Bless the Buckleys

Tonight, some friends got together and talked about a lot.  We talked mostly about music, though.  Studio recordings. Live performances.  Recordings of live performances.  What do they tell you about a performer's ability, soul, connection with an audience, etc.  Which is better?

I am still reading Dream Brother, and although I am a slow reader, I could have finished it by now.  I am lingering because it is overwhelmingly inspiring to think that these two men who for all intents and purposes, didn't know each other, lived such inspired parallel lives.  Just twenty some years apart.  Oh yeah, and they were father and son.   

The two of them practiced such musical defiance, that neither became the mainstream giant he could have been.  I get a little fed up with musical masturbators, in live performances, especially.  Apparently, both Tim and Jeff were prone to this behavior.  I can't focus on one crazy cadenza/solo/jerk-off for more than 30 seconds.  That's my personal problem.  I know. 

Jeff was also a system-bucker because he refused to let his lyrics be printed on the inside of the album cover.  This struck me as I read it, because I don't remember ever looking for the words inside the cover.  The album has always been one big play-through for me. 

Here comes the hearsay:  Jeff reportedly wanted people just to listen.  I look back and realize I don't know the words to all the songs, but it is a super musical experience for me every time I listen to Grace.  An experience that usually teaches me something new I missed last time around.  He also had a problem laying down tracks because he was afraid of the permanence of it all.  Having not only to sing the song the same way thirty times in the studio, but having to live with the final product forever.  He really liked the idea of letting a moment come and go in concert.  As much as I want to record the wonderful things I have experienced watching, listening, or performing, I can't take it with me.  I can encapsulate one aspect of it, but never the whole picture.  That's what memory is for, and the truth is in the remembering.  Live in the moment and enjoy. 

Maybe I'm feeling a little emotional about musical interpretation after an argument I was involved in last night.  Maybe it's the wine.  Mabe I should stop treating these blogs like they are some essay with an Intro, Expo and Conclusion.  I'm sure I'll be onto the next cute boy singer soon.  The Buckleys will pass. 

Seven Stages of Cell Phone Grief

Well, I'm sure the last stage has got to be forgiveness.  Someday I will forgive myself for this. 

Not never, but rarely do I forget my cell phone.  Especially when I go to a gig.  Stuck downtown for hours on end, I get bored between sets and find it a lovely distraction to check in with my peeps.  Last night, I remember picking up my cell phone, but with no pockets in my dress, I accidentally set it down instead of putting it in my purse. 

Driving to the gig, I realized the phone wasn't with me, but I decided it might be a nice test of strength to go phone-less.  I had a novel with me.  Rather than taking a 2-minute trip back to the apartment, I drove on.  We proceeded to have one of those musical experiences that is akin to great sex. 

I got home around 1:45am.  My phone was sitting on the coffee table, and there were a few messages. Five, in fact.  The boyfriend, calling to check in.  Christine, letting me know she had a 45-minute layover in a Chicago airport.  Christine, saying the layover was now over an hour.  Christine, reporting her next flight as cancelled, forcing her to stay the night in Chicago.  Christine, calling from the hotel room in Elk Grove, about to retire for the night.  Shit.  Shit. 

Hoping to not disturb her, but halfway hoping she would pick up, I dialed.  Christine answered.  We talked.  What can you say at that point? 

This morning I met with the morning crew outside work.   KJ likened it to missing your alarm in the morning.  What can you do?  The moment has passed. 

Did I forget to mention that Chris also left a message this morning?  Her rescheduled flight today got delayed.  Hmpf 

Old Guys Are The Best

At the risk of sounding terribly conceited, I just had to comment on a compliment I received last night at Chambers.

I was feeling a little nervous about singing Orange-Colored Sky because not only is it well known, but I have been overtly plagiarizing Natalie Cole's version. The five bazillion people who bought that album will soon be on to me. So, I get through the song, and trudged through the other 3 songs in the set. I am doubly worried that our repeat audience members are 'on to me' because I have yet to really hone my vocal improv skills. The songs sound the same every time. I am getting sick of hearing those sounds come out of my mouth.

Anycrap, I walk swiftly to my seat after finishing, and this old guy walks up to my table. Leaning in as if to whisper, "We're on to you, honey, the exit is that way," the old guy throws me for a loop:

"You're a knockout." Huh? "You're singin' all my favorite songs and you're doin' a hell of a job, honey."

Who says "knockout" anymore? It is a compliment that really has some weight. I had to giggle. Dammit, I love old guys.

Testosterone Tour of Tennessee

Sad.

Happy.

Happy.

Sad.

Trying to remember happy.

So, I have a lot of gigs right now. That is a good thing. I am singing in Chicago on real stages with real jazz fans in the audience. Great. We even performed seven nights in a row. I am missing out on my so-called social life, though. A necessary sacrifice it is, saving money for travel and such.

Bob Schneider. Sexy. Talented. Not-so-sexy name, but trust me ladies and gentlemen, whatever your preference is, chances are, you wouldn't kick him out of your bed. Okay, so his band came to town last Monday, and I had a gig. Ticket-holding friends at work were excited and I was jealous. I went to Eatzi's for sushi to console myself. Sitting at the bar, alone, I chomped an unagi and heard a familiar voice behind me. I looked to the right, and there was Bob Schneider, walking to the sandwich counter, talking on his cell phone. After a phone consultation from Ashlee, I craned my neck to speak to the god among men atop my handmade pedestal. I can barely remember what words passed between us, but I felt about 14 when I walked out.

Tom Jones. Sunday. Ravinia. I swear to God, when Tom Jones walked onto the stage, the sweltering temperature that had finally subsided with the setting of the sun rose at least 7 degrees. What a great concert.

Back to the gigs. There are a ton of them. I know being in a band is about sacrifice. But I am missing out on Kelly's free tickets to see Jonny Lang to play with my rock and roll band which will soon (midnight Friday) be defunct. This is the second time I have missed The Blessed One to play a rock gig. Urrrggghhhh!!

Try not to be jealous. Try to remember that you met Bob. And you only had a little seaweed in your teeth.