I was 13 when I dug out a battered burgundy paperback from a musty box in my parents’ garage. The mustard-yellow type on the cover read “THE CATCHER IN THE RYE.” I dove in. Although prep schools, disillusionment, and 1950s-era New York City were all topics that surpassed my 13-year-old rural understanding, the prose itself knocked me out.
Salinger’s style was rhythmic and conversational, profane and lyrical; he used italics the way composers used dynamic markings. When I wanted to deliver a stinging barb, I took to quoting Holden Caulfield to the offending party: “You’re a goddam prince, Ackley kid.” Nobody ever got it, but it always made me feel better.
Come to think of it, THE CATCHER IN THE RYE was my introduction to New York City. When I first moved to New York, “vomity smelling” cabs and Central Park felt familiar to me; after all, I’d seen them through Holden Caulfield’s eyes first. And when I played my first gig at the Rainbow Room, all I could think of were the dopey girls (“They were drinking Tom Collinses–in the middle of December, for God’s sake.”) who danced with Holden to the corny sounds of the Buddy Singer band. The band I was singing with was pretty corny, too, if you want to know the truth.
I was 16 when I read FRANNY AND ZOOEY for the first time. A well-intentioned guidance counselor had just cautioned me against pursuing a career in music. She’d been a star in her high school, too, she told me, but a professional singing career required more than just a love of applause. I’d do better, she intoned, finding a stable career and keeping singing as a hobby.
Now, I knew she was full of it. I knew that my need to sing was rooted in something far deeper than a love of applause. I also knew that I’d never–ever–be satisfied with singing as a hobby, for Chrissake. But it was Zooey Glass, my all-time favorite character in American literature (hell, in all literature), who articulated and confirmed what I’d been suspecting:
J.D. Salinger
These days, as a hobby-less singer, I still turn to Salinger and his beloved Glass family for inspiration. When I don’t feel like performing, when I am incensed over yet another person who doesn’t know the difference between a “cover” and a “standard,” when I read that Rod Stewart’s latest butchering of the Great American Songbook has gone double platinum, I think of Seymour Glass somberly telling his brother Zooey to shine his shoes “for the Fat Lady.” In the last few pages of FRANNY AND ZOOEY, Salinger makes a singularly beautiful, compelling case for creativity and, above all, connection:
“An artist’s only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and on his own terms, not anyone else’s…Somewhere along the line–in one damn incarnation or another, if you like–you not only had a hankering to be an actor or an actress but to be a good one. You’re stuck with it now. You can’t just walk out on the results of your own hankerings…The only thing you can do now, the only religious thing you can do, is act.
…I don’t care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, in can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I’ll tell you a terrible secret–Are you listening to me? There isn’t anyone out there who isn’t Seymour’s Fat Lady…Don’t you know that goddam secret yet? And don’t you know–listen to me, now–don’t you know who that Fat Lady really is?…Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It’s Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.”
J.D. Salinger, thank you for everything, but most of all, thank you for the Fat Lady.
I don’t, as a rule, believe in dieting. When people refer to a rich chocolate dessert as “sinful,” my inner response is, “No, aggravated assault is sinful. This is cake. Get a grip.” I think self-imposed deprivation is bad for the soul.
That said, not being able to button my jeans comfortably wasn’t doing my soul any favors, either. So for the past couple of weeks, I’ve been eschewing sugar and starch, opting instead for lots of vegetables and lean protein. Healthy, yes. But the nutrition literature I read said that, after a few short days, I would no longer crave those insidious refined flour and sugar products. Bullshit. It’s been two weeks and I’d sell my firstborn for a big-ass bowl of spaghetti carbonara, followed by a vat of chocolate Haagen Dazs.
All this to say that I kind of snapped today. I didn’t break my diet, per se, but I think the Cholesterol Police would like to talk to me about my dinner. It all started innocently enough.
I was inspired by an essay written by Amanda Hesser, in which she described the quiet beauty of coming home to an empty apartment and fixing herself a supper of poached eggs atop leeks melted in butter. I’d never poached an egg in my life, but I had a lonely leek in my fridge, along with two dozen eggs, so I figured I had some room for error.
