When Videotaping Goes Bad

The Beverly Wilshire Hotel, site of Nathan Spiegel’s bar mitzvah reception.

The first rule of videotaping a bar mitzvah is learn who the parents are. They’re the ones who pay you and they expect to see themselves on video as much as possible. I learned this the hard way while taping Nathan Spiegel’s 1987 bar mitzvah reception. The event took place at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel not long after it was featured in the film Beverly Hills Cop. The location teemed with decked-out guests and tourists all looking like low-level gangsters.

My partner for the day was my old high school friend Julien. We often taped weddings and parties together for extra money. As we entered the hotel, we learned there were three bar mitzvah receptions that day. We asked the concierge about the Spiegel event. He said we needed to get security clearance first. Nathan’s father was an Israeli macher who once served in the Knesset (the Israeli legislature). I got the gig because Mr. Spiegel and my grandfather belonged to the same synagogue.

A security guard took our photos, copied our driver’s licenses and gave us name tags. We entered the main ballroom foyer just as hors d’oeuvres were being served. Guests hovered around the food trays trying to identify the mystery meat. I asked Julien to locate Mr. and Mrs. Spiegel. He dove into the crowd while I sought an outlet to charge our battery and portable light. I stashed our equipment behind a raised platform where a three-piece klezmer band played European folk tunes. Julien returned looking sheepish.

“You okay,” I asked.

He gestured to the klezmer band. “Accordion players give me the creeps.”

Julien pointed out a short balding man with an even shorter woman.

“That’s Mr. and Mrs. Spiegel.”

“Excellent,” I said.

“They don’t speak English. Only Hebrew.”

“Good. That means we don’t have to chit chat.”

As the klezmer band moved into the main ballroom, we prepped for action. I connected the battery to the VHS recorder. Julien tested the portable light and did a color balance on the camera. I unpacked the microphones and strapped a role of gaffer tape to my belt. I searched for the box of blank VHS tapes. It was missing. I looked through my equipment bag, starting to panic.

“Have you seen the tape stock, Julien?”

“It’s around somewhere,” he said. “I brought it in myself.”

“Where?”

He searched the same spots I’d scoured.

“Maybe the musicians took them,” he said.

The musicians were setting up on stage. I entered the ballroom and approached the clarinet player who seemed to be in charge.

“Did you guys accidentally take a box of videotapes?”

He didn’t speak English.

Their equipment was piled just off stage. I spoke to the violinist.

“Is it okay if I check your bags to see if my stuff is there?”

He shrugged, not understanding.

I took the initiative and rummaged through their things. A loud voice yelled, “Nay!” I turned to see the accordion player marching towards me, furious. He grabbed my coat and pushed me to the edge of stage, berating me in Russian. I explained what I was doing but he didn’t understand. I returned to the foyer.

“We have a problem,” I told Julien. “No tape.”

“Any in the car?”

“Maybe. You guard our stuff and I’ll check.”

I grabbed my keys from the valet and hiked to the fourth level of the parking structure. I opened my trunk and found an unmarked, previously used VHS tape beneath a pair of dirty sweat pants. I returned to the ballroom, my shirt doused in sweat.

“I found one,” I told Julien.

“Is it enough?”

“If we shoot at the EP setting, we’ll have two hours.”

“How long is the event?”

“Four hours,” I said.

“That’s not good.”

“We’ll have to be selective.”

I manned the camera while Julien lugged the VHS player, battery and portable light. We were connected by three feet of cable forcing us to walk awkwardly in tandem. I recorded Mr. Spiegel as he munched on a cracker slathered in chopped liver. Mrs. Spiegel nibbled on an asparagus spear. We circled them as they chewed, taping every moment. They feigned smiles but it was clear we made them nervous. They waved to the camera and walked away. We followed.

For the next fifteen minutes, we recorded the Spiegels as they schmoozed with guests. Mr. Spiegel’s smile turned to a grimace. He gestured for us to leave him and his wife alone. We continued recording until they disappeared into the bathroom.

