Here’s a snippet of video from gig day on June 24, plus a sneak into the dressing room of the Rrazz Room featuring Linda Kosut and moi.

As I was driving from the Oakland Airport to Santa Rosa in my rental car, a little Toyota something-rather, I wondered, how would it feel to drive PAST the exit to Sebastopol, the exit I always took to go home, and instead drive to my friend Julee’s house where I’m staying this trip? How would it feel to spend the day rehearsing with my favorite, beloved piano man, John Simon, whom I’ve missed so much? And then go to Christy’s, which used to be Upper Fourth, the place I performed every month for over a year? How would it be to see my old friends Susan and Sandy? And have breakfast with my now ex-husband?

My main reason for taking this trip was Linda Kosut’s invitation to perform at the Rrazz Room, San Francisco’s last cabaret room of any consequence. I had to say yes. When would I ever get a chance to perform there? Never. And it would be a chance to perform with my favorite musicians, John Simon, Tom Shader, Tony Malfatti, and Alan Hall, a drummer I don’t know but is supposed to be fabulous.

And I AM excited about the show. It’s going to be a blast, I know it. It’ s tomorrow night, Monday, June 14, a date that got here a hell of a lot faster than it should have.

It’s been a whirlwind trip. Yesterday, I taught a 5-hour workshop in San Francisco on how musicians can use the tools and tactics of Internet marketing and social media strategy to attract new fans, put butts in seats and sell more music. It was called, “Excuse Me! Your Audience is Waiting!” 18 people came, and it was a big success. People got a lot out of it, and so did I. I love teaching. I’ve missed it.

But afterwards, I felt so tired. My throat was sore from talking endlessly, and I felt I could be getting a little sick. And I was. Sick at heart.

There is something so lonely about coming back to a place that used to be home but isn’t anymore. To see friends who have become distant since I left. To sit here, in my friend Julee’s house, a house where we used to have laughter-filled dinner parties with Dee and Harry and Rhoann and Stefan, Deborah and Tim, people who have all disappeared from my life since I left.

This morning, I took a walk in the cemetery behind Julee’s house, and I found the grave of my great, great grandfather and mother. Colonel James Hardin and his wife, Nannie. I knew that they had lived here in Santa Rosa, that my grandmother was born here, but I wasn’t sure if they were buried here. I found their tomb by accident. Even my ancestral roots are here, but it’s still not home.

There are moments in my life when everything feels heavy and overwhelming, or so stormy and fraught that I can’t find my way. In those moments, I find myself praying, internally and sometimes out loud, “I want to go home. I want to go home,” as if I’m pleading with God to take me up and out of here and return me to the place I belong.

And while I know this home I crave is not a “place,” I am still filled with the sense that I’m a stranger in a strange land, doing my best to make my way, until the forces that left me here remember to come and take me home.

I’ve never liked Spring. It always means the end of Winter, and I’ve been a lover of winter all my life. But Spring in the Hudson Valley is slower, easier, less affrontive than Spring in Sonoma County, CA. It’s more mysterious. It unfolds gracefully.

As I write this, there is warm, blustery wind blowing through my window. The bare tree outside is starting to show tiny green curls of baby leaves. There are pink and scarlet blossoms on the trees down the street, and I am about two hours behind in my daily schedule because this gorgeous Spring day has entranced me with its beauty and warmth.

Easy beauty. Effortless expression. Moving slowly, with awareness. These are the lessons of Spring.

This was part of the lesson I learned when I went to hear my friend Rebecca Martin sing at a new Kingston restaurant, Mint. She performed with her husband, bassist Larry Grenadier. While I’ve heard Rebecca on her recordings, and her reputation as a jazz singer and songwriter is legend here in New York, I hadn’t seen her sing live. Her short set consisted mostly of Rebecca’s original tunes, but she slipped in some standards, like “Willow Weep for Me” (WITH the verse! I love that verse) and “No Moon at All,” which I recorded and have for you below.

What I learned by watching Rebecca sing was Ease. She sings with such ease. Her body, her voice, her  presence… they all serve this sense of ease, comfort and grace. She knows who she is as a singer and songwriter. She knows her voice, which has a unique, identifible timbre and tone, and she seems to simply become present and let the voice come sweetly, softly, effortlessly. Listening to her, I learned this: take it easy. Let the voice come easy; don’t muscle it so much.

I tend to do everything hard. I type, hard. I wash dishes, hard. Really. I find myself holding the dish hard, tight, as if it’s going to disappear or slip into the sink if I don’t grasp it with all I’ve got.

So, watching Rebecca was liberating. Ah, maybe I don’t have to sing so hard! Maybe, I can let it be easy.

