Ready or not

Friday at Cabaret Summer School 2011.

I've got my songs.  Check!  Catherine advised me not to use all Bond songs, as they are a bit over-exposed.  So I'm using just the one - "You Only Live Twice" and that's my finale. 

I'm using the Brazilian song "Photograph" to paint a picture of the romantic and exciting life I once enviseaged for myself.  

And I needed a song for the part of the story where I knock myself out in the swimming pool.  I knew there was one that would be perfect - what was it?  Aha!  "Windmills of Your Mind" by Michel Legrand.  "Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel, never ending or beginning on an endless spinning reel..."  I've decided to learn the song overnight - it's got a lot of words, but I'll be fine.

I've got my patter.  Check!  I know how I'm going to introduce each song.  It's all coming together.

But interestingly, some of the singers and actors are feeling quite anxious about speaking on stage.  There are no lines to learn and no characters to play.  We have to be ourselves on stage, and that is causing them some angst.

I'm amongst the weaker singers, but here's where I have a strength.  I'm used to speaking on stage.  I offer a few tips.

During the morning we work on our pieces, then Paul Boylen from La Boheme (and founder of the Cabaret Fringe Festival) arrives to talk to us about music festivals and venue hire.  Paul mentions a new format that they are launching during the Cabaret Fringe Festival in June.  It's called Kabarett, and will be a one-hour show shared by 3-4 performers.  It will be a stepping stone between the ten-minute sets we'll be performing on Sunday night and a full-length (one-hour) solo show. 

La Boheme co-owners Catherine Campbell and Paul Boylen

After lunch it is rehearsal time.  Most of the shows are far from finished.  It's all a bit sketchy, but everyone manages to present something.

It's my turn and I launch into my James Bond impersonation, swinging my imaginary gun with abandon, while Matthew at the piano plays the classic Bond theme.  "Photograph" goes well, and they laugh as I tell the story of hitting my head.  Then I start "Windmills of Your Mind".  After the first two lines I draw a blank.  My mind really is spinning - and not in a good way.  Matthew keeps on playing but I can't latch onto any of the lyrics.  The song goes on and I'm not singing any of it.  Eventually he takes pity on me, we go back and he prompts me.  But I've been thrown and my confidence has been shredded.  I can't remember a word.  We move onto "You Only Live Twice" - the only song of the three that I've performed in public.  Thankfully I finish well.  

Matthew recommends that we scrap one of the verses of "Windmills" - it's a long song and I'll have a better chance of remembering the words.  It's a salutary experience, and from then on, I'm careful not to be over-ambitious with new songs.  I make sure I have plenty of time to learn the lyrics - it's better to learn a bit every day than to try cramming all the words overnight.  If it's a big song I'll perform an abridged version of it to build up confidence.

The week is over, and we will next meet on Sunday evening at The Promethean theatre, where our ten-minute solo segments will be unveiled.  

A show comes together

Thursday at Cabaret Summer School 2011.

Our mentors start forcing us to commit to songs and storylines.  There are only two days left in the program; then we perform on Sunday night.

The James Bond idea has solved my problem.  I really did want to sing my Brazilian music, but the lyrics tend to be a bit bland and don't suggest any sort of story.  The Brazilian theme will have to wait.

I come up with a title - "Confessions of a Wannabe Bond Girl".  It will be about my lifelong quest to be a "Bond girl" - an international woman of mystery.  Truth is, when I was young, I was going to be a foreign diplomat, living on the Champs-Elysee in Paris.  It was a Bond-girl aspiration of sorts.  Very different from the life I have actually led, as a commercial litigation lawyer in Adelaide, South Australia.

The group brainstorms ideas for me.  There is the seed of an "epic theme" - most people can identify with the idea of a "quest".  We map out the elements of a James Bond film - martinis, casinos, glamorous locations, guns, diamonds, villains and handsome men.  The story needs to have a "dip" - a low point at which things couldn't get much worse - and an uplifting ending.  

