Will Sing for Champagne
November 11, 2008
Here it comes. Stalemate. Good thing I love a challenge, like finding a jazz gig as the recession deepens, consumers stay home and eat canned beans, club owners panic. I have decided that if need be, I will perform for free, or at least for champagne. As Oscar Wilde said, “Give me the luxuries and I’ll live without the necessities.” During hard times, don’t give up every indulgence, cut back on necessities instead. Close the doors in your house and only heat one room but buy fresh flowers for your table. You need beauty and laughter to offset the darkening mood. Give extra time and help to your friends. Take in the stray cat. A simpler time is coming. Simple and tough. What a wonderful opportunity to practice your survivor skills and long dormant generosities. The silver lining is clearly evident, moreso now than ever. Those of us who have suffered the humility of being spoiled and indulged can reinvent ourselves. We’ve always been curious, haven’t we — How would we fare? — the answer is just around the corner. Seize the day!
Recession Special! Will Sing for Food!
November 7, 2008
Two week special! One, (1) Free evening’s entertainment (live audition) in exchange for dinner! Don’t miss this new opportunity to exploit local musicians!!!
The Meaning of Life
October 26, 2008
The meaning of life is that it ends. So, “Enjoy Yourself, it’s later than you think. Enjoy yourself, while you’re still in the pink, the years go by as quickly as a wink, enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself it’s later than you think. You planned to have a drink of two, see Laurel in her show, but every week you put it off, you don’t just have the dough, your house is in foreclosure and your job is going down, but none of it will matter when you’re six feet underground.” (pic: Mark Ritz, Elaine Cooke and friends - and an unknown dead person)
The Jazz GigToilet Bowl
October 17, 2008
Consider working in an industry where the unemployment rate is minus 3,900 percent. That’s the music business. Jazz is ten times worse, in fact I have heard that it is easier to become a Vice Presidential candidate than to get a jazz gig during a recession. I only have a gig because my dear friend, Buddy Cianci’s best friend Artin, owns a restaurant. I am honored that the perennial Mayor of All Mayors took time from his celebrity venues to help me. He has always supported artists and other non-profit organizations. He admires the Underdog. It is one of his finest qualities and in my mind reveals the true nature of the man. The sycophants who crave elbow rubbing with those who are invited to the right parties are too dense to recognize anyone or anything of quality by any other measure. We must pity them and then stay as far away from them as possible. Speaking of sycophants or should I say charletans, when the local jazz musicians got wind of my return to Providence and my gig, they went bullshit. My pianist called me yesterday to warn me that some of the creepier members of the groove community are trying to take over and “book” the restaurant I sing in. “Book” as in, get the gig, or get gigs other nights with their friends. I love this. But I was saddened that my pianist was concerned for his job. He has seen it all in Boston the last few years, and been “fucked over” time and time again by the ruthless competition for shitty low paying gigs all over New England. That what’s funny. A bunch of people fighting over a scrap of meat that is mostly gristle. Sometimes struggling to entrench themselves in a non-paying gig just so that they can get up and play. I won’t mention the horror of open-mike nights, the ultimate in exploitation, and what that does to a musicians sense of worth.
I told my pianist that while he was working with me, he had no worries, no competition, because nobody was as nuts as I was, at least in Rhode Island. When people want to go out and see “nuts” perform, they come and see me, and my pianist and bass player, period, unless they are going to a mud wrestling tournament. That is the joy of being completely original and take that lesson to your own heart. Never compromise yourself, never alter your work for any amount of money, any promise of fame or success. And never do an open-mike night. Eventually you will find your audience, employee, life. A life that is your very own. Let them take the gig, the job, the opportunity - offer it up to them graciously, then go get something better. There is always, ALWAYS, something better.
Atlas Shrugged and I Sighed
October 14, 2008
Trapped in trashless Vermont with cows and trees and pastures and white people until I was twenty, it was literature that made clear to me all that I was missing - the grand greasy underbelly of commerce and humanity as described by Ayn Rand– as Dagney, is it?- looks out over her father’s rusty acreage of railways and warehouses and sees a paradise of possibilities instead of a pocketful of possies. I was sixteen when I read that book. From that time on, I knew what I was missing. After my parents took me to New York at age seventeen and I saw my first skyscraper, tasted a Coney Island hot dog and watched Carol Burnette walking across a stage in a bright pink poodle skirt, the beauty of a village green sickened me and it still does. Isn’t it funny that all I own in this world is Vermont real estate? I have come to appreciate the wide expanse of a forty acre pasture and a winding path through white birch, but when I am walking near garbage strewn railroad tracks inhaling the oily bitterness of rust and dog shit, I feel closer to home. In fact, here in Pawtucket, where abandon railroad tracks pass through a neglected ancient (in American terms) cemetary, is where I take myself for a walk, along with the dog.
Today was a particularly beautiful autumn day, crisp and clear. I walked the curving overgrown path, past wrangling knotted trees, stunned proud by their autumn colors. A sea of broken gravestones on either side. The mother’s and father’s. Uncles and grandmothers. The Beloved. An empty pint of rum propped against the tiny stone of an early death. The weather eaten fallen flag on a young soldiers grave, name indecipherable, moss burned.