Here’s a clip. Please excuse my hushed mutterings at the beginning.

Gig days are weird. I try to focus on work and what needs doing, but there is always a part of my internal energy that is shooting out ahead of the present moment to anticipate what’s coming. Am I prepared? What about the verse on that one tune? Do I really want to do “I Concentrate on You” as a duet with the bass player? What am I going to wear? How much time do I need to get ready, haul equipment, warm up and not feel rushed?

I’m singing with jazz guitarist Dennis Winge, and bass player, Jim Curtin. I’ve only performed with Dennis once before and it went really well. I’ve never performed with Jim, but he’s a player; he knows what to do. Yet I can’t help but feel antsy, uncertain.

Sometimes, like today, nervous anticipation disguises itself as fatigue. I get tired, sleepy, and I feel exposed and vulnerable. I tuck myself inside to hide a bit before I need to come out in performance.

I was talking to my friend Terese Genecco who performs regularly at the Iridium in New York City. She never gets nervous. She gets amped up, but not anxious. But at her last performance at the Iridium, there was a talent scout coming to see her, and while she claims she wasn’t nervous, I was with her just before she left her apartment to go do that show, and she was nervous.

And it was one of the best nights she ever had. She told me her voice would do anything she wanted it to. She was wild, alive and free to go full out and beyond. Her band was hot and playing their best in order to impress her guest drummer, Michael Berkowitz. It was magic on steroids.

I guess that’s it. As singers we wonder, Will my voice let me do whatever I want tonight? What limitations or compromises will I be presented with? The performance space? The ability to hear myself? The moodiness of my instrument? It’s these unknowns that spark the inner jitters.

I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight. I never do. My intention is to show up, be fully present inside each song, listen to my boys and ride the music. Meanwhile, I need to get back to work.

Something happened last night. Something that shifted me into a new place and allowed me to relocate a part of myself I’ve been missing since I moved to New York.

I got to sing in public.

Jazz guitarist Dennis Winge, whom I’ve just started to work with a little, invited me to sit in at his regular Friday night gig at Isabella’s in Ossining. So, my friend Mark and I drove down last night, in spite of the fact I had had an emotionally exhausting day and felt ambivalent about everything, including my ability to sing in any kind of remotely decent manner.

But I knew I had to go, no matter how I felt. I had to stand up and sing in public in this strange new land I live in: the Hudson Valley of New York. I had to claim myself as a singer here, to start somewhere, in this small, under-the-radar way. My fear was that I’d buckle in on myself, that the heavy emotions of the day and the intense vulnerability left in its wake would consume me, drag me under, and I’d sing badly, then fall apart.

But when we got to Isabella’s, a small, brightly lit Italian restaurant (with really good pasta, by the way), I knew I’d be okay. Dennis was sitting and playing at the far end of the restaurant. Mark and I joined Dennis’s wonderful wife, Caroline, and their son, Max, who were sitting at a table up front. There was hardly anyone in the restaurant; the place was so quiet. Except for Max, who would break out into loud, joy-filled screams every so often.

I won’t bore you with the whole story. I’ll just say that I got to sit in twice, singing a total of three songs, and it felt great. I sang well, felt anchored in each song, and got to connect with sweet people sitting at the table on the right. And this simple act of of standing up in front of any kind of audience, large or small, attentive or distracted, reconnected me to a part of myself I’d been missing, the part that hasn’t had a chance to show up since I got to New York. The part of me that loves making music and sharing it with an audience.

Sure, I had that guest spot in Jason Britton’s show in New York City back in July, which was an honor. But to be honest, I didn’t sing so well then. I was disappointed in my performance. But last night, I did okay. And now to have found this amazing guitarist to work with, after searching in vain for a pianist, well, I feel like more of me has found its way to the Hudson Valley, that I pushed through the membrane of geographical resistance, and now, now, it all starts.

Last night, a songwriter/musician whom I admire asked me a question that stopped my heart. He asked me if he wrote a song for me to sing, would I accept his instruction when it came time to record it. In essence, would I sing the song the way he wanted me to. Would I do my best to produce the kind of sound he heard in his head.

Now, usually, this would be a no-brainer answer: “Uh, yeah, sure I would. I love what you do. Let’s go!” But I didn’t say that. I said something lame, like “Maybe it’s best if we keep our musical lives separate.” See, this songwriter is also a dear friend. I love him like crazy. We have a great rapport and relationship outside of music, and I’d like to keep it that way.

But that’s not the real reason I blew him off. The real reason is, I’m scared. Not of singing the song, but of what might happen to me while he’s telling me HOW to sing it.