A journalist and a photographer from our daily newspaper arrive to report on what we've been doing this week.  This is the inaugural Australian Cabaret Summer School, so we're newsworthy.  We pose for a group photo around the piano.  Then Patrick, the entertainment reporter, wants to interview several of the participants.  I see him walking across the room straight towards me.  I'm guessing he wants to interview the oldest person in the room.  Sure enough, he asks my age, then goes on to ask how I came to be here.  I'm happy with my response, which I feel was succinct and to the point.

Next day, the article appears in the paper.  Patrick quotes me, accurately and at some length - and he doesn't mention my age.

Read the newspaper report here

Patrick (himself an entertainer) stays for our discussion about how we might publicize our own future shows, if we choose to have them.  Also advising us is Sidonie Henbest, Director of the Cabaret Fringe Festival (which was initiated by La Boheme).

Key messages are that we must have an eye-catching photo and an intriguing "elevator pitch".  I feel a bit overwhelmed by all the information but I write it all down anyway for future reference.   No way am I ready to have my own solo show.  It's enough of a challenge to put together a ten minute segment for our show on Sunday night.

That's me, second from the left.

The Name's Bond

Wednesday at Cabaret Summer School, 2013.

Our guest mentor is Stephen Sheahan, an actor and professional comedian.

We all need to include some humour in our show on Sunday night.

Stephen talks about "planned spontaneity.  He says "What makes you most charming to the audience is when you are going wrong.  When you seize the way you feel, and give a clue to your unique personality, the audience will love you for it."

We are all asked to sing a song that has potential to be funny.  Chiewy (of Asian heritage but very Australian) sings a beautiful song, "Reflections", with a fake Chinese accent.  Stephen says "Can you sing the song with that accent and try to sell me your shoes at the same time?"  She does, and it is hilarious.

I sing "Tomorrow Never Dies" from the James Bond movie of the same time.  The line I think is funny is "You're not the only spy out there".  But nobody laughs.  Standing in front of the group, in an attempt to salvage my self-respect, I say "I thought it had a funny line - oh dear, you're all wondering which one it was..."  They all roar with laughter.  They all start to compete amongst themselves with Bond-movie quips.

Stephen recommends a technique of finding the "punch line" in a song, and creating a "hook" to hang it on.

As each person sings, ideas come thick and fast: "Eat while you are singing", "do some Latin moves", change the words to make them funnier", "get your pianist to insult you".

Now we are asked to tell a story to the group - an experience that has some humour in it.

I tell how I went to Buenos Aires for a conference, went for a swim on the day of the opening ceremony and slammed my head against the wall of the hotel swimming pool, almost rendering myself unconscious.  I wondered if I should take myself to hospital but was worried that they would keep me there and I would miss my presentation.  That would be very ironic after I put in such a lot of work to prepare it.

The group is howling with laughter.  I didn't think it was that funny.

They think I'm daring, like a Bond girl.  They start to suggest story lines.  I scribble a page of notes.

I've sung two Bond songs this week.  It's true that I do love James Bond movies.  And I've developed a bit of a reputation at Cabaret Live! for my sparkly dresses.

Looks like my show is going to have a James Bond theme.

An identity crisis

Tuesday at Cabaret Summer School 2011.

We start with a discussion about "How to communicate with your musical director".

The musical director is your pianist.  At Cabaret Live, if I haven't been able to rehearse with the pianist, the accompaniment has sometimes been a surprise.  Quicker than how I've practised it, or a different style from what I expected.  So this advice is exactly what I need.  

The main message is "Know what you want, and ask for it with respect and openness".  We talk about key (provide sheet music in the key you want), tempo (sing a bit of the song for them), style (pop, rock, ballad or "follow me"), and form (how many verses, how many repeats, is there an instrumental break etc).

We discuss what to do on stage if the tempo isn't quite right, and learn how to sticky-tape our sheet music together to make it easier for the pianist to handle.

