Exhibit B: Eyes Closed.
After a recent performance, my friend J. told me that I was keeping my eyes closed too much while I sang. “You have expressive eyes,” J. said, “and when you sing with your eyes closed, it’s the same thing as turning your back on us, the audience! You have to give us more of yourself!”
Exhibit A: Eyes Closed.
It’s awfully scary to gaze into a sea of strangers (or, even more terrifying, close friends) and sing for them. “I close my eyes to hear the music better,” I replied, a bit peeved. But I was forced to acknowledge (to myself, anyway) that closing my eyes isn’t really about looking cool or hearing the music better. It’s a way to put a barrier between my fears and the audience. And my friend called me out on it. As a singer, I was being selfish, plain and simple.
Exhibit C: Eyes Closed. Okay, so he had a point.
In the weeks following J.’s loving admonition, I’ve been thinking a lot about generosity and what it means to really give as a performer. Then, I serendipitously stumbled upon an episode of Elvis Costello’s TV show, Spectacle. Tony Bennett was the guest, and just listening to him speak was a lesson in giving.
Tony told Elvis about his love of the Great American Songbook. “This isn’t old music,” said Tony, “it’s great music.” He went on to say that that demographics, while very important to record labels, don’t interest him; he sings for the whole family. Tony was ardent in his respect for the great American composers, like Gershwin, Porter, Berlin, Ellington, Kern, and Arlen.
Ribbon-cutting ceremony for the Frank Sinatra School of the Arts
Tony had marched with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. during the Civil Rights movement. When Elvis Costello asked him about it, Tony said simply, “I thought everyone should’ve been there,” then spoke about his belief that, one day, human beings would see that peace is truly possible. His faith and optimism were humbling.
Elvis asked Tony to sing. Tony obliged, prefacing his performance by saying that the real reason he was appearing on Spectacle was to introduce the world to Bill Charlap, a hugely respected jazz pianist who is not well known outside the jazz community. He continued to laud Charlap the rest of the show. I mean, isn’t that amazing? Tony Bennett, one of the most legendary singers of all time, made a television appearance and spent a great deal of his airtime singing the praises of his accompanist.
With exquisite accompaniment by Bill Charlap, Tony sang “The Way You Look Tonight.” Now, I’ve heard that song a million times. I’ve sung it at weddings, regarding it as a sweet piece of nostalgia. But I’d never really heard “The Way You Look Tonight” until I heard Tony Bennett sing it.
Even through the television screen, it felt like Tony was singing right to me. No–it felt like we were having an intimate conversation. His smile and sparkling eyes told the song’s story as much as his singing. Every gesture, every nuance, was in service to the music. At the song’s conclusion, he threw his arms open, as if to embrace the audience. Tony Bennett gave himself entirely to the song, then gave the song to us.
It’s so easy to let fear–of mistakes, of inadequacy, of just plain not being liked–override our basic human generosity. But giving of ourselves always feels better than giving in to our fear, which is just another way of saying “ego.”
Thank you, J., for telling me that I need to open my eyes and be more generous when I sing. And thank you, Tony Bennett, for opening my eyes and showing me what generous singing really is.
Once upon a time, in a faraway era I’ll call the 1990s, you had to walk to your computer, turn it on, and search for information on the internet. Then we got laptops, so our computers could travel with us. Now we have iPhones and Blackberries so we can have instant access to information and communication in our pockets, wherever we find ourselves.
Having a personal online presence seems to be a necessity for everyone in the 21st century, from elementary schoolers to Baby Boomers. MySpace gave way to Facebook, often called “Face-Crack,” because of its addictive properties. Cyber-stalking may well be the next Olympic sport. And Twitter, that festering bastion of narcissism, is increasing in popularity.
Tween star Miley Cyrus recently created a firestorm when she deleted her Twitter account. Shortly afterward, she gave an interview to a Chicago radio station and said, “Twitter should just be banned from this universe. You don’t end up living your life and you end up saying things that really is (sic) no-one else’s business.” Preach on, Miley.
