When last I blogged, I was having, well, sort of a day. And much to my surprise, it turned out quite a few people related to the accompanying emotions surrounding that day. So to those of you who reached out to me in love, or support, or mere camaraderie - thank you so much. Now on with the blog...
I get a lot of political emails, and the subject lines of them range from mild outrage to downright pissed-off-titude (my own new word). But I got one recently that grabbed me. Oh, not because of anything political, but it seemed like a question that the universe was asking me directly. "What are you waiting for?"
Yeah, that's a great question we could all be asking ourselves. What are we waiting for? The right time? Money? The stars to align?
What is it that stands in the way of us doing that thing our hearts would love to do? What would it take for us to realize that the time is now and the moment is ripe for us to step up knowing that the world needs exactly what it is we have to offer right this very minute?
I really don't think most of us are compelled to action until we're either in so much pain that we must act, or until we have some type of life-changing experience that opens our eyes to both the fragility as well as to the brevity of life. But be that as it may, here we are, plodding along, waiting and hoping for - oh, what's it called again? Courage.
So I'm offering up this quote from an interview I transcribed a few years back, along with a proposal to all of you. Here's the quote: "I believe that we can all have our dreams to the extent that we are willing to help others have their dreams."
And here's my proposal: if you're not willing or able to take the step today on behalf of yourself, then help someone else on their journey. Every one of us has the ability to be an encourager at the very least, or a miracle-worker at our finest. Perhaps our work is a solitary endeavor, but accomplishing anything beyond the creation of it isn't.
What kind of world would this be if we told each other why we should strive for greatness instead of why we shouldn't? How would the fabric of our humanity be altered if we were happier? What are we doing here if not becoming the fullest version of ourselves?
And what are you waiting for?
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
who am I, again?
I’ve been in a good place for a while now, so this was bound to happen. Most days I’ve got enough optimism to look on the bright side of everything, enough faith to believe good things are coming even if I don’t yet see them, enough energy to work towards my goals, and enough perseverance not to stop until I reach them.
Then there are days like today.
Every once in a while I want to take my toys and go home, leave the proverbial sandbox and go sit in a corner and cry for a while for all the ways in which I think I’ve failed miserably, for the seeming futility of big dreams, and for what might, despite my best efforts, never happen. It is a dark place I go unexpectedly, and so it catches me off-guard when I find myself there.
I don’t imagine that most people can understand this. It is a peculiar life that writers and artists lead. While I can’t speak for all of us, I think it would be safe to say that most of us have a heightened sensitivity to human suffering and an insatiable longing to fill a perceived void within ourselves. That the void doesn’t really exist and that the suffering is not ours alone to bear is not really the point. Perception is everything.
So there I sat, aware that I’m usually the one cheering everybody else up when they’re in this place, but unable to do it for myself. That’s what we have friends for – to remind us who we are when we’ve momentarily forgotten.
Anyone who has ever taken a blank piece of paper and made something out of it, whether it is the great American novel, the Mona Lisa, or a paper airplane has honored some part of their spirit longing for expression. It is never the logical, rational, or even wise thing to do by the world’s standards, but for those of us who create, it is the only thing to do, the only choice there is.
I have wanted to record a CD of my inspirational songs for many years. And at the start of 2013, I declared that this was the year for it to come to fruition. But as we are approaching the halfway mark of 2013, I must admit, all the reasons not to do it seem far more prudent than the ones to do it. Oh, I never said I’d given up, but the truth is I had.
Funny thing about that, though - because I had already engaged other people in my vision and had started planning, working, setting all the wheels in motion, when I got to my “I’m gonna give up, cause what’s the point of it” funk, my friend, Tanya told me, kind of in no uncertain terms, I might add, that she wasn’t going to let me give up on me.
She used irrefutable logic like: Do you really want to be on your deathbed saying, “I should’ve made that fucking album?” Who could argue with that kind of reasoning?
So instead of continuing my tearful wallowing, I went through my list of prospective songs for the project. I recorded work tapes of them, even finding one I really liked that I’d forgotten I’d written. I began thinking about what I need to hear that I haven’t yet said and what holes need to be filled in terms of tempo, meter, and subject.
I can’t say I didn’t shed a tear the rest of the day. But I can say that I moved in the direction of my heart’s desire anyway. I just needed a reminder that following my passion and purpose will never be something I’ll regret at the end of my days. But not following it, on the other hand...
Days like this one pass, as do the feelings that accompany them. But they serve a purpose. They are a chance to choose consciously the path well worn or the one we forge ourselves.
Possibility lives in the not knowing. Are we willing to go there? The terrifying thing is anything can happen. And the great thing is...anything can happen.
Thanks for stopping by. Please tell your friends.
And big, fat hugs to my friends for being the stellar examples of what I’ve done so very right.
Then there are days like today.
Every once in a while I want to take my toys and go home, leave the proverbial sandbox and go sit in a corner and cry for a while for all the ways in which I think I’ve failed miserably, for the seeming futility of big dreams, and for what might, despite my best efforts, never happen. It is a dark place I go unexpectedly, and so it catches me off-guard when I find myself there.
