THURSDAY THOUGHTS" MUSIC MATTERS

1. The Anita Baker concert at Wolf Trap was fantastic. Hearing saxman Gerald Albright, was an absolute treat.

2. I had never heard of Vance Gilbert. I'm a new fan. I especially like the song "Unfamiliar Moon"

3. Daniel Moore's performance at Blues Alley was phenomenal. When he and Tony Walker did an impromptu piano duet of "What's Going On" I was smiling so hard my face hurt. The Terence Blanchard shrimp wasn't bad, either.

4. I was so grateful to hear good music; so grateful that people still make good music.

5. I downloaded new music from Raymond Reeder, Yanna Crawley, and 21:03. 

Love it.

6. There's an exhibition of the work of the late Lois Mailou Jones at the National Museum of Women in the Arts in October. 

I can hardly wait. 

7. Clydes restaurant, at Mark Center, has a pretty good cream of crab soup.

8. Stash brand’s premium raspberry tea, is a new favorite.

9. Richard Smallwood with Vision will be participating in the Kennedy Center's Open House on September 11....and according to a commercial I JUST saw, Verizon's How Sweet the Sound Competition at the Verizon Center will be favored by guests Smallwood, and angel number one, Maurette Brown Clark.

10. I'm an official fan of the Jack LaLanne power juicer.

THURSDAY THOUGHTS: A BAD VOICE DAY

My voice was acting awfully shaky and shady, during a session at BIAS studios yesterday. It was disturbing. 

I was singing songs that I adore--songs that I've sung before with no difficulty--but yesterday, I was struggling. Some notes were landing, and others were elusive. Sometimes my voice was strong, and other times, extremely weak. It was a mess and I knew it. My voice and brain were disconnected. Unfortunately, there was no trap door to engage so that I could disappear.

Sometimes, you can compensate, depending on the song. Sometimes goofy things going on in your throat are actually kind of cool. 

These songs deserved excellence, and I wasn't delivering consistently. I wanted to quit, and suggest that someone else do the leads. 

I wanted to run to the parking lot to see if Dennis or Lisa were still there, and drag them back in. 

It's true. I prefer the comfort of the background. 

The enemy of my life knows it too, perhaps, because I've said it out loud enough times. 

When opportunities come for me to be out front, a little insecurity tries to creep in. 

Sometimes, I have been guilty of opening the door, letting it in, and offering it a seat. 

When you're out front, scrutiny finds out, and is on its way. It's hard to endure the things you love to do, being picked apart. When time and money are involved, being picked apart is a part of the territory, even if it's done nicely.

The microphone doesn't lie. 

Being in a studio is like being a part of a very sensitive science project. There's more mathematics taking place than a right-brainer like me can handle. Every breath, hiccup, smack, click, flat or sharp note has nowhere to hide. 

Sure, technology has a way of masking and correcting problems, but the goal, my goal anyway, is to spare the engineer from having to fix too many things. There's no skating or faking in a recording studio. Every sound you make is being documented visually, and audibly. 

One day, you may have to sing it LIVE. 

How shocked would listeners be if what they heard on the recording is NOTHING like what you perform in concert?

Was I tired, nervous, anxious, thirsty, or hungry? 

Am I just getting old? 

I did. I felt old. 

I was beating up on myself, and realized I wasn't making things better. 

Yesterday, some of the sounds I was painting weren't so pretty.

It doesn't matter what you're SUPPOSED to be doing, how many times you've done it successfully in the past, or what you know HOW to do, if the mechanism by which you do it isn't cooperating AT ALL. 

My voice was shot. 

The length of time that you've been doing a thing is not exempt from an occasional bad day. 

In my head, I could hear what I wanted to do. 

In reality, it wasn't happening, and I was so discouraged, and a little embarrassed. 

All I did was compound the problem.

Jim, Nolan, Joel, and Rob were so gracious. 

I saw their faces, though. 

Nolan came into the booth, hugged me, and asked me if I was alright. It did sound like there was something physically wrong. 