I’ve seen “tweets” and “status updates” that were clearly sent from people who were driving, as well as from hospital delivery rooms. Really? There is nothing, as in not one goddamned piece of information, that is so crucial that it must be “tweeted” while driving a vehicle. And if I were in labor and saw my husband posting information about my cervix to the online faceless masses, I’m pretty confident his electronic device would have to be surgically removed from his ass.
Now, I’m not a Luddite. While I can rail on and on about the perils of internet addiction, I consider the internet to be a hugely powerful resource. When we log on with intention and purpose, we literally have the world at our fingertips.
But how often do we really log on with intention and purpose? Online, instant gratification is the order of the day. It always starts innocently enough: you want to make cookies, but only have brown sugar in the house. Is brown sugar interchangeable with regular granulated sugar? Google will know! The next thing you know, you’re listening to D’Angelo’s Brown Sugar. “Ooh, D’Angelo. I wonder what happened to him,” you say to yourself. So then you google “D’Angelo” and wind up spending half an hour on Perez Hilton.com, awash in a sea of licentious gossip and self-loathing.
The internet has, without question, sped things up for all of us. And, for all its flaws, the internet has the power to connect us in countless ways. From online dating to social networking to blogs that inspire, infuriate, and amuse us, we can reach out and be reached more than ever before. This is, as Martha Stewart would say, a good thing.
But after evaluating my own internet habits, I am newly resolved to log on less. I’m challenging myself to make my virtual connections more meaningful and mindful. Who knew? Miley Cyrus and I have something in common.
Oooh, Troy Dyer. As a teenager, I was madly in love with Ethan Hawke’s character in the film Reality Bites. Brooding, anti-establishment, literary, and elusive, Troy was the quintessential 1990s heartthrob. In college, I dated my own version of Troy Dyer: a smart-as-a-whip skateboarder novelist with a tough but tender demeanor who dressed in Seattle’s trademark flannels and Carhartts. My Troy Dyer harbored a deep-seated distrust of “the man” and swore he’d never become a corporate drone like his father.
Well, my Troy Dyer and I broke up years ago and have long since lost touch. Last I heard, he got married and became a corporate attorney. I suppose that’s what happens to many of the world’s 20-something renegade dime-store philosopher-poets: they grow up and replace their flannels with staid business attire. They trade in their Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer for an austere Chassagne-Montrachet. They replace their skateboards with BMWs. Sometimes I wonder how he’s doing. I hope he’s happy.
Anyway, when I want a good dose of 1990s nostalgia, I pop in my Reality Bites DVD and am transported to an era in which Winona Ryder was the high priestess of Gen-X angst and Ethan Hawke’s greasy slacker was the epitome of cool. I remember being in my early 20s and feeling awestruck but undaunted by life’s big decisions and impenetrable mysteries.
My 30s, on the other hand, seem to be ushering in an era of increased self-acceptance and peace. Sure, there’s work to be done, choices to be made, and obstacles to be overcome, but these days it’s life’s wondrous unfolding that proves compelling. I am no longer governed by the quixotic impulse of my 20s to arm-wrestle life into making sense. Much to my surprise (and occasional horror), I seem to have grown up a bit.
In 1994, when Reality Bites was released, I felt a kinship with the film’s angst-ridden 20-something protagonists. Watching the movie now, though, I don’t relate to the characters so much as I feel for them. I want to tell them that life won’t feel this chaotic forever, and that the soul-searching they’re doing is just as valuable as the answers they’ll eventually find.
Then again, I think they’d probably tell me to lighten up, for Chrissake. Go easy on the heavy-handed philosophy. After all, according to the preternaturally wise Troy Dyer,
There’s no point to any of this. It’s all just a…a random lottery of meaningless tragedy and a series of near escapes. So I take pleasure in the details. You know…a Quarter-Pounder with cheese, those are good, the sky about ten minutes before it starts to rain, the moment where your laughter becomes a cackle…
Troy had a good point. This Thanksgiving, why not raise a glass and give thanks for the little things, the mundane details that shape our lives? Personally, I’m thankful to be out of my 20s. But I hope I never get too old to tie one on with my friends and dance for no reason at all.
