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.

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.

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.