Me honored to be sitting next to honoree, the great and amazing Sonny Rollins
First of all, for the New Yorkers out there, I have a nice gig in Harlem this Sunday, which will be my last gig of 2011.
This is not quite the same as being able to say that I was singing at the White House last weekend. Which I wasn’t, by the way. I wish! But I did have an amazing two days in DC, courtesy of the Kennedy Center and White House, starting off at the Mandarin Oriental, where I rolled up at the same time as Jessye Norman. I was practically dashed to the ground by the stampede of doormen who rushed to greet her. But I dusted myself off enough to tell her I’m a giant fan.
Hey, I love it when people do that to me. Oh, okay, if you insist, that one time it happened to me on the street. I loved that onetime. Actually, if you must know, it happened to me two times, once up by Columbia University and once downtown. Yes, yes, it was the same guy! But that’s extraordinary in itself, right?
We were there because Billy (who played with Sonny Rollins for three years) was in the band put together by Christian McBride to celebrate Sonny being awarded the Medal of the Arts. This involved two days and nights of partying, with Champagne up the wazoo, commencing on the Saturday night with a reception hosted by Hillary Clinton, who greeted us all individually.
She is, by the way, actually very attractive in real life. We arrived on literally a busload of celebs — a bit like the school bus, except, instead of sitting behind school crush Stuart Goodrich (phoar!), I sat behind Lionel Ritche (that’s him to the left of Judi in the pic below) just across from Alan Alda. And when some oaf was holding up the line of people trying to get to the seats on the bus, John Lithglow offered me his seat.
There’s something rather surreal about seeing Robert De Niro have to produce ID to get in. Okay, totally surreal. In fact, it was all a bit like an actual dream, one of those ones where you’re in a roomful of famous people, glugging champagne and picking snackettes off passing trays. We were even photographed as we walked in (on what I noticed on the way out was red carpet) by paparazzi calling out: “Mr. Drummond! Over here!” And Kevin Kline actually remembering me from being introduced ten years ago (which impressed me no end) was kind of like someone in a movie turning mid-scene to ask after your mum or something. And speaking of Mum, I wore her coat that I had spent the previous week re-lining with lilac silk (Mum, explain how you get ink on the inside of a coat with no pockets!) which felt a little bit like taking her with me.
Judi Silvano and me — and Lionel to the left of Judi. That beautiful back on the right belongs to my brunch BFFDL
I guess, because it wasn’t out on the streets, everyone was super friendly– especially the politicians who couldn’t pass by without shaking your hand and saying “So nice to see you!” – which is pol-speak for “nice to meet you” — which they daren’t say in case you’re someone they’re supposed to remember meeting before (like an ex-wife or something). Standing in the line for brunch on Sunday, John Kerry took that a step further when he was talking to us and kept touching the elbow of my BFFDL (Best Friend For the Duration of the Line), except it wasn’t her elbow, it was her rib cage, which is rather more intimate — perhaps he thought they’d been married once. Then a few minutes later she noticed he’d worked his way up the line and was now about eight people ahead, instead of in his rightful place actually behind us. This is how politicians jump lines. Very charmingly.
And speaking of charming, Bill Clinton was obviously totally star struck by Sonny Rollins. He even sat at his table at the dinner on the Saturday, choosing him above any of the other nominees – Meryl Streep (at the next table to our right), Barbara Cook (at the table to our left), Yo Yo Ma, and Neil Diamond. And he gave the toast for Sonny, which was the best, most thrilling toast of the evening. Actually all the toasts were amazing (Nora Ephron did Meryl Streep’s) but Bill’s was our favorite, because it was about “our” man and he knew SO MUCH about jazz. Plus he tapped Billy on the shoulder as he passed our table so he could shake hands and say: “How are you doing, man.” (I don’t think he thought they’d ever been married).
White (chocolate) House
And the next day… after brunch (more Champagne), there was another reception (this time at the White House) in the afternoon (with even more Champagne .. hic!). And food, including a White House made entirely of white chocolate (see left) – although the staff told me it wasn’t to be eaten. See, it has little rooms in it, with lights on! And then the President introduced the honorees in a separate room, which was televised in our room, the room with all the food and — hicshh! – Champagne. And then ….. (drum roll) ….
… suitably liquored up, we were taken to meet the Obamas. President Obama looked a bit tired, poor thing. But she. She is ohmygoodnessagoddess! And whereas he was … well, looking a bit tired, poor thing, she … she was acting like it was her absolute most favorite thing in the world to stand and shake hands with 200+ people — especially YOU.