Weddings. As a musician, I’ve been a fly on the wall at more weddings than I can count. On the one hand, I view the traditional American wedding ceremony as an outdated patriarchal ritual, a throwback to a time when women were treated as property (white dress = purity, Dad passes bride off like a relay baton to her next lord and master, signified by a name change, etc.). On the other hand, weddings pay really well.
Size and scale notwithstanding, most weddings contain the same key components: the Taco Bell (Pachelbel) Canon for the processional, the single bridesmaid who makes a big show of dancing with the little kids at the reception, and the rambling, awkward “you-had-to-be-there” story from the Best Man’s toast. (I’m not writing about your wedding, of course. Your wedding was unique and special and all the speeches were funny and original. Seriously.)
And the song requests! The songs that people request for their weddings provide my cynicism a feast upon which to feed. I mean, has anyone really listened to the words to “Wind Beneath My Wings?” The song basically says, “Wow, it must have sucked being my faceless supporter while I lived it up and got all the attention. But hey, thanks for everything.” How is that a wedding song? And “At Last,” which I will admit is pretty fun to belt out, is such a wedding cliche that Christina Aguilera sang it at her own wedding. She was her own wedding singer, which gives me great joy to ponder.
Okay, but here’s the real truth: I cower behind my cynicism when it comes to weddings. At weddings, I am a dewy-eyed sap. Even when I am just a hired gun, a “chick singer” making announcements about the buffet and the cake-cutting, I always get a little choked up at some point.
Sometimes my eyes well up when the Best Man is toasting the groom with rambling college reminiscences, bravado-laced double entendres, or (God help me) a poem. Yes, the Best Man’s toast is unfailingly awkward, but it’s also unfailingly sincere. He’s doing his very best to tell everyone how great his friend is, and it’s his earnestness, not his speech, that touches my heart.
Sometimes I get misty watching the single bridesmaid dance with the 4-year-old ring bearer. Remembering my own childhood of (relatively) unsupervised revelry at “grown-up” events, I know the kid is psyched to be dancing with the pretty lady. And I admire the bridesmaid, who, date or no date, has put on her dancing shoes and decided to have a great time.
I am always curious about the grandmother sitting quietly at a table, a lavender corsage pinned to her dress. While she watches the wedding guests dance, I watch her. I wonder what–or who–she’s remembering. I wonder if it’s bittersweet for her to watch her grandchild get married, or if she’s just wishing we wouldn’t play so loudly.
And, although I’ve tried to steel myself against the sentimentality of wedding songs, there have been a few that just kill me. A couple asked me to sing LeeAnn Womack’s version of “I Hope You Dance” at their wedding a few years ago. Halfway through the tune, I realized I had a lump in my throat. “I Hope You Dance” is a lot like every wedding I’ve ever attended: sentimental and schmaltzy, but also life affirming, poignant, and hopeful.
As long as there are weddings, there will be wedding singers. And as long as I’m a singer, I’ll be singing the occasional wedding. And that’s just fine by me.
When the sweltering, wilted summer gives way to turning leaves and a sharpness in the air, I always feel a quickening of sorts. My autumnal surge of energy may simply be a force of habit, a cellular tip of the hat to the “back-to-school” jitters that I felt every September as a kid. Or maybe the sense of urgency that suffuses every autumn has to do with something far more primal: provisions must be made in anticipation of winter’s chill.
Whatever the reason, I find myself pulled every autumn to all things pumpkin. The Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks, clocking in at about a million calories, is a surefire harbinger of fall. And my boyfriend and I recently enjoyed a six-pack of pumpkin beer, which one of my Facebook friends described as “awesome…just like pumpkin pie, only beer!”
Recently, I made a couple of pumpkin dishes that are elegant, simple, and the essence of autumn. The first is a pumpkin and apple soup. The recipe, which I got from Italy Today-the Beautiful Cookbook, couldn’t be easier:
1 small pumpkin (2 lbs.)