Next is the ballad workshop.  I don't have many ballads in my repertoire, but I've come up with a little-known Brazilian song that might fit the bill.  It's "Photograph" by Antonio Carlos Jobim.  I've never performed it before.  It encapsulates a happy moment for lovers, who are unaware that their relationship will soon end: "You and I, we two, together in this terrace by the sea; the sun is going down, and in your eyes I see the changing colours of the sea..." 

I'm up first.  I sing the song, imitating what I have heard in the Astrud Gilberto recording.  Now it's time for me to be workshopped.  Ben is assigned to be my "lover".  We sit down together and I have to speak the lyrics to Ben as if I mean the words with all my heart.  This is an acting challenge, as Ben is young enough to be my son.  The idea is to to phrase the lyrics conversationally.

Then I'm told to lean into the curve of the grand piano and drape my body over it, as if it's our bed.   "Now sing the song!" commands Catherine.  In the first verse, I am to set the tempo and Matthew will "follow" me.  I feel physically and emotionally uncomfortable.  I am visited by an image of Michelle Pfeiffer in the movie "The Fabulous Baker Boys", cavorting on a grand piano as she sings "Making Whoopee".  In contrast to Michelle, I feel lumpen and ungainly.  Who do I think I am?  I'm no movie star.  As I sing, I try to picture the sunset scene whilst attempting to settle myself on the piano.

I've heard it said that you cannot do anything that is not in keeping with your own self-image.  I've spent my entire career wearing conservative suits and sitting behind a desk; now I feel completely exposed.  I can't help thinking "I'm a lawyer draped over a grand piano.  What am I doing here?"

I get through the exercise and it's morning tea time.  As I exit the rehearsal room, I burst into tears.  I've been way outside my comfort zone.  But I'm guessing that zone is a whole lot bigger now.

Each person works through their individual challenges.  Christine doesn't like making eye contact with people in the audience.  She is required to sing to each person in the group, and we all encourage her.

At the end of the day, we discuss how to select songs for the miniature cabaret shows that we will each perform on Sunday night.  It's best to have three songs of different genres.  

I'm still trying to select a theme, and I'm beginning to worry about falling behind. 

The wild-card entrant

Monday at Cabaret Summer School, 2011.

There are twelve of us in the program, mostly people in their twenties.  There are several more mature women, but I reckon I'm the oldest.  We start with introductions around the circle.  "Final year of Drama at Flinders Uni", "Music theatre degree in Melbourne", "Jazz Voice degree from Adelaide University Conservatorium", "Accepted for Yale cabaret program later this year", "Professional opera singer; toured with Phantom of the Opera for seven years".

And then there's me.  When my turn comes to introduce myself, I call myself an "escaped lawyer", and describe how I stumbled into cabaret less than a year ago.  I don't try to exaggerate my musical experience.  I make it really clear that I'm a newcomer to performance.  Possibly I'm being a little disingenuous.  May I'm angling for a sympathy vote.

But how am I going to keep pace with these people?  I'm a complete amateur - a sort of wild-card entrant.

Workshop leaders Matthew and Catherine describe their respective backgrounds and tell how they performed together at the Blue Angel Club in New York.

With us also is Frank Ford, founder of the Adelaide Cabaret Festival (held in June of each year).

Now the first masterclass begins.  Everyone will sing a song in front of the group.  Feedback will be provided by both the mentors and the students.  Matthew tells us "We are all good at giving ourselves criticism.  We are not necessarily aware of the strengths that other people see in us."  We are all asked to write a few lines for each person - something that we liked about their performance and one or two things that they could improve.

It's like being on "Australian Idol" - minus the nasty judges.

Ben starts, with the Stephen Sondheim song "Losing My Mind".  Catherine tells him "Strip away the artifice and give us you".  Her advice for all of us is "You are enough".  This phrase becomes an anchor for me;  it helps me with my performance.  When Ben sings the song again, his authenticity highlights the emotion in the song.