We taped a large photo of Nathan on an easel. His acne, braces and coke-bottle glasses gave him a prototypical bar mitzvah nerd look. We captured requisite footage of the guests as they spoke directly into camera saying “Mazel Tov.” Nathan’s young friends screamed and made goofy dance moves. They told us Nathan was backstage rehearsing.

“For what,” I asked.

“You’ll see,” a boy said giggling.

The theme of Nathan Spiegel’s bar mitzvah was rap music. Each table had a center piece dedicated to a different rap performer. There were photos of Run D.M.C., Grandmaster Flash, LL Kool J and Ice-T. Fake gold chains and dark sunglasses covered each table.

The klezmer band stopped playing and the MC took stage. He was in his 40’s, an Elvis-wannabe with greased-back hair, a rhinestone violet suit and a tallit shawl around his shoulders. He spoke with a deep baritone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please enter the ballroom and take your seats.”

People found their tables based on the rap performer pictured on their invitation. This meant the older guests had to familiarize themselves with rappers like Kurtis Blow and Doug E. Fresh. The main table, where Nathan sat with his family, had a Beastie Boys theme.

The room lights dimmed and a spotlight filled the stage. The MC donned sunglasses, thrust his fist into the air in a black power salute and spoke with gravitas.

“It is my great honor to introduce the man of the hour, please give a big cheer for Nathan ‘Big Daddy’ Spiegel.”

The crowd cheered and a heavy metal guitar riff came over the speakers. Nathan hit the stage in a powder blue suit, sunglasses, gold chains and a black fedora hat. He grabbed the microphone and started rapping.

“Your pops caught you smoking and he says no way.”

Nathan’s friends shot up from their seats and thrashed around, their yarmulkes barely staying on their heads.

“Living at home is such a drag,” Nathan rapped. “Your mom threw away your best porno mag.”

Nathan stomped around stage as the guests watched in shock. Julien and I moved closer.

“You gotta fight for your right to party,” Nathan yelled.

His friends sang with him. After several minutes, the music stopped and the guests gave a lukewarm ovation. I captured a closeup of an old woman at the DJ Jazzy Jeff table looking confused.

Nathan was mobbed by friends then rejoined his family at the main table. A rabbi gave the blessing of the Challah then said something about “the exuberance of youth.” Then dinner was served.

While people ate, we exited the ballroom to strategize. We had less than an hour of usable tape. We also had a new problem. The portable light was burning through our battery. This meant we were low on power for the camera and VHS player. We perused the itinerary. We still had to cover Nathan’s dance with family, his speech and a special musical performance. We decided to abandon the portable light and rely on natural light. This meant the video would be dark, but our battery would last longer. We’d do our best to salvage footage during editing.

The MC returned and summoned Nathan and his family to the dance floor. The klezmers kicked into a spirited version of Hava Nagila and the Spiegel clan danced en masse. Nathan taught an elderly couple how to dance like a rapper while Mr. and Mrs. Spiegel waltzed on the periphery.

“How come he’s not dancing with his parents,” Julien whispered into my ear.

“I don’t know.”

The MC invited all the guests to the dance floor and soon the room resembled an Eastern European dance hall. We captured everything until the “low battery” indicator began flickering. We returned to the foyer to learn we only had a half-hour of tape left. While we decided how to proceed, Nathan’s amplified voice echoed through the ballroom. We ran back inside and found Nathan at the podium reading his speech.

“Bar mitzvah means one who is subject to the law,” Nathan said. “That makes this day a legal celebration.”

I kept my eye glued to the viewfinder as Julien guided me through the ballroom. A “low light” indicator now flickered next to the “low battery” warning.

“Shit, shit,” I said.

“What now,” Julien asked.

“I can’t see a fucking thing,” I muttered a little too loud.

“Quiet,” a guest at the Kool Moe Dee table yelled.

We reached the podium below the stage. Nathan’s face was completely dark and there were lens flares from the podium light.

“Angle that light into his face,” I whispered.

Julien sidled around me and swiveled the podium light upwards. I was able to make out Nathan’s features though he was lit from beneath like a horror film. This created a new problem. By shining the light into Nathan’s face we effectively blinded him. The speech came to a standstill as Nathan was a literal deer in the headlights. Someone yelled, “Get that light out of his face!” Julien swiveled the light into its proper position and Nathan resumed speaking. We continued recording even though we knew the footage would be unusable.