I don’t imagine that most people can understand this. It is a peculiar life that writers and artists lead. While I can’t speak for all of us, I think it would be safe to say that most of us have a heightened sensitivity to human suffering and an insatiable longing to fill a perceived void within ourselves. That the void doesn’t really exist and that the suffering is not ours alone to bear is not really the point. Perception is everything.
So there I sat, aware that I’m usually the one cheering everybody else up when they’re in this place, but unable to do it for myself. That’s what we have friends for – to remind us who we are when we’ve momentarily forgotten.
Anyone who has ever taken a blank piece of paper and made something out of it, whether it is the great American novel, the Mona Lisa, or a paper airplane has honored some part of their spirit longing for expression. It is never the logical, rational, or even wise thing to do by the world’s standards, but for those of us who create, it is the only thing to do, the only choice there is.
I have wanted to record a CD of my inspirational songs for many years. And at the start of 2013, I declared that this was the year for it to come to fruition. But as we are approaching the halfway mark of 2013, I must admit, all the reasons not to do it seem far more prudent than the ones to do it. Oh, I never said I’d given up, but the truth is I had.
Funny thing about that, though - because I had already engaged other people in my vision and had started planning, working, setting all the wheels in motion, when I got to my “I’m gonna give up, cause what’s the point of it” funk, my friend, Tanya told me, kind of in no uncertain terms, I might add, that she wasn’t going to let me give up on me.
She used irrefutable logic like: Do you really want to be on your deathbed saying, “I should’ve made that fucking album?” Who could argue with that kind of reasoning?
So instead of continuing my tearful wallowing, I went through my list of prospective songs for the project. I recorded work tapes of them, even finding one I really liked that I’d forgotten I’d written. I began thinking about what I need to hear that I haven’t yet said and what holes need to be filled in terms of tempo, meter, and subject.
I can’t say I didn’t shed a tear the rest of the day. But I can say that I moved in the direction of my heart’s desire anyway. I just needed a reminder that following my passion and purpose will never be something I’ll regret at the end of my days. But not following it, on the other hand...
Days like this one pass, as do the feelings that accompany them. But they serve a purpose. They are a chance to choose consciously the path well worn or the one we forge ourselves.
Possibility lives in the not knowing. Are we willing to go there? The terrifying thing is anything can happen. And the great thing is...anything can happen.
Thanks for stopping by. Please tell your friends.
And big, fat hugs to my friends for being the stellar examples of what I’ve done so very right.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
"Best Wishes for a Career"
I’ve been cleaning out closets lately, sifting through a lot of things, not stopping too long on any one, trusting my initial instinct to let go of or to save. But tonight I got to a big gray envelope from a music store in New York City that no longer exists, and in it were housed papers from my college days – recital programs, transcripts, various notes from my roommates. But also among these artifacts from the 80’s was a handmade autograph book from a performing arts program I attended in the summer of ’79 when I was fourteen.
I looked at all the complimentary parting words from my cast mates from various shows, our youthful exuberance, and our confidence that future success was a certainty. I wondered if any of the names had become household ones as I tried to recall the faces that went with them.
None jumped out at me. I could remember some of the faces, but mostly of our instructors. I got to one page and immediately remembered ballet class. (I know, I know, you’re imagining the visual that accompanies me in ballet class. Stop laughing.)
On another page, I read, “I’m glad that we will keep in touch.” And because once in a while that kind of statement is actually true, I’ll tell you I’m having dinner with her on Thursday, and we have remained close friends over many miles and years and life paths.
And of course, there was, “I’m glad you are also a pirate.” That’s the kind of thing you just don’t hear often enough these days. Funny thing is I don’t remember actually being a pirate…which, clearly, I was. These are the times I both wish I had some sort of pictorial documentation to jog my memory…and am simultaneously thrilled that I don’t.
But the thing I remember most about that summer is it was the first time I played and sang my songs publicly. And though I have no doubt that they were heartfelt, angst-ridden, and probably dreadful, they moved people, even at fourteen. And knowing that what emanated from my heart and soul could move people, altered the course of my life.
The last note in my little handmade autograph book was three sentences. It read: “Your music is beautiful. Please continue your songwriting. Best wishes for a career.”
It made me laugh out loud. It was definitely to the point. And only now could I both fully appreciate and be amused by the “Best wishes for a career” line. So I googled the guy who wrote it.
I wondered what kind of career he’d had. It turns out he has sort of a common name. And though there were many listed, I only found one in show business – the guy who produced Field of Dreams and the Die Hard movies. Nah, couldn’t be him, I thought. Could it? I have no idea, but because I’m still a believer, I’ll go with maybe it is him. Besides, the one picture I found on IMDB did kind of bear a resemblance to what I remember him looking like, albeit having aged 30+ years.
As for me, I’m still writing songs, although I do think we can safely say that my pirate days are over.
