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.

It’s the simple things that feel so empowering to me now.

Like knowing that if there’s a subway entrance for the 1 train going downtown on one side of the street, chances are the train going uptown is just across the street. To a New Yorker, this is a no-brainer. To me, it’s a celebration. Here I am in this foreign land where the means of movement and expression are strange and mysterious, and yet I’m starting to crack the code.

On evenings like this, when I take the 1 train to Greenwich Village and the subway conductor (is that what you call them?) comes over the loud speaker to say that if you need to connect to the A or B train you need to get off at the 72nd Street station because the 96 station is closed and I actually understand what that means, and I listen to the music of the subway as my train screeches around curves then coasts almost soundlessly into the 14th street station, and I marvel that I’m here, witnessing this wild and wonderful, unexplainably beautiful display of sound and sight, and spent 2.5 hours in a little dive bar in Greenwich Village listening to a jazz singer I’d never heard of before because I needed to hear some vocal jazz BAD and found her style smooth and easy, so relaxed in her phasing, and I talked to the bartender, a big, sweet man named Kirby, who’s a drummer and a writer whose aunt sings in France, and he pours me the last swig of an almost empty bottle of Yellow Tail Shiraz/Grenache and I tip him another dollar before I leave.

Yeah, it’s on evenings like these when I take the subway back to my friend’s Manhattan apartment and there’s a man singing and playing guitar in the Christopher/Sheridan subway station, singing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, and I slip him a dollar just as my train comes, wishing it would come later.

And as the train bumps from 14th Street to 18th, I look about me and everyone on this subway train looks beautiful. The woman with long strawberry blond hair. The 20-something man holding a plastic bag full of take-out food, the teenage boys who sit on either side of me playing video games on their mobile phones. And I listen to the screech, bump and hiss of the train, until it glides, almost soundlessly, into a station and I think, why isn’t everyone living in this City?

Why doesn’t everyone scramble here where there is such incredible beauty, color and music everywhere — in the subway, in the street, in the sky, in the people? Why would anyone live someplace else? Why would anyone choose not to live in this cacophony of sound and sight that is so achingly human?

Don’t ever let me become immune to this. Don’t ever let me fall numb to the spectacle, the miracle that is New York City. To the beauty of the people, the buildings, the flow, bump and hiss of this organism I find so exquisitely beautiful and overwhelming to me now. Please, let me always find the joy and exhilaration I feel now, being here in this City that is one of the most spectacular, dramatic, incredible creations I have ever witnessed.

I’ve been back home for over a week now. What a wildly wicked and wonderful trip! It changed my life and then changed it back again. It lifted me up, twirled me around and then threw me to the curb… and I’m just now finding my center again.

And while I can’t tell you everything about my trip, mostly because so much of it was intensely personal, I can share with you the musical highlights and insights I experienced.

I fell in love with a great little jazz and supper club on the edge of Harlem called Smoke. I went there with my

Judy Barnett @ Smoke

talented friend Shaynee Rainbolt, who lives in New York and was kind enough to let me stay with her during my trip, to hear Judy Barnett and her great jazz band. They were tight!

And who should we meet there but songwriter/entertainer/funny man Mr. Ray Jessel. Now, I’ve heard so much about Ray but had never had the pleasure of meeting him. He’s so much fun and extraordinarily charming. He, Shaynee and I all had dinner together while listening to Judy and her band swing it hard.

Shaynee & Ray

Oh, how I wish there was a jazz club like this in San Francisco!

One of the other highlights for me was getting to go to Birdland, one of the most famous and historic jazz clubs in New York. Some if not all of the greatest jazz legends in the world played there when it was located on 52nd & Broadway. Artists like Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Thelonious Monk, Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bud Powell, Stan Getz, Lester Young, Erroll Garner, and many, many others. Today, it’s located in midtown Manhatten and continues to be the home of “some of the best jazz on the planet.”

On Monday night, I was there for Cast Party, which is like an open mic for some of the greatest cabaret and musical theater stars in the world. See, Mondays are Broadway’s dark night, meaning there aren’t any performances. So, a lot of Broadway stars who just can’t stand taking a night off, show up at Cast Party to sing and promote there show, etc.

As we walked into Birdland, the legendary Marilyn Maye was singing! Oh my god, this woman is amazing. At 80 years old, she sings with more passion and fire (and greater skill) than most singers in their prime. Ah, it did my heart good to hear her. I only wish I had been able to stay in New York longer to see her show.

I was also blown away by Ted Firth, the jazz pianist who accompanies all these singers during Cast Party. He plays so beautifully, with a restrained elegance and style, that I only wish he had taken more solos.

Then, guitarist Terrence Brewer took the stage to join Ted and the bass player (who’s name I can’t remember – shame on me!) in order to accompany yet another singer. I must confess, I don’t remember the singer or the song because I was so captivated by Terrence’s playing.

Lucky for me, I got to meet Terrence the following night! I was at the Metropolitan Room (one of the greatest

Terrence Brewer & Me

cabaret rooms in New York; I love hearing music there) to see my friend Terese Genecco’s show at 7:00 and then Russ Lorenson’s show at 9:45 pm. As I took my seat for Terese’s show, there was Terrence, sitting at the table right next to mine. I introduced myself and told him how much I enjoyed his playing the night before, and well, the conversation just took off from there.

To my delight, I discovered that he’s from Northern California! He was in New York to play multiple gigs, including Russ’s show that night. Well, well, well. Just my good luck. I’ve been looking for a jazz guitarist to collaborate with and it seems I had to go to New York to find one in my own back yard! Man, I love New York!

