The Jazzman at work in his studio. He has his music on his iPad, which is also set up with percussion and bass lines since we have no drummer or bass player
I’m taking a break from country music and trop-rock to concentrate on a jazz show with The Jazzman (aka my spouse) on Sunday afternoon, at the marina where a big annual benefit art show is being held. The Jazzman and I don’t have regular gigs as yet, so it’s always a Big Deal when we have an opportunity.
The Jazzman is practicing hard in his studio, working on his instrumental solos. Most of the songs we plan to do in the three hours allotted to us are familiar enough that I feel fairly confident we can do them easily. But we’ve pulled up three or four that we haven’t done in years, and we need extra practice time with them. So I’ll be singing while I sweep and mop, while I drive, in the shower, in my sleep…
The Jazzman is going to show some paintings too, and he needs to finish a couple of oils, frame them, and mat and frame a few watercolors.
Some of the covers we’re doing: “No More Blues” (a favorite), “Girl From Ipanema,” “Desafinado” and “One Note Samba” all by Antonio Carlos Jobim… “Angel Eyes,” an old Sinatra tune, “Popscicle Toes” by Michael Frank, and “Cry Me A River” (Julie London). And the ones we always do: “Round Midnight” (Thelonious Monk) and “Route 66″ (Johnny Troup).
We’ve been performing every other Friday at the Soggy Peso palapa bar on the beach, 11 minutes out of “downtown” San Carlos (how can it be a downtown without street lights?). It gets so cold my fretting fingers get numb, but it’s so beautiful there and the hardy souls who show up to hear us (mostly Canadians) warm our hearts if not our hands.
Here’s Bobby, singing one of his solos, with the sea in the background. Some of our audience anchor out and dinghy in for a cerveza and some music. And there are usually three or four sailboarders out there, daredeviling their way through the surf.
I love it, though I have to admit I’ll be glad when it gets a little warmer in a month or so.
Like many performers, I have fantasized about what I would say if I had the honor of accepting an award- a Tony, a Grammy, an Oscar, you name it. That moment when the stars seem to align and other people value you the way you wish. I remember, when I was in elementary school, I asked my mom what my special thing was. I explained to her that one friend was great at soccer, another friend was a beautiful dancer, but I didn’t know what I was good at. And, I wanted to know. I wanted to feel special …
Here’s a singer/guitarist/songwriter at the other end of the age spectrum, just starting out, but already setting a wonderful example for me. She posted this yesterday, to mark the occasion of the Grammys.
Hans and I played "Hesitation Blues" in the nice warm Bar Corale at Fiesta Hotel tonight
Amazing how a mandolin sweetens the sound of our band. Hans just joined us for the first time tonight, and after one rehearsal he sounds like he’s been with us all along. A keeper!
“What a wonderful life I’ve had! I only wish I’d realized it sooner.” Colette
The Jazzman and I
Two back-to-back shows on the beach, as different as they could be. Thursday night we played Bonifacio’s, the elegant supper club. Chandeliers and fairy lights everywhere. My husband The Jazzman and I dressed up and did our jazz standards. He looked like a Mafia consigliere in his pinstripe suit and black shirt. I looked…well…matronly.
Friday night I was with Mexmo, doing old country and rock tunes. We were set up on a little covered stage at the Soggy Peso Bar right next door to Bonifacio’s, in the sand with a cold wind blowing off the beach. A couple of daredevil sailboarders in wet suits zigzagged back and forth out in the water.
We worried about keeping sand out of our gear. Bobby’s 12-string fell over and the head was cracked, and then his Martin fell over too. The wind whooshed noisily against the mics. We were bundled up in our fleece, fingers stiff from the cold. And I was having a wonderful time, with a lot of ad hoc harmonizing. A mandolin player joined us for a couple of songs and now we’re ready to draft him, it sounded so good.
So it was a somewhat schizophrenic week, getting ready for both shows. They each had their own drawbacks and frustrations, but I wouldn’t hesitate to do them both over again. Hopefully with our own sound equipment at Bonifacio’s, and maybe with fingerless gloves at the Soggy Peso.
“Every artist was first an amateur.” ― Ralph Waldo Emerson
My husband, The Jazzman, and I have been rehearsing all week for a show this evening at a new venue, Bonifacio’s Cotton Club, one of the more upscale restaurants in our area. We get to dress up! But more important, we’ll have better-than-average acoustics. Buildings here are made of concrete and when sound bounces off concrete walls the effect is less than desirable.
