I love watching people’s dreams come true.

The coverage of the recent winter Olympics in Sochi included many of the inspiring stories we expect to hear during Olympic coverage — athletes overcoming tremendous injury or other hardship in order to compete, stories of those athletes for whom just being IN the Olympics is the dream-come-true.  But the Sochi coverage included almost no medal ceremonies.  This bummed me out.  A lot.  Because that’s THE moment.  That’s the moment that so many athletes dream about, and I can’t get enough of watching those fortunate few experience it as it comes true for them.  Tears are almost always involved, for them and for me.

The ladies figure skating in Sochi included an Italian woman named Carolina Kostner.  She was not your typical competitor in this event.  She was 27 (ancient in that world).  This was her third Olympics.  The commentators talked about how she was a completely different skater now than she had been in the past.  She had placed 9th at her home Olympics in Torino.  She placed somewhere in the teens at the Vancouver games.  After that, she wanted to quit.  Her mother encouraged her to continue… but to do so only if she could find the joy in it.  So she regrouped, made some changes, worked hard and… just… figured it out.   Just.  There is so much in that tiny word.

Carolina Kostner, in her third Olympics, finally making her dream come true.

As I listened to her story and watched her skate, I had this overwhelming desire to see her win a medal, any medal.  And she did!  She finally did it!  A bronze medal… a huge victory.

Carolina deserved that win.  She’d earned it.  She had spent years working hard, she had continued through what must have felt like continued failure (or, at least, continued lack of success) and she persevered until she figured it out.  And it’s that last part that I have the most respect for.   That’s what I most like to see get rewarded.   Without  begrudging the young, hot-shot, first time Olympian medalists, it’s the stick-to-it folks, who’ve worked longer and harder than most to make their dream a dream come true, that I admire the most.

Why?  Because  solo athletes and solo performers have a few things in common.  Whatever help we have along the way, we are ultimately out there on our own, succeeding or failing in a very public way.   The emotional roller coaster car we ride in is, not exactly the same, but certainly running on a parallel track.  The mental game is at least as important to win as the physical one.  However much coaching or counseling we get, ultimately we’re the ones who have to figure things out for ourselves.

I’ve been a solo cabaret artist now for 11 years.  Before that, I worked as a professional singer-actress in musical theatre for a decade.   Before that… well…  I worked at nonsense.  Though I’ve known I wanted to be some kind of performer since I was quite young, and even though I have two music degrees, I took a very circuitous route to this performing life I alternatingly love and hate.  In trying to please my parents and do the ‘smart’ and ‘responsible’ thing, I continually put myself into educational and work situations that were only peripherally related to what I really wanted to do (I’ll spare you the details).

Although I’m a hard worker and have never been afraid of taking risks and reinventing myself, I’ve struggled with self-confidence and self-worth as long as I can remember.  Regardless, I plug away, because working and plowing ahead is the only way I know to deal with such emotions.  I work at my craft, I market myself as much as I can stomach, and I create and learn and improve and create some more.

The day of the closing ceremonies in Sochi, I had a gig.  It was a big gig for me, one I’d worked four years to book and spent another year waiting and preparing for.  It was a victory for me to book this gig, at this venue.  I got a lot of “no” before I finally get an “ok.”  And even that “ok” came with conditions, conditions I wouldn’t normally accept but did because the booking was so important to me.

The show I ultimately booked there was a completely revamped version of the one the Artistic Director had seen me perform before he gave me  one of  his many rejections.  He had seen me perform it in a small venue and said he couldn’t picture me in his larger one, but he couldn’t tell me why.  He said several other things, too.  Some were way off base, some right on point.  All were hard to hear, but I listened.  He’d given me a chance, at least, and that was more than I’d gotten so far.  So I took it in, let it wound me, and then went to work… trying to figure ‘it’ out… again.

Over the years, I’ve had many compliments and criticisms from many sources.  The compliments have been wonderfully varied, but the criticisms have been frustratingly the same: vague.  There was ‘something’ I wasn’t able to do, and that something was preventing me from, among other things, breaking into larger venues… but no one could tell me exactly what it was or how to fix it.  It was this invisible, intangible, ethereal ‘thing’ I was simply missing and didn’t know how to find.  Maddening.

In the six months leading up to the gig, I took that old show and revamped it completely.   I worked with my long-time musical director, who is way more than a musical director.  I hired a director who, more than anything else, gave me permission to use only material that I truly loved instead of inserting material just to please the audience.  And I worked on my performance level… with my musical director, with my director, and in my living room.  I experimented, played, made a thousand bad choices on my way to making good ones.  I invested tremendous amounts of time and money, hoping just to break even in the end.  This gig was my challenge, my long-time goal, my chance.  I had to knock it out of the park.  And, if I could finally find whatever this missing, maddening things was, maybe I could keep it with me going forward.