With the canny guidance of Mark Bittman’s How to Cook Everything (Seriously, to all non-cooks, aspiring cooks and, yes, accomplished cooks: get this book. It’s indispensable.), I set about trimming and cleaning my solitary leek. Then I proceeded to melt the leek in (copious amounts of) black truffle butter, which I just happened to have on hand. Hey, if I can’t have sugar and I can’t have starch, you can bet your ass I’m going to turn to butter for solace.
And, for the first time, with Mark Bittman’s clean, unfussy instructions, I poached–expertly, I might add–two eggs. Perfectly poached! The first time! And, by another freakish stroke of good luck, the eggs finished poaching exactly as the leeks reached their desired truffled translucency.
My little supper was not exactly low-calorie. Some dieters might even call it “sinful.” But the alchemy of velvety egg yolks enveloping butter-bathed leeks, faintly redolent of black truffles, was not sinful in the least. In fact, I’d call it “divine.”
It was spring when I moved to New York City. As leaves unfurled on the trees and the city began to bloom, I also felt reborn. Almost every night found me working long shifts as a waitress in an attempt to rebuild my badly bruised finances, leaving no time for any musical pursuits. I was broke and perpetually exhausted, but I remained optimistic. After all, I was in New York, the city that never sleeps. On any given night, I could take in a Broadway show, hear live jazz, attend a gallery opening, or eat at a fabulous restaurant. Well, actually, I couldn’t really do any of those things.
Like most 20-something aspiring artists in New York City, I rarely had a night off and could scarcely afford my groceries, let alone nights out on the town. But I did have the good sense, on two or three occasions, to whip out my weary, overworked credit card and haul my weary, overworked ass over to Danny’s Skylight Room (a dingy, unassuming nightclub just off Times Square) to hear Blossom Dearie.
There, in Danny’s dark back room, Blossom cast a spell over a small, devoted audience. I sipped a watery Manhattan on the rocks as Blossom played piano with her trademark delicacy and finesse. Her crystalline voice rang sweet and true throughout her set. Afterward, she signed my copy of her self-titled 1957 Verve album and even posed for a picture. As I walked out of Danny’s Skylight Room into the balmy spring evening, all the springtime cliches rang true: I was light as a feather, daft as a daisy, a lark on the wing.
More than a few springs have passed since I moved to New York. And I suppose I’ve grown into my life here in New York City. These days, I’m waitressing less and singing more; I’m happy to say that affording groceries isn’t quite the challenge it used to be. But, unbelievably, sometimes I miss my first spring here in the Big Apple, when every day was ripe with possibility. I also miss Blossom Dearie, who died last year, and her enchanting performances at Danny’s Skylight Room (which is also gone, by the way).
This unusually cold January finds me holed up, hermit-like, at home. Everything seems to be stalled, including my optimism, and spring feels very, very far away. I sit in my Brooklyn living room and look at the gray sky, gray pavement, gray buildings, gray cars. I put on a Blossom Dearie record. Her voice, delicate and knowing, flirtatious and ironic, subtle and swinging, tells me that spring is on its way.
In just a few months, the first tentative, yet persistent, shoots of green will begin to assert themselves once again in Central Park. And if the daffodils have the courage to blossom in this rough-and-tumble metropolis year after year, then surely we can, too.
I am easily seduced by the cosmic slate-cleaning that is New Year’s Day; I’ve made all kinds of resolutions over the years. Every January 1st, I tell myself that this will be the year that I:
1. stop biting my nails
2. stop swearing
3. practice piano every day
4. arrive on time for everything
5. meditate every day
6. work out every day
7. shop at the farmer’s market every weekend
8. read a work of great literature every week
9. remember all my friends’ birthdays
10. contribute regularly to my Roth IRA
And so on. This has, historically, tended to go well until about January 2nd.
