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.

Here’s my first video blog, inspired by the fact that I’ve been too damned busy to write an issue of Diva News, or even a blog post for that matter.

Just to catch you up as I enter my 6th month in New York.

— 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.

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!

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 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…