Gig day was everything I could have hoped for.  Everyone at the venue was terrific to work with.  It was a great house.  I had a brand new show, brand new gowns, and I had done everything within my power to make it all come together.  I felt different performing that afternoon than I have ever felt.  For that afternoon, at least, I had figured it out.  Aside from missing the encore (yes, there was even that lovely moment) due to a wardrobe malfunction backstage, it was a positively perfect experience.   “You were a headliner today,” my musical director said.  I cried.

I cried like an Olympian on the medal stand.  I had just turned 47 the week prior, and this was my moment.

Have I figured it out forever?  Doubtful.  But just the knowledge that I can figure it out makes everything going forward feel different.  Knowing that I can persevere, and rise above, years of rejection makes me have a respect for myself I’m not sure I had before.

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Songs of the Day:
Gorgeous – from gig day, opening of act two

The House That Built Me

1967 had just gotten underway.  To celebrate, Mother Nature gifted the area with one of those record-breaking winter storms, cleverly named The Blizzard of ’67.  A few weeks later, I was born.  That summer, my parents moved into their new home.  I was six months old.

The house sits on an old narrow street and is shaded by majestic trees.  Vines covered the front when I was little.  And there’s a hill by the basement gangway that was like a mountain for us kids to conquer.  We tackled it with wagons and sleds and the Slip-n-Slide.  Despite the fact that the previous owners took all their flowers and bulbs with them, there remained for several years of my childhood a single forgotten Tulip.  Squirrels dug up the bulb every year and then buried it again, so it would crop up in a surprise new location each spring.

Charming as it was, fixer-upper may have been an understatement.  My father spent the next 46 years fixing it up and maintaining it.  It was a quirky old Tudor house built in 1928 by the family my parents bought it from.  It had crooked walls, a ridiculous number of doors, and a walk-through closet smack dab in the middle of the first floor.   It had radiator heat and only one phone jack.   The walls in my bedroom suffered from such a lack of insulation that in winter ice formed inside the closet.  The windows still had the weighted-rope pulley sashes, and the garage door pulled open from side to side, rather than up and down.    There was a coal chute alongside the chimney flue, and the fireplace had no hearth or mantle.

Dad set to work right away, replacing the screened in porch in back with a real family room and a basement workshop underneath.  It seems one room or another was under construction my entire childhood.  By the time he got done with them all, some needed a second go-round.  He did it all himself (with Mom’s help, of course).  Fortunately, our next-door-neighbor was a carpenter and could help when Dad needed instruction or advice.  They remain good friends to this day and, for a short while longer, they are still neighbors.

Backyard, giant walnut trees…

Both my parents are real do-it-yourselfers, though I think my father takes it to a whole new level.  They came to this country from England — at different times — with little or nothing to their names and built a life here, got educated, got jobs, started a family, and rebuilt a house from the inside out.  In the process, they made a home.

In October, they broke the news to my brother and me that they were going to sell the house.   They’re not moving away.  They have no interest in Florida or Arizona or moving far away from the only family they have in this country.  And they’re doing pretty well, thank goodness.  But Dad’s 80 now, and Mom has never been quite the same since her stroke two years ago.  It’s time.  The stairs are too much for Mom.  The gutters too high for Dad to clean.  They don’t need so much space anymore.  It’s time.

I’m so grateful they have made this decision before they absolutely have to make it.  I’m grateful that we can go through this process together, that we can do so in joy rather than in grief or in a rush.  It’s such a gift.   But it is hard to say good-bye… like losing a member of the family.

I didn’t have grandparents around, so I never went through this process with them.  Never watched them age.  Never watched my parents deal with their aging parents.  Never moved my grandparents out of their home.  Never had to sort through memories disguised as furniture or woodworking tools or nick-knacks.

My niece (15) and my nephew (12) grew up in that house, too.  Instead of daycare, they had Grandma and Grandpa.  They, too, are figuring out how to say good-bye.  But when they have to go through this with their parents, they will know how… or, at least, have some notion how to proceed.

I have no idea how to do this.  I’ve had no practice.

In November we had our last Thanksgiving there.  Ever.  No one said a word about the fact that it was our last.  We just enjoyed a family dinner, the house, and each other.