This year, I’m feeling a little more at peace with the fact that I am a nail-biter who likes swearing (God damn it). I suspect I’ll always aspire to resolutions #3-10, but realistically, if I really did all of those things all of the time, I’d be the Oprah Winfrey/Suze Orman/Mother Theresa of the New Millennium. And that’s just not going to happen.
Danielle LaPorte over at White Hot Truth had an interesting take on new year’s resolutions: What, she asks, is on your “Stop Doing” list? Ms. LaPorte posits that, rather than make a huge list of things to do, we should make a list of things we’re going to stop doing. She contends that if we stop doing things that keep us from either personal or economic growth, we clear a cosmic (there’s that word again) path for the things that really do matter.
I’ll be honest with you: at first I thought this was maybe a little jive and contrived. I mean, isn’t saying you’re going to stop doing something kind of the mirror image of saying you’re going to start doing something else? Then I hopped over to my friend, Seattle bon-vivant and amazing photographer Brookelyn Fitts’ blog, and read her “Stop Doing” list. Totally sane and totally workable. Maybe there was something to this “Stop Doing” list, after all.
See, New Year’s Eve has often found me a little rueful over the things I didn’t do all year long. I’m hoping that December 31, 2010 will instead find me raising a glass in celebration of the things I didn’t do this year. So here it is, folks: my “Stop Doing” List.
In 2010, I will stop…
1. comparing myself to others. I hear a wonderful singer, see a woman with a great sense of style, or watch the person next to me at the gym barely break a sweat while I feel like I’m going to pass out, and I immediately start self-evaluating. Comparing myself to other people (and subsequently feeling bad about how I measure up) is futile and self-indulgent. I occasionally am steered off course by my own defeatist thinking, and this year, I’m going to stop it.
2. saying “yes” to meetings, rehearsals, and work, then bitching about being too busy. It’s my day planner; I can fill it (or not) any way I see fit. I don’t have to commit to something if what I really need is an afternoon at the piano, an hour at the gym, or tea-time with a good friend. I am a chronic over-scheduler, and this year, I’m going to stop it.
3. expecting the subway to be clean, prompt, or reliable. I frequently leave home with exactly enough time to get where I’m going, provided that the train doesn’t cause any problems. The subway is invariably late, re-routed, or running local; I then become stressed out and furious, which is a huge waste of energy. This year, I’m going to stop it.
4. visiting inane celebrity gossip websites. Following the trials and travails of Lindsay Lohan or the Next Food Network Star is a total time-suck, and encourages Schadenfreude. As I’ve said previously, the internet is a powerful resource when we log on mindfully. But all too often, I use the internet out of boredom or as a means of procrastinating, and this year, I’m going to stop it.
The beginning is always today. –Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
I am a total shiksa (a lapsed Catholic, to be exact), but I live with a Chosen Person, which means that our December is now filled with Christmas cookies and latkes. December 24th will find us eating Chinese food at Shun Lee before heading to Midnight Mass downtown. In honor of Hanukkah and the blended holiday festivities we now enjoy, here’s a duet from another Catholic/Jewish duo, Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart:
And here’s Adam Sandler’s now-iconic Hanukkah Song (you’ll have to sit through a commercial at the beginning–thanks, Hulu–but it’s worth it!):
Happy Hanukkah!
New York has become a wind tunnel, with December’s icy gusts tearing through the “canyons of steel” so lovingly described in Vernon Duke’s “Autumn in New York.” Had he written a song called “Winter in New York,” I’m fairly sure that the words “Fuck, it’s cold!” would have been included in the lyrics. The frigid temperatures have made pedestrian life, already a full-contact sport in New York City, even more competitive and fraught with peril.
Negotiating crowded sidewalks in a perpetual New York hurry is a dicey proposition, no matter what the season. New Yorkers have a penchant for jaywalking, while taxi and delivery drivers have a penchant for running red lights. Rubbernecking tourists cause pedestrian pile-ups, stopping abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk to take pictures or consult their maps. Very, very important people weave haphazardly throughout the crowds, so engrossed in their iPhones and Blackberries that they can’t be bothered to watch where they’re going.