Thanks for stopping by. Please tell your friends. And oh yeah, “Best wishes for a career” – whatever your biggest dream for one may happen to be.
I looked at all the complimentary parting words from my cast mates from various shows, our youthful exuberance, and our confidence that future success was a certainty. I wondered if any of the names had become household ones as I tried to recall the faces that went with them.
None jumped out at me. I could remember some of the faces, but mostly of our instructors. I got to one page and immediately remembered ballet class. (I know, I know, you’re imagining the visual that accompanies me in ballet class. Stop laughing.)
On another page, I read, “I’m glad that we will keep in touch.” And because once in a while that kind of statement is actually true, I’ll tell you I’m having dinner with her on Thursday, and we have remained close friends over many miles and years and life paths.
And of course, there was, “I’m glad you are also a pirate.” That’s the kind of thing you just don’t hear often enough these days. Funny thing is I don’t remember actually being a pirate…which, clearly, I was. These are the times I both wish I had some sort of pictorial documentation to jog my memory…and am simultaneously thrilled that I don’t.
But the thing I remember most about that summer is it was the first time I played and sang my songs publicly. And though I have no doubt that they were heartfelt, angst-ridden, and probably dreadful, they moved people, even at fourteen. And knowing that what emanated from my heart and soul could move people, altered the course of my life.
The last note in my little handmade autograph book was three sentences. It read: “Your music is beautiful. Please continue your songwriting. Best wishes for a career.”
It made me laugh out loud. It was definitely to the point. And only now could I both fully appreciate and be amused by the “Best wishes for a career” line. So I googled the guy who wrote it.
I wondered what kind of career he’d had. It turns out he has sort of a common name. And though there were many listed, I only found one in show business – the guy who produced Field of Dreams and the Die Hard movies. Nah, couldn’t be him, I thought. Could it? I have no idea, but because I’m still a believer, I’ll go with maybe it is him. Besides, the one picture I found on IMDB did kind of bear a resemblance to what I remember him looking like, albeit having aged 30+ years.
As for me, I’m still writing songs, although I do think we can safely say that my pirate days are over.
Thanks for stopping by. Please tell your friends. And oh yeah, “Best wishes for a career” – whatever your biggest dream for one may happen to be.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
the things we clean out of our closets
We don’t think of cleaning out our closets as a particularly spiritual endeavor. At least I didn’t. But a strange thing happened to me while meditating: I got the message – “clean out your closets.”
At first, I laughed, dismissing it as something I must have conjured or unconsciously thought about doing. Surely it could not be any sort of higher power urging me to fill up bags for Good Will. I mean, that would be a nice thing to do and all, but it didn’t seem like higher power stuff to me.
But every day I kept meditating, and every day I kept getting the same message – “clean out your closets.” It was obstinate and felt urgent, like nothing else could happen unless I cleaned out my dang closets. But I’m a doubter, so instead of immediately setting about the designated task, I questioned why.
Nothing revealed itself to me, nor did the message subside. So finally, I began heeding it. It seemed overwhelming, at first. Where to start? This used to be home to five people. Now there are two. And I had lived away for so many years, I had my own household worth of stuff to figure out how to store or incorporate back into this dwelling. Plus, there was the emotional component of my mother and grandfather being gone.
I decided to start with my own closets, a shelf a day, and to be merciless. Hmm, interesting choice of word. When it came to clothing, if it hadn’t been worn in three years, or if there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of me ever fitting in it again, out it went. As for other items, if I hadn’t used them, remembered them, or still loved them, out they went.
At first, it felt liberating. Liberating, but not spiritual. An idea whose time had come, but I couldn’t really glean any deeper meaning beyond the idea, on a literal level, that getting rid of the old makes room for the new.
Sure, it would be nice to have more space, be organized, know what I own, blah, blah, blah. But ten Hefty bags into it, I still couldn’t tell you why this was so friggin’ important to do now or what I was supposed to learn.
Then it happened. Little by little, I looked at the things I kept for “someday.” First, they were my own things. And those were relatively easy to let go of. But then there were my mother’s things, things I had kept “in case,” or because they fit – sort of, or because you never know. And I felt her presence as powerfully as if she was sitting next to me.
The more things of hers I put in the pile to go out, the greater my sense of fear became. Not sadness, not longing, but fear. What if I need this someday? What if there isn’t enough? What if I am completely unprepared for life and this is the one thing I could use, but I got rid of it?
It was completely irrational. I looked like Bea Arthur from Golden Girls in her clothes. They were swimming on me. This wasn’t about how getting rid of her stuff was somehow a betrayal of her memory. This was about my own fear. This was about seeing life as potentially treacherous. This was about coming from a place of lack versus abundance. And the kicker is I thought I had already dealt with all of that.
I thought I had chosen to see the universe as friendly and abundant. I thought I believed in always enough. But there I stood, realizing quite the contrary, and knowing that this moment was a chance to clear out more than my closets; this moment was beckoning me to clean out old belief systems that no longer serve me. And that, indeed, was the spiritual, and emotional, and psychological task at hand, the real reason I could receive no other message until I had done this.