Mom, summer, the patio and the trumpet vines

My years there were not always happy, but my memories of the house always will be.  Memory is kind that way.  I will remember the quirks of the structure and how Dad fixed some and conceded to others.  I will remember how the staircase descended into the middle of the unfinished basement, making the space perfect for doing laps on roller skates.  I’ll remember the goldfish bowls that sat on the built-in chest of drawers outside my bedroom.  I’ll remember practicing piano in the dining room and how the swinging door did nothing to block the sound from the rest of the house.  I’ll remember knowing exactly where the stairs creaked and how I learned to step so they wouldn’t.  I’ll remember the way the walnuts rained down from the giant black walnut trees in back.  Some made a distinctive and startling ‘thud’ as they plummeted onto the roof.  Others were showered down upon us  by squirrels munching away, as we sat out on the patio.  I’ll remember the slope of my bedroom walls up under the eaves and the way the light would travel across them as cars drove by.  I’ll remember the chime of the clock in the hall and the ‘crunch, crunch, crunch’ of someone walking on the patio before the stones were replaced with wood planks.  I’ll remember the crackling sound of Dad’s bicycle coming up the driveway before it was paved over.  I’ll remember Honey, our golden retriever, bustling to meet us, all smiles, whenever we came home… or into a room… or, you know, merely looked her way.

I will remember.

Millions of memories flash before me now… like frames of an old 8mm home movie.  I realize now that every visit I’ve ever made to that house has also been an unconscious and unhindered meeting with a lifetime of memories… memories I never even really noticed but now feel compelled to name.  I cannot imagine going to visit my parents without also visiting that house.  I can’t imagine not dialing the same phone number I’ve dialed my entire life whenever I’ve wanted to say ‘hello.’  I can’t imagine having no more ties to the town in which I grew up.  I can’t imagine what those walls would say if they were able to tell the new owners about the last 46 years.

Years.  “… they take so long, and they go so fast.”

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Songs of the Day:
Grandma’s House – Dierdre Flint
Years – Beth Nielsen Chapman (here’s my version)
The House That Built Me – Miranda Lambert

In the hours, days, and weeks that followed that most unimaginable series of events, I found myself strangely obsessed with watching and reading the coverage.   I turned to music too, of course, to try to put words to my feelings, but there were no words.  What do you do when there are simply no words? 

Desperate to get my head around it, feeling helpless to do anything positive, I searched for answers everywhere and did little things where I could.  I baked banana bread for my local firehouse and took it over with a note of gratitude (something I still do every year on 9/11).  I hung red, white, and blue ribbons around my neighborhood.  In my apartment window, I put up that now-famous photograph of the firemen raising the flag at ground zero to express my hope and support.  I tried simply to be kinder and more helpful to those I came in contact with every day.

But the truth is, those events were not about me… and yet, they were about everyone.  I did not know anyone directly involved, or even directly affected by, the events of 9/11 (nor in the wars that followed).  Yet my sorrow was, and remains, profound; my sense of internal shift no less than seismic.  What would I have done when faced with the choice of saving myself or stopping to help my fellow man?  I’d like to think I would stop and help, but I don’t really know.  Could I have stormed a cockpit and crashed a plane to save lives on the ground?   Could I have been one of those fireman ascending those stairs knowing there was no real hope?  I’m fairly sure I could not have been.  Could I have been one of those who showed up day after day for nine months digging through ground zero, especially after there was no hope of finding anyone alive?  I’m certain I could not have survived the heartbreak of it.  I am forever in awe of, and in gratitude to, those who did that work.  Their determination was, in large part, the beginning of healing for our country.   I know that many of these responders are still paying the price for their work in those months, physically and emotionally.  I want them to know that they are remembered, certainly by this one citizen and, I’m sure, by more and more often than they will ever know.

I believe the word “hero” is much overused.  I don’t believe bravery and heroism are the same thing.  I don’t believe that facing hardship with grace and courage makes you a hero.  But all those who made the hard choices that day, civilians and professional responders alike, they are heroes… no question… and they deserve our lifelong gratitude, support, and respect.

Even in those initial hours, I knew there were a million stories we would never hear — stories of heroism and kindness, stories of unimaginable loss, stories of hardship in the wake of all the damage (which extended far beyond ground zero), stories of struggle and survival and of people coming together and doing what needed doing, no questions asked.

So every year I find myself glued to the various documentaries that run, new and old, hoping to hear more of those stories and, hopefully, finally find some way to truly absorb and assimilate it all.  And every year, I fall short.  I will never be able to understand the enormity of the events of 9/11, nor the domino effect those events had on our country and our world.  I will never understand the desire to kill another human being.  I will never understand people dancing in the streets half a world a way as they watch the towers fall in NYC (and I did not celebrate when Bin Laden was killed).  There is a great deal about the history between the US and countries in the Middle East that I don’t fully know and understand.