I heard that eerie silence that indicates that people are thinking, but just can't or won't say what they're thinking. 

I was playing what I imagined their thoughts were in my head, and wanted to run away. 

Even though they complimented the good parts, I was so convinced that there weren't any. 

I wanted to just sing it down, without there needing to be any cutting and pasting. 

Nothing they said made me feel better. 

It was pretty bad, and I knew it. 

It's one of the reasons I make a point not to laugh at singers, no matter how horrible they sound. 

If you're a singer, your bad day is coming, and you'd like a little constructive criticism and understanding, and even a viable solution as opposed to hearing 

"I think my ears are bleeding. That totally sucked. YOU suck." 

A bad voice day is worse when it's scheduled on a day you're supposed to expose your voice to other human beings.

Nolan had an idea. I had participated in the background vocals session that lasted a few hours. He suggested that I take a break, let Joel record his drum tracks, then try again. 

In all the years of recording, I had never, ever wanted or needed to take a break. 

I never wanted to stop--not even to eat. 

I wanted to just knock out the leads, and give the engineer and producer as many takes as I could. 

I was tired, though. I had to admit it. 

It wasn't the air conditioning. I was just tired. 

A tired singer is a silent singer--or a lousy singer. I'd learned that lesson before. What made me forget it?

When Joel was done, I went back into the booth. 

I felt better after the short rest. 

I drank the water I should have had earlier. 

I found a peppermint candy in my bag, and let it slowly dissolve. 

I did several takes, until I could feel myself getting tired again. 

When I was done, no matter how many times Jim and Nolan said it was fine, and they had enough to use, I knew I could have done better.

 

I backtracked. Yes. I'd stayed up very late the night before. That was not a good idea. 

I'd slept with the air conditioning blowing down on me. 

I'd eaten too late, and felt sluggish. 

I was winded. 

For years, I've had no set routine, or rules to take care of my voice. 

Perhaps it's past time to start one.

There are things that you know, and when you know better, you're SUPPOSED to do better. 

Yesterday, I had to re-learn a lesson. 

Fortunately it wasn't a matter of literal life or death, but when I can't sing, it does feel as if something in me is dying. 

It has been the way I connect to God. 

For a long time, I thought it was just between Him and me. He had to teach me otherwise, and, no matter how inadequate I may feel, He keeps fashioning circumstances whereby I have to come out of my very comfortable comfort zone, and share what He gave me with others.

Fortunately, yesterday, I was surrounded by people who wouldn't let me wallow in discouragement. Some people have more confidence in you than you have in yourself, and it encourages you to WANT to be, and do better. There are some people you just don't want to let down. There are people in my life like that. Encouragers. 

Everyone needs that. I think--even the most independent, self-motivated people could use a push, some affirmation, even a prayer on their behalf.
I got that yesterday.
Today, I'm glad I have a chance to rest. 

I'm so glad, and grateful I'll have a chance to try again tomorrow. 

I want to do what I know how, and love to do--and do it the right way.

MONDAY THOUGHTS: LESSON LEARNED: PRESERVE YOUR PEACE

I woke up feeling positively battered. 

Considering what time I finally went back to sleep, I'm surprised I'm awake at all. 

I dragged myself to the bathroom, and realized I looked exactly the way I felt. 

My very thoughtful daughter was busily making juice. Apples, mangoes, oranges, pears, lemons...

I needed that little glass of juice. 

It was like a shot in the arm. 

I opened my bedroom window. 

Other than vehicles passing, it was quiet. 

I love a morning breeze. 

Suddenly, some loud girl yelled out to someone who had to have been a mile away. 
Yes. There's residue from yesterday. 
Today is going to be a noise-free day.

Yesterday, I put up with the noise from the park longer than I should have. 

That was stupid. 

Instead of complaining, and being annoyed, and pondering whether to call the police, I should have just made a plan, and gone out. 

At the first sound, I should have left home. 

Instead, I tried to deal with it. 

When I considered how ridiculous I looked lying on my bed with earphones on and a pillow over each ear, I should have gotten up and gotten out of here.