And when I said “ohmygoodnessyouareagoddess”, she took both my hands and spread my arms apart and said “Look at YOU!” And then, I think, she actually hugged me. I say, “I think” because, strangely and unexpectedly, actually meeting them was an experience that puts you so totally in the moment that you almost aren’t there at all. Or washz that the SHChampagne – hic! oops! Or both.
The next day I turned to Billy and said: “Hang on a minute… Did I hug Mrs. Obama?” And he said not only did I, but he was expecting me to be arrested when he turned, horrified (he’s from the South), to see me coming out of the hug. But obviously it wasn’t me that initiated the hug. I mean, come on, everyone knows that Mrs. Obama is the hugger. She hugged the Queen of England. In fact, maybe this was an autopilot reaction to my accent. Whatever it was, it felt like a blessing – like when a baby smiles at you on the subway. And of course I will now never have that dress cleaned.
the enormous basket of scrumptious treats that I’m not even going to mention
This is the life to which I wish to become accustomed (especially the Champagne part ) – not to be confused with the Life, which is Harlem-speak for gone to the dogs. I’m not even going to mention the enormous basket of scrumptious treats that the Kennedy Center had left in our room. Or the absurdly enormous double bath and marble tiled double shower. Or how sleeping on a cloud makes you wake up looking ten years younger (Must. Buy. New. Pillows. Without lumps in them!). Or how I felt like a proud mum (albeit, I hope, a M.I.L.F.) in my gown (as opposed to mere “dress”) sitting in the audience (along with — though not next to — the Obamas) watching my boyfriend play with Herbie Hancock, Joe Lovano, Christian McBride, Jimmy Heath, Benny Golson, Ravi Coltrane, Jim Hall, and Jack DeJohnette – who joined in for one of the songs – who was playing Billy’s ride cymbal (which, for reasons perhaps only another drummer could understand, was apparently terribly exciting).
And speaking of excited… the GOWN. Even before being imprinted with Mrs Obama DNA it was already special since Billy bought it for me because I needed something “special”. He not only bought it, he dragged me around several shops to find it and then he picked it out (it’s the grey silk strapless in the pictures) and sat there like a proud D.I.L.F. while various women fussed around me pulling and tugging and adjusting undergarments to see how it looked. And when it needed altering at vast expense and I was quite ready to go off to H&M to save the money he said: “Of course!” Every now and then I fondle it in my wardrobe (it rustles because of the tulle underskirt) and remember that weekend. And remember to say thank you.
But now here I am back in the C-Town of neighborhoods, where a girl has to line up for two hours in the local post office to get stamps because every time someone asks for stamps, the staff (behind the bullet-proofed — or perhaps merely irate customer-proofed — windows) go off to ferret around in the back for half an hour looking for them in the SAFE! People! This is a post office. Someone might ask for … Hello? … stamps. By the way, what the hell are they doing in the safe in the first place? And I am so missing “my” double bath and double marble shower, not to mention the downy pillows. But as, one hopes, more-than-once-in-a-lifetime experiences go, that was a grrrrrrreat weekend! As Ravi Coltrane so perfectly put it when we came out from being presented to the Obamas: “Man! That was a ride! Can we go again!” Pix below….
Meanwhile … Thank you so much for sharing this year (and all the others) with me. And if I don’t see you before … Happy Kiss-mas and New Year and beyond! Pictures below…
“Can we all take our picture with Renee Fleming? Please. Can we, can we, can we?”
Mona and Jimmy Heath, Benny Golson, Billy, Sonny Rollins, Joe Lovano, Ravi Coltrane
Quite possibly the only time in his life normally Southern-reserved Billy has introduced himself to a celeb. La Streep. He said: “I love your work.” She said: “Oh, that makes me so happy!” She is also completely gorgeous in real life. Anne Hathaway? Wot? Totally Meryl-blinded, we didn’t see her in the shot until we saw this picture.
Me and Judi in the entrance bit of the White House near the orchestra playing in that room. At one point Judi thought: “Goodness, that cellist sounds great!” and when she went to look, it was Yo Yo Ma sitting in! In fact, every new room you went into had a group of musicians (a lot of them harpists) playing heavenly, “Well, welcome to THIS room!” music
Coconut cake! My weakness. Jimmy Heath told me it has tons of cholesterol and when I said, “Oh no! That means I can’t eat it!” he said: “Me neither. But my doctor’s not here. Is yours?!” Delicious! Nearly as good as the one my BFF makes for my birthday.
Here I am in the most beautiful city in the world, which I am returned to for my friend Andre’s wedding to Anastasia (that’s me at the reception singing two songs for them). Oh my God! This place is so friendly. People smile at you in the street as you walk past. Sometimes they say things like “Good morning!” Or “I’ve got two magazines, would you like to read my other one?”