But let’s put all that aside.  Let’s put politics and religion and geography aside.  We are all human beings, inhabiting a single home.  We all need and want basically the same things, and we all look the same coated in ash.   That is really all anyone need to understand and take into their hearts.  There are human beings around the world enduring 9/11’s every day.  That is not what I want for any member of my family.

I admit that one source of my sadness surrounding 9/11 is the knowledge that things have to be at their worst before people become their best.  Imagine if we could treat each other on a daily basis the way we treat each other in the wake of a tragedy… especially if we could manage to do so across borders.  Imagine the kind of world it would be.

That is the world I long to live in.  And I believe it’s possible.

What do you do when there are no words?  You roll up your sleeves and get to work.

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No songs this post… because there are still no words.

I miss those blocks.

After a few blissful months of feasting on almost too much musical work, I now find myself in the inevitable period of famine.  I’m used to this ebb and flow of my artistic life, but I willingly admit, I don’t love the famine bit.  Usually during this period, I start creating whatever is to come next.  Now, though, I find myself staring at the proverbial blank page, and I just can’t seem to get going.   I’m… blocked.

Grown-up blocks aren’t nearly as much fun as those kid blocks were.  They’re frustratingly intangible.  They seem to build themselves up when you’re not paying attention.   One day, you’re strolling through your life, feeling pretty good about things, and then blam!  You walk right into a wall.  Just like that, you’re lost in a veritable forest of obstacles.  And, as if merely being lost isn’t bad enough, you realize you’re lost inside a world that you built… without even knowing it!  You think to yourself, “Hmmm… this looks strangely familiar,” and yet you have absolutely no clue how to find your way.  Map, anyone?  No?  *Sigh*

When I lose myself in one of  these self-created maze worlds, I spend a few-too-many days feeling down in the dumps.  I feel hopeless and helpless, despite knowing better.  I cry.  Every doubt and fear I have about myself and how I’m living my life rears its ugly head and roars a deafening roar.  In trying to find a way out or a way through, I analyze everything… every sight, every sound, every interaction, every thought.  I over-think every single morsel to such a degree that my brain crashes.

Reboot.

Today, I realize that I can’t fight who or where I am.  Nor should I.  Who I am now, and who I am to become, is the sum of everything I’ve experienced right up to this moment.  If I try to short-cut this process, I short-change myself.  So, tomorrow I will begin picking up blocks and placing them on the wall that stands in my way.  I will reconnect with how much I love those shapes and colors, the feel of the smooth, painted wood in my hand, and the limitless number of things I can create with them.   Before long, I’ll have built that wall up so high that those blocks will come tumbling down to the floor.   Oh!  What a lovely sound that will be!

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Songs of the Day:
Child In Me Again – Annie Dinerman
Pick Yourself Up – Dorothy Fields & Jerome Kern

I was born in 1967,  amidst a time of great turmoil in our country.  And, since I’m going to be drawing parallels here, I might as well point out the irony that, as I do, I was born after a huge winter storm, rivaling the one we just had.  I don’t remember that storm, or much about the time in which I was born, but I’ve learned, and I’m living now.

While the reasons that led to the turmoil of the 60’s and early 70’s are very different from today, the toll that current events have taken on our national psyche is huge, and much like that of the 60’s.   Now, as then, seemingly unthinkable events have stunned us.  Now, as then, people feel threatened and fearful.  Now, as then, the public has great mistrust in our government.  Now, as then, the actively protesting minority has the loudest voice, the most visibility, and the same potential for disheartening the more silent majority.  Now, as then, people are feeling much less hopeful about their future.

While protest rallies and marches aren’t as common today as they were in the 60’s, they are more common now than they have been at any other time in my life.  The polarization we are experiencing now, personally and publicly, is the most extreme it has been in my memory.  The wars in Iraq and, especially, Afghanistan, feel politically similar to that of Vietnam.  In many ways, history is repeating itself.   Except…

Where have all the storytellers gone?

Where are the singer-songwriters — the Bob Dylans, John Lennons, Joan Baez’s, Leonard Cohens, Arlo Guthries, and Pete Seegers — telling the stories of our time?  I know we have LOTS of great singer-songwriters today, many of whom I love.  But I’m talking about the “protest song” singer-songwriter.  The songwriters focused on the political/cultural climate of now.