Is it okay to amplify profanity-laced music because it's South East, DC? 

Do we not care? 

Is there such a lack of respect for Ward 8 residents that we are not trusted to just read the mailers and other correspondence from candidates of the upcoming primary? 

Do we have to be favored by the loudest, most mushmouthed speakers because we can't relate to, or understand anyone who passed high school English? Are we so disengaged from politics that people feel the only way to dispense information far southeast of the river, is to invade the neighborhood, set up an apparently nuclear powered sound system, and force people out of their homes with the equivalent of musical tear gas? 

Right now, my nerves and ears are meeting to form a mutiny if I overexpose them to unpleasant sound ever again. 

The campaign event bum rushed the neighborhood like a crazed go-go Pied Piper. 

"Come out, come out wherever you are, Black people! This music is going to blast so loud that being inside your home will be like torture! 

Come on out ya'll! Young and old, hear this poor excuse for gangsta rap, go-go, and old school R&B! There's something for everybody! 

You can't hear yourself think, so you might as well come outside! The only way to get your interest is to feed you, and permanently damage your hearing! You'll be shell shocked when it's over, and we'll leave lots of trash behind, but you will definitely know who to cast your vote for in the upcoming primary!"

People who plan events in Oxon Run Park have no idea what an assault the noise is on neighborhood residents who seek to enjoy the comfort of their homes. An argument can be made that it's not every day or night that an event takes place, but one only needs to be battered over the head by a wrecking ball ONE time to know it's not a pleasant experience.

Yesterday, my peace was disturbed, and I did not handle it well. I tried to endure when I should have gone in a different direction. I took too long to take a ride. If the primary had been yesterday, I would have voted for the other guy in the other party.

You know what you can handle. 

Don't compound stressful situations by remaining in them. 

Don't continue complaining as they progress, and hoping that they will change, or miraculously go away as they get worse. 

Every thing is not for you. 

Be kind to your nerves and blood pressure. 

You DO have a choice. 

Don't cry, whine and reduce yourself to a mess. 

It's not about being right, having rights, winning, or principles when your peace of mind is at stake. 

You can have the right of way, and be just as injured.

 Sometimes, you have to let people have their noise and mess, and search for peace.

SUNDAY THOUGHTS: NOISE

From 3PM until 8:03 PM Sunday, a mayoral candidate's rally took place in the park across the street. It was an open air concert with taped and live music, in addition to guest speakers. 

The first song that came tearing through my closed windows and brick walls was "Blame it on the Alcohol". 

I finally got to sleep around 11 PM. 

At 2:35 AM, I was awakened by the sound of sanitation workers emptying dumpsters into their truck. 

Still awake at 2:39 AM, the sound of an ambulance heading up the street, probably awakened others in the neighborhood, too. 

At 3:00 AM, some random driver blew his car horn 7 times. Yes. I counted. 

I'm irritated. 

I suppose if noise is the worst of my problems, I should be grateful.

I woke up and wrote:

Some stuff has residue
Traces left over, after the real thing has gone
That you just can't get over soon
Can't seem to recover from
Some stuff has residue
It's designed that way
To leave you weak and confused
Feeling there is no way

Just ain’t no way

It's 3:57 right now. 

I feel as if I've been wrestling. 

I'm tired. 

My headache, as a result of the bass booming for hours, has subsided. I am now convinced that unwanted noise is a health hazard. Right now someone is sitting at the red light, and I can hear the music from their car speakers. Maybe it's to keep them awake. I don't know. 

I had been looking forward to a peaceful Sunday afternoon at home. The noise from the rally sent me rushing to the car to get out of my own home and neighborhood. 

I pushed in the CD that was in the deck. Anita Baker asked, "What's wrong with you?" I wondered that myself, Ms. Baker.

I was so irritated, and on the verge of tears over noise.

I drove downtown near the Tidal Basin, then past the National Gallery of Art, then to 4th Street into SW, and back across the South Capitol Street Bridge. I kept going south on the freeway, and took the National Harbor exit. I stopped for gas, visited with my Dad briefly, then headed home around 7PM—thinking that the noise in my neighborhood would be over. It wasn't. 