The brown grass vibrated with layers of moldering yesterday’s, the remnants of other lives just as precious as my own. These buried bones were not lonely, surrounded with rotting history, everything soaking into the ground uniformly, unseparated, un-recycled, just back into the organic soup that is us and ours and theirs. I stood above them, feeling beneath them, honored to be near them. Close to home.
Lofty Intentions
September 29, 2008
One of the wonderful things about being an artist — we are always in an economic downturn. We’re used to being broke, in fact, we thrive on it, and so can you. “When you got nothin’ you got nothin’ to lose” - Bob Dylan. Of course, in this country, even with nothing, we live very well, and I have more than nothing, but if I lose that something, I can handle it. I know how to make a delicious meal from a can of tomato soup, a can of spam, and a few croutons. I can dress myself proper for the Oscars with two curtains and a bungee cord. I do not fret about my retirement because I don’t have a real job with a real desk and a real boss. I don’t have a real bank account, a real 401K, or a real investment portfolio. The artist’s life is virtual and takes place in the soul- and the soul’s survival techniques are seldom bankable.
For those of you who are spit angry with the Wall Street crowd, forgive them. They are extremely unhappy people. I hung around with them in the late 70’s during a bear market- in New York - where we all used to shake a stick and raise a glass at Dorian’s Red Hand, or red something - The guys used to send each other bottles of Dom Perignon, table to table, and compete. Who could send the most bottles to the most tables. I’m glad I was there. the third glass of Dom Perignon tastes like Brut, and the fifth glass tastes like Andre. Excess turns in on itself…exhausting the senses, killing them flat until nothing delivers a thrill. I treasure those years now. New York, Aspen, Newport. They taught me much more about life than my days living in a shower stall in Brooklyn. I tell you. Pity the beautiful people, they suffer.
I, for one, am not suffering. Cutting living costs further, I have moved into a loft space in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. It’s big enough for a roller derby, which is why I have just sewn up a prototype for an electric bathrobe. I grabbed two electric blankets and carefully added sleeves and buttons. Instead of a battery pack, I decided to use a long extension cord for manueverability. There will be no need to heat the palace this winter. I will be designing an electric face mask and electric scarf and bonnet tomorrow. I am sharing the loft with a sneaker designer for Reebok. He left for China this morning and has told me he doesnt care if I turn the loft into a cabaret. In another week you will be receiving an invitation to a party at the loft called Chair-Woman. I will ask that you bring a chair instead of, say, a casserole, and leave it with me so that I can begin to create a replica of a 1930’s Krakow speak-easy bottle club.
The great thing about living in a building with other artist’s – there are very few rules, especially in Pawtucket, the little city north of Providence. Industrial, noisy, messy, ignored by the world, Pawtucket is the perfect place to create. Creation can be messy and certainly not lucrative. I hope that Hank, the roommate, will design sneakers for my dog Howard. I don’t wear sneakers because when I put them on I feel like I should walk somewhere. I like to drive. I will be posting a pix of my electric bathrobe soon.
Mona Lott - still incubating
September 8, 2008
I believe in a subtle feminity and so needed the help of my most feminine friends to advise me on Mona Lott’s dress code - i.e. cleavage, g-string fabric, garter belt adjustment, earrings… and Mona’s manner - lip pursing, eyelash batting, pole dancing, side glances, knock knee walk. Despite hours of practice and three Wednesday nights of performance, Mona has yet to be born. She is still just me with a padded bra and a wig. Sadly, the Mona that I have thus far evoked is pathetic, downtrodden and a real downer. Breathless with despair, my Mona cannot be heard in the balcony. My Mona is not nightclub material. Her soul is conclave and ravaged. Her passions suppressed. She may do well in films, but she’ll need a human hair wig and lip injections. Meanwhile, she’ll pop up once in a while at the Sidebar, but only for ballads. I will be searching for her replacement. Thank you for your patience in this matter.
Booza, Mona Lott’s husband, escapes from Fed. Prison
September 3, 2008
Booza Lott, former truck driver and plastic surgeon, escaped from a maximum security prison on Monday and was found hiding in the coat room at The SideBar and Grille in Providence on Wednesday. His wife, Mona, the singer at the club, told police she had no knowledge of Booza’s activities or present whereabouts. Booza left the club before police arrived and is At Large.
Featured Article:
Thanks to some wise nightclubs owners, live entertainers continue to eat well during this economic downturn. It was during the Great Depression that Cabaret and Vaudeville got their start as people swarmed into the pubs to forget their troubles for a few hours. The cost/value ratio of live entertainment suits the recession pocket book and mind-set. If you stay home and wallow about your wallet, you’ll soon find yourself in the emergency room for a failed suicide attempt, chronic depression or Epstein-Barr Virus. Without health insurance, your stress-related illness will cost you upwards to $1,000 dollars. A night out in a cabaret will run you about $50. Take your pick. See you at The Sidebar….