In mid-2000 I made a conscious decision to pare down my freelance schedule, so I'm no longer the man about town I used to be. That's fine. I play less and enjoy it far more. But even amidst my old chaotic lifestyle, I managed to find a few projects I really enjoyed doing-and in some instances, still do. What you'll find here is a select list of projects that, due to their quality and/or frequency, I'd like you to know about. Or, at the very least, I'd like to write about.

Janet Robin

The back cover of Janet's album Out From Under. Photo by Markus Ruff

In a lot of ways, Janet Robin was the living embodiment of my freelance musicianship. Outside of Z and Keneally, she was the first gig I picked up as Bryan Beller, L.A. Bassist For Hire. And hers was the last gig I stopped doing when I semi-retired from L.A. freelance life in 2000.

I started working with her in 1996. I'd just left Z, destitute and losing money faster than I could count. I honestly can't remember how she found out about me, but I remember her having me over to her apartment to go over some of her original tunes. I was feeling cocky. Hey, I was the bassist for Dweezil Zappa and Mike Keneally-I could play anything. Problem was, I was used to playing everything. She repeatedly admonished me to play less. I'm sure I was overplaying like the egotistical muzo I'd become, and so it was a useful lesson.

Janet's professional history was both interesting and remarkable. She'd taken lessons from Randy Rhoads in her youth, and went on to become a member of the '80s all-girl hard rock band Precious Metal. (I am not kidding.) That lasted as long as the genre did, but Janet had real talent and lasted longer. She went on to score a gig in Lindsay Buckingham's band, playing rhythm guitar and singing background vocals for the notoriously perfectionist former member of Fleetwood Mac. Finally, after Lindsay pulled one of his frequent disappearing acts, Janet decided to take matters into her own hands and become a solo artist. She had a nice voice, a natural gift for writing catchy, quirky pop tunes, and with the added angle that she could actually get around on her instrument-both electric and acoustic-like a true session pro, she developed a loyal following around L.A.

When I joined the band, the other members were a guitarist named Mark Karan and drummer Brock Averi (who coincidentally worked with Wayne Kramer on occasion). Brock was very busy and Janet wanted a regular guy she could rely on, so I referred my long-time rhythm section partner Joe Travers for the drum chair. Joe, of course, came in and nailed the gig cold. So now Joe and I were playing pop tunes for a well-connected and talented singer/songwriter at various hipster clubs around Los Angeles. It was a fun and rewarding gig, and great way to have a night out at the same time. You see, unlike Z and Keneally, Janet's crowd was mostly women. Not all of them were straight, but enough were to make it interesting.

Janet and I share a post-show drink in March of 1997. Note the strikingly similar hair styles. Photo by Cami Slotkin

Eventually Mark Karan got the gig with the "post-Grateful Dead" band (I can't remember the name) that continued on playing Dead music with authentic Dead band members but without Jerry Garcia. It was a big break for him, and he relocated to San Francisco in a hurry. Janet found her next guitarist the old-fashioned way, by placing an ad in a local music mag. The guy she brought to the next rehearsal was a quiet, polite, extremely tasty guitarist by the name of Rick Musallam. I was worried that he'd have a hard time filling the shoes of the esoteric, mature textures of Mark Karan. Rick put those fears to rest. Quickly. (As you now know, Rick went on to join Mike Keneally's band in 1999, and has been essential to the BFD sound ever since. We're very fortunate to have met him. Were it not for Janet, we wouldn't have.)

Janet Robin rocks out on acoustic. No "chick music" for this multi-faceted singer songwriter. Photo by Mitch Kloorfain

I eventually recorded two full-length albums with Janet, both of which can be found in the discography section of this site. Joe, Rick and I became a tight, effective little pop band on the second one, Out From Under. For those interested in hearing us muzos settle down and play some well-crafted pop music, I recommend a trip over to www.janetrobin.com for more information on how to get a hold of these fine recordings.

Onstage, Janet was as commanding a presence as you'll see in a small club. She had the ability to take the room by its collective collar and pull them in her direction. There were several occasions where it looked like label interest was imminent, but we never got over the hump. (Was it the unattractive, badly-dressed, out-of-touch bassist?) To me she remains one of L.A.'s best-kept secrets. She also tours college campuses around the country as a solo-acoustic artist. (Band? She don't need no stinking band. Unless she wants one.)

