By Steve Lopez
I was beginning to think we'd never get around to making the CD that Nathaniel Anthony Ayers has been talking about for years.
Last summer, on a trip to San Francisco, where Mr. Ayers was honored for his spirit by the National Alliance on Mental Illness, we came up with the perfect name for it:
“Putting on Ayers."
But when readers and friends asked when it would be available, I had no good answer. Some days Mr. Ayers is fine; some days not. Some days he wants companionship; other days he needs to be alone. As for the CD, he'd back off one day, calling it a terrible idea. And then he'd be ready to roll the next day.
Finally, a few weeks ago, it all seemed to be coming together. We had a day booked in a Silver Lake studio. A pal of his, Joe Russo, had agreed to fly in from Connecticut to record with him.
L.A. Philharmonic pianist Joanne Pearce Martin and violinist Robert Gupta had juggled schedules. And Michael Balzary, also known as Flea of the band Red Hot Chili Peppers, was eager to join us.
Then, the night before, Mr. Ayers -- a former Juilliard student who was homeless and playing a two-string violin when I met him five years ago -- backed out of the recording session.
“It's not going to happen," he said, complaining of an upset stomach that I suspected was caused in part by a case of nerves.
I woke the next day to an urgent message from Mr. Ayers: He was feeling better and ready to go, and I was relieved I hadn't called off the whole thing.
An hour later, he canceled, and I lost a few more strands of hair. The other musicians were standing by. Would Mr. Ayers reconsider?
OK, he said.
I picked him up on skid row and packed his bass, cello, violin, guitar, trumpet and flute into my car. He left his viola, French horn, keyboards and trombone in his room, perhaps saving them for his second CD.
On the way to Silver Lake, Mr. Ayers was nervous but game. He wanted to know how the day would play out, and I reminded him there was no strategy other than for him to jam on as many instruments as he cared to play. Steven Argila, a pianist and owner of the studio, had met Mr. Ayers before and was ready to go with the flow, and the same was true of Stephen Krause, the recording engineer.
Bass player Flea and drummer Scott Gold, my mate at The Times, beat us to the studio. I think it's fair to say Mr. Ayers had never met anyone named Flea at Juilliard, but musicians are musicians, and they were all playing together before long.