As I felt my mother’s presence surrounding me, I became clear that these beliefs weren’t my own. Sure, I had adopted them as my own. We’re all served up all kinds of things from the time we come into the world, and we dutifully accept them all as the clean slate we are that’s being written upon. We copy exactly what we’ve seen or been told. But sooner or later, the decision as to what to believe and how to operate in the world is our own. Of course, by that time, our beliefs are so unconscious and ingrained in us, that we often don’t see them as a choice at all, but simply as how things are. That goes for relationships, jobs, money, everything. I would never have suspected that getting rid of an outfit that wasn’t even mine could stir up so much inner turmoil.
But that’s just it. These things didn’t belong to me. They weren’t mine. It was as if my mother was saying, “I lived my life. And these were the things of that life. Now go live yours.” From that moment on, I felt free of the fear, the what ifs, the need to hang on, as if hanging on actually made me any more or less safe in the world. It was more than purging. It was reclaiming a piece of myself I didn’t even remember. So step by step, I am releasing what isn’t mine and making room for a life of my choosing instead of the one by default.
And there’s plenty that remains just as it was when my mother was alive. The house is my father’s, after all, and I respect his wishes to leave it much the same as my mother had it. That is his choice to make, and if it brings him some measure of comfort, then so be it. Those who visit the house, who didn’t know my mother, will fast be made aware of her pervasive love of the color blue, among other things. It is my hope that they will also fast be made aware that they are welcomed, and that, though small in size, this is a place with ample room for love and laughter. And of course, food…cause you gotta eat.
Thanks so much for stopping by. Please tell your friends. And might I suggest cleaning out a closet or two of your own. You never know what you'll find when you do.
At first, I laughed, dismissing it as something I must have conjured or unconsciously thought about doing. Surely it could not be any sort of higher power urging me to fill up bags for Good Will. I mean, that would be a nice thing to do and all, but it didn’t seem like higher power stuff to me.
But every day I kept meditating, and every day I kept getting the same message – “clean out your closets.” It was obstinate and felt urgent, like nothing else could happen unless I cleaned out my dang closets. But I’m a doubter, so instead of immediately setting about the designated task, I questioned why.
Nothing revealed itself to me, nor did the message subside. So finally, I began heeding it. It seemed overwhelming, at first. Where to start? This used to be home to five people. Now there are two. And I had lived away for so many years, I had my own household worth of stuff to figure out how to store or incorporate back into this dwelling. Plus, there was the emotional component of my mother and grandfather being gone.
I decided to start with my own closets, a shelf a day, and to be merciless. Hmm, interesting choice of word. When it came to clothing, if it hadn’t been worn in three years, or if there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of me ever fitting in it again, out it went. As for other items, if I hadn’t used them, remembered them, or still loved them, out they went.
At first, it felt liberating. Liberating, but not spiritual. An idea whose time had come, but I couldn’t really glean any deeper meaning beyond the idea, on a literal level, that getting rid of the old makes room for the new.
Sure, it would be nice to have more space, be organized, know what I own, blah, blah, blah. But ten Hefty bags into it, I still couldn’t tell you why this was so friggin’ important to do now or what I was supposed to learn.
Then it happened. Little by little, I looked at the things I kept for “someday.” First, they were my own things. And those were relatively easy to let go of. But then there were my mother’s things, things I had kept “in case,” or because they fit – sort of, or because you never know. And I felt her presence as powerfully as if she was sitting next to me.
The more things of hers I put in the pile to go out, the greater my sense of fear became. Not sadness, not longing, but fear. What if I need this someday? What if there isn’t enough? What if I am completely unprepared for life and this is the one thing I could use, but I got rid of it?
It was completely irrational. I looked like Bea Arthur from Golden Girls in her clothes. They were swimming on me. This wasn’t about how getting rid of her stuff was somehow a betrayal of her memory. This was about my own fear. This was about seeing life as potentially treacherous. This was about coming from a place of lack versus abundance. And the kicker is I thought I had already dealt with all of that.
I thought I had chosen to see the universe as friendly and abundant. I thought I believed in always enough. But there I stood, realizing quite the contrary, and knowing that this moment was a chance to clear out more than my closets; this moment was beckoning me to clean out old belief systems that no longer serve me. And that, indeed, was the spiritual, and emotional, and psychological task at hand, the real reason I could receive no other message until I had done this.
As I felt my mother’s presence surrounding me, I became clear that these beliefs weren’t my own. Sure, I had adopted them as my own. We’re all served up all kinds of things from the time we come into the world, and we dutifully accept them all as the clean slate we are that’s being written upon. We copy exactly what we’ve seen or been told. But sooner or later, the decision as to what to believe and how to operate in the world is our own. Of course, by that time, our beliefs are so unconscious and ingrained in us, that we often don’t see them as a choice at all, but simply as how things are. That goes for relationships, jobs, money, everything. I would never have suspected that getting rid of an outfit that wasn’t even mine could stir up so much inner turmoil.
