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"For the uninitiated, the NAMM show is like an auto show. It is where musical instrument companies come and pimp their wares to music stores who then pimp them to you. Like the auto show, NAMM is full of women spilling out of spandex, useless promotional items (how many Seymour Duncan bottle openers can a man use in a lifetime?) and, of course, shameless hucksters who will sell their soul for that purchase order from Joe's Bait and Guitar Shop in Rapid City. It is not open to the general public, only to the "trade" which in looking about seems to be very loosely defined."

--Robert Read, NAMM show attendee and self-confessed MK/BFD fan

It's all about perspective.

Perhaps you remember the alcohol-and-adrenaline-fueled tome of NAMM of two years prior. You know, Act 6, Diary Of A Mad NAMMster, partying in the Hilton lobby, the giddy slander of the musical abomination that was Jake E. Lee, the autoerotic tabletop dance during which I sincerely longed for a clitoris between my legs...that kind of stuff. Well, that was then and this is now.

True, NAMM is about pimping. But, then again, so is all business. Not to worry--this is not going to be a nine-page defense of that uniquely American phenomenon, The Trade Show. After all, as Trade Shows go, NAMM is a beaut. Where else can you find such a heavy concentration of cool gadgetry and musical talent under one roof for three days straight? (Although I suspect that machinists must feel a similar penile surge at the prospect of spying the latest in lathery, not to mention the inventors of such exquisite metalworks.) And for every year up until now, I took the NAMM show for what it was to a "name musician" (whatever the fuck that means) such as myself--a chance to check out the latest gear, get some face time in with my endorsement companies, schmooze with other musicians, see some great shows, and, after hours, get shitfaced beyond all recognition.

But now I work for SWR. This is my day gig. And I'll never look at NAMM the same way again.

I truly had my feet on both sides of the proverbial fence. On the one hand, I was Bryan Beller, SWR and Fender endorser, subject of an upcoming feature in Bass Player Magazine, member of Mike Keneally and Beer For Dolphins. On the other hand, I was Bryan, Customer Service Manager at SWR. During the weekend of Winter NAMM '98, the roles collided more than once. The following is the story of what it was like to be both vendor and endorser, artist and employee, high profile and no profile, me and me.

Thursday, January 29. For those of you not in the know, Thursday is the coolest day to do NAMM. The aisles are free from the folks who manage to score badges from friends of someone who works for someone who knows someone at, say, Gibson. This may strike you as an elitist sentiment, but it pervades nonetheless. NAMM Thursday is the day for endorsers to get their business done before the crowds show up on Saturday and Sunday. Every year since I've been in LA, I've done NAMM Thursday. Until now. This year, I found myself manning the phones at the factory.

Which is not to say that it was an entirely unpleasant fate. I was spared the task of working the booth, which involves standing on the convention floor for nine hours a day with barely enough time to eat or even go to the bathroom while entertaining the throngs of retailers who are there to see the latest in SWR products. I'm not much of a salesman anyway, and I doubt I would've been hard-closing any deals with Sam Ash or anything, but I needed to be able to move around NAMM semi-freely in order to fulfill my capacity as BFD bassist/logistics manager. A tacit deal was struck with my bosses--in exchange for said freedom on Saturday and Sunday (the days of the BFD performances), I would stay back and work on both Thursday and Friday.

My feelings were mixed. While I was glad to be able to get some work done in relative peace and quiet at SWR, I did feel the longing for my former life as a day-job-free boy in LA. I entertained myself by singing BFD tunes in my head in between calls from customers with blown power transistors in their SM-400's.

My spirits were buoyed by the fact that the following night would bring a release: two gigs in the space of three hours. One for Keneally, one for Janet Robin.

Friday, January 30. After an uneventful day at work (and the ever-increasing feeling that the whole world was at NAMM but me), I went home and got ready for the shows. Fortunately I wouldn't have to bring any gear to the Keneally show. Why? Here's why.

