Who Asked You?

Last week, the annual Stanford Jazz Workshop was held. I went last year, and it was one of the best experiences I have ever had. Unfortunately, Real Life began a few months ago, and I have been rendered permanently busy (there are an awful lot of Sudoku puzzles to be done, dammit, and only so many hours in the workday). Therefore, I am unable to attend any such workshops.
But, Jake called me from Stanford last Tuesday night. "Hey! Larry Goldings was here today."

"Oh, I know! You're so lucky!"

"He's every bit as cool as you said."

"Yeah? Did you get to meet him?"

"Well... he taught a master class. ... He's playing tonight!"

"Aww, man. Really? With who?"

"Peter Bernstein and Bill Stewart."

Well. That's when I let out a deafening scream, cursed myself for having a job that doesn't involved several weeks off whenever I feel like it, and spewed forth more swear words then even George Carlin would know what to do with.

Jake just laughed.


This exchange jogged my memory, and the rest of the week was flooded with thoughts of last year's Jazz Adventure, and more specifically, the people I met there. There was Madeline Eastman, Randy Porter, John Wiitalla, Vince Ladeano, Peter Bernstein, Dena DeRose ... and that's only scratching at the surface of the incredible faculty. But, it is my fellow attendees that I wish to focus on.

I was studying vocal jazz there last year, which means I was thrown into a room full of egotistical cry babies who clapped on 1 and 3. Don't get me wrong, most of them were really nice, and even more of them were very talented. But, since I was one of the youngest, there were a few (mainly women) who wanted to give me advice- and tons of it. Certainly! I thought to myself. By all means! Do you have an album out? No? How about a recording contract? Not that either, huh? Well, then quit acting like it. For God's sake, you've got timing like Lawrence Welk.

"You really need to work the mic. You know, like, work it?" offered a tall, thinskinned woman. She then turned to Fred, our theory instructor. "Why can't we just buy a computer program to do all this stupid transposing for us?"

I know. It made me cry, also. I know that somewhere in their little chick singer brains these women meant well. But, that was only part of it. Mainly, they were using my youth and inexperience as a way to broadcast their own knowledge to each other. "You never call 'Summertime' at a jam session" one of them snorted. She was turned towards me, but delivered this tidbit as she glanced around at the rest of the singers, looking for a reaction. She happened to be right, but I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.

"Honey, you're in charge of the musicians," a helpful and well-dressed black woman told me one night at a vocal jam session. "You own them! When you're in front of a band, ain't nobody more important than you. If you don't want more people to solo, you just come right back in. You're the singer. Nobody will mind. They're here for you."

I can only guess that this was in response to the piece I'd just sung. About 7 people wanted to solo on my tune. Let 'em, I say. Hell, the fact that any horn players are willing to show up and spend time at EgoJam ought to get them at least 12 bars on a tune, if not a gift certificate to Red Lobster. But, apparently, in my infinite naivete, I had neglected the first rule of Divaism: He who playeth of the instruments that are valved, slided, keyed, stringed, yea even skinned, are no more than one level above the lint you find betweenth the cushions of thine couch.

So that's fun.

And later on in the week, it got even more fun. Eventually the singers got bored with trying to top each other using the "Marginally Helpful Advice That Proves I Know More Than You" category, and began attempting to one-up each other with anything else they could think of. Once, a woman with an unfortunate chin-to-neck ratio even blurted out in the middle of Denny's, "Black guys love me!"

What?

Apparently she has big boobs and a butt or something. I don't know. That's when the musicians and I tuned out. "Just keep lookin' at your food and maybe it will stop," John Wiitalla said.

And that was the most useful advice I got all week.