I remember long ago when I was working on the song, “Lover Man” with my piano man, John Simon. It was in the days when I sang every song too high because of my training and the ignorance that came with that kind of training. John, during the course of our rehearsal, tried to get me to sing it lower and grittier, with more chest voice, which made total sense for this song.

I couldn’t do it.

I tried, but I couldn’t. I could do it NOW, but I couldn’t do it then. I was so locked in to my old ways of singing. I sang the way I sang, right or wrong, gritty or not gritty. But it hurt that I couldn’t produce the sound John heard in his head. It hurt, because to me it meant I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t the singer he wanted me to be, a singer he’d like to listen to.

As artists, or would-be artists, there are certain people in our lives from whom praise and appreciation mean the world. To have their respect and admiration sends us over the moon and back. It makes us feel invincible. I’m not talking about critics or music reviewers; I’m talking about people we have a personal relationship with. Lovers, parents, teachers, dear friends. People we love and respect and admire.

And when those people don’t like what we do or who we are as artists, or they say things that feel belittling or dismissive of what we love, it cuts deep. And leaves a scar. I know. I’ve got several of them.

But as artists, we keep on doing what we love despite what others may say or think. We do it because we love it, because it’s a part of who we are. And if we’re lucky, we get the support and confidence of those we hold dear. If we’re lucky, what we do shakes the dust from someone’s heart so they can feel what’s true.

Now, one of my favorite songwriters whose work I admire and whose friendship I treasure, has offered me an opportunity that has the potential to sting like a son-of-a-bitch. The stakes feel higher than ever, because I’ll tell you a secret: I’ve longed to have this songwriter/musician friend ASK me to sing something he’s written. I’ve always wished he would. And now that it’s a possibility, I’m scared. Scared of how deeply it might hurt if I can’t cut the mustard, if I can’t create the sound he wants me to create.

Oh, how fragile is this singer’s ego sometimes! How easily I can be blown off course by a nonchalant comment, a suggestion, an opinion… or lack of one.

But you know what? I’m even more scared of letting this opportunity pass me by than I am of the possible ego-shattering fallout sure to ensue should this project fail to turn out well. Hey, I’ve been blasted apart before and somehow, I’m still here. Still singing. Though a bit more self-consciously.

Upper Fourth is closed.

For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, Upper Fourth is, or rather, was a beautiful, classy bar in Santa Rosa that offered adults the perfect place to meet, have a drink, talk quietly, laugh loudly and listen to some live jazz every now and then. It was sorely needed, but obviously not well enough appreciated, in a town filled with either seedy bars or loud dance clubs frequented by twenty-somethings.

But my sadness around its closing is personal. Upper Fourth and its owner Molly Gallaher changed my life by offering me the opportunity to make music there every second Friday of the month from 5:00 pm to 8:00 pm. To have a steady gig in a sweet environment where people actually listened was a huge gift to me and my musical life. It made me a better singer, a better musician and a better performer. And when I left California to move to New York, one of the biggest losses for me was letting go of that monthly gig.

Just the other day I was bragging about Upper Fourth to my friend Paul who was bemoaning the fact that Kingston doesn’t have a place where one can go, have a drink in an inviting, quiet environment and connect with other people in the community. I told him that I knew of a place like that in Santa Rosa, CA: Upper Fourth.

From the comments on the BiteClub blog, people are saying ugly things about Molly and Upper Fourth. I have no idea if any of them are true and I don’t care. My experience of Upper Fourth and Molly was only positive. I watched her work hard to make Upper Fourth a great bar, not just another bar. She rarely took a day off. And all of her employees were kind, helpful and considerate.

And she supported live music. She understood how booking a live jazz group in the early evening hours would help business, bring in more people and create something special for her patrons. Late on Fridays and Saturdays she booked a DJ and brought in the younger crowd who would stay there until closing. She was smart to do so.

Thank you, Molly. Thank you for Upper Fourth. I’ll never forget my time there, and I’ll always be eternally grateful to you for giving me my first steady gig and supporting live music.

— John Mayer, from the song, Georgia

This afternoon, I’ll be singing at Don’t Tell Mama in New York City.
It’s my sliver of a New York City debut.

My friend Jason Britton from California is premiering his “Listen to Your Heart” show here in NYC, and he asked me to be his guest artist, so to speak. I’m singing a duet with him, “Love Is When,” and then, I’ll get to sing a tune on my own. My New York, one-song debut. “But Beautiful,” by James Van Heusen & Johnny Burke.