Rivera (MK's guitar amp company) had taken over The Mint (a local LA club) for the night. We were one of several acts due to entertain Rivera's finest dealers and most connected company friends (as you know, the show was closed to the public...grrrrr...). This is the way it went down: Rivera's Artists Relations Guy, Joey Brassler, had called Keneally and asked him what gear his band members use, and did it matter which brands they were? Now Joe Travers plays DW, but he didn't care enough to hassle his company to provide gear for a thirty-minute show (he played a kit that shall remain nameless). I, on the other hand, being a loyal company man, cared a great deal and wished to use SWR. Keneally relayed this information to Mr. Brassler, whose task it then became to call SWR and procure some bass gear for the show so that his artist's bass player would be happy. [Abrupt shift to present tense] He dials the number, gets the receptionist, explains his needs, and is forwarded to...me.

Now I'm not the Artist Relations Guy At SWR (don't you dare start sending promotional packages to the factory with "Attn: Bryan Beller" scrawled on them), but I do manage their limited stock of loaner gear, which is usually reserved for the likes of Marcus Miller, Michael Manring, Jimmy Haslip and the like. But hey--you take what joys life offers you. Mr. Brassler begins his spiel about Keneally and his bass playin' SWR boy. I let him finish before informing him that I am in fact that very boy. This comes as a great shock to him--rarely in the world of company men does an "artist" reside. But there I was, residing. Often, the act of supplying loaner gear to endorsers is a procedure of considerable stress to the company itself (though they would never admit it), because a company never wants to say no to "the artist" no matter how impossible his demands may be--but here the gap between company and player is bridged quite easily. I choose what gear I want for the show and Rivera arranges to pick it up, set it up, and drop it off after the weekend is over. A nice perk, if I do say so myself.

So we all arrive at The Mint. Brad Dahl is in town, and I'm able to sneak him and Cami Slotkin into the show. The SWR rig is set up and waiting for me. Now it is time to be Special Boy. MK and I mill around the room, schmooze with Paul Rivera (yep--he liked the amps so much, he bought the company), and take the stage at around 8:30 PM. "Career/Quimby" turns a few heads, as does the solo section of "Top Of Stove Melting." Words cannot describe how good it feels to be playing BFD music again; Keneally's on fire (his chops having been honed to a stiletto's edge thanks to the Vai tour), Travers is rockin' out, I play a so-so solo in "My Dilemma" (so what else is new), and by the end of the set, we own the room. After we're done, folks and dealers from various parts of the country (and perhaps even a few from Rapid City) praise all that is BFD. I'm smiling.

But we can't stay for long because Keneally has to get to The Omni to sing with Vai and Satriani for some other show (presumably put on by Ibanez), while Travers and I need to get to Molly Malone's to start our gig with Janet by 10:00PM. MK vows to make it to Molly's by show's end so that we can all get drunk together later, and off we go in our separate directions.

Molly Malone's is that rarity in Los Angeles--a home-y, untrendy bar with live music and generous bartenders. It's also a complete escape from the NAMM vibe, which I was looking forward to considering the crazed atmosphere at SWR in the days leading up to the show. Brad and Cami follow us to the second show, and we're met there by Joe's new flame (Mary, a sweet girl from Nowheresville, PA), Rich Pike's wonderful wife Lesley, and their mutual friend Aida, a spirited lass who has a habit of greeting men and women alike with an open-mouthed kiss. Drinks are flowing, friends are among us, and sure enough, the second we start playing, Keneally walks in. Janet's music is refreshingly simple, and we groove in her world for nearly an hour. To my surprise, MK is BLOWN AWAY. Hard to believe, but in all this time, Mike had never before seen The Dyke live and in concert. She's awesome, and she's got a website now to boot. Do go visit her at www.janetrobin.com and, while you're at it, buy her CD that she spent a year and a half making (out of her own pocket). Joe Travers is on the CD as well.

The night slowly slides into a blur. Somehow we all end up at Rich Pike's place, where a bottle of "flavored vodka" is being passed around. The bottle stops at me far too often, and before long, I'm sitting on a couch, wasted, staring at a girl's well-tailored bush, the owner of which doesn't seem to care a bit that her dress is hiked up to her bellybutton while five other folks (not including myself) are present and staring open-mouthed between her legs. What is it about these NAMM weekends, anyway?