Deb also sings "Losing My Mind".  Her version is entirely different - she's the opera singer.  Catherine advises her to use "flashes" of her operatic voice, for dramatic effect.  At the end of the week, Deb ends up performing the song as an "ode to chocolate", with hilarious results.

Amongst the great variety of performances, a common theme is to think more deeply about the words of the song, and to "tell the story".   Frank says "First, study the lyrics, then decide what you will do with them."

Straight after lunch it's my turn.  I sing "You Only Live Twice", from the James Bond movie.  It's a meaningful song for me; it says it's never too late to follow your dreams.  I stand alone beside the grand piano, in broad daylight, in front of a dozen people in plastic chairs, looking at me.  There's no microphone.  My voice feels naked and doesn't resonate.  I get through the song and remain standing there while the three mentors comment on my performance.  "Focus on the key words"; "Think about the stranger you're singing about - what does he look like?"; "Sing through the phrases to create continuity"; "What you are thinking makes a big difference to what comes out of your mouth - imagine the dream coming true."

They ask me to sing it again.  They say "That was much better".  I'm a newbie, but they're taking me as seriously as the others.

At the end of the day, Matthew asks us to think about a "working title" for our shows.  We'll be performing these on Sunday night, and we'll need to find a concept to work with.

When I get home, I open the sheaf of notes that my class-mates have written for me.  My heart gains pace.  I take a deep breath and read.  There are words of praise and encouragement, and some tips on better breathing.

Tomorrow is "Ballad Day".  I have to find a ballad to sing.

Cabaret Summer School

We've been told our mission, and have chosen to accept it.

At the end of the week, each of us will perform a ten-minute solo segment consisting of three songs and connecting patter.  To prepare for Summer School, we're asked to put together a list of 6-10 possible songs.  I've scoured my books and assembled my list.

I love it when the New Year actually brings something new.  It's the third week of January - high summer in Australia.  I'm taking the whole week off to take part in this intensive cabaret course.  

It's Sunday night and we're at La Boheme for our "meet and greet".  Last time I was here was New Year's Eve.  It was a French-themed party with cocktails, champagne and a very entertaining three-hour cabaret show by Catherine, Matthew and Sidonie (a professional singer who regularly performs at Cabaret Live, and has occasionally hosted the event).

The place feels very different now, with the the stage in darkness, the chairs packed away and a small group of people standing around in ordinary clothes.

Introductions are made.  Everyone seems to have a background of singing, dancing or acting (or all of these).  I meet a group of drama students.  Suddenly a small tide of panic rises inside me, filling me with self-doubt.   Am I in the wrong place?  I've looked forward to this program for weeks, but I've never done any acting.  I've always avoided it, ever since I was fourteen years old when a classmate ridiculed my performance in drama class.  I know this is pathetic, but now I'm feeling inferior and insecure.

I mention to Matthew that I have zero acting experience.  He says "That should not matter".  I relax a bit, and enjoy a glass of wine with the group.  "Housekeeping" matters are dealt with - where to find the venue, where to park, what to bring and what we're going to do tomorrow.  Each of us will sing a song of our choice in front of the group.

The wait is over.  I've been happily telling anyone who will listen that I'm doing this program.  Now it's finally here. Time to deliver.  Time to stop talking and start working.  

The Cabaret Czar

Towards the end of the year, I realize that I'm addicted to cabaret.

I take part in the School of Rock concert, choosing Blondie's "Call Me" - one of the songs from my first Warriors show.  Blondie has been touring here, so it's a topical song.  Although I keep having my singing lessons there, it's the last time I sing in the AIMMS event.  I've moved on to cabaret.  A bit over a year later,  the AIMMS school has closed - a victim of the GFC.

One Sunday night I arrive at La Boheme to find a new pianist there.  He says "Hi, I'm Matthew".

