The American educational system gives most of us the chance to pick up an instrument when we're around 10 years old, in about fifth grade. When my turn came, my parents asked me what I'd like to try. More than anything else, I wanted to play the flute; its sound is beautiful, its players poised, and its image sleek and brilliant. No doubt it would be difficult to master, but it would be worth the try if I could succeed and become one of the cool chicks making wonderful music flow from a dainty object.

My hopes were derailed by my parents' sticker shock at the music store. The nice man behind the counter suggested that perhaps a twirling baton, with a manufacturer's suggested retail price of just $5.99, might fit our budget better. Hey, it was shiny, silver, and sleek too. What's the difference, right? So, instead of becoming a mediocre flute player, I became a mediocre majorette, trying my best to contribute to the marching band's general visual effect, leaping about in an effort to forget that I wasn't a musician, and may never be.

Having finally come full-circle after many years of baton twirling and newly retired from coaching youngsters in the lost art, when 2005 rolled in, I found myself with enough free time and available cash flow to fulfill my flute dream all by myself. Still skeptical of my own ability, plus aware of my lack of patience and therefore huge potential for failure (if I couldn't get the embouchure, I would probably chuck the thing through the window within the first five minutes), it seemed logical to choose a bargain-basement starter model. The less investment up front, the less to be lost in the impending crash-and-burn. We all know the best place to find these kinds of deals is the NAMM show - and luckily, the big event was coming to Anaheim in just a few days.

While enjoying a lovely dinner at DiPiazza's in Long Beach one recent Saturday, my good friend Maralyn DiPiazza approached my booth with CD in hand, breathlessly describing an exciting new band scheduled to play her club the following week. "This guy who manages another band told me he's also working with an actor who wants to become a rock star. He’s been on Six Feet Under and The OC and stuff, and he's hot. My daughter doesn't think he's hot, but he's hot. My daughter says his chin is too long, but I think he's hot. I hooked him up with a showcase - you gotta come see him. His name is Eric Balfour and his band is Fredalba."

My reaction was, "Great, an actor who wants to be a rock star. Sounds fresh. Yeah, I'll be there, for sure. Marking my calendar now." A couple days later, I relinquished and stuffed the CD into the car stereo. Sublime-y! Although initially not sounding exactly like what the LBC needs in this day and age, I took a closer listen and found that Fredalba do have an element popular to Southern California - an eclectic blend of standard guitar/bass/drums rock with the addition of DJ turntable and woodwind. Yeah, woodwind! Fredalba features a flutist; a female flutist. A young, talented female flutist who has successfully parlayed her skills into rock music. I had to see Fredalba live, for inspiration.

The DiPiazza roster for January 15 included three other up-and-coming opening acts, so upon arrival, I settled in for the long night ahead and chatted with Maralyn about other important things she's been doing. She divulged her plans for the next morning: a field trip to Knott's Berry Farm with the exceptional group of young developmentally disabled students she teaches from the Long Beach Unified School District (in addition to running the hippest nightclub in the area, Maralyn devotes whatever spare time she has toward mainstreaming special kids into functional society, giving them real-world experiences and opportunities to work and play just like everyone else). Maralyn raved about how much she enjoys working with "her" kids, explaining that besides the joy she gets from seeing the students have fun and succeed, it gives her the chance to skip around and be goofy, to live life, and observe the world at kid level.

As Maralyn switched the topic to her shock at discovering OC Weekly had published a rather unflattering preview of Fredalba (the writer printed something along the lines of, "If you want to have a run-in with a bunch of teenybopper autograph seekers, just head over to the Fredalba show...") without the writer even having seen the band. Black Tie Optional took the stage. These thrashy garage rats boasted an excellent drummer, twinkle-fingers guitarist, and guit-method bassist (remember Deyo Glines from National People's Gang?) joining together to blaze through tuneful melodies. With subtle inflections of REM, The Who, and Foo Fighters, Black Tie Optional delivered appealing syncopation and chops, making their songs anything but boring. One member of the impressively-large crowd of Black Tie supporters informed me that they normally play DiPiazza on Sundays. This band, refreshingly, is better than they think they are. I'll be back to see them again.

The moment Black Tie unplugged, their gigantic fan base bailed out of the club so fast, all you could see was a blurry mass exodus of kids moving on to better things, leaving the room a stark void for the rest of the night. Witnessing this horror, a cocky kid dressed in an army jacket (who I was willing to bet $100 was the lead singer of the next band, Federallies) pounded down several pints of brew in rapid succession and began to throw all 98 lbs. of himself around, posturing in the manner of Johnny Depp in the "Rebel Without a Clue" video. Hey, each of us deals with catastrophe in our own special way. Staggering to the stage, he confirmed my prediction that he was indeed the singer and joined his three-piece to plow into their first song. The bass player was capable, but singer boy (if you wonder why I regularly omit names, sometimes I just have to protect these guys) was too full of his own self. Obviously having joined Singer in pints pre-show, the drummer was simply off tempo, adding to the overall pain suffered from the lack of audience, the drummer being drunk/egotistical/unable to sing, and the band's general lack of material. I always try to have something positive to say, and I really wanted this band to be good, for their sake. Maybe next time they will be, but this time there was too much force working against.

The crowd didn't fill out at all when Magic Bullet Theory began to set up, but an interesting thing happened. Eric Balfour of Fredalba slinked into the venue, accompanied by his entourage of L.A. types, and nervously paced about, scoping out the vacant scene. Adding to the anxiety must have been the fact that Magic Bullet Theory delivered a musical style of the Fredalba/Banyan/Delta Nove genre. Suddenly, all that would seem unique became frighteningly commonplace; but Magic Bullet's funky, jazz-laced jams nevertheless provided the right environment for stellar performances from trumpet, guitar, bass, soprano sax, and - flute!

Yes, Magic Bullet also has a flutist, and although their jams were exceedingly long that evening, the whole set grooved. Beginning to feel sorry for Eric Balfour and his manager (fretfully searching for Fredalba CD and t-shirt customers with none to be found) I got up to take a walk around and ran into Balfour's girlfriend, a bella fashionista with attitude. She was questioning random patrons as to which band they were there to see, evidently taking a head count to determine whether there was a turnout. When one girl answered, "I'm here to see Fredalba," Fashionista corrected her. "It's not Fredalba, it's Freeeeeeeeeee-dahl-bahhhh." In that moment, I knew we were in trouble. Fredalba not only had a tough act to follow in Magic bullet Theory, they also had no audience to speak of (except for a few more trickling L.A. migrants) and the singer's girlfriend-slash-PR agent was making the rounds to ensure everyone in attendance pronounced the band's name with a faux-French accent.

Launching their set, Freeeeeeeeee-dahl-bahhhh (with Balfour on lead vocals; Rooster Roley, guitar; Paul Trutner, bass; Blair Shotts, drums; DJ Grady Reinagle, and Charmain Callon on the best instrument of all, flute) managed to pick things up a bit, coming off more rocky than their predecessors and proving that they have something special to offer after all. If Fredalba can cast off the weight of their promotional worries and just get out there and play, they should certainly feel affinity from youth in seach of some energetic-yet-esoteric listening material. Relax just a little, Fredalba, and your efforts will come to fruition.

Click here to find out how Marlene gets a flute of her own!

Photos by Marlene