Saturday, January 31. Brad is staying at my place. The plan was to wake up very early and hit NAMM by 9:30 AM so that we could scope out the logistics of getting gear from SWR's booth to Dean Markley's booth and back (all praise is due to Brad Dahl for volunteering his assistance). But I was out until 3:45 AM the night before, and I've got the worst fucking hangover I've had in years. I've got to play two shows on the NAMM floor...and arrange for gear...and do my civic duty at the SWR booth every once in a while...and my head feels like someone is driving a railroad spike through it every three seconds. This is not good. Time for Brad Dahl to work some magic--he has these horse pills of Ibuprofen (I think they were 800 milligrams each), one of which I force down my aching throat. Thirty minutes later, just as the Los Angeles downtown skyline becomes visible on our way to the convention center, the combination of the horse pill and some 7-Eleven coffee begins to work on me, and what was once triple vision has been reduced to a slightly blurry double.

The SWR booth is a welcome sight. All of our gear looks like a million bucks, and the little sound room they have set up for the performances is intimate (meaning tiny) but cool nonetheless. After stashing some gear in the booth (another perk of my employeedom), Brad and I set out to do some strolling about the convention floor. Along the way, I'm stopped by several people I don't know, all of whom tell me that they'll be at either the Dean Markley show, or the SWR show, or in some cases, both. I can assure you out there in cyberville that the NAMM show is the only place in the universe where this sort of thing happens to me, but my battered ego is thankful for whatever attention I receive for something other than being the international service mouthpiece of SWR. Some insider industry folk also stop me during my walkabout, and we get a chance to trade some juicy gossip about the previous day's show. My favorite story is of T.M. Stevens playing at the Dean Markley booth--apparently, it was 6:00 PM (closing time on the floor) and T.M. was refusing to leave the stage, while none other than The Man Who Shall Remain Nameless At Dean Markley was trying in vain to get him to stop. After several minutes of being ignored, the guy was reduced to running around inside the sound booth and yelling towards the stage, "I'm gonna unplug you! I'm gonna unplug you!" No word on how that situation was resolved, but my opinion of T.M. Stevens had just gone up a notch.

Speaking of Dean Markley, at 12:00 noon, I head over there to do some advance preparation for our show at 3:00. There I'm introduced to The Man Who Shall Remain Nameless in person for the very first time. He's polite enough, but he looks like he'd be more at home working for the IRS than for a musical equipment company. Arrangements are made, some gear is stashed in their booth, and we're on our way back to SWR to begin preparing for the 1:30 show. On our way back, I fill in Brad on the identity of the straight-looking guy at Dean Markley. Mr. Dahl's reaction: "He looks exactly like I thought he would."

At 12:30, we're back at SWR. A funk bassist of some renown named Louis Johnson was supposed to be playing from exactly 12:00 to 12:30, but he hasn't even shown up yet. This is a little weird, because if he goes on late, that meant that we would go on late, and then it would be a scramble to make our 3:00 show at Dean Markley. I'm in the sound booth discussing our options with Keneally when Louis shows up--at 12:45. Since I'm walking around the booth like I work there, Louis stops me. Our artist guy Kelly Castro apparently has already accosted him for being late, and now he's looking for someone to vent on. While in the midst of a crowd, Louis speaks loudly to me: "Man, I know I was supposed to be here at 1:00. I'm never late. Just ask everyone I work with--I'm extremely punctual. So don't try tellin' me that I'm late." I dutifully nod my head and eat shit in front of everyone so Louis doesn't look bad, even though when I talk to Kelly, he informs me that he'd sent three separate confirmation faxes to Louis' people in the week before the show. Whatever.

1:15 PM. Louis is putting on a show for the people. Still. I casually mention to Kelly that if we go on too late, we'll be fucked. Kelly, being the man that he is, walks into the booth and prods Louis to stop playing. Louis reluctantly agrees and takes another five minutes to get out of the room. Joe Travers is agitated because he had to haul his drums onto the convention floor from a parking lot a million miles away. Keneally is calm. Brad is helping in any way he can, and I'm rearranging the room to suit both BFD's and SWR's needs. A good crowd is forming, waiting to get into the room. I can see my bosses and co-workers peering into the enclosed sound booth. They're understandably curious as to what the big deal is with their service manager and his little combo. I'm more nervous about playing in front of them than I am for any assortment of musicians.