Wait a moment. Let me mention that before I went to Birdland on Monday, I was at the Metropolitan Room (can’t get enough of that place!) to hear my two dearest friends, Shaynee Rainbolt and Terese Genecco, sing for the “Friends With Benefits” performance, a benefit for Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS.

Here is the video of that night.

I SO wish I had a video of Terese Genecco’s show on Tuesday night at the Metropolitan Room. Frankly, this woman makes me sick! Just when you think there is no stinking way she can get any better, she takes the stage with her little big band and blows your mind with her talent, her voice, her showmanship and mastery of this thing called entertainment.

Now, I’ve seen Terese’s show so many times I’ve lost count. And I lap it up every time. But this night, she did a version of “Anywhere I Hang My Hat Is Home” that killed! It rocked! It was jaw-dropping amazing! Damn her!

I snuck out to make a phone call before Russ Lorenson’s new show, Standard Time, which featured songs written after 1960 that Russ believes need to be included in what we call the Great American Songbook.

What I loved about Russ’s show, other than his incredibly beguiling voice, was that I hardly knew any of the songs in this show! Just a handful. It was such a joy to be introduced to songs written by by songwriters who are still alive and writing great stuff. Including my buddy, Kelly Park, who was not only the musical director for this show but one of the songwriters Russ featured in this show. Hey, Kelly! Who knew?

As Joe Regan, Jr., from Cabaret Scenes wrote: “Russ Lorenson, who possesses one of the great male voices in cabaret, begins his new show, ‘Standard Time’ with a question: ‘Who says the Great American Songbook stopped in 1959?’ The selections are a treasure trove of obscure beauties and make Lorenson’s show a must-see…”

On Thursday, Oct. 30, I flew home. It felt like the longest flight ever. So much of me wanted to stay in New York. I can’t wait to go back!

when all I need or want is to be alone

listening to John Mayer sing “Dreaming With a Broken Heart.”

There are days, like today,

when I feel hung by the weight  of betrayal and disappointment

and yet I don’t care.

Because soon, at 5:00 pm today I’ll be standing in front of a room

of strangers, singing

sinking my heart into every sound and word.

And today, that is Everything.

“When you’re dreaming with a broken heart,
the waking up is the hardest part.”
— John Mayer

If you are going to do a fund raiser for a group of teenagers, you might want to check in with them first to get a feel as to how much they are willing to get involved. To ask them, How do you feel about selling tickets to a show at $25 a pop? Oh, that would be hard for you? Because you only feel comfortable selling tickets to your friends and your friends can’t afford a $25 ticket?

We’d only sold 9 tickets and we were 2 weeks away from the show.

Dana kept asking me when the performers were going to send out their email announcements to their mailing lists. I had already asked them twice and I wasn’t going to ask them again.

Besides, I was starting to get a little pissed. Why weren’t these kids selling tickets? Wasn’t that the deal? It wasn’t up to the singers and musicians to sell tickets; they were donating their time and talent to create a show SO the kids would have something to sell. The kids were the ones that were benefiting from this, not the singers!

It was starting to get scary. What if we only sold a handful of tickets? What if these great singers and musicians showed up only to perform for 40 people, most of whom were the kids parents? What if, after asking my friends to give of their time, services and money, we had a  fund raiser that flopped?

For the first time in this event creation process, I was starting to freak out. And feel resentment and anger. But I didn’t want my sudden plunge into doubt and fear to poison this event so I tried to let it go, to envision a huge surge in ticket sales, to see the event being a raging success. But this dark feeling that the kids weren’t pulling their weight and this resentment that I had laid my ass on the line for nothing kept kicking at me. I had to say something.

I called Dana.

Let me say here that if nothing came of this event other than the
chance to work with Dana Alexander, it would have been well worth it. I
loved working with her. She’s smart, straightforward, honest and
doesn’t put up with a lot of nonsense. She’s also deeply committed to
her students and to the work she does. And when I told her what was
coming up for me around the lack of ticket sales, she totally got it.

We made a plan. I was to come to zero period the next day at 7:30 am
to meet the Chamber Singers (can you believe that they meet and SING from 7:00 to 8:00 every day?) and give them a little ticket selling
pep-talk. See, I hadn’t even met them yet. They had just heard about me
from Dana. And perhaps this was part of the problem. Actually, it WAS a BIG
part of the problem, which was we had taken complete creative control
over this event without conferring with the kids and then expected them to get behind it 100%.

But
you can’t ask anybody, much less a group of high school kids, to feel
invested in something that has been made FOR them rather than WITH them.

So, yes I gave then a little pep talk, encouraging them by holding
up a ticket and $25 in cash and saying, "This ticket equals this, $25.
And when you sell this (the ticket) YOU are the ones who get THIS (the
cash)." But I also made it clear that I wanted to help them sell tickets; I
wanted to hear from them about how we could make it easier.

And then it became clear. Teenagers live in a tiny teenage
world that consists of their teenager friends, family and school mostly. We
had created an adult event with an adult ticket price and expected
teenagers to sell them. But to whom? Their teenage friends don’t have
$25 to spend on a concert featuring a bunch of adult singers they’ve never
heard of.

That’s why candy works! Kids can sell candy to their friends. It’s the right price and it’s something they want!

My 20/20 hindsight started to come into focus. We should
have planned this event with these kids from the get-go. We should have
had a student ticket price from the get-go. We should have advertised that the Chamber
Singers would in fact be performing that night. We should have done many things differently.

But there we were. 10 days away from the show. And we had a lot of tickets to sell.

More tomorrow…