Happy Hour


Sotto voce
February 21, 2008, 5:58 am
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Last night’s drink: Contortionist, again. It’s becoming my new favorite.

For those of you that don’t know, I’ve been an aspiring vocalist for the past twenty or so years, with varying levels of confidence and commitment. I’ve sung in choirs, bands, jams, and, of course, had a cameo or two at more karaoke joints than I can count. But this last May, on my 26th birthday, I made a promise to myself to either fish or cut bait on this longtime dream. So I bought myself a keyboard and started writing and playing more guitar, and last night I had my first lesson with a personal voice coach.

Her name is Eleonor England, and already I think she is amazing. When I wrote my mom about the experience last night, I described the environment I walked into to:

“…she has this cute little cottage just outside of North Park with pale yellow walls and the old-style arched doorways separating the rooms. Out front, she has a little front porch consumed with houseplants and climbing vines, and indoors is hard wooden floors, an old dark-oak piano, tons of bookshelves, pictures, old bottles and little antiques..” 

Granted, it was dark, but even if my memory doesn’t serve me correctly, this place, and her presence, created the feeling of warmth and organic flow – very similar to my apartment in Redding.

She sat at her piano and asked me to stand behind her so that she could see my reflection in a mirror propped against the wall. In that position, we started with vocal warm-ups, and just from hearing my voice, she could tell that my lower back was tense, and my knees were locked tight – she told me I was very self-aware of how I held my body, which is true. As a tall girl, you are always told to stand straight, and carry yourself with good strong posture. Plus, my crazy 1st stepmom used to always tell me to suck in my gut, so that when I got pregnant one day, it wouldn’t hang out. But that’s another story. That’s a lot of other stories, actually.

Anyways, Ellie talked me through some relaxation exercises that made my legs tingle and my breath sink into my stomach. When I spoke again, it was in a tone that reminded me of cocoa butter – something essentially soft and warm. When she reacted with praise, I was instantly, yet subconsciously, self-aware again. My body sucked itself back into stick-straight tension, and my voice followed suit.

People who are close to me have commented on the fact that I have multiple voices – one voice for ordering food, one voice for work, one voice for friends, one voice for family, one for flirting, one for talking about dreams, one for academic discourse… a different voice for every situation. What I realized last night is that these voices correlate with my level of self-consciousness. The more relaxed and confident I am, the richer and lower my voice becomes. The tighter and more unsure I am, the higher it goes.

Happily, Ellie felt my relaxed voice was a perfect fit for jazz instruction, which is what I intend to pursue. So this weekend I will practice breathing through my capless knees while sinking in mud, smiling with the inside of my mouth, and giving myself permission to breathe above on the crescendo and below on the descent… in za. 

That, and studying for my journalism midterm. 

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The big D
October 21, 2007, 7:18 pm
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Last night’s drinks: Dirty martini on the rocks.

I joined three strangers on a walk of shame this morning along El Cajon Blvd., which (for anyone not living in San Diego) is an especially precarious place to be stumbling along in high heels at 8 a.m. due to the high volume of hookers in the area. Luckily, the worst thing that happened on the way to my car was to find that someone had sprayed it with pepsi or something the night before. These days, I’m happy to find that my car’s still there and in one piece, so this was almost a welcome surprise.

Zack let me crash at his house last night after a few too many toasts to the piano bar. He and his friend joined me around 11 p.m., just in time to save me from this one old man with really bad breath who kept saying accusingly, “I thought you were waiting for someone,” to which I kept replying, “they’re coming.” It was only a half lie – I thought they might show up. As we all walked over to a bigger table together, he seemed surprised when he leaned into me and said, “..they did come!”
Zack is moving to Dallas this week, and although we don’t spend very much time together these days, we have such a unique connection that his departure is a sad event for me. We had so much fun together last night, because we find humor in the nooks and crannies where others don’t usually see it. Yet this one, too, is moving away.

Some notable memories from last night’s jaunt:

The horn player, a man in his late 60’s, was the first guy to hit on me. He leaned across the bar and said, “Do you have a favorite song?” I think he was expecting me to request some Britney or something, because he was surprised that I actually could name some jazz standards that they knew. He smiled and asked me my name, to which he responded, “Nancy?” Now, for some reason, this is always the name people think I’m saying when I introduce myself, so these days I just let it ride, and I shook my head to say yes. He then proceeded to make jokes about “my future wife Nancy” and he even started to take on a little theme set where the names of the songs had Nancy in them, or were once sung by a “Nancy.” It was flattering, but at the same time a little awkward. I caught one of the older ladies at the bar giving me a little glare when I wasn’t looking, which was a new experience for me. I don’t mess with the sparkly-shirted Golden Girls. Of course, my out was that my name’s not Nancy.

I guy sat down next to our table and had the obligatory man-bang curling tenderly just off-center of his forehead – like Superman or Jason Priestley. I couldn’t stop staring at it, and at this point I was sauced, so it was also the funniest thing I’d ever seen. Then, the musicians started to play “Arthur’s Theme,” and it was all I could do to keep from just going up to that guy and slapping him across the face. Not in an aggressive way… in a way similar to the “it’s so good it’ll make you slap your mama” way. It was just the height of cheese.

I was actually funny last night. But I don’t remember any of it. Just believe me, I was good. And buff.

Zack’s friend was texting someone late last night, and he was being awfully suspicious about it. Especially since his wife was sound asleep in New York. How can we ever trust marriage when men have this natural need to take over the world with their sperm? There was a lot of that going around last night, too – that plus a few pockets full of Viagra. Man, where is the respite?

In something of a reply to JVeg’s writing assignment, last night encompassed much of the sphere that my passion has been evolving into. I’ve always been a night owl, because there is something so serene and surreal about it. Even in the loudest bars, the security of an absent sun almost gives you permission to have an alter ego. Alcohol, well, I don’t think I have to go there (but Melissa’s dirty martinis are the best anywhere). Last but not least, music. Especially jazz standards. The piano bar is one of the few places to which I feel totally comfortable going alone. I can sit in any part of the room, close my eyes, and get lost in the vocals, horns, and improvs up and down the scales. I’ve sung there a few times, and I’d like to do it more often, but I’m perfectly happy to listen to the others.

While I’d rather be caressing a piano and singing jazz, I’m lucky that my passion takes place in the hours opposite of my day job. Drinking during the day just makes it harder to go out at night.

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