1:30 PM. We're ready. The show starts off with "The Car Song," which goes well enough, except that after the tune is over, SWR's General Manager Paul Herman (a balls-to-the-wall salesman/colorful individual) informs us that the NAMM Sound Police are issuing warnings left and right. Thankfully the next song is "The Desired Effect." We continue without incident. After "Lightnin' Roy" and "The Cowlogy," we're done. All in all, a decent show, if not quite as nice as the night before.

The aftermath is hectic. The bigwigs at SWR are mighty impressed, which soothes me greatly--I was afraid they'd really hate us (they're more into Fleetwood Mac and The Hellecasters than Zappa). Joe now needs to stash his drums in the booth for tomorrow's show, and so I go about finding little nooks and crannies in the tiny room where he can safely stow his gear. I'm getting sweaty. Keneally has to go do an interview and asks me if Brad and I can get his Rivera gear over to Dean Markley. Sure, I say. Just as I'm about to start losing my mind, Kelly shows me the SWR CD.

It's fucking unbelievable. "The SWR Sound" looks gorgeous, with soft reddish-brown hues adorning the front and back cover. The back panel has a track listing on it that reads like this: "Marcus Miller...P-Nut...Alex Al...Jimmy Haslip...Ricc Fierabracci...Michael Manring...Bryan Beller...Neil Stubenhaus..." I thank Kelly over and over again for including me/BFD on a project of such magnitude. You should all know that Kelly put this thing together in less than two months, and that all net proceeds will go to benefit The City Of Hope charities for cancer research. If you'd like to boost your karma, take a trip on over to www.swreng.com and find out more. In the meantime, several of the artists on the CD are hanging around the booth. A couple of them recognize me from the factory. Kelly mentions to one or two of them that I'm on the CD as well. The reactions are mostly the same. "Really? Wow...that's great. Congratulations." Earlier that morning, I had introduced Kelly to Mark Tessier from Audiophile Imports; he'd expressed interest in distributing the SWR CD. Business cards exchanged hands and a tentative deal was struck. Promoting SWR and BFD are becoming one and the same.

2:30 PM. Dean Markley set-up time. The procedure begins ominously when I spot Toss (our drummer for this particular show) standing outside the sound room, still waiting for his drums to arrive. Showtime is at 3:00. Gulp.

The tiny "stage" is littered with some of the most god-awful gear known to man. A Peavey 4x10 bass cabinet. A Hughes & Kettner guitar rig. Other shit I didn't even recognize, but all of it looked like...shit. The Man Who Shall Remain Nameless At Dean Markley is nowhere to be found, and so we begin the process of rearranging the room to our liking. The sweat on my back is reaching the Drip Threshold.

To make matters worse, our final (meaning second) rehearsal for this show had to be cancelled because MK got stuck in San Diego on the night it was to have taken place. We were going to start with "Voyage To Manhood," but due to our lack of proper preparation, MK and Toss nixed it (to my great disappointment). My rig was acting weird and I had no idea why, nor the time to figure it out. 3:00 rolls around and the room fills up within seconds. We're all still fidgeting with our equipment, but as is Keneally's wont, he starts playing "Top Of Stove" and, as they say, off we went. It sounded good enough, but it felt a little weird.

"Beautiful" was next, which went better. Then "Vent," which started rocking about halfway through. But next was "My Dilemma," and, as is my wont, I hacked out one of the shittier solos I've played in recent memory. As if that wasn't bad enough, Keneally looked over at me halfway through my musical implosion, motioning with his eyes to see if I wanted to be bailed out a little early. I refused, and proceeded to stink up the stage for at least another ten seconds. Self-hate was rampant by this point.