Palm trees like giant green pineapples with flared leaves jostle with the bougainvilla and other blossoms I don’t recognize on the sidewalks. There are trams whizzing along Church Street near where I’m staying. Actual trams. That real people commute in. It would almost be too much (I think there is such a thing as ‘too beautiful’ just like there is such a thing as ‘too thin’ though perhaps not ‘too rich’) if it weren’t for the mess of cables all over the place, which stops it from being too chocolate boxy.
Yes I had to endure a 30 minute ride in blazing sunshine over the glittering Bay to Larkspur just to rehearse
I can’t believe I used to live here and then moved! Then again in the non chocolate box department, it would be hard to beat where I live in New York. Young men on every street corner doing pull ups on the traffic lights. Giant pit bulls straining at their leashes to get at the chicken bones strewn all over the street. The faint smell of … well, let’s just say, not eucalpytus trees and blossoms. And God forfend you should leave your brolly in the vestibule of Balthazar’s when it is bucketing it down as I did once (and ended up looking like a wet tee-shirt contestant by the time I got home).
Hah! Take that, San Francisco! With your clean streets and your people smiling at you as you walk past, and your ferry rides across the Bay to get to your rehearsals, and your Trader Joe’s and supermarkets which sell alcohol under the same roof! Not to mention your coffee shops on every street corner in residential neighborhoods, and your specialty cheese stores, And delicious breakfast confections such as those you have tried to tempt me daily at Martha & Bros coffee shop..Er … hang on a minute …
“Welcome to my humble abode — for the evening only!”
Oh all right. I admit., it is pretty fantastic. I’ve had TWO burritos (how come nowhere else makes them like they do here?), and got takeout from my favorite Chinese restaurant in the world — Eric’s on Church Street — the night I arrived. And even the cat I am sharing the apartment with runs to greet me PURRING, when he hears my key in the lock. Although it’s kind of hard to sleep with him trying to burrow in the bed with me at night.
And yes, yes, I am literally stopping in the street to smell the flowers. And I thought it was sweet when a woman on my commute to Larkspur (by ferry — sigh!) sneezed and the entire ferry-full of strangers said “Bless you!” in unison. And the wedding was beautiful. And the bride’s dress was like whipped cream. And her mum’s speech was absolutely hysterical — funnier than Tina Fey! The house concert I did the night before was amazing in a Russian Hill mansion owned by a woman who just loaned it to us (us being me and pianist Dan Zemelman) as a favor. Unbelievable house (and yes, since you ask, I really enjoyed greeting people the door and taking their coats and proffering wine like the lady of the house).
YOU in New York at the 55
But being here makes me realize I’m a New Yorker to my very bones. I even walk like one! — going at my normal pace the other day I suddenly noticed I was overtaking everyone on the street. And on my first day here, as i walked into a store, and the girl walking out said “Hello” I had to stop myself saying ‘Hell – oh — oh?” (i.e., in three syllables with a giant question mark on the end) — although I would never take someone else’s umbrella. So even though it is gorgeous (and even the weather behaved — for the most part) …. And even though I know Joni Mitchell would disagree with me ….
Ah but my heart cries out for you, New York New York, I’m coming home Will you take me as I am, strung out on San Fran (might be all those trips to Martha & Bros coffee shop) You make me feel good rock ‘n ‘roll band I’m your biggest fan, New York, I’m coming home
See you soon, I hope.
NEXT UP: Joe’s Pub, New York, on October 8 (Yes, Yom Kippur! When all of New York is staying home for crying out loud!)
Okay, so I am not a “fellow American” quite yet. BUT I did get fingerprinted the other day for my citizenship papers, even though I was a day late (I didn’t mention it and nor did they), and any second now I will have my interview and will be a “fellow American”. Someone expressed concern at my last gig about anyone wanting to be an American, but see, English + American actually makes me Canadian, although when I say “a boat”, I still mean a boat, not “about”.
Meanwhile, I have been duly swotting like a banshee (and you thought they only howled) all 100 questions, 10 of which will be asked at the interview and six of which I will need to get right. I noticed during a friend’s testing of me that when the question “What was the declaration of Independence?” came up, I accidentally answered: “We declared independence from Britain.” And I didn’t even say “Great Britain” — eek! You can test yourself here at this government website.
Being able to pass an English test is part of the interview, which I fully expect to ace, even though, strangely, there will be no translation questions, such as “plaster” meaning band aid, or “smart” meaning posh (British) instead of clever (which I have just found out in American has negative clever dickie connotations) or “fish ‘n’ chips” meaning good staple diet (British) as opposed to “British food” (American) meaning inedible.