Do they not exist at all?  Do they exist in the way ‘cabaret’ songwriters exist; so far outside main stream popular music culture that no one hears their music unless they seek it out?  Am I simply completely out of touch and off the mark here?  Is no one bothering, because all those songs have been written… back in the 60’s?   Have we become so worried about being PC that those who might have ventured into that kind of songwriting are now afraid to do so?  Is today’s public so without accurate knowledge of current events that there’s no audience for such music?  Are those who are truly in touch with current events so overwhelmed that listening to music connected with those events is just too much?

I honestly have no idea.

What I do know is that now, as always, good songs have the ability to make us think, gently open our minds to different points of view, give us release, join us together, and lift us up.  And I’m missing those storytellers now.  I’m wishing for singer-songwriters to emerge from the chaos of our time and be a voice for us… and for their songs to become a record (no pun intended) of our time… so that in another 50 years, our stories can be told by the singers of tomorrow.

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Songs of the Day:
Where Have All The Flowers Gone – Bob Dylan
Turn Turn Turn – Pete Seeger

Perfection is “freedom from fault or defect.”

Where exactly is the fun in that?

Some weeks ago, I went to see a cabaret show.  The singer had a beautiful voice and was technically excellent.  The show was prepared and scripted to the nth degree.  Every look, gesture, breath, phrase, note, vowel, and consonant seemed as though it had been practiced.  It was über controlled and, in its technical delivery at least, without fault or defect.   Yet it was one of the most imperfect shows I’ve ever seen.  It was often dull and lifeless.  There wasn’t a single spontaneous moment.  And, although I believe the singer was sincere, I wasn’t moved by a single song or story.  The edges were so smooth and polished that there was nothing for me to hold onto.

Andrea Marcovicci instructs her cabaret pupils to “embrace distraction.”  I love this.  The freedom to embrace distraction is one of the reasons I was drawn away from theatre and into this wonderful world of cabaret.  I love the freedom of singing the music I want to sing, telling the stories I choose to tell, exploring topics of interest to me, creating programming that is unique to me, and putting all of these elements in front of an audience without the boundaries that theatre requires.  Most of all, I love being me on stage, interacting with the audience as myself.   To me, the best moments in a performance are often the surprises… the unscripted distractions that come from this freedom:  talking with the audience (not just to them); acknowledging an error or ungraceful move; and reacting in the moment to whatever is happening right now.  There’s no character to break, no rigid script from which to deviate.  It all… just… is.

And it’s perfect.  With all its flaws and defects, it’s perfect.

So maybe we need a new definition for perfection, or a new word altogether.  Maybe perfection should be defined as that which “meets the needs and desires of all involved” or (not to get too Eckhart Tolle on you) that which “comes as close to being right for right now as humanly possible.”   Humanly is the key word here I think because, to me, in my emotional world, perfection always includes getting to the heart of the matter.

If we, and everything we did, were perfect, we would not be human.  It’s funny to me that perfection is always the goal… that perfection is ever the goal… and even funnier to me that so many people in my life think I strive for it.  We learn so much from imperfection, from mistakes, from failure.  Think Post-It Notes.  The guy who invented them was trying to make a glue… and failed… or something to that effect.  How perfect was that failure?  I can’t even remember life before Post-It Notes.  Post-It Notes rule!

And those performance moments that most endear us to an audience?  Yep… you guessed it… the “imperfect”, spontaneous ones.  We need to whole-heartedly embrace so-called imperfection as enthusiastically as Andrea embraces distraction… and then say ‘thank you’ for how perfect a situation we find ourselves in… right now.

Let’s practice.

Our dishwasher has not worked properly since the day we got it.  Sometimes, for reasons unknown to man or beast, it randomly decides not to release the soap to wash the dishes.  The powdered detergent ends up as a soap brick, cemented firmly into the compartment that refused release it.  Whatever dirt didn’t get rinsed off during the wash cycle is now, thanks to the heated dry cycle, baked firmly onto the dishes.  It’s annoying.  But it is absolute and undeniable perfection that I have a dishwasher and do not, for the most part, ever have to wash dishes by hand.

Our master bathroom shower is the absolute coldest place in our home.  Some genius, for reasons unknown to man or beast, decided that the outside walls surrounding said shower didn’t require insulation.  Getting into that stall first thing on a winter morning gives new meaning to the term “nipply” and, according to my husband, will make even the bravest testicles run and hide.  To add insult to… well… insult, the water takes forever to get hot.  All in all, not what one might call ideal (though it does wake you up!).  But it is absolute and undeniable perfection that we can take a shower whenever we wish, and even more perfect that we can simply turn a knob and have water whenever we want, wherever we want, for whatever we want.