Somewhere around this time, Keneally broke a string. No big deal, right? We're at the Dean Markley booth, and strings should be plentiful. But MK doesn't have a spare guitar to use while his green Strat is restrung. No big deal, right? We're at the NAMM show--the place is littered with guitars. You'd think that it wouldn't be too difficult to find a fucking guitar at the fucking NAMM show, but there we were, waiting for someone to get Keneally a guitar while we stood up there and tried to entertain the people who came to see us play. Five minutes later, Rich Pike (bless his soul) has restrung Keneally's guitar, which is good, because no other axes were forthcoming. Keneally goes to tune up the new string, his high E. B...C...C#...D...Eb...SNAP!! It breaks. "Jesus!" I cry. "Can't anybody get us a guitar? WE'RE AT THE FUCKING NAMM SHOW!!" Everyone laughs, but it's getting frustrating just standing there like a bunch of smiling idiots.

Finally, someone produces An Axe That Shall Remain Brandless. Next up is "Potato", and MK launches into it with full "we're gonna make up for all that bullshit" fury. Only problem is, the Brandless Axe won't stay in tune. "Potato" is the kind of song with huge ringing chords, big melody, and not much else. Words cannot describe how painful it was to play the single verse we managed to get through before MK ground the beastly rendition to a halt, simply saying into the mike, "no, no, no, we can't do this anymore." Ugh.

It would be another six minutes before someone gave Keneally a guitar that worked (he'd given up on the complicated tuning mechanisms in his green Strat long ago). To try and get back into the swing of things, we flung ourselves headfirst at "Rosemary Girl", which went OK. But the show was saved by what happened next. Ike Willis walked in.

I'd never met Ike before. I never saw the '88 Zappa band in concert (I know, blasphemy). But I sure as hell knew who Ike Willis was, and he seemed to enjoy the act of being prodded to take the stage with us. Keneally was more than happy to let Ike try and save this wretched performance. Mike's suggestion: Zappa's "Outside Now." A song I don't know, but Toss does. Fuck. I whine to MK that I'm helpless. Mike shows me the chord progression on the spot. Ike warns me in a grave tone, "It's in 11/4." I nod. The crowd is amused.

Well, what do you know...we smoked the fucking thing. Mike and Ike (yeesh) sounded godlike on the vocal harmonies, and Keneally took a divinely inspired solo. Yeah, I was hanging on for dear life, but it was great fun. There is exo-Moosenet documentation of this event, kindly provided by one Craig Latta, who took some artsy-looking pictures of the whole thing. In order to save the CEO some bandwidth, I decided to have him set up a page with the pix and some narrative text that you can reach at www.netjam.org/pictures/bfd. [Editor's Note: This is a funky, funky link. It's worked one out of the four times I've tried it. Godspeed.] Craig was at all of our shows for the weekend, and I've previewed his page for y'all. It's a good thing...just don't check it out under the influence of alcohol or any other narcotics.

After the Markley show, Toss, MK and I laugh the whole thing off. Keneally heads to another interview, and Brad and I return the gear to the SWR booth. Brad has been trooping along now for the entire day, and neither of us have eaten a fucking thing. The Dean Markley booth was like two hundred degrees, and we're both famished to the point where we probably would've eaten some of the things that Brad's Poison Pentium callers eat on a daily basis (but not before calling Dr. Dahl to make sure that it's OK to eat a frozen meat pie that's been dropped into the toilet). An hour later, after stowing the gear back in the SWR booth, Brad and I stagger out of the convention hall, drive to Ernie's Taco House, eat an insanely unhealthy amount of food, and go back to my place, where we crash like big polar bears. Remember, boys and girls--this day started off with four hours of sleep and a hangover.

Sunday, February 1. Sleep does us a world of good. Brad and I don't make it onto the convention floor until 10:30 AM, but that still gives us an hour to wander around until we have to start setting up for the 12:00 noon SWR show. I end up running into Michael Manring, with whom I have a brief but pleasant conversation. I also manage to run into Richard Thompson, the new editor of Bass Player, and I stutter out some sloppy "thank you's" for his approving of the latest piece on me in his magazine. He tries to say "you're welcome" in a business-like way, but the poor fucker has his jaw wired shut. I know he had to go to the show--after all, this was his first NAMM show as Bass Player's editor--but being at the NAMM show with your jaw wired shut is like being in a whorehouse with a steel cage around your cock. What can you do at NAMM if you can't talk? I repeated my sincere appreciation for his efforts on my behalf and walked away shaking my head.