“What a lovely young man,” the MC said when the speech ended. “He gives us so much naches. Now we have a surprise for all of you. Nathan, will you please join me up on stage.” Guests applauded while Nathan took the stage.

We crab walked across the room and ascended the steps on the other end of stage. We walked behind the curtains, out of view. I stepped on something springy and heard an awful groaning sound. I looked down and saw a violin beneath my foot.

“Uh oh,” I said.

I carefully lifted my foot off the violin strings. Thankfully no one had seen my faux pas. We moved towards Nathan and the MC.

“As some of you know,” the MC said, “Nathan has been playing violin for several years. Today, he will regale us with a selection from Mozart’s Concerto Number 3. Thanks to Yitzhak Rosenbaum, a guest here today, Nathan will be playing a rare 1798 violin made by the master Italian craftsmen Giuseppe Gagliano. How much did you say that violin is worth, Mr. Rosenbaum?”

“More than my Rolls Royce,” a voice yelled from the darkness. Everyone laughed.

The MC retrieved the violin I’d just stepped on and gave it to Nathan.

“Don’t break this,” he said. “Or your parents will be upset. Isn’t that right Mr. Spiegel?”

A man’s voice replied from the Beastie Boys table. “You said it.”

“I thought he didn’t speak English,” I whispered to Julien. Julien shrugged.

“Okay Nathan, the moment is yours.” The MC stepped aside.

Nathan straightened his posture and placed the violin on his left shoulder. He positioned his jaw on the chin rest and tilted the bow at an angle above the strings. He exhaled then touched the bow to the strings. The resulting tone sounded like the last breath of a dying dog.

For the next few minutes, Nathan transformed Mozart into a vicious assault on the eardrums. Guests shifted in their seats. A female guest begged, “Someone tell him to stop.” Mercifully, the MC gently placed his hand on the strings to stop the bleating.

“Thank you Nathan, wonderful,” the MC said. He removed the violin from Nathan’s hands. Nathan appeared stunned, unsure what happened.

“You know, it’s not too late for piano lessons,” the MC said. “Mr. Rosenbaum, you might want to get a refund on that violin.” The crowd laughed then the klezmers kicked in with a version of “If I Were a Rich Man.” Nathan returned to the Beastie Boys table scratching his head in confusion. Julien and I locked eyes. I put a finger to my lips as if to say, “don’t say anything.”

“I’d now like to call up Mr. and Mrs. Spiegel for the recitation of the Shema,” the MC said.

We rolled tape as Nathan’s parents walked onto the lit stage. They were not the people we recorded earlier in the foyer.

“Who the hell are they,” I whispered.

Julien’s hand squeezed my shoulder. “I think we screwed up,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

He pointed to the Beastie Boys table where the elderly couple we thought were Nathan’s parents remained seated. We’d been following and taping the wrong parents the entire evening. The real Mr. Spiegel approached the microphone.

“I want to thank everyone for joining us on such a special…”

At that moment the camera went black. I tried turning it on again but the battery was dead. I locked eyes with Julien and made a throat slitting gesture.

“No more power,” I said.

He grimaced.

We pretended to continue taping Mr. Spiegel’s speech to not call attention to ourselves. But we were screwed. We’d messed up Nathan’s speech, ruined his musical performance, destroyed a priceless violin, missed the final prayer and didn’t record any footage of the parents. The day was a fiasco.

The event soon ended. The man who we thought was Nathan’s father was actually his uncle, another Mr. Spiegel. The real Mr. Spiegel approached us.

“We’re excited to see the video,” he said. “When do you think it will be ready?”

“Uh, it’ll take a few weeks to edit,” I said.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Send my best to your grandfather.”

We packed our gear, sullen and quiet. As we were leaving, the accordion player appeared with the missing box of tapes apologizing in Russian. Julien was convinced the accordionist had put a curse on us.