On December 8th, my mom had a stroke.  Up to this point, my parents (both in their late 70’s) had experienced no major health problems.  They have always taken care of themselves, and they have remained active (mentally and physically) and engaged in life post retirement.   So this event was completely unexpected.  Mom was lucky though.  The stroke only affected the motor function in her right arm and leg.  Her speech and cognitive functions were unaffected.  She had 2 weeks of intensive in-patient rehab and got home on December 22nd.  Her handwriting is not the gorgeous font-like handwriting (see? I come by it honestly) she had pre-stroke, but it’s legible.  She needs a walker now, but she did learn to walk again.

On Christmas Eve, she and my dad joined us at our home for dinner.

And it was perfect.

Wishing you a perfectly safe, healthy, and happy New Year.  See you in 2011!

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Songs of the Day:
The Greatest – Kenny Rogers (written by Don Schlitz)
Perfect – Ann Hampton Callaway

I love the sound of an orchestra warming up and tuning right before a performance begins.  I love the way the cacophony — open strings, winds, brass, and percussion all playing random bits of music — suddenly morphs into a single concert “A”.   House lights dim.   A collective holding of breath and then… release.

I especially love it if all this happens while I’m standing back stage waiting… anticipating… enjoying a private adrenaline high.

Live performance is such a wicked and wonderful beast.  No matter how well rehearsed you are, or how deeply you connect with your material, you never really know what a given performance holds in store for you.   It can be magical or torturous or anything in between… all in the course of a single evening.  What ‘works’ one night may fall flat the next.  That intangible energy that flows between audience and performer, the most variable of variables, is everything… and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

By some bizarre stroke of fate, I find myself with three brand new shows opening within four weekends of one another, in addition to two other gigs… one of which involves me presenting an award to the great Andrea Marcovicci, one of my heroes.   My brain is ready to explode it’s so jammed with lyrics and melodies and patter and emotion and details.  But my heart… my heart is, simply, full.

On October 23rd I will debut my new solo show, Hollywood & Broadway, A Fine Romance.  On November 6th and 13th, respectively, my non-profit organization, Acts Of Kindness Cabaret, debuts two new benefit cabaret shows, Life… Sunny Side Up and All Creatures, Great and Small.

As nutty as things are now, I love the anticipation.  Will my new show ‘land’ well?  Will the pacing work?  Did I do enough publicity?  Will people show up?  Will they laugh and cry in all the ‘right’ spots?  Will they like it?  Will they like me?  I have no idea.  I have no control over any of it.

What I know for sure is that I believe in the show I’ve put together over these last many months.  What I know for sure is that this opening night, like all others, will be as much about learning as it will be about the show’s debut.  What I know for sure is that, as it is live performance, it will forever be a work in progress.  What I know for sure is that the music is great and the story is great, and I really can’t ask for much more than that.   What I know for sure is that I got a killer dress (for only $24!) that makes me feel like a million bucks.

So here I am, standing back stage.  The cacophony — open strings, winds, brass, and percussion all playing random bits of music — will soon morph into a single concert “A”.   House lights are dimming.   And… go!

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Songs of the Day:
You There in the Back Row – Cy Coleman & Barbara Fried
The Artist at 40 – John Bucchino

Really?  I’m not so sure.

Recently, after a mind-boggling amount of searching, I finally found a suitable name for my new solo show.  The show debuts on October 23rd, so I was getting nervous that I hadn’t yet found one.  Now that I have, the whole endeavor feels more solid… more real.  It has a new momentum, and I’m feeling excited about it.  So, maybe that’s what’s in a name: a kind of reality… a kind of life.  

Tricky thing, choosing a name.  Interesting that it could make such a big difference in how I feel about something.  Is it the meaning of the name?  My own name means ‘cheerful’ or ‘hilarious’, my middle name means ‘one who walks with grace and beauty’, and my last name means ‘man of the field.’   So I’m a  ‘hilarious man of the field who walks with grace and beauty.’  Uh…. no.

New approach.  I looked up my name on a website that is supposed to be able to tell you something about you just from your name.  Right!  Whatever!  But here’s the thing…

When I typed in “Hilary”, here’s what it said:

• Your first name, Hilary, creates an independent, determined, and persevering nature.
• You desire to work on your own or at least where you are making your own decisions.
• You enjoy working with your hands and can be resourceful and inventive along practical lines.
• Being much focused on your pursuits, at times you overlook the personal considerations and attentions that create understanding and companionship with others.
• This name causes you to suffer with self-consciousness in new situations and an inability to be diplomatic when situations warrant.
• You are loyal in friendships and express candidly.
• You enjoy outdoors activities with a few close friends.
• This name, when combined with the last name, can frustrate happiness, contentment, and success, as well as cause health weaknesses through tension or accidents to the head.