I show him the song I want to sing, and he says "That should be fine".

When my husband arrives, he sees the pianist, nudges me and says "You know who that is!"  I say "His name's Matthew." Bill says "It's Matthew Carey.  Remember, we saw him in that show in the Spiegeltent?"

Several years earlier I had seen my first ever cabaret show, during the Adelaide Fringe.  It was called "Flat on Your Bacharach" - an award-winning comedy with songs by Burt Bacharach.  Matthew played piano, and there were two excellent singers, Libby O'Donovan and Melissa McCaig.  From his seat at the piano, Matthew contributed a lot of wit to the show.

Suddenly I feel a bit overwhelmed.  Matthew Carey is about to accompany me?  He does, and I survive.

As time goes by, I learn that Matthew accompanies a lot of visiting artists.  He even gets flown to Sydney to accompany Liza Minelli.  This means of course that there are only two degrees of separation between me and Liza.

Newspaper reviewers refer to Matthew as "the ubiquitous Mr Carey" and "local cabaret czar".

I begin to connect on Facebook with the people I've met at Cabaret Live - Nikki, Chris, Matthew and various other singers.  I just think it's useful to have a network.

Another person who turns up towards the end of the year is cabaret performer Catherine Campbell.  She and her husband Paul are part-owners of La Boheme.  In fact, La Boheme was created for her.  Catherine has taken time off after having a baby.  But now she is back with a vengeance, taking to the stage with a ferocious energy that draws riotous laughter from the audience.

My conference that year is in Vancouver.  At a cocktail party, I find myself in conversation with a group of Brazilian lawyers.  I tell them how much I love the music of Jobim.  Spontaneously they burst into song.  They know his songs.  We all sing along together.  Then one of them turns to me and says "How come you know all the words?"

Soon after returning, I see a message from Matthew on Facebook:

"The inaugural Australian Cabaret Summer School will be held in January.  An intensive week where you can learn cabaret skills from top people in the business."

A summer school?  They'll teach me?

I have to be there.

Three minutes per month

I'm cheating and getting away with it.

Cabaret Live! is meant to be impromptu, but I know where the pianist lives, and I pin him down and rehearse my song with him in advance.  My reasoning is that many of the other singers are probably performing elsewhere during the month, whereas Cabaret Live is my only performance opportunity.

I prepare my song for the whole month.  Then everything is decided in the three minutes I am on stage.  Afterwards I berate myself for not singing as well as I did in my lounge room.  During the sleepless night that follows, I replay and critically evaluate my performance.  I compare myself unfavourably with other singers, although I know that these people are career singers with a lot more experience than me.

I'm not very confident with my singing.  Often, I'm unsure which part of my voice to use.  I'm terrified of making an ugly noise on stage, so I play it safe, holding my voice in; relying on the microphone to project it.  I can't seem to incorporate the refinements I'm developing, or even remember to breathe, though I remind myself to do it, as I step on stage.

And I have no idea what to do with my body.  My feet feel stuck to the spot, and Nikki has told me that I tend to flap my left arm involuntarily.  She advises me to hold myself still while I sing.  Later, when I have established control I can add gestures.

I'm learning a lot, though.  Chris introduces me to the "colle voce" technique, where the accompanist "follows" the singer.  For the Jobim song "Dindi", he advises me "You set the tempo for the first part, and sing it as elastically as you like."

The first time I try it on stage, it is a breathtaking experience.  I open my mouth and sing, and there he is, following along behind.  It's like being in the pilot's seat of a jumbo jet, but what I'm driving is a lush Chris Martin accompaniment.  We reach the second part of the song, where we are meant to come back together; I sing my entry note, and Chris is right there with me.

The event is growing, and we now get one song each, not two.  I'm accruing stage time, at the rate of three minutes per month.  It's not a lot, but better than not having three minutes a month.