11:30 AM. With no Louis Johnson going on before us, MK, Joe and I have all the time we need to get set up properly, which is a good thing--Keneally needs every second to get his guitar back in working order (we weren't looking forward to another 10 minutes of standing around onstage, waiting for another out-of-tune guitar to show up; unlike Toss, Travers is not the kind of guy who can easily laugh those moments off). Outside the sound booth, a crowd is forming, and many of the faces are by now familiar. One very familiar face belongs to Steve Rabe, founder of SWR (Steve W. Rabe) and designer of every piece of gear they've ever made. He'd playfully bitched me out the day before for not saving him a space in the tiny sound booth so that he could watch us in person. Folks, this is a guy who has seen the biggest names in the bass business doing their thing, up close and personal, for the last twenty years. During his stint at Acoustic, he was personally in charge of designing and maintaining Jaco Pastorius' rig. And now he wants to make sure he has a place to stand and watch us/me play. I'm thinking, "If I play a 'Dilemma' solo like the one I did yesterday, I'm gonna fucking shoot myself."

And then, minutes before the show starts, my pedalboard freaks out. In the repair biz, it's what we like to call "cutting out, intermittent distortion." You mean I'm not going to be able to hide behind at least an octave pedal during the "Dilemma" solo? Frantically, I begin ripping apart patch after patch until I find the culprit--the input jack on my volume pedal. Thomas Nordegg has designed the pedalboard to be compact and exceptionally portable, but that means that everything's close-wired, and the volume pedal is at the front of the chain. Bad jack, no pedalboard--or at least no time to re-patch. I keep squiggling the cable around in the jack until I get a clean signal. I kick the pedalboard once or twice. It's still OK. I pray that it stays that way as the people are let inside the booth.

There's Craig Latta again. And Robert Read, who signed his wife onto Earthlink and listed me as a reference so that I could get a free month of service (right on, RR). And plenty of other kind folks who were there to see BFD do their thing for 30 minutes in a tiny, sweaty sound booth. Keneally greets them appropriately: "Hello, hardcores." Brad is hanging out in the back of the booth, smiling. We're ready.

For me, it was one of those magic shows. I only have them maybe once a year. The last time it happened was in Seattle during our tour with Frank Briggs in '96--I felt like I couldn't do anything wrong. I wish I knew why it only happens occasionally, but by this point in my life, I'll take what I can get out of myself. "Career/Quimby"..."Top Of Stove"..."Beautiful"...they all flow seamlessly into one another. I even feel confident enough to pitch the SWR CD to the gathered crowd. Steve Rabe is shaking his head in approval. It's all good.

The next chunk is "Skunk" into "My Dilemma." I don't know why, but I put down the Fender Jazz V Deluxe and pick up the 4-string '51 Precision re-issue that I hardly ever play live. Whoa--I've been set free! Sometimes I feel like the 5-string is holding me back (something you should never feel on your main axe, but that's another issue for another time), and now that I've got this raunchy 4-string beast in my hands, I'm ready to rock. "Skunk" flies by..."Dilemma" is here. Octave pedal on for the intro. No cutting out or intermittent distortion. Yes! The solo comes...play sparsely...play some more...go up higher on the neck...feeling good...slap a little...dig in hard...nod to Keneally that I'm ready to be done...and the audience applauds! After the solo! Let me tell you all something--as opposed to somebody like, say, John Pattittucci, people usually never clap right after I'm done soloing. Now, even Steve Rabe is applauding. It's all good. The show ends with a Brad Dahl special request: "Inca Roads." Aside from Keneally and I butchering one line a piece, it comes off pretty well. Joe is his usual flawless self. Have I mentioned lately that I love playing with Keneally and Joe and Toss?

After the show, all is cool. BFD freaks and SWR browsers alike congratulate us on a fine performance. We break down the gear and stash it so that Louis "I'm extremely punctual" Johnson can get his groove on. All BFD parties save Joe (who's outta there instantly) agree to meet back at the SWR booth for a 4:00 PM load-out (I'm the only one with enough juice to get gear out of the convention hall, you see). Brad and MK disperse.