Ok, this is freakishly accurate.  But just from my name?  Does this mean that all women with my name (spelled my way)  have these same qualities?  That which we call a rose will be exactly like anything else we call a rose?   Ew.

I’m married to a “Michael.”  He looks like a Michael.  But I can tell you he is unlike any of the other bjillions of Michaels I’ve known in my life.   My unique Michael and I spent days trying to find a name for our adopted kitten a few years back.  When we had the right one, we knew it.  The definition of her name, Maia (beautiful nymph), was perfect when she was a tiny kitten.    Having now been ricocheting around our house for a full three years now, though, I would no longer define her as such, but she has definitely grown into the sound of her name.

So does the name suit us, or do we suit the name?

Have you ever met someone named, say, George and thought to yourself, “He doesn’t look like a George.”  But could you describe what a George looks like?  Me neither.

Yet, somehow, when the name matches the person (or project) you know it.   My new show is about the nearly century-long relationship between Hollywood and Broadway.  As I did my research, I discovered that these two entities’ relationship is, in many ways, just like a human relationship.  They met, they dated, one flirted with the other, and they entered into a relationship… one filled with all the elements of any relationship.   It was originally to be about the Oscars and the Tonys, and had the working title “Oscar Meets Tony” (which I loved), but I found the relationship to be much more fun and fascinating than the awards.  As the show changed, I was tempted to keep the original name, but it just wasn’t right.

The new title is Hollywood & Broadway: A Fine Romance.  It’s perfect.  It’s descriptive, musical, marketable, and it has a nice ring to it.  The show debuts on October 23rd at 8pm at Skokie Theatre.  If you’re interested in coming out to this musical 83rd anniversary bash, just visit the Skokie Theatre website.  I’ll be doing it again in 2011, the last two Saturdays in February leading  up to the Academy Awards, at Davenport’s Cabaret in Chicago.

So, what’s in a name?  Everything, really.  Identity.  Inspiration.

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Songs of the Day:
A Fine Romance – Jerome Kern & Dorothy Fields
Eleanor Rigby – The Beatles

So I thought I’d try to help.  In another life, I was a professional organizer, and I’m here to tell you that taming that music mess is as easy as 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3…

[Warning:  The writer of this blog is anal, and the paragraphs to follow may be unsuitable for the ambivalent and unmotivated.]

Music Books

Obviously if you can shelve your books in some particular order that makes sense to you (alphabetical by composer, or by type of music, etc.), great.   HOWEVER, I have a terrific tip that will be a tremendous time saver when you find yourself needing to browse your entire library for a single piece or when you’re on the prowl for new music.

Using your home copier or scanner, make a copy of the Table of Contents Page of each book.  Then put all those copies into a binder, again in some order that makes sense to you.  The next time you want to browse your library, simply flip through the pages of your binder.   Then go pull the appropriate book(s) off the shelf (or out of the pile!).  Easy, fast, tidy… and mobile!  Ta da!

Single Sheets

I have hundreds and hundreds of single sheets of music, in many different formats.  I have lead sheets, choral music, store-bought piano-vocal sheets, and jillions of copies and downloaded sheets.  I used to try to subdivide them into styles of music, but I found this system much too difficult to maintain.   I know some people use binders as a filing system.  I don’t recommend this, as it is also bothersome to maintain.  Too labor-intensive.  Don’t do it.

NOTE:  The more difficult an organizational system is to maintain, the less likely you are to maintain it.  Seems obvious, but this rule of thumb is broken all the time by the well-intended.

Here are two solutions.  The first one is really good.  The second one, if you can do it, is exceptional!

Really Good Solution (RGS):  Create a simple filing system in a filing cabinet, if at all possible.  If you can’t get a cabinet, use file boxes — something you can put hanging files in — rather than those expansion files.  The simplest filing system is alphabetical.  Don’t subdivide more than that, and don’t worry about alphabetizing within each letter of the alphabet (again, too hard to maintain).  Use hanging files and simply mark their tabs “A,” “B,” C,” etc.  This way, when it’s time to put music away, you just open a drawer and drop the music in its hanging file.  Not labor-intensive, and easy enough to find a song when you need it.  If you’re really ambitious, and want to join AAA (Association of Anal Americans), you can make a list of all your single sheets, print it out, and add that to your music library binder, along with your Table of Contents copies.  This takes time up front, and requires another step of maintenance, but it does save you time when you’re  searching for music in your collection.