1/4 C unsalted butter
2 yellow onions, sliced
6 C chicken stock
2 apples, peeled, cored & sliced
salt & pepper
pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
Crema di Zucca e Mele
**Occasionally, I’ll add a touch of cream when I puree the soup. You can serve it as I did, with some toasted pumpkin seeds, or with crumbled amaretti cookies, or simply with croutons and grated Parmesan.
The other night, I made a dish adapted from a recipe in Marlena De Blasi’s book, A Thousand Days in Venice. As soon as I read about “Whole Roasted Pumpkin Stuffed with Porcini and Truffles,” I was sold. De Blasi’s recipe calls for a pumpkin or Hubbard squash, but I used a Kabocha squash and it worked well. I think this is one of those dishes that’s pretty tough to screw up.
1 pumpkin or Hubbard squash, 2-3 lbs. (cut stalk end around to form a cap & remove seeds and strings from the cavity…keep stalk end for later!)
1 & 1/2 Tbsp. unsalted butter
1 large yellow onion, peeled & minced
6 oz. fresh mushrooms (we used baby bellas)
1 & 1/2 oz. black truffle paste or 1 whole black diamond truffle (optional)
sea salt & white pepper
1 & 1/2 C mascarpone
6 oz. grated Emmenthaler cheese
2 eggs, beaten
1 tsp. freshly grated nutmeg
2 Tbsp. unsalted butter
4 slices firm, day-old white bread, crusts removed, cut into 1-inch squares
Melt the butter & saute the onion with the mushrooms until both soften. Add the thinly sliced truffle or truffle paste and combine well. Add salt and pepper. In a large bowl, combine the mascarpone, Emmenthaler, Parmesan, eggs & nutmeg until well combined. Season with salt & pepper. Stir in the onions, mushrooms, & truffles.
Zucca al Forno Ripiena con Porcini e Tartufi
Happy eating, and Happy Autumn!
Photo by Mutsumi Gee
Afterward, while waiting for the subway back to Brooklyn, my mind ping-pong’ed between cataloguing every item on my “to-do” list and berating myself for being unproductive and disorganized. The train arrived. I found a seat, opened my magazine, and zoned out. The next thing I knew, I heard the subway conductor announce, “The next stop is 125th Street.” Shit. ShitShitShit. I had taken an uptown train instead of the downtown train that I needed, adding at least 30 minutes to my (already long) trip home.
It should be noted that this little subway incident took place halfway through a 6-week class on (wait for it) mindful awareness meditation. I’ve been studying mindfulness in the present moment and didn’t even notice I got on the wrong train until 6 stops into my ride? Great. I take a class on mindfulness and wind up doing something completely mindless.
Friends, I am weary in my bones. My voice is tired. I came home from the restaurant the other night and dissolved into sobs: “I can’t do this for another ten years. I just can’t.” Just getting to the meditation cushion and sitting with my frenetic, impatient mind is proving to be more difficult than I could have imagined.
All this to say, then, that I don’t have any pithy words of inspiration today. I have no answers. Today, I only have questions and doubts and fears and frustrations. So it was with deep gratitude and relief that I stumbled upon this talk by the ever-humorous, ever-human Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron. Namaste.
When I was a senior in high school, a teacher gave us a “thinking styles” test based on the work of Anthony Gregorc. We were presented with 15 lists of words (four words per list) and told to circle the two words in each list that best described ourselves, i.e.:
a. doing
b. feeling
c. thinking
d. experimenting
At the end of the test, there was a formula to determine what thinking style suited us best, Concrete Sequential, Concrete Random, Abstract Sequential, or Abstract Random. “Concrete” and “Abstract” referred to perception, whereas “Sequential” and “Random” described the way information is organized.
Much to my surprise and consternation, my thinking style was split 50-50 between Concrete Sequential and Abstract Random. “Great,” I thought, “I effectively have a split personality. My thinking style is evenly divided between two polar opposite ways of thinking; no wonder I’m so neurotic!”