Bonifacio's Cotton Club. Photo: Mark Mullahey
We were to have a drummer, but he backed out, explaining that he’d had his fill of “open mic” events. I wouldn’t call it an “open mic” since we’re scheduled as part of a “showcase”, by invitation, but why quibble? So we will settle for a backing track that supplies drums and bass. I’d rather have the live drums; we’d have more flexibility with tempo, volume, and effects, but at least our backing tracks are reliable. They don’t get drunk, don’t ask for raises and are (usually) functional. Considering that the other act scheduled tonight is a solo clarinetist, I think we’ll be all right. Maybe he’ll even sit in with us on a song or two.
Although The Jazzman has acquired his “lucrativo” residency status which allows him to earn money here in Mexico as an artist, we don’t consider ourselves professionals. We will probably be paid tonight in drinks, maybe some chips and salsa. Pay is not an issue since we’re doing this because we love to make music, want to challenge ourselves (i.e. get past stagefright and awkward onstage bloopers) and in particular we want to try out new venues to see what works best for our type of music. Jazz is not often heard down here in the land of mariachi and Jimmy Buffett music.
The other band I perform with (country/folk, tomorrow night at a beach palapa) puts out a donation jar, which usually yields just enough money to pay our bar/food bill. My cohorts are lifelong professionals, but if given a choice of sitting it out until they’re offered real pay or doing it for free, they’ll go with the donation jar. We are working on a CD that might bring in some money, but again, we’re not counting on it. Like the Jazzman and me, they are developing a following.
On the blog Blues Poodle, Ellis Marsalis (father of Wynton and the rest of the talented Marsalis clan) was quoted as saying, “If you play for applause, that’s all you will ever get.” But even he had to start somewhere. Maybe he was only ten when he played just for the applause, but he grew up in a musical family. The Jazzman and I each had supportive moms, but for various reasons neither of us got the early start that would have turned us into professionals. Will we ever turn pro? Frankly, I’m not much concerned about the outcome.
“Amateur” means “one who does it for the love of it,” and that’s me all over.
Imagine being a musician, completely immersed in a world of music and dance for an entire week. Then imagine this world being set in in midsummer beneath the perpetual shade of a forest of old-growth redwoods. That’s how I’d describe Lark Camp in Mendocino, California. I’ve been there a couple of times, and I’m feeling a strong tug in that direction again this year.
Lark Camp has been going on for 32 years in the Mendocino Woodlands, a very special forest preserve that is supported by conferences, retreats, camps and special events held there. Rustic cabins, tenting areas and places to park RVs and camper vans provide habitation. It’s actually divided into three camps, each distinguished by different forms of music. One is largely dedicated to Middle Eastern music, for instance. Another focuses on Celtic and European instruments and dance. I lived in the camp that offered jazz singing, Cajun music, songwriting and guitar lessons.
Here’s a video by Lisa Lynne from the website that offers a fantastic tour of Lark Camp from the viewpoint of a first-timer. Brought back some beautiful memories.
Rustic is the kindest word to describe Lark Camp. Not for everyone. But once settled in and adapted, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. There was music from the moment I opened my eyes in the morning until I drifted off to sleep at night. The choices of classes and workshops was staggering and went on all day. Then the jams and performances went on all night.
The food served in the big dining halls was superb. The showers and bathrooms were shabby but clean. The climate, being near the Pacific in a region that seldom sees temps higher than 75, was comfortable in daytime, cool at night. Bugs were not a problem. Though the camp spreads over several acres, there are regular shuttle buses from camp to camp.
My first year, I camped in my old ’71 VW van, and the next year I stayed in a cabin with three other women. I preferred the van camping, perhaps because I had a choice parking spot near the dining hall and all the action.
The hardest decision I had to make each day was which sessions to attend. Jazz singing was top of my list: a chance to learn new songs and sing them solo. At the end of the week we had a performance in the dining hall with a full band. (I’d have liked more rehearsal time with the band, but with more than 30 of us in the class, that wasn’t going to happen.)
I took beginning guitar, belly dance, swing dance, a class in old Spanish songs and tango. Last time I went, five years ago, I led a doo-wop choir.
What I liked best: sitting around a campfire playing and singing with fifteen or twenty other musicians, the way people used to do before TV took over our lives and made us non-participating observers of others’ talent. Now that I know more chords and can often see what chords others are playing, it would be even better. I also loved the evening dances where we had a chance to show off our new moves.
There are music camps everywhere in the US, some specializing in guitar. Here’s a list of acoustic music camps, for example. I probably need to Google music camps and retreats and see what else is out there. But it would be hard to find one I’d enjoy more than Lark Camp.