I still struggle with this idea (American) that “British cuisine” is an oxymoron, but of course I won’t be mentioning that at the interview in case they strip me of my Green Card there and then. In the meantime, I think British versus American English should be added to the language skills test, since when I first arrived on this soil I once spent about half an hour trying to get a box of plasters in a drug store in SoHo until another customer took charge and bustled over, saying to the assistant: “It’s okay, I speak English!” like the woman in Airplane saying “It’s okay I speak Jive”.
Perhaps I will wait until I become an American to suggest these, er. … Amendments to the citizenship test. Don’t want to come off as “clever”. Meanwhile, belated HAPPY JULY 4th, which this time next year I will be able to celebrate as the day “we” got away from “us”!
I was so nervous of being interviewed at the Jazz Standard by Brian Pace of the Pace Report. Click here to see the full interview and clips of our gig at the Jazz Standard two weeks ago. I love the title of it, by the way. One of my Mum’s names for me is “Butterfly Mind”.
Actually it was a hairy week because on the day of the gig, an article about me appeared in the Wall Street Journal by Martin Johnson. He writes about jazz and all things gastronomique — click here for his fabulous cheese blog. And here to read the article on line, if your eyesight can’t cope with the copy below.
I have no idea what was so scary about it. Maybe being at the other end of it, and out of control. Or fear of saying something completely stupid by accident. I am quite sure, for example, that Ricky Gervais’s turn at the Golden Globes was a kind of Tourette-ian outburst. But in some ways that’s the beauty of it. Not being able to do anything is sort of restful if you just let go. So … I decided to just relax and be grateful instead.
…. Or, to paraphrase Winston Churchill, “Never give in! Never give in! Never, never never!” A few months ago, for no earthly reason that I can think of, I was inspired to look at the website of my friend, artist Susannah Bettag. I say “for no earthly reason” because we aren’t in constant touch. She lives in San Francisco. I live in New York. And we are both busy. So we see only each other about once a year. What I saw when I went to the website were the most amazing paintings I’ve seen in years, by anyone. They seemed to me to represent some kind of culmination of all her previous work. Here are some of them, so you can judge for yourself. Click here to see many more. And this isn’t a “hobby”. She’s actually represented by a highly respected gallery.So I was absolutely shocked when, in San Francisco a couple of weeks ago, she announced, over a cup of tea (the British cure-all equivalent of chicken soup), that she was “taking a break”. Possibly even a one-year break. She’s keeping her studio, and she’s going to keep going in from time to time but she is taking the focus off painting for a while so she can hang out with her children and work on doing up a house. It turns out that she, far from seeing these recent paintings as a culmination, sees them as a new direction that she’s not sure she wants to take. Hmmm.
Now, if you want my pennyworth, I’d say, by all means see them as the beginning of something new, but for crying out loud don’t stop now! Meanwhile, it’s a very apropos illustration of the blog that’s been building up inside me over the past few months about the importance of the fallow field versus (not that anyone around here is dreaming of doing this — of course!) giving up. One of the few Geography lessons I remember, in case you’ve forgotten it, a farmer rotates his crops so that one field (a different one each year) gets the opportunity to lie fallow. If it doesn’t lie fallow it becomes infertile and can’t produce good crops (which, come to think of it, might explain what’s happened to the taste of food, of late).
It is so easy as an artist not to take a break, and I have found that during those periods where I FORCE myself to have Sundays off, I am actually more creative the rest of the week. So I am all for lying fallow. Some of our greatest talents took LONG breaks — Sonny Rollins took off years (although he practiced every day). Miles Davis also took off years (and didn’t practice, and had to catch up when he came back to it). However …. the trick is to know when you need to lie fallow — and whether a year is possibly a bit much (unless you are a field of course) — and when you need to keep going.
The other day, in Half Moon Bay to perform at the wonderful Bach Dancing and Dynamite Society, I took a walk in the morning along the cliffs. There were two little surfers in the distance and I thought I’d watch them and maybe take a photo. It was fascinating to watch their progress out to sea. As the first surfer went out he kept getting pushed back by the waves. But each time he was pushed back, he was a little further out to sea than the time before. By the way, for no reason at all that I could see, the progression of the second surfer was much faster. Just sayin’.
However, if the waves had been harder to get past (which I am sure they are when you’re talking about Hawaii or somewhere), it would have taken a lot longer to get out to where the ride-able waves are. In that case, maybe a break to rest and gather your strength would make sense, right? Or maybe you just keep doing it and eventually build the muscles required to get strong enough to finally (one miraculous day!) get far enough out to catch a big one.