Maestro Mendes

One Saturday morning I happen to see "Rage" on television.  Please note - I am not actually watching "Rage" (a pop-music show for teenagers).  My teenagers are watching "Rage" and I happen to walk past.

The music video that is playing is Black Eyed Peas playing "Mas Que Nada".  It stops me in my tracks and I watch to the end of the song.  At the end, the old guy playing piano laughs, put on a fedora hat and walks off the set.

I download the song and listen to it while making dinner.

My husband comes home and says "That song was originally done by Sergio Mendes and Brasil 66".

So I need to download that version also, and I find that it's even better than the Black Eyed Peas version.

I hunt for more Brasil 66 and manage to find a "best-of" CD.  I am struck by what a creative arranger Sergio Mendes was (is - he is still very active in the music scene).  Songs like "Scarborough Fair", "The Look of Love" and "Going out of my Head".  Jobim songs such as "Wave".  And original songs like "So Many Stars".

I play this CD until the whole family is sick of it.  But I'm not sick of it - I'm considering which of these songs I could sing.

I'm particularly impressed with the lead singer, Lani Hall.  She came from Chicago, spoke no Portuguese and learned the lyrics phonetically.  She ended up marrying Herb Alpert, a trumpet player (of Tijuana Brass fame) and manager of Brasil 66.  Today they are still together and live on a large property in the US.  They are philanthropists, donating money to music programs at schools for disadvantaged kids.  And they are still recording and touring.

I'd thought that maybe it was the departure of Lani and Herb that broke up Brasil 66, but apparently Sergio Mendes brought his wife in as lead singer.  Brasil 66 became Brasil 77 and never replicated its success.

Lani Hall later sang the title song for the James Bond movie "Tomorrow Never Dies".

I listen to the "colours" in Lani's voice and try to imitate her.  I try to work out where she is placing the sound to get that effect.  

And I begin to collect every Brasil 66 CD that I can find.

Piano genius for hire

On my second visit to Cabaret Live, I feel a bit more confident on stage.  I manage to remember most of my lyrics.

Seeing pianist Chris play song after song, often sight-reading or playing from memory, it occurs to me that it might be a good idea to get his contact details.  I'm used to actively networking for my business, so it does not seem like a very big leap for me to ask him for his card.  At this stage I have no particular reason for keeping in touch - simply that I might possibly need good musicians in the future.

Chris immediately hands over his card and says"I'd be very pleased to accompany you, whenever you have a gig".

As if I was about to have one.

Over the next few months, I visit Chris' home studio several times.  Chris is already familiar with a lot of the Brazilian songs that I want to sing.  He helps me to find the right keys for my songs.  He pencils the new keys into my song books.  We rehearse the songs I would like to perform at Cabaret Live.  He suggests arrangements for the songs, for example, we put an instrumental break into the middle of it and vary the ending.  I take my "conference kit" voice recorder and use it to record Chris playing the song, so I can practice with the piano music.

I start to build up a collection of custom-made backing tracks.  It makes a huge difference to be able to practice the songs at home with accompaniment.  And when I get on stage at La Boheme, I know what I'm going to do, which reduces my anxiety.

All the while, I marvel that I can purchase music genius by the hour.

Chris also mentions that he plays with a modern jazz group at La Boheme every Wednesday night.  I've seen the poster for this event - the band is called The New Cabal.

Click here to watch The New Cabal live at La Boheme

One Wednesday night I venture in to see their show.  The bar is packed with eager jazz enthusiasts.  They whoop, yell and applaud each virtuoso solo. The tiny stage is crammed with musicians and equipment.

It's like something you would find in New York.  Except that I can park around the corner.  And I can sit at a table right in front of the stage, where I can watch Chris' fingers scramble amongst the keys and see him almost levitate above the keyboard as the intensity builds.

It's mid-week magic, and La Boheme has become one of my favourite places in the world.

Cabaret Live!

Cabaret Live! had begun about six months before I discovered it.

It's a show that provides an opportunity for artists to try out new material and for emerging artists to hone their skills.