Blindfold, one of the fictional characters from "Astonishing X-Men," introduced in vol. 3 #7, created by Joss Whedon and John Cassaday. She reads minds.
I’ve known it all along, but I was in denial. Now it’s time to face the truth head-on. Not only do I need to learn where the notes are on my fretboard, but I need to know where the chords are by feel. Like Braille. I probably should put on a blindfold, after I’ve learned the chords of a song, and try playing it blind.
This is no frivolous notion. We played a show yesterday at a new venue, a palapa restaurant on the beach, and during my break I watched my fellow musicians, Neil, Leslie and Bobby, perform. They were standing up, not looking at their guitars but at the audience, singing straight into their mics.
In comparison, I sat on a barstool because with one knee up I can keep my guitar at an angle, allowing me to peek at the fretboard and see where I need to go when I play that G#m. This means only sporadic eye contact with the audience. It means I can’t put everything into my singing because I’m distracted by the position of my hands. It means I look and feel like an amateur.
Although I can type without looking at the keyboard, the fretboard is a somewhat different proposition. Long, narrow, with at least 14 frets I can move to, with six strings no more than 1/4″ apart. And did I mention the frets are not the same distance from each other all the way up the neck? They get closer together toward the sound hole.
So when I’m ready to get past my denial, the next step is to practice all my songs standing up, not looking at the guitar at all and playing it by feel. The blindfold would just help avoid the temptation to look at my strings. I don’t plan to wear it onstage.
For three years, I’ve been jamming weekly during the winter season with a bunch of snowbirds I call Arturo and the Beach Bums. It’s five or six guys plus my friend Diana and me. We use amps and a microphone or two and play old rock tunes, like Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll,” Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman,” and Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville.”
I’m the oldest person in the group (not that I’d ever tell them that), and I found they don’t know any songs written before 1965. Yesterday I brought sheet music for “St Louis Blues,” certain everyone would know that one, and was astounded to find nobody had ever heard it!
Bob Seger...I bet HE knows "St Louis Blues"
Arturo couldn’t make it this year, he’s stuck up in Canada with a house rehab project, but Bob rented the house, which overlooks the beach, and the beat goes on. Quality of performance isn’t a high priority with this group of mostly beginners. We seem to be going for volume and rhythm, and we’re very pleased with ourselves if we end at the same time, on the same note. There’s no interest in picking up complex chords like B-flat-major-9th, and the songs favored tend to contain no more than three chords. Not much barring going on. It’s not the kind of music I identify with, but I was surprised to find I enjoy it. Indulging my “inner rowdy,” I guess.
But maybe the best part was the connections I made. Hans plays mandolin without a pickup and found himself drowned out by all the plugged-in guitars, so he suggested we start a spinoff folk music jam. He’s more into Pete Seeger than Bob Seger. I love playing with a mandolin and I want to do some unplugged songs…just us and our instruments, so I gave him my email address.
Dave wants to learn some Johnny Cash songs and I promised to teach him three that I know. Being an old South Texas girl, I fell in love with Johnny Cash’s voice at 16 and still love doing “Ring of Fire” and “I Walk the Line.”
Tom is interested in harmonizing, so he’d like to get together and try two-part singing. People who can harmonize are hard to find, so I hope he was serious.
Perhaps Arturo’s bunch has grown too large with seven-plus participants. They seem to resist taking things too seriously. There’s quite a lot of beer consumed. Diana and I joke privately about the overabundance of testosterone. But somehow I still get caught up in the spirit of it and sing and play as loudly as any of them.
I think I might go on being a Beach Bum for a while.
Before leaving on a three-month tour, El Maestro had one principal instruction for me: learn the fretboard. It’s possible to play any number of songs without knowing what each note is, on what fret, all the way up the guitar’s neck, but that knowledge goes a long way toward making the guitarist more adept.
So I’ve made a start, by playing scales up the neck and singing each note as I play it. Booooorrrrring. But after going at it for a couple of days it seems to be going faster. No more will El Maestro fix me with that piercing gaze and say, “Now what note is this?” only to see me blush as I try to count up to where his fingers are.
Back in my twenties, I played guitar for a while, with only a few sessions of instruction from my roommate’s boyfriend. I knew dozens of 3-chord and 4-chord songs. My memory was better then so I retained lyrics easily, but I only knew about 15 chords. My playing was immensely boring, and eventually I put the guitar away, not to pick it up again for decades.
This time will be …already is… different. I have El Maestro for a teacher. My husband is a talented jazz guitarist who can also teach me a lot, now that I’m gaining enough basic knowledge to understand what he’s talking about. I have two groups to jam with, who teach me new songs. There are the vast resources of the Internet.