But that’s just it. These things didn’t belong to me. They weren’t mine. It was as if my mother was saying, “I lived my life. And these were the things of that life. Now go live yours.” From that moment on, I felt free of the fear, the what ifs, the need to hang on, as if hanging on actually made me any more or less safe in the world. It was more than purging. It was reclaiming a piece of myself I didn’t even remember. So step by step, I am releasing what isn’t mine and making room for a life of my choosing instead of the one by default.
And there’s plenty that remains just as it was when my mother was alive. The house is my father’s, after all, and I respect his wishes to leave it much the same as my mother had it. That is his choice to make, and if it brings him some measure of comfort, then so be it. Those who visit the house, who didn’t know my mother, will fast be made aware of her pervasive love of the color blue, among other things. It is my hope that they will also fast be made aware that they are welcomed, and that, though small in size, this is a place with ample room for love and laughter. And of course, food…cause you gotta eat.
Thanks so much for stopping by. Please tell your friends. And might I suggest cleaning out a closet or two of your own. You never know what you'll find when you do.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
a Post-Show Blog - Part 2
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and to tell you the truth, I'm hoping that's the case because the video footage of the show had some beautiful shots...of the waiter walking directly in front of the camera on all but two songs.
So after my slight meltdown about the footage that will never be seen on YouTube of last week's show, I set about hunting down stills that anyone might have taken that night. Fortunately, there were some good samaritans with cell phones and cameras in the audience. God bless them all. And by all, I mean Scott Levy, Enid Blount Press, Michele Jaffe Stork, and Carolyn Messina!
So for those of you who missed it as well as those who'd like some "misty, water-colored memories of the way we were," here's my walk down memory lane of a very special evening making music with my friends. And again, my heartfelt gratitude to Garry Novikoff, BethAnne Clayton, Tanya Leah, & Lorraine Ferro.
Thanks for stopping by and sharing the post-show fun with me! Please tell your friends...and come on out to my next gig on May 19th where I'll be part of the Music at the Mansion concert series in New Jersey! https://www.facebook.com/events/131497537044558/?ref=2
So after my slight meltdown about the footage that will never be seen on YouTube of last week's show, I set about hunting down stills that anyone might have taken that night. Fortunately, there were some good samaritans with cell phones and cameras in the audience. God bless them all. And by all, I mean Scott Levy, Enid Blount Press, Michele Jaffe Stork, and Carolyn Messina!
So for those of you who missed it as well as those who'd like some "misty, water-colored memories of the way we were," here's my walk down memory lane of a very special evening making music with my friends. And again, my heartfelt gratitude to Garry Novikoff, BethAnne Clayton, Tanya Leah, & Lorraine Ferro.
Backstage before the show L-R: Tanya, Lorraine, Ilene, Beth & Garry in front
The ensemble takes to the stage!
Me, opening with a brand new song
Tanya gracing us with the happy Ukulele
Garry, my fellow lefty Leo
BethAnne, rockin' the beautiful, bluesy stuff
Singing Goddess, Lorraine...I don't even need the audio with this picture!
The friends singing our encore "You've Got a Friend"
Garry and Ilene sporting the closed-eyes and open-mouths singing look
Post-show jubilation!
Thanks for stopping by and sharing the post-show fun with me! Please tell your friends...and come on out to my next gig on May 19th where I'll be part of the Music at the Mansion concert series in New Jersey! https://www.facebook.com/events/131497537044558/?ref=2
Thursday, May 2, 2013
a Post-Show Blog - Part 1
I had this dream. Nothing as daunting as achieving lasting peace on earth – although, that is one I’ve had, too, but gathering some of my closest friends together for an evening of, well, what we did until the wee hours of the morning in my living room not long ago, which was play and sing our songs for and with each other, along with practically every other song ever written. (It was until the wee hours, after all.)
In theory, everything sounds like a good idea at the time you think of it. But I was serious. And as anyone who’s ever known me for more than five minutes knows, when I’m serious about something, I have a way of making it happen.
So within a couple of months of our gathering, a venue was booked, a date set, and the people I wanted to play with were asked. Let me explain the likelihood of five professional musicians being available to play on the same night together – none. But somehow the fates were with me on this one, because everyone managed to sign on eventually.
I had a vision in my head of what the night would look like. It would be my New York version of a Nashville Bluebird Café round. (For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, the Bluebird is a Nashville songwriters’ venue. And a “round” is four writers sitting in a circle taking turns playing their songs very informally.) Only in New York, there’s a stage and lights, and everything is more expensive. Plus the whole theater setting was far from informal.
In my vision of the evening, we’d each bring the fullness of our talents, hearts and souls to the table. Oh yeah, and also our humor. I live for the unscripted banter, the not knowing what’s going to come out of anyone’s mouth, including my own. I might possibly be the only performer whose pre-show prayer goes something like this: “God, please let me not suck. And oh yeah, please make me funny.” (Hey, far less lofty things have been asked for, believe me.)