But here’s another analogy (which brings me to the title of today’s blog): When I gave birth to my son I remember thinking (after eleven hours in labor), my goodness, this baby is never going to come OUT! But I had three nurses on either side of me shouting “Push! Push! Push!” What must it be like to give birth alone without that encouragement? I can’t imagine! And, at this point, half the nurse’s job is to remind you that it’s not just agony for no reasons, there’s actually a baby in there! And it needs to be born! It reminds me of that period in your creative development when you are getting ready to move to the next level. Where you wonder what the hell are you doing. Where the hell you are going? What the PH you were THINKING when you started this whole thing? Where you have to have utter blind faith that there’s something in there TO come out. This is the time, second only to starting out, when you are most likely to give up.
And actually I think there is a point when you SHOULD give up and just do what you have to do at the final stages of labor, stop pushing and start panting. Oh my goodness! The panting. Yikes! I can’t remember why, but I remember them telling me to do it. And then at the very end, one final PUSH, followed by the blissful bumpity bump of legs and arms. And … Boom! Actual baby! If only we could love our creative productions as unconditionally and instantly. But, then again, perhaps creating a work of art is more like surrogacy than having your own baby. It’s not for YOU. It’s for other people.
So, I’m just saying … By all means lie fallow for a bit. Pant. Keep swimming to build those muscles, even if it’s only in the local swimming pool. But don’t stop! And, most of all, give yourself a break in that other sense.
Because wherever you are, be it near or far from your dreamed-of destination, the endeavor is so difficult, so fraught with doubts, so peppered with failures along the way, at times it feels it would be easier to give up. To keep going requires constant effort, confidence, self belief, preparation, a road map, assistance and encouragement from people around you. A plan. … As Julia Cameron points out in The Artist’s Way, “All too often it is audacity and not talent that moves an artist to center stage.” And just as often, maybe more often, it is lack of audacity, not lack of talent, which makes others give up. [From page 55 of my book]
To quote Andre Gide, “Art begins with resistance — at the point where resistance is overcome. No human masterpiece has ever been created without great labor.” Or as Po Bronson says in his ‘What Should I Do With My Life’ (and yes, I am the tea-making Tessa referred to in the chapter on community): “The hardest thing was not learning to write. The hardest thing was to never give up.”
I’ve been thinking about this subject a lot lately. Inspired partly by my thinking about a lunch I had three years ago with my one of my exes exes (it’s complicated!). That day we discovered we had a lot more in common than we’d realized when we were wary, peripheral “friends” — introduced (and kept apart) by our mutual ex. She made the wedding rings, by the way (check her jewelry out here). But as we sat down at the table, and before our bums had even hit the seats, she leaned forward and said: “I’ve been dying to have this lunch with you for twenty years!” Lunch? Schmunch! We laughed. We cried. We confided. Ohmygoodnessweconfided! Did we ever! We understood. We finished that lunch real friends. In Platonic love. But, the other thing, the main thing, is that we left that table stronger.
In my meandering mind (stick with me, because this is related), I’ve been thinking about community versus competition in my profession and … dare I say it? … singers seem to be so much more competitive of each other than instrumentalists. My boyfriend, Billy, who is himself an amazing drummer (and is always saying: “Music is not a competition!”) absolutely LOVES other drummers. If you go to a gig to see a great drummer (I don’t mean just famous, but peers), trust me, there will be at least ten or more other drummers in the crowd with blissed out expressions on their faces. And on the break they rush the bandstand to compare sticks, and rivets on the cymbals (what is it with rivets?), and other drum geekery. Same with guitarists. The point being that they celebrate and support each other’s talent. I rarely hear them talk about someone’s failings. Blimey!
But singers … Well, is it because we are mostly women and women are encouraged by society to compete with each other? For whatever reason, singers do. Of COURSE I am not talking about all singers. And I certainly don’t mean YOU, dear reader. But the question bears thinking about because, true or not (and come on, you know which it is), singers have that reputation in the jazz community.
So it was particularly wonderful that at my 55 Bar gig last night there was a bunch of singers, GREAT singers, in the crowd. I’d known a couple of them were coming and had actually said a little prayer on the train on my way down there that I would be able to focus on being “real” rather than get all tangled up in having to be “good”, because I was playing with an out-of-town guitar player I had never even met and, well, you never know, do you! And I don’t care what anybody says, praying WORKS. Because the out-of-town guitarist, who I shall call John Stowell (because it was indeed he), got stuck in traffic on his way back from a gig in CT and was 40 minutes (count them!) late.
