Who knows where or when...

(Where or When = Jo's favorite standard at the moment.)

Goodness me, but life has gotten suddenly busy. In a good way, too! I'll break this into two posts to allow each to keep to a theme. Perhaps it will force me into brevity. Hmm. Actually, the ticking clock at Kinko's will force me.

The big news: I put up an ad on craigslist asking for people to jam with me so I can get my nerve back. I got three whole responses! No kiddin'! The first: Arnie Rosen, guitarist, assured me that the Boston jazz scene is competitive but should not be intimidating (as I whined in my ad). Aww, nice guy. The second: Jim Robitaille, who gave me a very professional reply that may have been a form email that he sends out to all people looking for guitarists, along with a link to his very professional webpage. I emailed back to make sure he knows I'm not offering to pay and I don't have a gig lined up. He may make room in his busy schedule, yet to be seen. Third: some guy named Nick Mian, drummer, who doesn't play jazz but gosh darn he'd like to try. Highly suspect. I told him I'd have to see how things went with the guitarists. Read: slow track to blow off.

So I met up with Arnie last Saturday. He looks like an Arnie - early 50's, short and wiry, very soft-spoken and hesitant. He was also incredibly patient with me and my hesitation. I had a hard time starting things, and he gently picked out favorite tunes and suggested different approaches. We talked about our styles, eventual gigs, musicians he knows with whom I'd mesh nicely.

And I sang. My voice just came out at the right moments and did the right things and it felt... so incredible... I could feel it rising out of me and I forgot how strange and lovely it is to have this thing inside me with this strange capability to soothe me and to perform athletic feats with a perfect landing every time. It felt so good.

Arnie agreed; we play well together. We made plans to meet up today so I could hear his friend Doug, 65ish, alto sax, a "sensitive" player who might want to gig with the two of us. This morning, after dodging H-Bomb's complicated bathroom habits and watching the weather channel in my charmingly obsessive way (no, really, charmingly), I made my way down to Coolidge Corner to catch the 66.

And I forgot it was the devil's bus route. It was 25 minutes late. By the time I switched to the 73 and walked the few blocks to Arnie's place I was 45 minutes late with a feeble excuse and a bad case of the nerves. I joined in for two songs - Autumn Leaves and My Funny Valentine - two of my best, my dearest, my most solid friends in the song world. And that voice wanted to come out of me, but everything else was shaking and annoyed and inferior. It squeaked out enough to convince Doug that Arnie was not lying when he said I can sing... just enough.

Hard morning.

I stayed a while longer after Doug left. Arnie and I went through a book of not-so-standards and found a few that worked so beautifully... it didn't take much to get it back. Still, scared the shit out of me. Oh yes, THAT'S what losing one's nerve feels like... I had nearly forgotten why I'd stopped.

The first gig may be near the produce section of the Belmont Bread and Circus (no joke), and if my voice is as inconsistent as this they may withhold my check. Or my arugala. Whatever they decide we're worth.