In fact, the tug-of-war between my ordered, logical sensibilities and my spontaneous, “whatever works” approach to life is ongoing. Abstract Random is content to flit from one form of expression to the next: singing along with Lester Young solos today, writing a blog tomorrow, and roasting a pumpkin the following day will surely bear creative fruit in the long run, right? Meanwhile, Concrete Sequential rolls her eyes, makes a schedule and insists that nothing will be accomplished without clearly defined goals and priorities.
But really, aren’t we all kind of a mixed bag of at least a couple of contradictions? Many professional performers, despite living their lives onstage, are incredibly shy. I’ve known pastry chefs who don’t really enjoy sweets. My Midwestern mother, aunt, and former roommate all have a sunny disposition that utterly belies their steely, unsentimental tenacity. My friend F. is a Master Sommelier who prefers Belgian trappist beer to the fancy-schmancy wines he knows so well.
Now, after years of watching my inner taskmaster and free spirit do battle with each other, I’ve finally learned that each of them has something precious and essential to offer. Concrete Sequential is the organizer, planner, lone wolf, and pragmatist. Abstract Random is the people person, the intuitive guide, the one I bring to parties. I depend equally and unapologetically on both.
Our contradictions and our complexities are exactly what make us human. Our inner opposites can actually be a blessing, a divine guide of sorts on our journey through this amazing life.
Vive la difference!
I had a couple of back-to-back gigs over the weekend. The sore throat that’s been coming and going for the past week seems to be settling in for a more prolonged stay, accompanied by fatigue and sinus trouble. And an old friend’s impromptu visit to New York included a few glasses of wine and several hours of animated conversation. In a nutshell, friends: I am a bit hoarse.
Vocal fatigue used to terrify me. At the first sign of hoarseness, however slight, I would alternate between self-flagellation (“My technique is awful! Why else would I be hoarse, for God’s sake? Why did I have that glass of wine? God, I’m an idiot.”) and sheer panic (“I’ve probably done irreversible damage to my vocal folds. I’m sure I have nodes and I sound like Tom Waits with a chest cold. I have no future!”).
The truth is, singing is a very athletic activity. It’s amazing to think that the vibrations of two tiny, delicate folds of skin in the throat can rock Madison Square Garden or fill La Scala. Given the demands we singers place on our voices, occasional vocal fatigue and hoarseness are to be expected. Athletes invariably deal with fatigue and, occasionally, injury throughout their careers. Singers are no different.
Of course, when it comes to vocal health, singers tend to be known for high-maintenance behavior and superstitious rituals: year-round scarves (a warm throat is a happy throat!), room-temperature water (see “year-round scarves”), copious amounts of chamomile tea with honey (chamomile is a natural anti-inflammatory), no air conditioning (except at nighttime during allergy season), and nasal irrigation (gross but effective).
But when my vocal health regimen is trumped by too much singing, lack of sleep, seasonal allergies, or that last cocktail I just had to have at the noisy bar, my favorite, no-fail remedy for vocal fatigue is simple and obvious: Stop. Talking.
Given that loquaciousness is as much a part of my make-up as my eye color, a vow of silence is not easy to undertake. But after just a few hours of silence, I find that, along with my vocal folds, my mind is resting. Monasticism, however temporary, seems to agree with me.
The city’s hustle-and-bustle seems to diminish with every passing quiet moment. Having dispensed with verbal expression, I am better able to distinguish between useful thoughts and the reactive ramblings of my untamed mind. It’s no coincidence that silence is often part of a spiritual practice; we can’t quiet the world, but we can quiet ourselves enough to experience the world as it is.
Self-imposed silence used to feel like a punishment of sorts. Now, I view 24 hours of uninterrupted quiet as a gift for my tired voice and, as it turns out, my tired spirit. Tomorrow, of course, I’ll recommence singing and talking with renewed vigor and gratitude. But for today, silence is golden.
My family moved to Alaska just before I turned 7. Leaving the familiar (and familial) confines of the midwest to start a life in the Last Frontier was no small endeavor for my parents. As a family, we were heading North to build an entirely new life for ourselves. “What an adventure,” we all thought.