A speaker was on a very good microphone, telling "all ya'll round here" why we should vote for a certain candidate. Then he announced the next act to perform. 

I couldn't find a parking space, so I drove around the block again. Fortunately, one opened up right in front of the gate by the time I returned. 

Once inside, I grabbed some headphones and found some white noise videos on Youtube. At one point I had the headphones on, and a pillow over each ear. There was no escaping the banging, and booming and screaming. There was nothing musical about any of it. Even some of my favorite songs were played, and they may as well have been the sound of a jackhammer on concrete. The noise was inconsiderate and intrusive. It was so loud, the event may as well have been taking place in my living room.

Yes. People have rights to do all sorts of things that other people are left to endure. I suppose I could have called the police, but there was police presence on the grounds of the rally. It was all perfectly legal. 

I don't think people realize that what they do outside affects someone's atmosphere inside. There was no buffer; no way to abate it. I was forced to hear what I neither chose, nor would have chosen to hear. It was forced upon me and every other person in the neighborhood, whether we wanted to hear it or not. 
The floor and windows vibrated for a little over 5 hours. 

I feel like I'm in recovery. 

It's 4:28. I'm going to try this sleep thing one more time. 

I do believe I'm getting old. I used to hear elderly relatives talking about their bad nerves, and what their nerves were too bad to endure. 
I get it...

SATURDAY THOUGHTS: BAG TAX

I don't think I'll ever get used to it. 

I put all of my purchases on the counter. 

The cashier rings them up. Then there's a pause. 

I'm waiting. 

The cashier is staring. 

I stare back dumbfounded. The cashier is smiling. 

I smile back.
Has the next step been forgotten? 

Has the cashier fallen asleep standing up? 

Am I in some weird Twilight Zone time warp? 

Has the world stopped spinning? 

Am I on Candid Camera? Am I being punked?
"Ma'am, do you need a bag?"
HUH? 

Duh? 

Of COURSE I need a bag! Do you SEE all of this stuff you just rang up? Am I supposed to carry it out of here in my skirt? Can I borrow a cart? (I say all of that in my head of course. Mommy always said, "Be polite" and it kinda stuck.) 

Is the cashier REALLY asking me if I need a bag?
Oh. My bad.

I live in DC. 

Bags cost 5 cents. 

I will probably need more than one. 

There are never any large bags that will preclude me from looking like I need a hand. 

"Uh, yes. Yes. I need bags. Thank you. I totally forgot where I lived. All of that shopping in Maryland and Virginia, where a bag just goes along with the shopping experience, has me spoiled."

That Potomac and Chesapeake Bay had better start looking like the Caribbean very soon.

WAKING THOUGHTS

Some people won't interact with you-- not because of anything you've done, but because of what they've been told and chose to believe. It's so great to see craftily engineered misunderstandings and divisions blown out of the water by the truth. It's also great to witness friendships, and business relationships restored and thriving in spite of the enemy's mission to destroy them. 
Don't be anxious. Don't manufacture new partnerships out of frustration or spite. Don't be a pest or succumb to desperation. Be still. Keep your mouth shut. Resist the inclination to defend, complain and protest. Just wait and watch God work it all out.

RECONCILING WITH BEETS

There are beets in my refrigerator. 

I still can't believe it. 

I'm sure that, as a child, I vowed I would never eat them again. 

Beets have been on my "not fit for human consumption" list since 1968. 

I wanted no part of them. 

As a child the routine at the dinner table generally went like this: "Just try it. How do you know you don't like it if you don't try it? Just eat a little, and if you don't want it, then put it aside". 

My twisted face and tears weren't enough to get me out of having to taste the beets. I took a big bite--an entire rubbery slice. 

My little body shook like Lucy Ricardo's when she took her first taste of Vitameatavegemin. 

I concluded years ago that beets were horrible, and I would not forget it. 

I didn't care HOW they were prepared, nor who prepared them. 

