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.

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.

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.

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.

When she gave her concession speech on Saturday, I could feel her
sadness, her disappointment. Or what I imagined she must be feeling.
Because who hasn’t known the sadness that comes when you fall  short of
your goal. The deep disappointment you feel when you’ve given
everything to your goal —  your energy  passion, love, time, not to
mention all that money  — and you come to the day where you have to
stand up and say, “You know, I didn’t make it.” You didn’t make it, and
someone else has your prize.

As a singer, I fear that day when I might have to admit that I’ve
fallen short of my goal. That I didn’t reach my ideal. That, yes, I
gave it everything I had, my time, energy, heart and soul, and lots and
lots of money, only to fail and be made to say, “You know, I did my
best, but I didn’t make it.”

I’m not talking about the little disappointments and failures along
the way. Every path towards a goal comes with its ups and down and
rocky patches. Hillary loses a state. Gets caught in a lie. Gets bad
press. And as a singer, life is full of these bumps and challenges.
Those gigs when you didn’t sing as well as you wanted. Or the audience
turnout is measly. Or you didn’t even cover your costs.

But the sorrow I feel for Hillary is not in these little defeats,
but in reaching the final disappointment where the ultimate goal is
lost. Hey, Hillary won almost every debate she had with Barack. But in
the end, she had to concede the final victory. And the weight of that
failure is what I feel. And fear.

At times, this fear of failing can feel so heavy that it makes me
want to quit now. Before I give any more of my heart and energy. Before
I invest even more money and time into becoming the singer I long to
be. But like Hillary, I won’t throw in the towel until the writing is
on the wall. Until I know it’s time.

My friend Lua, who is also a singer full of longing, asked me what
IS my goal? What is this ideal of which I’m afraid of falling short? I
explained to her that it’s not a career goal. It’s not about becoming
famous or financially successful as a singer. It’s a two-part goal.

One part is technical: I want to achieve a level of vocal freedom
and authenticity that I sense is possible for me. The other part is a
performance goal: I want to know that I can perform with such a deep
state of connection to All That I Am while also feeling connected with
my audience. And to experience these two goals together, where I am
vocally free, real, and expansive, grounded and centered in my voice,
while also being exquisitely present and available to my audience.

Perhaps I’m not describing this in a way that makes it easy to
understand. It’s an ideal in my mind of how I want to experience
singing and performing. It’s an internal goal, one that only I will
recognize when I’ve reached it.

And unlike Hillary, I don’t have millions of supporters pushing me
on or calling my name. On those days when I feel like walking away from
this singing insanity there isn’t a throng at my door begging me to
continue singing. No one’s going to scream, “You go, girl! You keep at
it! You need to keep singing for us!” Nah. If I quit singing, no one is
going to lose a thing. No one is going to care… but me.

My friend Julee thinks that Hillary must also be feeling an
incredible sense of relief. The long, hard, very public fight is over.
She has room for the next great thing. I used to feel, at times, that
it would be such a relief to let go of singing. To let go of the
effort, the discipline, the practicing, the comparing, the
disappointment, the negotiating. A life without the push towards my
goal.

For perhaps, when you finally let go of that to which you’ve held so
tightly, that’s when something grand and magical makes its entrance and
asks you to dance. No longer held fast in the arms of your previous
love, you can say “yes,” and perchance be swept off your feet.

This I wish for Hillary. And, when it’s my time, me.

I can honestly say that I’ve never been so excited about an American Idol finale before. It should be a great night of singing, suspense, and all out performing. Besides, both of these two singers are captivating, talented and unique…and they can sing like nobody’s business.

Do I have a favorite? No.

David Cook has a better sense of who he is as a performer; he’s got the whole package: great rock voice, a sexy-yet-aloof kind of sizzle and savvy stage presence.

David Archuleta may have one of the most heart-stirring, undeniably beautiful male voices ever. There is something so intoxicating in the sound he makes. But while he sings with every cell of his being, he doesn’t have Cook’s sophistication. He doesn’t know who he is as a performer…yet! I mean, he’s only 17!

Both are Idol worthy. Both will give great performances tonight. And I can’t wait to see what’s going to happen!

I had no idea how it would work. Or if it would work at all.

But singing with "Mad Max" the Trombonist and my amazing piano man John Simon was a total blast!

I mean, how often do you hear a piano/trombone/vocal ensemble? Uh…never?

But I knew I wanted my friend and jazz trombone man Max Perkoff to join John and me for one of our monthly gigs at Upper Fourth. See, for the last three months or so, we’ve been featuring a different guest musician. March was Tony Malfatti, a great sax player. April was Rich Armstrong, one of the most talented trumpet players I’ve ever met or heard. And May was Max! And it was great!