Now, I could go into great detail about the journey leading up to last night’s performance – the one rehearsal we had, the changing of minds about song selection at the last minute, the chaotic nature of five very different personalities, not to mention…oh, why sugarcoat it…artists are all nuts. And I say that both with all the love in my heart as well as the full knowledge that I am one of them. But I was the nut whose brainchild this was, and so I felt like the success or failure of it rested on my shoulders. Yes, I wanted it to be great, but I also wanted it to be fun. My philosophy is if we’re having fun on stage, then so will the audience.
Show night was upon us. Did I mention my 50+ pound keyboard that I had to pack and haul? Let’s just put it this way, I have so many cuts and bruises on hands and various body parts that were used to prop up, navigate, maneuver and just plain schlep, that I look like I was mauled by a wild animal of some sort. And that was before I got to the theater.
When I dropped my keyboard off at the foot of the flight of stairs inside the theater (which was on the 2nd floor with no elevator), the manager came down to greet me, took one look at my ginormous keyboard case and said he’d give me a hand. And by “give me a hand,” I mean he just picked up the whole thing like it was made of Styrofoam and walked up the flight of stairs without breaking a sweat, let alone struggling in any discernible way. I briefly thought of offering him my firstborn, but then remembered I don’t have children.
Sound check was a little tense. Our one and only rehearsal had left us knowing we could sound great together, but that there was also ample potential for harmonic catastrophe, because did I mention we only had one rehearsal? Add to that the fact that all of us had never performed together before, though I’d performed with each person separately on many different occasions. Recipe for…well, it was the recipe for my word and lesson of the year – trust.
This gig was an opportunity, particularly for me, because I can’t speak for anyone else, to trust the people I chose to work with, to trust the years of experience that each of us collectively brought with us, to trust the work each of us did individually before we got there, to trust that the audience would appreciate our offering, to trust that there would even be an audience, and to trust that everything always works out for the highest good of everyone involved. And it did.
From the moment we walked on stage, the audience was with us. They laughed at our jokes; they participated when asked to join in, which was especially necessary on Garry’s song with the kazoos. And for those of you who were not present, I know you are really sorry about that now that you know there were kazoos. There was also a keyboard, two guitars, a ukulele, shakers, and a doumbek. It was a cacophony of creativity on that stage, I tell ya.
The show was everything I could have hoped for. By the time we saw the cell phone equivalents of the Bic lighters waiving in the air as we did our one cover of the show, our encore of “You’ve Got a Friend,” it was one big love-fest.
And though I’m waiting for pics and recordings, here’s a couple we took backstage before the show. There will be more in the next blog! Thanks for stopping by. Please tell your friends.
In theory, everything sounds like a good idea at the time you think of it. But I was serious. And as anyone who’s ever known me for more than five minutes knows, when I’m serious about something, I have a way of making it happen.
So within a couple of months of our gathering, a venue was booked, a date set, and the people I wanted to play with were asked. Let me explain the likelihood of five professional musicians being available to play on the same night together – none. But somehow the fates were with me on this one, because everyone managed to sign on eventually.
I had a vision in my head of what the night would look like. It would be my New York version of a Nashville Bluebird Café round. (For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, the Bluebird is a Nashville songwriters’ venue. And a “round” is four writers sitting in a circle taking turns playing their songs very informally.) Only in New York, there’s a stage and lights, and everything is more expensive. Plus the whole theater setting was far from informal.
In my vision of the evening, we’d each bring the fullness of our talents, hearts and souls to the table. Oh yeah, and also our humor. I live for the unscripted banter, the not knowing what’s going to come out of anyone’s mouth, including my own. I might possibly be the only performer whose pre-show prayer goes something like this: “God, please let me not suck. And oh yeah, please make me funny.” (Hey, far less lofty things have been asked for, believe me.)
Now, I could go into great detail about the journey leading up to last night’s performance – the one rehearsal we had, the changing of minds about song selection at the last minute, the chaotic nature of five very different personalities, not to mention…oh, why sugarcoat it…artists are all nuts. And I say that both with all the love in my heart as well as the full knowledge that I am one of them. But I was the nut whose brainchild this was, and so I felt like the success or failure of it rested on my shoulders. Yes, I wanted it to be great, but I also wanted it to be fun. My philosophy is if we’re having fun on stage, then so will the audience.
Show night was upon us. Did I mention my 50+ pound keyboard that I had to pack and haul? Let’s just put it this way, I have so many cuts and bruises on hands and various body parts that were used to prop up, navigate, maneuver and just plain schlep, that I look like I was mauled by a wild animal of some sort. And that was before I got to the theater.
When I dropped my keyboard off at the foot of the flight of stairs inside the theater (which was on the 2nd floor with no elevator), the manager came down to greet me, took one look at my ginormous keyboard case and said he’d give me a hand. And by “give me a hand,” I mean he just picked up the whole thing like it was made of Styrofoam and walked up the flight of stairs without breaking a sweat, let alone struggling in any discernible way. I briefly thought of offering him my firstborn, but then remembered I don’t have children.