What to do, with a room full of restless people there to hear music (not the stand up I would have had to resort to)? Well, use the resources around me — namely the wonderful and amazing Katie Bull, Kendra Shank (that’s our picture in the break at the top) and my “New York Mum” Connie MacNamee, who all functioned as my vocal rhythm section. I wish I’d managed to get all the singers in the crowd to join us. I certainly would have if John hadn’t made it. And when John turned up he said he didn’t even feel like he was needed which, of course he was. But so was his lateness (on this occasion), because it allowed my “sisters in song,” who were there for me (in every way), to demonstrate so beautifully what I also learned from that lunch three years ago …United we stand!
So …. I guess I am stuck on the ‘Long and Winding Road’ theme because of where I’m at in my own career. It’s all very Saturnian – hard work, endurance, building, learning, tearing down the old, working on the new and MOST OF ALL, staying enthused. But I’m keeping hanging on – hoping I’m not clinging to a cloud!
HANG ON TO YOUR LOVE
“People talk about following your bliss,” says Simon Robinson. “But sometimes when you do that and you have to ‘play the game’ – pandering to shop buyers who don’t want to buy anything that hasn’t already been in a magazine – you end up hating the thing you once loved. It becomes such brutal, grinding work that you don’t want to think about it anymore.” I know what he means. I got to a stage in my music where I was so focused on turning it into something that would make me a decent living that I forgot why I was doing it in the first place — for love; for its own sake; because I just loved doing it in the moment.
“There should always be a sense of moving ahead and growing all the time,” says Michael Becker, former musician and producer turned photographer. “But you absolutely positively can’t be focused on the end result.” Interestingly, since Michael started focusing on photography and, consequently relaxed about his music, his music career has been quietly taking off again – most notably with the song ‘In the Deep’, which he co-wrote and produced (and played all the instruments on) with actress-singer Bird York, which plays out the Oscar-winning movie Crash.
But photography is now his first love and he has faith in it turning out well – to the extent that he was willing to mortgage his house at the beginning. “I’m not sure I knew where I was going but I knew I was going somewhere,” he says. And having researched his chosen career thoroughly , he was prepared for it to take a long time. “It was something I read over and over again on the websites I looked at. It takes time.”
[end of book excerpt]
So here are my tips to keeping it fresh along the way:
1. Be flexible. You really don’t know what you might be doing in ten years. Be willing to go in a totally new direction. Michael Becker, for example, is flourishing as BOTH a musician AND a photographer nowadays.
2. Keep going. Duh! Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. You will get somewhere. Even if it’s somewhere you didn’t expect to get.
3. Having said that, it is probably good to have in mind a destination. Personally I love walking, but I have to be going somewhere, preferably to do something like shop or visit a friend or whatever. The thought of aimless walking with no destination doesn’t inspire me to even put my shoes on!
4. Which isn’t to say that you can’t make detours. Detours are good. Follow your bliss, as they say.
5. Keep learning. I am now studying theory and piano and I can’t wait for my next lesson!
6. Do the “artist date” that Julia Cameron talks about in her fab book, The Artist’s Way. I went to a Giacometti retrospective at MOMA a few years ago and I couldn’t wait to get back home and start composing. Perhaps if I’d been a sculptor I might have come home and thrown away my tools! Then again, Mikhail Barysnikov said, “No dancer can watch Fred Astaire and not know that we all should have been in another business.” But it didn’t stop him, did it! Be inspired by it all!
7. Banish all thoughts of “overnight success”. In fact, if you look deeper into all the overnight successes you will find that they were preceded by years of hard work. In fact, banish all thoughts of “success” and focus on doing whatever you’re doing because you love it. As Gene Hackman, one of my heroes, once said: “I was trained to be an actor, not a star!”
8. Don’t fret about your self doubts. If you didn’t have self doubt, where would be the inspiration to keep improving? Or so my very wise friend, singer Mansur Scott always says to me.
9. Treat failures and setbacks as lessons and soldier on. As novelist Veronica Henry says: “Some days I am all over the place, convinced that I have the hardest job in the world …. and how on earth can I be expected to dredge up inspiration from nowhere. After a few days of wallowing I have to give myself a stern talking to and tell myself to get on with it in a professional and objective manner!”
10. Be willing to throw out everything you have done up to now and start afresh. As Veronica says: “Sometimes you have to do the worst thing and throw everything out. That is seriously hard but entirely necessary. And after the initial pain, a huge relief, as you no longer have to do battle with something that’s not working. That’s when you can move on. In the meantime … the blackness. And the euphoria. Thank God for the euphoria.”
Okay so Belarus was hands down the most fun I have ever had traveling for a gig. I got to hang out with one of my very dearest friends (Essential Sue) and made some new ones (including Inga, who brought me out there and made it such a success), played with an unbelievably excellent band, taught a master class at the Belarus Academy of Music — my first! — drank lots of Soviet champagne, and had a string of amazing, mostly sold out gigs, playing for wonderful, appreciative audiences. What’s not to love? The picture is of my first concert at the Belarus State Theater — photographed by Yuri Dudinski from the US Embassy.
