It’s a bit
like shining a flashlight into an old attic: “Oh yeaaah, I forgot that was back
here…” As I wrote out rehearsal times
for this week I realized it’s been almost half my life (several more than ten
years, anyway) since I practiced music every day. But after a mere two years of cultivating
friends and asking around, the stars aligned and I found some people that like
jazz standards.
I happened
to walk into the Coffee House one night where a few people were chatting, and a
guy strummed guitar off to the side. I
stopped in my tracks and cautiously interrupted to ask, “Are you playing ‘All
of Me’?” Fast forward one week to happy
hours of imitating my favorite singers, going over beautiful old tunes, and
throwing in some more bluesy-rockers to even out the set, and we’re on our way
to something great. I’ve listened to
that Lake Street Dive song at least two hundred times, and got just the right
edge of frustration to describe taking landscapes and still lives, taking night
classes and making sculptures, and painting bad self-portraits.
The one
downside is that I have barely been outside, and haven’t taken any
pictures. And it’s been pretty gorgeous
lately; quite cold, but almost windless, and clear clear clear, with fata
morgana (inverted reflection mirage) of the mountains in the distance.
So instead
of pretty photos, I’ll leave you with the mental image of a jazz-style cover of
Green Day’s “Pulling Teeth.” (“I’m all
busted up, broken bones and nasty cuts, accidents will happen, but this time I
can’t get up.”)
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