But Kelly The SWR Artist Guy flags me. Freddy Washington has a show at 3:00, and his drummer needs a kit--can I help him get it from Pearl to SWR? Sure, I say. We start loading gear across the convention floor. It's getting crowded in the aisles, and I almost knock a few folks over with the bass drum I'm carrying. The Drip Threshold has been reached once more.

Back at SWR at 2:30. The booth is getting insane. Freddy Washington has a lot of fans standing around, and Louis Johnson is (surprise) still playing. Kelly has to go cut him off. Louis brings his show into the aisle, bass still strapped on, mouth still going. The SWR crew (me included) begins hauling the drums into the sound booth. Kelly tells me that we're short instrument cables--people have been stealing them from the booth all weekend. I lend him the one in my bass case. The show starts on time, and Freddy is one bad, funky motherfucker. Michael Jackson knew what he was doing when he hired him for the "King Of Pop" tour, it seems.

SWR endorsers are all over the place. Neil Stubenhaus is laughing about something with Steve Rabe. Joy Julks, whose version of Jaco's "Opus Pocus" is my fave track on the SWR CD, is listening to me tell her how awesome she is. Bob Mair, he of the avant-grade Nels Cline Trio (track 5), is chatting up Kelly. Louis Johnson is STILL hanging around the booth, bass in hand, playing for anyone who will listen. Adam Nitti, SWR's newest endorser/clinician (and a complete freak on the bass), is also about. Steve Rabe and I decide to go outside and have a cigarette together. There we spot Steven Seagal with his son in tow, heading into a limousine. We both remark that he actually looks bigger in person than he does on the screen.

3:30. The booth is being overrun. It's impossible to move without bumping into someone. Paul Herman (SWR General Manager) begs me to go get him a drink at the closest bar. Sure, I say. While tipping the bartender, someone behind me says, "Those SWR guys--they're always in the way!" I turn around. It's Michael Connelly of Eden, our sworn corporate enemy. He's laughing. I say "cheers" and report the encounter back to Mr. Herman, who says "they ain't seen nothing yet!" in addition to an impressive string of curse words.

3:45. Dealers and customers alike are approaching me with their tales of woe. "My amp is acting weird...what's your turnaround time like at the factory...how do I get an endorsement...are you having any NAMM specials?...how much for this amp right here?...can I buy it off the floor?..."

Freddy's show ends, and people come streaming out of the sound room and into the main booth. Absolute chaos. Keneally and Brad show up. Time to load out. I'm handing both MK and Brad various guitars, bags and pedalboards when Kelly comes up to me and says, "you know that cable you lent me? There's this guy from [unnamed company] who's telling me that it's his cable. Can you talk to him?" I'm well agitated and agree to join the battle. As soon as I find Mr. My-Cable, he starts swearing on his honor that he brought it himself. I point out the rust spots on one end of the cable that only I would be familiar with. He curses me up and down and storms out of the booth. OK, I'm ready to go home now.

Several SWR folks ask me if I can do this or that at the booth for the next hour, but I apologize and insist that I must leave right that second so that Brad could catch his plane (true story). Feeling a little guilty, we all pack up and head for the exits. Two hours later, Brad is on his way back home, Keneally is home resting, and I'm sleeping again.

Monday, February 2. 9:00 AM at the SWR factory. Phones are ringing off the hook, gear is being loaded back in from the NAMM show, it's pouring outside, and I can't believe how much difference a day can make. I need to get something off of Kelly's desk when I notice a postcard from Bass Player Magazine. It says something about "get your ads in now for the May issue!" Below the big print, it lists the features that will appear in that very issue. At the top, in small, bold type, it reads, "Bryan Beller tells how to play killer bass and write a novel." I can hear my name being paged over the intercom: "Bryan, you have a call on line 2...Bryan, line 2..."

Both vendor and endorser, artist and employee, high profile and no profile, me and me.

Reporting live from just after Winter NAMM '98, this is...

The Bassboy Number Sixty-Nine

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