Note:  If you use this method, I recommend putting some kind of marking in the upper corner of the front page of each piece of music, in red, so you never give away your last or only copy.

Exceptional Solution (ES):  If you have access to a high-speed scanner, or even a regular scanner with a sheet feeder, scan your music and get rid of as many of those sheets as you can.  There are several advantages to this:

1. It saves a ton of space;
2. If you leave the “A” and “The” out of song titles, the file list alphabetizes itself on your computer, and you can very easily browse that list when searching for music.
3. It’s incredibly easy to share music (with students, with colleagues, with transposers or arrangers, etc.)
4. If you do share the music, you never have to worry that you’re giving away your last copy.

I transitioned from the RGS to the ES in December of 2009, and I am thrilled with the result.  It definitely took some time, but zowie!  Is it ever great!  Granted, I had access to a high speed scanner to do this initial huge bulk of scanning (now I just use my home scanner to add new pieces), which made the time commitment much less than a regular scanner.  I would have done it regardless, however.  That’s how useful it’s been for me.

I still have my vintage sheet music and my choral music in file drawers, but all the other single sheets are in the computer.  After I was done with my scanning, I let my students pick through and take whatever they wanted, and then took the rest to open mic to give away.  That was a hit!

Adding New Music to Your Incredibly Organized Collection

I have one set of stacking trays on my desk.  As an organizer I must tell you that I am generally against stacking trays, as they most often just become yet another paper abyss.  HOWEVER, they are great for the purpose of integrating new material into your sheet music library.  The trays are labeled:

1. To Copy (new books whose Tables of Contents need to be copied)
2. Music to Scan  (new sheets I want to scan)
3. Music to File  (new sheets I want to file)

Then, when I have a few minutes, I can add the music appropriately.  In the meantime, I don’t lose track of what’s what.  This works for both the RGS and the ES.

Wrap-Up and a Wonderful Gift

I hope these few ideas help you get started in taming your music mess.    If you have specific questions regarding your own collection, I’m happy to answer them.  Just contact me through my website (http://www.hilaryannfeldman.com), or leave a comment here, and I promise I will get back to you.

Below is a picture of the beautiful music cabinet my father made for me about a year ago.  As you can see, it contains both shelves and file space.  What you can’t see is that Dad made it modular for easy moving.  It’s such a special gift, and I am so blessed to have it.  There are similarly-functional cabinets available commercially, if you’re in the market, but of course I love mine best.

I should note that, prior to my scanning extravaganza, my sheet music took up all the space in this cabinet plus an entire additional large filing cabinet.  Now what I have left fits neatly into Dad’s cabinet with lots of room to spare.

Anal jokes aside, taming your sheet music mess can save you so much time and frustration.  The Music Mess should never get in the way of your creative process.   I wish you the best of success in both your organizational and creative endeavors!

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Songs of the Day:
Putting Things Away – Amanda McBroom
Becoming My Mother – Brian Lasser

The hardest part about these slow periods is, surprisingly, not the financial aspect (though I won’t lie, that hurts).  Rather, it is the fact that, if you’re a performer and you’re not performing, it’s easy to feel a bit like a fraud.  And when you’re feeling like a fraud, your self-esteem can plummet, and then continuing to market yourself can become a real struggle.

I had dinner with a lovely woman last week, who happens to be my musical director most of the time.  I discussed with her my current state of affairs, and she reminded me of something very important.  Just because there aren’t gigs right now, does not mean I’m not a working artist.  As long as I’m doing what needs to be done, I’m still working, and that is what is important.

Every day, I’m at my desk by 9am (ish).  I send out press kits, make calls, work on booking gigs for later this year and for 2011.  I’m working on a new show.  I sing in front of people, even if only at an open mic, every week.  I am a working artist.  [Remind me of this later, when I forget… please?]

As a solo performer, I’m in it alone.  No band mates to share the load with.  No agent or manager.  No partner in crime.   This has its perks and drawbacks, of course.   I try to focus on the perks.

This is a labor of love, this musical life I’ve chosen, and I’m blessed to be able to have chosen it.  Like any life worth living, it’s going to have it’s peaks and valleys.  It’s going to create real challenges and provide incredible rewards.   There will be periods of feast and periods of famine.  Through it all, I have to hope that those who know me, love me, believe in me, and enjoy what I do will continue to support me and my endeavors.

In this way, despite the current period of famine, I am filled right up.  And I am grateful.

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Songs of the Day:
It Goes Like it Goes – Norman Gimbel & David Shire
Just a Housewife – Craig Carnelia