We didn’t know anyone in Alaska, nor did either of my parents have jobs lined up. So, naturally, some extended family members thought the move was a crazy idea. “You can’t just up and move to Alaska! What’ll you do with all your furniture?!” Seriously. My parents were embarking on the adventure of a lifetime and their relatives were discouraging them from following their dream because of…furniture?
Many years later, as I prepared to move from Seattle to New York City, people had questions for me, too: “Where will you live?” (I didn’t know.) “Do you know people there?” (I had one childhood friend and one musician acquaintance.) “Do you have a job yet?” (No.) And, yes, I was asked, “What’ll you do with all your stuff?”
I’m happy to say that fears about what to do with my furniture never occurred to me, but I was scared of moving to New York: what if I took the stage at a jam session and everybody laughed? What if I took the wrong subway and wound up in the South Bronx? What if the rats really were as big as cats? What if I moved to New York, nothing ever happened to me, and I died one of those New York deaths where nobody noticed for two weeks until the smell drifted into the hallway?
You know what scared me more than anything else, though? What if my fear kept me from pursuing my lifelong dream of living and singing in New York City?
The scariest thing about making big changes in our lives has nothing to do with the logistics of selling our furniture or finding a job. The scariest part of transformation is saying “Yes!” to uncertainty, fear, and setbacks. Whether we’re moving to a new place, letting go of a toxic relationship, starting a business, or learning a new skill, there are bound to be moments of sheer terror.
1955 - Girl views NYC from rooftop by Elliott Erwitt
The good news is this: every time we undergo transformation, be it literally or figuratively, we discover a little bit more of what it means to be human. We become wiser, more expansive, more creative.
As for me? I became a New Yorker.
I grew up in a “baseball house.” As in, there was a pitching machine and batting cage in my backyard. My brother played Little League and American Legion ball as a kid and my father coached, as well. When March rolled around, we’d flee the frigid temperatures of Alaska for the scorching Arizona sun and MLB Spring Training.
In short, my jazz-and-theatre-loving Alaskan tuchis warmed up many a bleacher during my formative years. And despite my best efforts to appear disinterested and disengaged, I osmotically wound up with a fairly good understanding of the game of baseball. I’m no expert, by any means, but I know the basic rules of the game and have tremendous respect for all the strategy involved. Being at the ballpark just makes me feel good.
So it’s fitting that I am now living with a rabid Yankee fan, which I suppose is a redundancy; is there any other kind? I am known to grumble when he turns on the Yankee game the second he walks in the door, but the truth is, I like watching the games with him. And he always laughs in bemusement when a batter fouls one off and I shout things like, “Atta kid, atta kid, you got a piece of it, now just straighten it out. Straighten it out!” Then we clink our beer bottles and cheer on the Yankees.
I’ve been a New Yorker at heart forever, so it’s only natural that I’ve grown to love the Bronx Bombers. I mean, after every win at home, Yankee Stadium is filled with the sound of Frank Sinatra singing “New York, New York.” How could I not love the Yankees?
And so today, on the eve of Game 1 of the World Series, I leave you with a simple, heartfelt: Go Yankees! (See, Dad? You made me a baseball fan, after all.)
“Here Come the Yankees,” by Bob Bundin and Lou Stallman, recorded by the Sid Bass Orchestra and Chorus
Y.A.N.K.E.E.S.
Here come the YANKEES
Let’s get behind and cheer the YANKEES
They’re gonna learn to fear the YANKEES
Everyone knows they play to win, cause
They’re the New York YANKEES
Show them today why you’re the YANKEES
No other way when you’re the YANKEES
Wadda ya say we win a brand, new, ballgame
We’re gonna shout when ya powder the ball
We’re gonna scream, “put it over the wall”
The other teams gonna know what it means to play the Y.A.N.K.E.E.S
We love the Yankees
Shout it out loud , We Love The YANKEES
We’re really proud of our YANKEES
And we’re gonna win today
2, 3, 4, Hit, Run, Fight, Score, Go! Go! Go!