We rushed home to check the footage. The only images captured of Nathan’s parents were a few blurry seconds of them dancing. The camera lingered on them a moment then panned away to Nathan’s uncle and aunt.

There was an even bigger problem. The VHS tape I’d found in my trunk had initially been used to record a punk rock documentary called Urgh! A Music War. This created a strange tape effect where the old footage interspersed with the new footage. The Hava Nagila dance included snippets of the band The Cramps singing “Tear It Up.” Shots of bar mitzvah guests nibbling hors d’oeuvres featured moments of the Dead Kennedys wailing “Bleed For Me.”

Nathan’s speech was wholly unusable. Not only was he in the dark, the audio included Julien and I bickering. I heard myself say, “Shit, shit, shit,” and “I can’t see a fucking thing.” At one point in the speech Nathan said, “Being Jewish is not just about corned beef and bagels,” followed by Julien saying, “Yes it is.”

We were demoralized. Normally I was paid 50% up front for gigs, but since Mr. Spiegel was a friend of my grandfather’s I let this slide. This meant we likely wouldn’t get paid at all.

We brainstormed ways to salvage the project. I considered giving them the raw master tape free of charge. Julien suggested selling the tape to Nathan’s uncle since we had so much footage of he and his wife. The only high-quality footage was Nathan rapping and dancing at the start of the evening.

“Too bad we’re not making a rap video,” Julien said.

A proverbial light bulb appeared over my head.

“You’re a genius,” I yelled.

“What do you mean,” he said.

“Instead of making this tape for Mr. Spiegel, let’s make it for Nathan. It’ll be one long rap video.”

We recorded rap videos on MTV from the likes of Run D.M.C. and the Beastie Boys. We edited these clips between shots of Nathan, his family and bar mitzvah guests. For segments with unusable audio, we overdubbed Jam Master Jay explaining the essence of rap. For the dancing sequence, we intercut dance footage of rap stars popping, locking and breaking. We even left in some of the Urgh! A Music War clips as it served the overall tone.

The final video was edited to 45 minutes. I phoned Mr. Spiegel and made plans to deliver the tape. I asked him to please have a check ready for $1,500. My hope was to put the tape in his hand, grab the check and run away before he went ballistic. I knew my grandfather would receive the brunt of his rage, but I didn’t know how else to proceed.

I drove to Mr. Spiegel’s home in Beverly Hills. He invited me inside and led me into the living room where dozens of people from the bar mitzvah sat on couches eager to watch the video. I said I couldn’t stay, but Mr. Spiegel insisted. He said he’d pay me as soon the video was over.

Nathan and his friends sat to the side. I sat with them. As Mr. Spiegel turned on the television, I whispered to Nathan, “We made this for you, not your parents. I hope you like it.”

Mr. Spiegel dimmed the lights and inserted the tape into the player. The opening frames were black. Slowly, the Sugarhill Gang song “Rapper’s Delight” faded up.

I said-a hip, hop, the hippie, the hippie To the hip hip hop-a you don’t stop the rock It to the bang-bang boogie, say up jump the boogie To the rhythm of the boogie, the beat.

The opening images featured Nathan dancing and rapping on stage. We interspersed clips from rap videos. When the lyrics “the beat don’t stop until the break of dawn” played, we cut to guests romping on the dance floor. I glanced at Mr. Spiegel. His face was scrunched like he’d bitten into something sour. Mrs. Spiegel had her hand over her mouth. The adults in the room fidgeted, unsure what they were watching. But Nathan and his friends were ecstatic. They laughed and rapped along with their favorite lyrics. Their energy was infectious and soon the guests watched them instead of the footage. When the video ended, I nervously turned to Nathan.

“What do you think?”

“It’s awesome,” he said. He walked to his father and gave him a hug.

Mr. Spiegel’s frown morphed into a smile. Everyone took their cue from the patriarch and the atmosphere lightened. Mr. Spiegel motioned for me to follow him to the front door.

“I disapprove of the way you depicted my son’s bar mitzvah. But Nathan is happy and that’s what matters.”

He gave me a check and shook my hand. That was the last bar mitzvah I ever recorded.