I almost didn’t make it. There was a blizzard in New York and the freeway to the airport was a long line of stationary red brake lights. Thank goodness for my amazing cab driver who, due to some nifty back street driving, put up with my pogo-ing up and down in the back seat, got us there only 15 minutes after the gate was due to close, and only TWICE said, “You should have left earlier!”
My friend Selene had managed to find a number at Aeroflot with a human being on the end. A stern human being. At Aeroflot. Who said there was NO WAY ON EARTH they would hold the gate and of course would not give me the number. But pleading tearfully for her to call the gate herself and tell them I was nearly there worked. When I arrived, I ran up to the gate with my arms and legs sticking up all over the place and they closed the gate behind me. Yikes. Thirty people were not so lucky and missed the plane. Then, of course, we ended up sitting on the tarmac for two hours waiting for permission to take off. This made me late at the other end, where Bellavia (the national airline for Belarus) — after a phone call from Inga — actually held the plane on the tarmac for 20 minutes and sent a bus just for me to take me out to it. She’d told them we had all these sold out concerts that I couldn’t miss, which absolutely explained the mysterious extra special treatment I was getting — people scrabbling to help me carry my bags and being super nice … you know, like I was Elton John or something. Here is a picture of Inga standing next to the poster she made for our first concert at the Belarus State Theater. By the way, did I mention how ridiculously beautiful all the women in Belarus are?
The audiences everywhere were amazing. Many came over and told me that they had been moved to tears. One boy said: “Your music makes my heart sing with emotion!” And an older man turned to Inga in tears and told her: “She sings of the love I never met.” Profound. We got a standing ovation that night. The band, Appletea, was extraordinary — even though we were a septet and could have been an unholy mess. And there were so many young people there. I think maybe because the education system is so excellent so they are very sophisticated listeners. Here is a picture of the wonderful 17-year-old, Elisabeth, who speaks perfect English, which she learned from the Internet, sold my CDs and was generally indispensable! Note fab t-shirt which Inga had made.
Speaking of young people, the students in the master class at the Belarus Academy of Music were fantastic. Not only did I hear some wonderful singers, but they were so deep.
One young woman gave me a beautiful interpretation of the meaning of Summertime, when I asked her to tell me what the song was about to her. She not only talked about the horrors of being a slave but imagined how a slave mother would feel singing to her baby who was going to grow up to be a slave. But, of course, Russia has a tough history so it’s no wonder its people are so soulful. And there was so much raw talent in the room. It was very exciting to witness.
The next two nights — Sunday and Monday — we played at a little club called Graffiti, where the crowd was even younger and just as attentive — in spite of much Soviet champagne and vodka (“It is Russian tradition!”) and where it was so sold out the owner had to give us the second night for the overflow and still people couldn’t get in. I absolutely have to go back! Even the smoking was bearable!
The teeny club, Graffiti, was kind of like the 55 Bar, only a much younger clientele. And instead of wine and beer everyone was quaffing Soviet champagne (delicious!) and vodka. The tables in rows in front of you were where all the young people were sitting, looking super attentive and dreamy (okay, some of them were kissing!). And then at the back near the actual bar, where the videographer managed to squish herself in, was where the talking element sat. But it wasn’t too bad actually – from the stage, that is. Listening to the video, it isn’t ideal where the camera was. And here is some video of the second night — us doing The Island by Ivan Lins and the Bergmans. I think there are more videos to come. Also, I must chop the first concert video into separate tracks because I have that too and there is no talking.
Belarus and Russia were magnificent. Let’s just say, Soviet champagne ROCKS! (No, not on the rocks). Plus … I played with incredible musicians, the audiences were appreciative (and poetic in their praise), I had a wonderful experience of giving a master class (more please!) and I had FUN.
Three out of the four gigs in Belarus were SOLD OUT with people trying to get in (and not succeeding), except for one restaurant gig we had, where the guys all dressed up in tuxedos at 10pm after our first concert (the one at the Belarus State Theater at 7pm) and where we ate unbelievably delicious food (and drank Soviet champagne of course!) at vast expense. I had a pasta with gorgonzola sauce with walnuts which was so delicious that I sought out a similar recipe which I cooked last night without incident.
As some of you know, I accidentally set fire to my favorite cook book — Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything) the last time I attempted to get fancy (ie, cook anything that isn’t lentil soup or vegetarian chile). Some of you also know I make a mean mushroom lasagne — although I have now notated in the actual cook book “Add the damn mushrooms!” after the time I carefully layered all the ingredients, except the mushrooms (in mushroom lasagne), and had to start all over again!
