5000 Page Views!

 

What better way to celebrate than with the Allman Brothers at The Beacon Theater.   Here's a quick video of Junior Mack going Southbound.  The video is short because I wanted to watch the show! It is a bummer that Gregg Allman is feeling so bad but I hope he recovers quickly and gets strong soon so he and the Band can continue the great music!

Let Me Explain

Several years ago I was working with a pianist during a song gathering expedition.  I reached into my years' long collection and pulled out "Don't Explain" written and sung by Billie Holiday.  Don't Explain is a tortured tale of all consuming, all forgiving, unquestioning love.  My pianist refused to learn it.  "This is an awful song," he said, "I don't believe it."

I believe it. 

Don't Explain is a look inside the darkest longing.  That wake up in the middle of the night, cannot be alone, self-worthless part of our psyche.  Anything is better than that emptiness, including giving over to a completely worthless idea, no matter how painful. For some it is drugs or alcohol, for others it is human.

Yes, it is dark.  But hopefully light comes with the dawn rescuing us from that other place and we stand up again filled with life. Light has always rescued me from my own frailties and doubts.

My presentation of this song is different from Billie's, for I am different from her.  I know this darkness, she succumbed to it whereas I look for the light.  Poor, poor Billie.

Teymur Phell, who I am so proud to work with, heard a tango in the rhythm of this piece.  The tango, a controlled dance of passion, temper, and desire, suits me.    

Oh So Blue is My Favorite Color

 

 

Last summer I was fortunate to wander into a very cool little club, 55 Bar, over on Christopher Street. Three or four steps down from the street behind a mullioned door there is a low slung room strewn with café tables and with walls  covered in photos, album covers and posters of the greats, Robert Johnson, Miles, Anita O'day, Nina Simone, you name 'em.  My favorite is  Art Kanes's photo,  

A Great Day In Harlem, which brings the Jazz Pantheon together

for a one of a kind photo op. 

It was only 5 o'clock or so and Kirby, the bartender, was alone in the place setting up for the night.  Kirby was very welcoming and told me all about the 55 Bar's history and the great musicians who've played there over the years. While he was talking, in walks Nat Janoff, who was scheduled to play with his trio at seven.  They were both so friendly that I knew instantly what club was going to be my home spot for music.

I've been back many times, to hear Mike Stern , Leni Stern, Sweet Georgia Brown, Felix Pastorious, and like the casts of SNL the players of 55 Bar seem to form a troupe amongst themselves.  Nat has played with Felix, Mike Stern's bassist is Teymur Phell, who often plays with Nat, and who I have come to know as a incredible player.  It was only a month ago that I revealed to them I sing and we three, Teymor, Nat and I, are now meeting regularly to form a trio so we can add a new sound to the rich offerings of New York City. 

 

The video is only a peek into a rehearsal session. 

 Oh So Blue can also be found on my album with the late, very great Geoff Weeks on the piano,  but this is a totally different take on it. 

 Enjoy! 

Living in the Center of the Universe - Part Six

Sold the Pan Built a Fire 

When Em was a little girl I was able to give her a real violin.  It came by us in a wonderful way.  She had been wanting one when a musically artistic, intellectually gifted, and southern gentleman friend of mine happened to offer me a violin that had belonged to his son and which had been stored away in an attic, in of all places, Oxford, Mississippi.  With such a storied provenance the violin must be magical.  Em played that violin until her hands grew too big and she outgrew the idea of playing.  We then stored the pretty instrument in my closet.   

The violin was not for sale. 

Who then to pass the instrument to but young Master Sage, a beautiful boy who immediately drew the bow across the strings in a pleasing tone.  His home is filled

with music and musicians and love and I know that the violin will have a new and full life before it moves to the next.

*****

“How much for this piano?” “$2500 and not a penny less,” I told the old man as I sat down to play.  Okay, I’ll give you $5 for this blanket, No that’s $10, I don’t need to sell it and you’re the first customer of the day, I don’t want to give it away. Okay what about this little pile of things and the blanket for $10? So, you want to pay $10 for the blanket and all the other stuff for free?  Haha! Yes!  That’s why you call it a garage sale, to bargain!  Hand out, $10 in. Next! 

Unless family would come by and I would give them those things that could not be sold; Uncle Dan’s paintings, a wooden carving of Don Quixote that came from a trip to Madrid with my mother, some things Dad brought home from his travels, things that meant something to me but would not fit in the van. 

The mahogany table that my dad built for me I gave to my musical friends who I know will have their friends over, it will hold their wine and crayons and they will love it as a place of commune, conversation and family.     

The paper things I collected over the years filled several boxes and represented times of my life from birth until yesterday. My mother passed away in June of last year and the home that needed to be emptied out then was the same home I grew up in so there were additional files that Mom had kept for me.  My sister had put them and some special pieces aside for me when she and a few brothers cleaned out the family home in August.  I have not yet looked at the box but sight unseen they are unquestionably belongings to keep.  

But what will I do with those old tests?  Birthday cards piled up? Programs of shows I no longer remember? I could not imagine throwing these things into a garbage can to be toted to the landfill and stirred in with who know what forms of garbage.  I thought I could burn them in a bonfire.  File after file into the fire in a ritualistic letting go.  Could I do it? And where was I going to find a bonfire on short notice? 

The fabric of the Universe felt the ripple of need and the fire presented itself.  I was able to crash a party of cousins in Grandmom and Granddad’s backyard.  They gathered with beer, music and s’mores and I showed up with my box of stuff.  Bit by bit we laughed over pictures, the kids insisted on some things  I was to keep, I threw other stuff in without thought and with glee and my pile was whittled down to a slice of what it had been.  Into the pit my physical memories became ash but the memory itself is embedded in my mind.  Old drawings of Emily's, homework files, report cards, essays, poems, heartbreaks and hopes. 

The only photographable moment was when a torn Warhol poster of Marilyn burned alongside 50 year old newspapers of JFK’s assassination.  A visual I can still see but failed to capture.  I look now at what we brought to New York and realize much of it is the paper things of Emily’s.  They are her childhood memories and also then, mine. 

Isn’t that the thing about memories?  Do we need to remember everything?  Do we need to have reminders of the things in order to remember them?  Is it the things that we remember or is it the experience that we associate with them? 

I had thought of taking a photo of each object as it was sold but I was so crazy busy that that not only was that idea impossible but forgotten.  While writing this post I came across a photo of Emily holding an American Doll that Santa had dropped off in 2002.  My heart nearly cracked thinking that the doll was now in the home of a stranger. 
Those days are really over.   
We’ve really moved on.