Short Lived

I went back to the mirror but my movements no longer seemed so brilliant and expressive. I turned off the music and my writing was flat.

I guess it was all Suzanne Vega. Damn her.

Entrancer's High

Have the house to myself. Practiced piano for hours today, then did some research on Bill Evan's/A-B voicings and discovered they are one and the same. Read up on Bill Evans, things I never knew about him. The man lived every day like a poet, but died at 51, how young. Did some more research on modes of the melodic minor. Who knew the Internet held this bounty? Bought a copy of Eliane Elias Nightimer on iTunes to practice for a studio session I've been hired for. Phoned my mom, duty done, then Daddy called to talk journalism, such fun. Perusing my iTunes came across Pornographer's Dream, a recent song by Suzanne Vega. "Why do I love it?" I asked myself when I bought it after reading her blog on songwriting. Because unlike some of her folky tunes it mixes Brazilian syncopation and complex melody lines with a classic American hook, and very Vega lyrics. Started dancing in front of the mirror to her effortless fluted voice and began imagining that perhaps someday like Ray Bolger I'd be known for my own outsider style of dancing. And perhaps everything that I have ever wanted, to be a good pianist and to be a dancer, was in my reach, despite the misspent decades. I could touch the dream, or at least dance around it, so I thought I'd capture the moment. Here it is.

Kids Say the Darndest Things

My 7-year-old this morning: "Mommy, why don't we save up our money and hire a butler?"

We're Off to Quincy!

The boys are going stark raving mad this summer so I am glad we have an "activity" (as my son always asks for) planned: We're off to Quincy, California, in the Sierra foothills above Truckee, where I'll be guest artist in residence for the week at Oakland Feather River Camp.

Travel is always a great deadline for home improvements, so my husband got busy making the most awesome, albeit expensive, fence for our driveway. It's pretty impressive, with a welded, suspended iron frame that rolls to one side. The fence itself is redwood with tongue and groove boards and lattice details. Emilio looked hilarious building the fence in sandals, shorts, a tank top, welding mask and knee pads. "You look like you're going to the beach, but with knee pads," I told him. "I don't think OSHA would approve those shoes."

We have been meaning to fix the fence because of the constant assaults on our cars. Now we're down to just one car and the other day someone broke the window apropos of nothing. So now we can park it off the street at night. That said, I want to reiterate how much I adore my house and yard and neighborhood.

My bro pissed me off earlier today by saying that "Life's too short to live in Oakland" (actually he was quoting someone he'd met, but he agreed with the sentiment). He's unlikely to read this so I will rant away. It's somewhat my fault, because I have complained a lot about the increase in property crime in the last two years. But I would not trade the great weather, cultural diversity, and nearby woods and ocean for a temporarily pristine suburbia. That sentence is terribly inadequate to describe the jewels of Oakland -- it's just home to me. The gritty areas down around the tracks, and the far-off whistle of trains at night. The airport. The zoo. The lake. The libraries. The Blues. The Port. Old Oakland. Sometimes, at night buying tacos at a stand on International Boulevard, it feels like Mexico City: dangerous yet delicious, and always friendly. In the very same city you can ride your bike along Mountain Boulevard and marvel at multi-million-dollar Normandy cottages with magazine-perfect landscaping. If I had enough money, I could live a much less crime-inflected existence here in the same city, but I'm doing pretty well as it is, despite my complaining.

Anyway, I remember my bro bitching about how his neighborhood association took him to "trial" for his barking dogs. One advantage that comes with our neighborhood is we can pretty much do as we like with our property. Paint the house lime green with pink stripes, no one would complain. There are no front lawn nazis here. Someone down the street has been slowly building a beautiful stucco tower on his tiny house over the course of years. At first I thought it was strange, but it's so gorgeous, I find myself wanting to copy the architecture.

It's an Oakland thing, bro. You wouldn't understand.

Wayne Wallace at Yoshi's in SF Tonight!

Wayne Wallace will be celebrating his new release, The Nature of the Beat (Patois Records), at Yoshi's San Francisco club tonight, with shows at 8 and 10 pm. In just its second week of airplay, the album has been a sky-rocketing charting success:

Jazz Week WORLD Top 50 Chart... Week 1 debut at #48 -- Week 2 awesome leap to #6
Jazz Week JAZZ Top 50 Chart... Week 2 debut at #48 with top adds & increased spins

Congratulations to Wayne and crew for another success!

SLC 2002 CC - Dinosaurs, Dianne Reeves and Kurt Browning

The Maria Schneider Orchestra piece reminded me of this Dianne Reeves album, The Calling, a tribute to Sarah Vaughan. It was recorded with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Here's a rather weird performance of one of the songs off that album. Not entirely the song I was looking for, but it'll do.

Boleria, Solea y Rumba -- Maria Schneider Orchestra

The sound on this video is not great, but...

As a singer, one of the things I noticed was the wonderful balance between Luciana Souza's voice and the orchestra. I have done things like that (doubling an instrument), and while I adore learning horn lines like that, most of the time in live performance I can't hear well enough to tell if I am in balance -- and I suspect the audience can't hear a thing out of my mouth.

Branford Marsalis' Take on Students Today

Does he include himself in the generation before his students?

I agree with his concept of a massive state of delusion in our country, though perhaps for different reasons. Anyway, an interesting opinion. I believe that I have matured to the point where I do not *need* to hear how good I am or how talented I am from my teachers. Frequently hearing the opposite would cause me to quickly cancel lessons, however.

Many great sports coaches have said that expressing a negative attitude toward their proteges, or yelling at them, doesn't usually equal success among those proteges. It takes a gift to encourage someone both to work hard and to release their full potential.

Life Gets Busy and Busy is Good

Emotions are so fleeting. Yesterday morning I was bursting with pride and languidly planning to write a long essay about my success hand-writing a third trombone chart for my upcoming performance of El Cantante with Edgardo Cambon's band Candela. I still had that warm feeling of having accomplished something that I'd avoided for weeks, despite the fact that my husband was banging away, demolishing a closet in my son's room. He's been suffering along with all the carpenters we know -- no work. Instead, he's turning his energies into our house, as he has so often in the past. By the end of the day, plaster dust, screaming boys, a trip to Home Depot and a door-to-door home alarm salesman from Utah had sapped the last of my creative reserves.

Today, a failed bid for an extension on an article deadline means I'm scribbling as fast as I can to get it done by tonight. This morning, two requests for articles from former clients came in, plus details for another piece due this week. My songwriting partner Vince calls me to ask when we're going to finish this song we want to debut at a fundraising concert he will host next month. And the band leader I work with for the San Jose funk band messages me to ask if I'll be at rehearsal tonight -- in San Jose. I've skipped too many of those so I say yes.

It's good to be busy, because busy means money. Can I keep all these plates in the air?

My New Hero

Chrissie Wellington, International Triathlete, Ironman World Champion!

She hired a coach and turned pro last year, blowing everyone away when she won her first Ironman from "out of nowhere". Her coach doesn't let her run more than two hours. I guess her training is all about intensity, not overuse. Typical triathlete story: A car accident derailed her marathon training, so she went back to her childhood sport of swimming, then borrowed a bike and an ill-fitting wetsuit and went to town. Her coach isn't into heart monitors, aero helmets and fancy technology -- but three of his athletes were on the podium at Kona. Of course, the most important factor he was looking for when she hired him was whether she had the will. Looks like she does.

Cool blog, too!