Now, take all of the above hazards and put patches of ice on the sidewalk. Make everybody really tired and cranky from holiday retail madness. Then factor in the wind chill, and you’ve got a recipe for some pretty pissed-off pedestrians, most of whom are headed to the subway.
And the subway! Oh, the humanity! The underground platforms are freezing, the subway cars are overheated and overcrowded, and you can bet that you’ll be hit up for loose change and/or “serenaded” by vagabond urban minstrels of dubious talents for the duration of your ride (which is likely delayed due to “necessary track work”).
Once, on the subway, a girl who was getting over a cold began coughing. It was one of those eye-watering, throat-tickling, can’t-make-it-stop-whatever-you-do coughs. The girl had no water or lozenges with her. She was clearly mortified but unable to control the coughing, and the train was being held between stations, so she couldn’t leave. The people around her probably thought, “Great. All the subway cars in New York and I have to share one with Doc Holliday. Bitch better not give me swine flu.”
If I’d been sitting next to her, I don’t think I’d have been able to conceal my irritation. I’d probably have just reached for the Purell and counted the seconds until I could just get away from yet another annoying human being. Just one thing prevented me from doing so, though: I was the coughing girl.
Just when I thought I might actually cough up a kidney or die of embarrassment, a gentleman sitting near me reached into his pocket and, smiling, proffered a Halls cough drop. Cough-induced tears running down my cheeks, I could only gesture my gratitude. He got off at the next stop, so I wasn’t able to thank him properly. I’ve thought of him ever since as a “subway bodhisattva.”
New York City is home to over 8 million people. Manhattan alone boasts a population density of almost 70,000 people per square mile. With those numbers, we’re bound to get on each other’s nerves, especially during the freezing temperatures and frenetic pace of the holiday season. But today, as I venture into the cold to teach a voice lesson and feed the thronging masses at the restaurant, I will keep the memory of my subway bodhisattva’s simple act of kindness close at hand.
At the end of the day, we’re all just “annoying human beings” doing the best we can, and we all are capable–and worthy–of compassion.
The brass ring for musicians used to be the acquisition of a record deal, preferably from a major label, with a big budget for artist development and promotion. Then, a new-fangled technology called the “internet” came on the scene, causing the record business to all but implode.
If you’re reading this blog, chances are you’ve got at least a passing familiarity with the ways in which the internet has changed the music industry. Suffice it to say that the internet has been both a blessing and a curse for musicians.
The curse, if you’ll indulge me in a gross oversimplification, is that music piracy has been virtually impossible to control; in the Information Age, everyone has access to everything. Therefore, record labels, which have traditionally made a pantsload of money from selling records, are having to find new ways to stay afloat. And since the internet has created infinitely more ways to find and hear new music, the idea of “mainstream” has become nearly obsolete.
The blessing, since most musicians are not signed to major record labels, is that the internet has leveled the playing field somewhat. A motivated and digitally savvy musician can function as his or her own marketing team, booking agent, and manager. After all, some of the biggest stars in music right now became stars via their internet savoir-faire; Lily Allen and Taylor Swift come to mind.
These days, the music business seems to be less an industry than a marketplace. It’s exciting to know that we, as artists, can now market ourselves–from the comfort of our own homes, no less! But it’s also daunting. I mean, becoming a good musician is a formidable enough endeavor unto itself. Now I have to be a marketing whiz, too?
To all my musician readers (and any other interested parties!), I am curious: when it comes to marketing yourself, how do you balance music and business?
Transforming a creative passion into a full-fledged, money-making career can muddy the artistic waters, so to speak. Our childlike enthusiasm can get lost in the day-to-day hustle of making ends meet.
When I was a kid, I’d spend hours in my room singing along to records by Ella Fitzgerald, Joni Mitchell, and Patsy Cline. Today, I am harried, annoyed at being a little hoarse, and dashing madly between musical obligations.
Today, of all days, I could use a reminder of the unbridled enthusiasm that propelled me toward a career in music in the first place. I could also use a great YouTube video that would save me from having to write a lengthy, eloquent blog post today, which I simply don’t have time to do. Oh, look! Here’s one:
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.