My decision to stop playing with her in mid-2000 had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with me desiring a drastic change in lifestyle. If I could clone myself, my double would still be doing gigs with her. She took me on when I was a freelance virgin, and she broke me in gently but firmly (I know she would appreciate the analogy). In sum, it was a pleasure, and I owe her. Buy her CD's, won't you?

 

Ras Daveed and Providence

Just try and imagine in your mind the following: a rock/reggae/funk band comprised of Hasidic Jews from Morocco, whose lead singer and songwriter was Rabbi and spiritual leader to not only the band, but a group of fifty-plus followers who came to every gig. That was Ras Daveed and Providence, a band I played in from 1996 to 1998.

The Rabbi and Spiritual Leader Ras Daveed, kicking it O.T. style. Old Testament, that is. Photo by Cami Slotkin

OK, not the entire band was O.G. Jewish; the drummer was then-Keneally-ite Toss Panos, and the bassist before me was a black reggae specialist whose name I can't remember. I think it was Toss who referred me. To say I was intrigued was an understatement.

The first rehearsal was another exercise in climbing a learning curve. They were mainly playing blues and harmonic minor licks and tonalities, but rhythmically they were from another planet. Not in terms of time-signatures (which they had plenty of regardless), but in terms of interpretation of certain figures. There was a musical style they played called "gnawa" (gi-NA-wa, with a hard 'G'), which had its roots in Morrocan folk music. In this form, eighth notes and triplets had a push-pull, sometimes-on-top and sometimes-behind-the-beat flavor, seemingly at random but actually not. It was totally unfamiliar to me, and the Rabbi-Ras Daveed-made me play the same figure for ten minutes before I even got close to feeling it.

The shows were like a Jewish hippie rave party. The whole clan-all of whom lived in Santa Monica, a joke you'd get if you lived in L.A.-would come down to whatever venue we were playing, no matter how seedy, and get their Hasidic groove on. They'd be dancing, twirling, laughing, smiling. And yes, the guys had the funny curls of hair on the sides of their head, and wore long, flowing clothes and yarmulkes, but they'd found a way to "hipster-ize" the Hasid look with homemade knit headgear and wrap-around sunglasses. They smoked Bidi cigarettes, and sometimes something else. And they all had kids. Lots of them. The women who came to the show were clothed from shoulder to neckline and all the way down to the ankle, as per tradition. Speaking of tradition, if you think it's impossible to gig in L.A. and keep the Sabbath holy at the same time, think again: we never played a Friday night gig, and we never soundchecked for a Saturday night gig until after sundown.

Left to right: Ras Daveed, reggae "skank" guitarist Mai'mon, and myself bring the message of Providence to the people of Los Angeles. Photo by Cami Slotkin

They were all very excited about me being Jewish, I can tell you that. This was right in the heart of my socially reckless time in Los Angeles, and when I joined the band I happened to be dating a girl named Mary Rose. Ras Daveed in particular took an interest in who I was dating and who I wasn't, and the name Mary Rose elicited a confused look. "What's the matter with Jewish women? You should date a home girl, you know." Later on I showed up to a rehearsal feeling pretty down, having just broken up with a different girl. I told the band about it, and one of the guys said, "Was she Jewish?" I said no. Ras Daveed just shrugged his shoulders, held his palms up, and sighed, "Eh."

The gig paid well. They had a backer of some kind, a middle-aged lady who came out to the shows and wrote everybody checks from her personal account. But they had a habit of calling at the very, very last minute for rehearsals and gigs.and then administering a first-class guilt trip if I was somehow unable to juggle my schedule to accommodate them, a routine that grew increasingly tiring. Also, the relationship between the guitarist and the rest of the band got a little weird after a while, and the cool, mellow vibe that had surrounded the gig from the start began to dissipate. The project disintegrated sometime in 1998.

Bonus historical information: it was because of this band that I met Cami Slotkin, who went on to become Mike Keneally's "touring merchandise manager" (hey, it sounds better than "merch girl") during two tours in late 1998. (Ms. Slotkin also took all of the pictures you see here, so give up the props.) She was working at a Starbucks in Santa Monica where the clan used to hang out. When Ras Daveed first saw me talking to fellow tribe member Cami, he became so excited I thought he might arrange our marriage on the spot.

