drink. (I had relaxed my usual policy of not letting my band drink until afterward. That's how bad the gig was.) I would have been with them, except that I had to untangle a cable or something. Anyway, there I am with our gracious host. He says he wants to do Danny Boy.

"Sorry," I tell him, "we are a dance band. We don't do Danny Boy.

"No, no," he says. "I'm going to sing it."

Now I thought he wanted me to accompany him.

"I'm sorry, I don't know it," I lied. Actually I do know it. I also know enough to not do it unrehearsed in public with someone I don't know. Danny Boy is difficult to sing. That high note gets people every time. You have to know what you're doing to successfully sing Danny Boy.

"No, no, that's OK," he says. "I am going to accompany myself."

I was still not quite getting his drift.

"Knock yourself out, guy, I need a beer," I was thinking, but I mumbled something moderately polite about moving our microphones however he wanted and started following the fiddler and the drummer to the bar.

Our host, meanwhile, proceeded to take a flat box out from under their table, pull out a toy guitar and load two "C" batteries in it. OMG ... What does he think he is going to do with that? A comedy routine I sincerely hope! He caught up to me before I could even order a beer and said, "wait, I need an attractive young lady to hold my music for me."

I looked desperately around for a music stand or something but there wasn't anything handy that I could put that chord chart on. What am I supposed to do! It's his party. I felt like a prostitute. There I am standing there holding up a chord chart. I wish I could put a bag over my head. He climbs up to the stage. He clears his throat into the microphone, on which, apparently he had jacked up the sound to the max. The room goes quiet.

"OH DANNY BOOOOYYYYY" he bellows out in E flat, then hits the C-Chord button on the toy guitar.

Twang!

Then the mic starts to feed back.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEE! The high pitched squeal is excrutiating but it doesn't seem to bother our host. In self defense I move the mike back a few inches and it stops. I hope I didn't ruin his joke, but my ears are my livelihood and I have to protect them. Meanwhile he decides to change to G chord for the next phrase, then stops, hits the F-chord, realizes that's wrong, then hits an A, (like that's any better.) OK, deliver the punch line any time now, fella! It dawned on me that he actually thought he was singing Danny Boy. I doubt he had learned where the B-flat-seven button was on the toy guitar, if it even had one. I thought he might synch up the chord progression eventually with the vocals but no. Had he ever even tried this before? To make a long story short, he went on like that for FOUR VERSES, and they were the longest four verses of my life. Up until that evening I had only known of two verses to Danny Boy. When he was done there was a stunned silence in the room. And there I was like a tool holding the chart. I have never wanted the floor to open up and swallow me as bad as I did that night!