First of all, Max is a ham. He loves entertaining the crowd, talking with them, and being highly expressive in his movements and his playing. But he’s also an incredible musician who is creative and daring in his improvisations. He knows when to create space, to hang back, and when to dive in with his whole heart. I loved listening to him as much as I loved performing with him.

His creativity inspired my own. I found myself vamping and playing with phrases in new, surprising ways. Which, for me, is a big deal. I’m not one to take improvisational risks. That’s not my strength. But when I’m with musicians who are creating a certain sound and energy, it’s easy for me to meet that energy and play off of it.

It was incredible fun and I can’t wait to play with Max again.

Well, it wasn’t Jazz at Lincoln Center. It was Nancy Tierney and the Boys at Upper Fourth, Santa Rosa’s new hot spot. We played a gig there last Tuesday to a packed house full of wonderful, enthusiastic friends, family and fans.

We played a lot of old favorites, a few new tunes, and Tom Shader, my most favorite bass player in the world, and I had a couple of duets, one on Come Fly With Me and one on You and the Night and the Music. Max Perkoff played piano, and this was the first time Max and I had played together, and he did a fabulous job!

A lot of the people I spoke with commented on how much they love this new venue, Upper Fourth. It’s adult, classy and they serve great drinks. Try a Plymouth gin martini. So smooth! They also have great appetizers. I was watching all this delicious food go by as I sang in front of the "Jazz at Lincoln Center" windows.

What a night! The room was vibin’ with such good, high energy. Everyone was having a great time, and I was deeply touched by the turnout. On a Tuesday night!

I must give a HUGE SHOUT OUT to Joel Rabune who rounded up every winery dude he knew and told them they had to be there. He’s now my new promotions manager. And ladies, he’s single! And very sweet. And he just got a great haircut that makes him all the more handsome. (If you’d like his phone number, call me!)

And a big hand to Molly Gallaher and Ivan Richard who run Upper Fourth. They are doing a fabulous job. Finally, we have a cozy, comfortable place for adults to just hang and talk and listen to live music!

Ever since this place opened I’ve wanted to perform there. It’s classy, upscale and perfect for the kind of music we do. Songs from the 30’s, 40’s and early 50’s in a swinging jazz style.

This time, I’ll be singing with Tom Shader, my very favorite bass player, and Max Perkoff on piano. Now, I’ve never worked with Max before. My numero uno pianist is always John Simon, but John can’t make this gig, so, I thought I’d give Max a try.

We’ll be swinging at Upper Fourth on Tuesday, March 27, from 7:00 pm to 10:00 pm, so if you’re around, come on down! I’d love to see you.

I am taking a class with Maye Cavallaro at the Jazz School in Berkeley. Every Sunday, five other singers and I are coached by Maye who is teaching us a little of everything: unique ways to approach a song, to learn a song, to set-up a song, how to improvise, how to warm-up, and even some helpful hints of how to sing when you’re sick.

Last Sunday, I was fascinated as I watched one student morf into a semi-defensive, semi-despairing sulk as Maye coached her in front of the class. I knew that something Maye had said to her started this descent into the netherworlds of self-doubt. I think it was the comment about controlling her vibrato. But maybe I’m projecting, since I get this feedback, too.

I was struck by how fragile we are as singers sometimes. One comment or one suggestion, even in a classroom situation, can plummet us into a nosedive of “Oh, man, I really must suck” or stir up an angry snarl of defensiveness. It’s as if our belief in ourselves is so fragile, so impermanent that we guard it from any intruders at all costs. We know that if someone starts poking at that fragile place, it’s going to hurt.

But then, we do want feedback, don’t we? We need it. We need to know
what’s not working as well as what is. Still, we fear those
constructive-yet-critical comments. We dread that sick, sour feeling
that precedes a dark bout of insecurity and doubt.

I’ll confess. I, too, started to feel myself drop into doubt last
Sunday as Maye coached me in that same class. It was hard to hear some
of her comments only because of the way I received them. I found myself
thinking, “Wow, I’ve been performing all these years and I need to work
on THAT? Have I been fooling myself into thinking I’ve been singing
well? Maybe I should quit?”

But that’s not what Maye was saying. She was basically telling me,
“Hey, you don’t really know this song. Here’s what you need to do.,.”

Once my turn was over and I sat back down, I realized that this is
exactly why I signed up for this class. I wanted feedback! I wanted to
work on my craft and my art. And in that moment, I was so grateful for
this opportunity. I’ve been dying for constructive
feedback, and now I was getting it!

Once I got over myself, I started to feel excited.

As a result of that class, I’ve redesigned my practice sessions and
I’ve changed the way I learn songs. It all feels good. And I’m so
grateful to have someone like Maye who can offer great feedback, even
when it’s hard to hear, so that I can learn and have what I want, which
is to be the best singer I can be.

As for my fellow student who just couldn’t open to being coached that
day, I hope that when she got home and thought about it, she found
herself in a state of appreciation and excitement as well.