Sound check was a little tense. Our one and only rehearsal had left us knowing we could sound great together, but that there was also ample potential for harmonic catastrophe, because did I mention we only had one rehearsal? Add to that the fact that all of us had never performed together before, though I’d performed with each person separately on many different occasions. Recipe for…well, it was the recipe for my word and lesson of the year – trust.
This gig was an opportunity, particularly for me, because I can’t speak for anyone else, to trust the people I chose to work with, to trust the years of experience that each of us collectively brought with us, to trust the work each of us did individually before we got there, to trust that the audience would appreciate our offering, to trust that there would even be an audience, and to trust that everything always works out for the highest good of everyone involved. And it did.
From the moment we walked on stage, the audience was with us. They laughed at our jokes; they participated when asked to join in, which was especially necessary on Garry’s song with the kazoos. And for those of you who were not present, I know you are really sorry about that now that you know there were kazoos. There was also a keyboard, two guitars, a ukulele, shakers, and a doumbek. It was a cacophony of creativity on that stage, I tell ya.
The show was everything I could have hoped for. By the time we saw the cell phone equivalents of the Bic lighters waiving in the air as we did our one cover of the show, our encore of “You’ve Got a Friend,” it was one big love-fest.
And though I’m waiting for pics and recordings, here’s a couple we took backstage before the show. There will be more in the next blog! Thanks for stopping by. Please tell your friends.
L-R: Tanya Leah, Lorraine Ferro, Ilene Angel, BethAnne Clayton, and Garry Novikoff in front
L-R: Lorraine Ferro, Ilene Angel, BethAnne Clayton, & Garry Novikoff
And a note to my friends who made music with me - BethAnne Clayton, Garry Novikoff, Lorraine Ferro, and Tanya Leah – I am awed by your talent, I cherish our friendship, and I love you to pieces!!!
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
so anyway, as I was saying...
So anyway, as I was saying in my last blog about the things I was contemplating doing with the spare time that I used to spend worrying, here’s what I’ve found out about luging and mermaid camp. And really, how many times can you say those two things, let alone in the same sentence?
It seems there are at least a couple of luging options in these United States. My friend Alisa was nice enough to send me the links to them, because evidently I am not the only one whose curiosity was piqued at the mere mention of the word “luge.”
I noticed that luge place #2 requires proof of health insurance. Very reassuring. And don’t put it past me to try this, either. I live to be able to say I’ve luged. Is “luged” even a word? Spell check thinks not. But then again, who is spell check, really?
Ah, mermaid camp. I’ve discovered there really is no good segue from luging to mermaid camp – a thing I doubted even existed until I saw my friend, Loralee’s picture and tactfully asked her, “What the hell is that picture on your Facebook page? Are you wearing fins?” And thus, my introduction to this phenomenon was made.
But once you open that can of worms, there’s really no going back. It turns out there are quite a lot of people obsessed with mermaids. (Who knew?) My only prior reference to them was Bette Midler’s stage show and the movie Splash, which just goes to show you the kind of sheltered life I’ve led.
It turns out that, like luging, there’s more than one mermaid camp, too, the most renown of which is the one in Florida that my aforementioned friend attended. (http://www.weekiwachee.com/camps/sirens-of-the-deep-mermaid-camp.html )
Me, I’d opt for the one in Hawaii…that is if I was opting for mermaid camp – which I’m not. Ever.
And that brings us (logically) to the documentary I finally watched called The Boys: the Sherman Brothers Story. (I know, my skills at the art of the segue can really only be classified as a gift.)
For those of you without the fingertip-ready knowledge of who wrote the songs you’ve known all your life and have taken for granted, let me assure you that many of them were written by the Sherman brothers.
If you’ve visited a Disney theme park and ridden “It’s a Small World,” seen Mary Poppins or Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, or heard Ringo Starr sing “You’re Sixteen,” then you know the Sherman brothers’ songs.
I must admit that, going into it, I knew absolutely nothing about them. I assumed, based on nothing but their very cheery music, that they must have been two blissfully happy (and lucky) men who got along famously and depicted the optimism of the charmed lives they surely led in their songs. I would, of course, be completely wrong.
While my definition of a charmed life may well be “making a good living as a commercially successful songwriter,” (Project much? Nah!), the truth is the dynamics of their relationship were far more complex.
Robert and Richard Sherman were two very different men. Robert fought and was seriously injured in World War II, having been one of the first Americans to step foot in Dachau, seeing the horrors of the concentration camp atrocities firsthand.
Richard, on the other hand, didn’t see front line action. And while his inclination may have already been on the sunnier side, I can’t help but think that the impact of Robert’s experiences were both profound and permanent. And perhaps it was the melding of those two very different lives that held the magic we all know and love.
To be honest, I found myself more intrigued by Robert, whose demeanor appeared to be more brooding and somber than Richard’s. To be able to write such uplifting and positive songs after having witnessed so much darkness, takes the profundity of that accomplishment to a whole different level for me. It makes it a conscious choice about what one wants to put out in the world.