OK, so now I'm an "emerging artist"?  I'm thinking I might take a while to "hatch".

The show is unrehearsed.  Singers turn up, write their name and song on the running sheet, then sit in the audience.  There is no programme.  You don't know when you will be called.  You have to be ready at any time to get up out of your seat, hand your music to the pianist, step onto the stage and perform.  The pianists are professional musicians who can sight-read whatever music you give them.  Sometimes they will sight-transpose it, too.

You don't rehearse with the pianist.  The rehearsal is the performance.  You're on stage for three minutes, and whatever you happen produce - well, that's your contribution to the show.

For someone like me who likes to be extremely well prepared, this is terrifying but strangely exhilarating.

Click here to read more about Cabaret Live!

Before the show on the first night, I was asked to talk to pianist Chris about my songs.  Because the poster made the event sound pretty casual ("or choose from our extensive library"), I hadn't decided on my songs beforehand.  I showed a couple of songs to Chris and he said "Fine, no problem.  What key would you like?"  We worked out the keys.  Then he said "Would you like a Latin swing with that?"  Yes, I would.  This is much more than piano karaoke.

As the months went by, though, the event grew, and there was no longer the opportunity for this sort of discussion.

Never again did I rely on choosing my songs on the night; I always came with a song prepared, and specified the key I wanted.  Cabaret Live! is not nearly as casual as the sign suggested.  The event attracts singers of a high calibre - music school graduates; people auditioning for music schools and national musicals; professional performers.  The lights go down, the spotlight goes on and the sound from the microphone is extremely high-quality.  You don't want to mess up your act in front of a paying audience.

That's right - people pay to attend.  They deserve value in their entertainment.  So it's not enough to have "a bit of a jam" on stage - you need to produce a performance, even though it's impromptu.

Before this, I'd always performed with a band.  There's plenty for the audience to look at - drums, guitars, other people.  On the stage at La Boheme, it's just you - in a spotlight.  It feels extremely confronting.

And it's a big new challenge.

Blinded by the light

The world is swallowed up by darkness, apart from one dazzling white light which does not seem to illuminate anything.  Music wafts towards me.  I am blinded and trembling with raw fear.

Six months after singing "Cabaret" at my birthday party, I am a cabaret act, and the thing that is lit up is me.

I'm here because I saw the sign.

Bill and I were going to see a play in the Adelaide Festival of Arts.  He let me out to collect the tickets, while he parked the car.  As I sauntered down the road towards the theatre, I stopped to look in a window.  I'd vaguely noticed it before; where an old tobacconist shop used to be - what is this place? .

"La Boheme" - a bar and nightclub.  Flyers in the windows advertise some of the acts performing there.  One poster spruiks a show called "Cabaret Live".  It asks me three questions:

• Have you been singing in your lounge room?
• Has it become too small for you?
• Would you like to sing here, in front of a discerning and supportive audience?

I answer "Yes!" to 1,2 and 3.

The poster instructs me "First Sunday of every month.  Bring your own sheet music, or choose from our extensive library."

So it's sort of like "piano karaoke"?  Sounds cool!

After the play, I take Bill to look at the sign.  

I say "I have to go to it."  

He says "Why?"

He is very concerned that it will be seedy.  Perhaps he is imagining some sort of strip club.

But a week later, we arrive at La Boheme, together with two friends who want to hear me sing again.

It is like entering a lost world.  The place is decorated in period Parisian style, dripping with atmosphere.

Click here to have a look at La Boheme

I am greeted warmly by Nikki who is hosting the show.  She asks me "Are you having a Fringe show that you'd like us to promote?"  Er, no...and it seems that amongst the eight performers I am the only one who has come straight from the lounge room.  Everyone else has a Fringe show.

La Boheme is gorgeous.  Except that I am the entertainment.  What was I thinking - inviting our friends to watch me die on stage?