Billy was so impressed that I believe he might actually let me do some cooking from now on. His eleven-year-old recently reminded me (by way of helpful explanation) of my first attempt to cook at his house — burgers, which mysteriously swelled up “burgerballs”. Anyway. the gorgonzola sauce (and so EASY!) has redeemed me. In fact, it is so good (and so easy), I am putting the recipe below.
By the way, those of you who heard me announce at our last 55 Bar gig that I had found a brand new laptop on the subway last month, the end of the story is, by Sunday night the owner (a young woman) had emailed me and on Monday she got it back. She cried, because she said she had many emails from people saying things like, “Fuggedaboutit! This is New Yawk, baby!” However, one of you who had heard my announcement that night saw her mournful ad on Craig’s List the next day and sent her my email address. So her faith in humanity was restored.
The moral of the tale is … well, don’t even BOTHER to get in touch with the Lost and Found department at MTA. That would be the Lost department. I STILL haven’t heard back from them. But also, put your name and address on your computer please! Because many people are honest and would want to return the computer. In fact, I just put my name and address on mine yesterday! Deciding to take my own advice — always a good idea. Meanwhile … the power of email and the internet is amazing!
And speaking of power …. here’s Mark Bittman’s …
GORGONZOLA CHEESE SAUCE
Half a cup of crumbled Gorgonzola
Half a cup of half and half milk
Half a cup of fresh Parmesan
Two tablespoons of butter
Melt the butter. While that is happening, start adding the half and half to the Gorgonzola and mush it all up together bit by bit until all the milk is added. Stir cheesey mixture into the melted butter and cook — stirring all the time — over a low heat. When thick and absolutely delicious, add it to a warm bowl of cooked pasta (now, you DID remember to put the damn pasta on, right?) and toss in the Parmesan and stir. Serve with a simple salad of arugula leaves and tomatoes and avocado, drizzled (I say ‘drizzled’ because that always sounds like you know how to cook) with olive oil and a little balsamic. And VOILA!
“Magic is believing in yourself. If you can do that, you can do anything.” Goethe
I am so excited to be coming out to California again. Here is me in my kitchen in San Francisco reading one of the mags I used to write for. We could see Golden Gate Bridge from our window — behind me!
I leave tomorrow and have t gigs, one of which (in Sebastopol) was sold out two weeks in advance! To let you know, they are at Ruth Price’s wonderful Jazz Bakery, Ernie Shelton’s House Concert in beautiful Sebastopol, and the swanky new Yoshi’s in San Francisco.
San Francisco still feels kind of like “home” to me, even though I left there over ten years ago. Maybe that’s partly because it is where I first started on this madness of being a jazz singer, after I sat in at the Mint Karaoke Bar on Market Street down the road from the first Writer’s Grotto — when I was a writer and one of the “original six” Grotto members, along with Po Bronson, Ethan Watters, Ethan Canin, David Munro and Josh Kornbluth.
So I’ve been thinking lately about Chapter Four of my book: The Long and Winding Road: Keeping The Faith. As I say there, “It’s easy to keep going when things feel good. The challenge is to keep going when it stops feeling good. Chapter Four is about how to get unstuck, as well as how to keep going when you lose faith, when you feel as if you reached rock bottom a long time ago but keep finding – no! – there’s still a ravine or two to go.” And for this I throw in a perfectly good career as a features journalist to become a jazz singer?
So when I say “thinking”… I mean specifically … “OhMyGodWhatWasIThinking?” Which makes me realize that doing this (and probably any creative endeavor) requires not only commitment but constant re-commitment. To quote Po Bronson in his book What Should I Do With My Life: “The hardest thing was not learning to write; the hardest thing was to never give up.”
And the answer to the above question is I wasn’t thinking. It just kind of happened after I sat in at the Mint Karaoke Bar in SF one night and one thing led to another and …. well, here I am, coming back to San Francisco to SING. Which is all well and good. But when I DO think about it my path gets all cluttered up with doubts and questions (mainly the ohmygodwhatwasithinking question).
So I was talking to my brother, Simon, on the phone yesterday and telling him I had reached the Frida Kahlo point (viz: when she said “I am still doing it but I don’t know why” — I paraphrase, of course). And he said: “Well because you enjoy it and one day you are going to be very successful at it.” I said, “Do you really believe that, though?” And he said: “Of course! But right now the main thing is that you enjoy it!”
Which is very wise, isn’t it. I mean, I can see why you might give up trying to “get somewhere” or win a Grammy, but why would you give up something you enjoy?