That the brothers spent years apart and estranged later on in life saddened me to no end, as did the shift in what the Disney company became after Walt Disney’s death. But we will forever have the films and the music. And if it keeps childhoods innocent and sweet for a day longer than today’s world would have them be, then I say that’s a pretty good legacy and one the Sherman brothers' children and grandchildren can be proud of.
For my last completely disjointed tidbit of this blog, might I suggest getting your tickets for my show next week on May 1st at 7pm in New York City? It is going to be an incredibly fun evening of singer/songwriters that include me (Ilene Angel), Garry Novikoff, Lorraine Ferro, Tanya Leah, and BethAnne Clayton. We will be swapping songs and unscripted banter. And believe me, with a description that includes the word “unscripted," hilarity is sure to ensue. You will not want to miss it.
Here’s the link to get your tickets or make reservations: http://stage72.com/?p=2434 or call 1-800-838-3006.
Thank you so much for stopping by and spending some time with me. I appreciate it beyond words...which I've used enough of...so I'm done for now.
It seems there are at least a couple of luging options in these United States. My friend Alisa was nice enough to send me the links to them, because evidently I am not the only one whose curiosity was piqued at the mere mention of the word “luge.”
I noticed that luge place #2 requires proof of health insurance. Very reassuring. And don’t put it past me to try this, either. I live to be able to say I’ve luged. Is “luged” even a word? Spell check thinks not. But then again, who is spell check, really?
Ah, mermaid camp. I’ve discovered there really is no good segue from luging to mermaid camp – a thing I doubted even existed until I saw my friend, Loralee’s picture and tactfully asked her, “What the hell is that picture on your Facebook page? Are you wearing fins?” And thus, my introduction to this phenomenon was made.
But once you open that can of worms, there’s really no going back. It turns out there are quite a lot of people obsessed with mermaids. (Who knew?) My only prior reference to them was Bette Midler’s stage show and the movie Splash, which just goes to show you the kind of sheltered life I’ve led.
It turns out that, like luging, there’s more than one mermaid camp, too, the most renown of which is the one in Florida that my aforementioned friend attended. (http://www.weekiwachee.com/camps/sirens-of-the-deep-mermaid-camp.html )
Me, I’d opt for the one in Hawaii…that is if I was opting for mermaid camp – which I’m not. Ever.
And that brings us (logically) to the documentary I finally watched called The Boys: the Sherman Brothers Story. (I know, my skills at the art of the segue can really only be classified as a gift.)
For those of you without the fingertip-ready knowledge of who wrote the songs you’ve known all your life and have taken for granted, let me assure you that many of them were written by the Sherman brothers.
If you’ve visited a Disney theme park and ridden “It’s a Small World,” seen Mary Poppins or Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, or heard Ringo Starr sing “You’re Sixteen,” then you know the Sherman brothers’ songs.
I must admit that, going into it, I knew absolutely nothing about them. I assumed, based on nothing but their very cheery music, that they must have been two blissfully happy (and lucky) men who got along famously and depicted the optimism of the charmed lives they surely led in their songs. I would, of course, be completely wrong.
While my definition of a charmed life may well be “making a good living as a commercially successful songwriter,” (Project much? Nah!), the truth is the dynamics of their relationship were far more complex.
Robert and Richard Sherman were two very different men. Robert fought and was seriously injured in World War II, having been one of the first Americans to step foot in Dachau, seeing the horrors of the concentration camp atrocities firsthand.
Richard, on the other hand, didn’t see front line action. And while his inclination may have already been on the sunnier side, I can’t help but think that the impact of Robert’s experiences were both profound and permanent. And perhaps it was the melding of those two very different lives that held the magic we all know and love.
To be honest, I found myself more intrigued by Robert, whose demeanor appeared to be more brooding and somber than Richard’s. To be able to write such uplifting and positive songs after having witnessed so much darkness, takes the profundity of that accomplishment to a whole different level for me. It makes it a conscious choice about what one wants to put out in the world.
That the brothers spent years apart and estranged later on in life saddened me to no end, as did the shift in what the Disney company became after Walt Disney’s death. But we will forever have the films and the music. And if it keeps childhoods innocent and sweet for a day longer than today’s world would have them be, then I say that’s a pretty good legacy and one the Sherman brothers' children and grandchildren can be proud of.
For my last completely disjointed tidbit of this blog, might I suggest getting your tickets for my show next week on May 1st at 7pm in New York City? It is going to be an incredibly fun evening of singer/songwriters that include me (Ilene Angel), Garry Novikoff, Lorraine Ferro, Tanya Leah, and BethAnne Clayton. We will be swapping songs and unscripted banter. And believe me, with a description that includes the word “unscripted," hilarity is sure to ensue. You will not want to miss it.
Here’s the link to get your tickets or make reservations: http://stage72.com/?p=2434 or call 1-800-838-3006.
Thank you so much for stopping by and spending some time with me. I appreciate it beyond words...which I've used enough of...so I'm done for now.
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