 

The Steely Damned

There's a Los Angeles clique of musicians I know, and then there's a San Diego clique mostly centered around two people. Obviously one is hometown hero Mike Keneally. The other is a guy named Bob Tedde, the leader of a highly successful cover project named Rock-Ola. In his spare time-of which he has less than none-he formed this seventeen-piece band, a tribute to Steely Dan.

In what can only be called a travesty, I didn't own any Steely Dan records when Bob first called me to sub for his regular (and quite busy) bassist. They had a working repertoire of thirty-five songs, and I had a week's notice to learn them. There were charts, but they were written in shorthand and not easily understood by anyone not already familiar with the material. I spent five hours each night that week after I got home from work, absorbing whole chunks of Aja and The Royal Scam and wondering why the hell I hadn't noticed how utterly cool this music was before I had a gun to my head telling me so. That didn't make it any easier to learn, and I had to call Bob the night before the gig and beg off seven tunes; twenty-eight songs in one week was my limit. The first-call guy ended up coming after he got done with his other gig, and brought the night home for me.

One against nature: Bob Tedde fronts The Steely Damned. Drink scotch whisky, all night long….

This was a really fun gig. It was like standing in the middle of the recording, with horns, background vocals and various percussion sounds coming at me at all the right moments. The guitarist was a jazz-rock freak-of-nature named Hank Easton. He had many of the solos memorized note-for-note-"My Old School", "Kings", "Kid Charlemagne", etc.-and could expand on them and improvise at the level of Larry Carlton and beyond. Bob himself was a quirky but extremely talented guitarist, taking the electric sitar solo in "Do It Again" and the first solo in "Bodhisattva." He could also mimic the trademark, whiny alto voice of Donald Fagen with frightening precision.all while downing bourbons at a respectable rate. It was a long drive down to San Diego to do this gig-140 miles-but I always left feeling like it was worth it.

The best jazz-rock guitarist you've never heard: Hank Easton, lead guitarist for The Steely Damned.

The regular bassist on this gig is still the regular bassist, and I come in as Mr. Second-Call when requested. I think I've played maybe ten or twelve gigs with them. One of them was particularly special: It just so happened that the former President/CEO of SWR, Daryl Jamison, was a Steely Dan fanatic, and we managed to get the Damned to play the SWR corporate party back in 1998. L.A. session ace Neil Stubenhaus and many other "name bassists" around town were in attendance, and in a lot of ways it re-legitimized me as a player in the eyes of some who knew me only as an employee of their endorsement company.

Scheduling conflicts on my end have prevented me from playing with them lately, but this is one side gig I have no problem with doing and would love to do more often in the future. (You should check out their website at www.steelydamned.com.) Either way, my days of Steely Dan ignorance are history, as I now own the box set and am a huge fan. My favorite Dan tune may surprise you: "Haitian Divorce."

 

Yogi

Yogi-whose real name is Dick Vitale-is one of those guys who's just too smart and talented for his own good. He's a Seattle-based computer programmer by day, cranking out websites, game code, and god knows what else at the speed of war scenarios generated by the WOPR mainframe from the movie Wargames. But by night, weekend, and whenever else he feels like it, he's a singer/songwriter/guitarist of quite the high caliber.

Making a pound of Flesh: Me, engineer Darin "Bucket O'Damn!" DiPietro, and Yogi summon the power of the dark side.

I recorded an album for him called Any Raw Flesh? during two sessions, one in November of '99 and the other in June of 2000. The man flew me up to his pimpin' digs, treated me well, and was a complete joy to work with. I've already written what I consider to be the definitive document on those sessions, and you can read it over at Yogi's website by clicking here. By browsing further into the world of Wonky, I believe you'll find his web design chops and posted content much to your liking. You may even have a chance to buy the CD over there as well.

His material is a twisted cross between King's X, Steve Vai, Nine Inch Nails, Keneally, and a special homegrown formula he cooks up with the help of his lovely roommate, known only to the world as Beta Girl. (Her real name is Tonya Harding; no wonder she carries an alias.) Needless to say, with so much Rock in the studio air, how can you go wrong?

We had so much fun together the first time around that we did it again in September of 2001, when I recorded three tracks for his upcoming release of Flesh re-mixes (courtesy of Andre LaFosse) and new material. The resulting album was called Salve, and was released in 2002. Yogi also made a special guest appearance on my debut solo album, View. Learn more about this mysterious man at www.wonky.net, won't you please?

In a sensitive moment for all involved, Yogi sees me off from Sea-Tac Airport.