Should I be more excited? I will be once I get up on stage, but this morning I feel so dragged out, tired, even though I got tons of sleep, and sad. Yeah, just a smidge sad. Not sure why. I don’t think it has anything to do with today’s show, or the fact no one I know will be attending. It’s not that. It’s something I’ve been feeling for a while now.

When I moved here to New York (wow, it’s been almost 4 months now), I knew it would take time to make friends, develop relationships, find community. And I was ready for that. Because when you do something dramatic and crazy like moving across country to a strange city, you expect things to feel strange. You expect that it will take a while to get your bearings, to figure out where things are. You figure, as you leave a family of friends behind, that everybody will be a stranger.

But what I didn’t expect was that my old friends in California would start to become strangers, too.

And they have. When I talk to them, which is rare, it feels so different… distant. They are literally and figuratively and emotionally far, far away. Some of them I don’t talk to at all. Some of them (one, actually) sends me a two-sentence email once in a while.

And to be fair, I could be so much better about calling them. Much better. But it’s not the quantity of the contact that is missing. It’s that feeling of connection. That bond of intimacy and friendship. It’s shifted. It’s changed. It’s, well… dissolving.

So again, I feel like I’m stuck inside a John Mayer song.

Or maybe a Joni Mitchell song:

Old friends seem indifferent.
You must have brought that on.
Old bonds have broken down,
Love is gone.

Ah, but then, love is never gone. And that’s what I wrap myself in as I get ready to g to Don’t Tell Mama’s for a sound check, a long wait, and then the show. While it’s hard to be here when old friends are feeling far away and new ones don’t yet exist, love still is available, ready, waiting.

And sometimes, not always, when he’s working on a song, he catches fire.

The creative spark, lit by a riff, a snippet of melody, a chord progression starts burning, and he becomes consumed in a creative blaze. The song, as it emerges, overtakes him. He can’t stop working on it, listening to it, thinking about it. The flames rage, and my friend burns, happily, almost ecstatically, as the song cooks inside of him.

And sometimes, when he’s in the burn of this relentless creative fire, he’ll break down and cry, overcome by the beauty of what is moving through him and into song. Grateful, humbled, torn open.

I told him that I believe this is where he touches God. In those moments, he melts into The Creative and is lost in Her embrace, Her Swirl. The music moving through him destroys all that would hold him separate from Her, and the exquisite, intimate connection with the Divine brings him to his knees as it lifts him to the heights.

In witnessing this creative consumption in another human being, I realize there is nothing in my life — no activity, drug, diversion or spiritual practice — that allows me access to the kind of Creative connection my friend finds in writing music. And this makes me incredibly sad. It’s as if I’m grieving Something I’ve never known except by its absence and my insatiable craving for It.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a fierce, passionate desire for such a connection with the Creative. This desire has led me down many a multitude of spiritual, artistic, and career-oriented paths, some of which I’m still traveling upon. And now I see how even my musical journey has only been a feeble attempt to move as close to the Creative as I can, even if I can never experience Her all-consuming fire.

Oh, and sure, I’ve had moments and full-blown epiphanies where I’ve felt the presence of the Divine. Her grace and love. And these moments that have brought me to my knees in gratitude and awe. But what I’m grieving is the absence of that fire, that unrelenting, all-consuming burn that rushes through an artist insisting they create, create, create.

with Daniel at Upper Fourth on Oct. 10, 08.

I remember each of those moments vividly. The last note of “It’s Only Love.” The high phrase near the end of “I’ve Just Seen a Face.” The Ab in “Don’t Blame Me.”

AND there were moments last night when I never sang better. Actually, there were whole sets of songs that rocked. “But Beautiful,” “Being Alive” (as a samba, of course), and “Feeling Good.” There was a lot to be proud of.

But those sucky moments are the ones that kick my ass all night long and this morning. What WAS that? What happened there? How in the heck did that note just not work?

And when I have the answers to those questions, when I know what went wrong and WHY, I feel better. Because I know how to correct whatever sucked. But this morning, I don’t have a clue. And THAT bothers me. I mean, I don’t think I could even reproduce what happened if I tried. It just… happened.

This is when a mentor or vocal coach comes in handy. And since I don’t have one right now, I’m left to my own detective work.

I mean, sometimes, sucky singing just happens. I just hate it when it does. Especially when I’ve been working as hard as I have on my craft. But I have to remember that progress is a crooked path. It’s not a straight line to the stratosphere where ever day I get to sing better than the last and every gig is better than the last. It’s up and down, high and low, flop and soar. And these extremes can exist within one three-hour gig!

So, today, I’m taking heart in all that went beautifully last night as I dig deep into my investigation as to what sucked and why. And now, on to the next glorious gig this Saturday.