I didn't care if they were a cure for everything that ailed me. 

But, if I was ever going to get out of seeing them on my plate again, I had to show my parents that I at least made an effort to try them. 

In our house, food was not to be thrown away. 

Daddy had too many stories about all of the things that my grandmother put into a pot. 

"We had to eat whatever was running," he often said. 

(My Dad has a very particular palate to this day.) 

Throwing away food was tantamount to a criminal offense when I was young. There were too many starving children in Africa, I was told. 

I now know there are too many starving children in America, too, but neither pronouncement made me want to be a friend of beets.

Fast forward to 2010. 

I'm creeping up on 50 very quickly. 

I have found myself eating things I used to decline. 

Yogurt. 

Broccoli. 

Cauliflower. 

Cabbage. 

Tomato Juice. 

I'm finding myself more and more interested, lately, in what my body needs, while not totally depriving myself of what my taste buds want.

The Jack LaLanne juicer has started something wonderful. 

(I recall watching him when I was a little girl at my maternal grandmother's home in Addis, Louisiana. 

He's still around, and still preaching the gospel of good health.) 

There are a lot more varieties of fruits and vegetables in the kitchen, now. Every day is like an experiment to see what goes well with what. I still can't believe I have consumed a beet. 

The juice is beautiful in color. That's what beets were good for as far as I was concerned--color. 

They were art supplies, not food.

My daughter juiced eggplant (we know now not to do that again), sweet potato, spinach, squash, apple, and orange. 

It wasn't Coca Cola, but it gave us the distinct feeling that our bodies were grateful. The pulp that the fruit and veggies yielded just seemed too abundant to throw away. I'd kept the pulp from the lemon, orange, apple, strawberries, grapefruit experiment we did one day, and used some of it when I prepared salmon.

As I stared at the pulp that included the beets, for the first time in my life I was excited about the prospect of a veggie burger. 

I don't know if it was the redness of the pulverized beet that made me think of ground meat, or not. All I know, is that I put half of the pulp in a bowl, and seasoned it with onion, rosemary, celery seed, seasoned salt. I cracked 2 eggs, and made bread crumbs from 2 hamburger buns that had been languishing in the refrigerator. 

The more I mixed, the more my brain believed it was meat. 

My taste buds would be the judge, though. 

I formed the patties, heated a pan, got the vegetable oil and was pleased by the aroma. When they were done, I toasted some wheat bread, topped the burger with mustard and a little barbecue sauce, cut the sandwich in half and tried it. it wasn't an Angus burger, but it really wasn't bad! 

I mixed the rest of the pulp with tomato paste, and the spaghetti I made on another day was good, too. 

Am I considering becoming a vegetarian? Probably not. 

But I am happy with the notion that days aren't going by without my feeding myself something fresh and chock full of nutrients.

This afternoon, I opened the refrigerator and looked at the lone, remaining beet. 

I STILL can't believe there is a beet in my home on purpose! 

There was a generous bunch of greens, and the stems from the other 3 that we juiced a few days ago. 

I'd asked my daughter to save the skins from the sweet potato and the squash thinking that I would fry them. 

Instead, I checked online to see if beet greens were edible. 

Maybe that's something that I was already supposed to know, but my aversion to beets kept me from wanting to know anything at all about them. 

Egglesscooking.com had a good article, and gave me the go ahead. 

I still wasn't ready to cook them as if they were collards, mustards, or kale, though. Maybe another day. 

I chopped up the beet greens, stems, and the skins and prepared it all for another round of veggie burgers. 

I still don't like beets, but they're fine all tangled up with a lot of something else, and that wonderful, rich color is something that I can't bring myself to hate. 

I even considered saving some of the beet juice and dyeing my tennis shoes. I can't seem to get rid of the yellowish stain where the rubber meets the canvas. I'm sure there's something on the internet for that, too.

It has actually been fun-- this aim to get the recommended daily requirement of fruit and vegetables. 
I like my new habit. 

Maybe by NEXT summer, I'll really appreciate the effort...: )