I am emblazoned against a huge red velvet curtain.  Piano accompaniment ripples lushly.  The microphone in my hand has a life of its own - what is making it jump around like that?  All of a sudden I can see the audience!  I'm a speaker, so I pace up and down the stage.  I've wandered out of the spotlight, so I can see them - the only problem is, they can no longer see me.  Intrigued by this phenomenon, I wander in and out of the light.

I'm singing "Fly Me To The Moon".  As I enter the second verse, my mind goes blank.  I seize up with terror.  But then I hear the words that I should be singing.  It's Chris, the pianist - he's my saviour.  When I get to the end of the song I hear applause.  The lights come on and there they are - my husband and our friends, still in the front row.

I'm not dead - I'm a cabaret performer.

In the second half of the show, Nikki encourages me to perform again.  This time I'm singing "It Might As Well Be Spring".  Again I draw a blank and again Chris rescues me, enabling me to finish the song with my self-respect intact.  

Right there and then I decide - I'm coming here every month.  This is what's going to take me to the next level.

Boots made for walking

The rest of the year passes quickly.  I head off to a Law conference in Madrid, where I am again presenting.  In fact, I get to present at two sessions; in addition to the one I've been preparing for. Two days before I leave Australia, a session Chair contacts me, to say that a speaker has pulled out of her panel; could I fill in?  I pack an extra slideshow with me; it's ready to go, and at the conference I present it to a packed room.  The one-week trip to Madrid provides an opportunity to build on the small amount of Spanish I learned for the previous year's trip to Argentina.

When I get back to Australia, I receive an email from an organization that I belong to (the National Speakers Association) to say that they are having a Christmas dinner meeting and they would like to make it a talent show.  Would any of the members like to submit an item?

I put myself forward; I've got songs, and I've got backing tracks.  I'm starting to be able to tell people "I'm a singer" and still keep a straight face.  Derrick, the local President, auditions me, and declares me passable.  I decide on "You Gotta Be" by Des'ree: "Listen as  your day unfolds, challenge what the future holds, try and keep your head up to the sky.  Lovers, they may cause you tears; go ahead, release your fears, stand up and be counted, don't be ashamed to cry."

It feels very strange to sing in front of people I know, seated at tables having dinner, but it's an opportunity to perform.  I'm surprised about the adrenaline rush that occurs when I start to sing; I thought I'd be fine, but my body tells me to be afraid.  It's the "flight or fight" syndrome which also kicks in when we stand up to speak in public.  I'm beginning to conquer it when I speak; why does singing feel so different?

it's also time to register for the music school Christmas concert.  I decide on a new song that I've never sung before - "These Boots are Made for Walking" by Nancy Sinatra.  The key is fine; I put my name down and we start rehearsals.  I need some dance moves; once again, Victoria's daughter Genevieve creates a simple routine for me.  I've noticed the difference between performers who present an "act" and those who simply get up and sing with no stagecraft at all.  This song calls for movement!

It also calls for boots.  Winter's over, and in any event, I'm not keen to be stuck with extra footwear, so I visit some costume hire shops.  I find a pair of long silver sparkly boots.  They're a big chunky and clunky, and coming apart at the seams, but too bad; they'll do.  On the day of the show they are a hit.  I get up on stage and I feel confident; my song goes well.

Year 4 is over, and I have absolutely no idea of what is waiting for me in the next year.  Something is about to happen, that will change my life, and it will never be the same again.

The big five-oh

Also during that same year, I turn 50.  Bill and I decide to hold a party, so we rent a function room at a local pub.

I consider what I will say in my speech.  What I'd really like to do is to sing something.  I'm starting to feel more confident, and what's the point of having a skill if you never expose it to anyone?

Yes, I'd like to do a singing speech.  I've got backing tracks.  So I scour my collection to see which songs might work.  They need to be in the right key and they need to be songs that I can sing well.  I've never performed with backing tracks, but why not?  I've got all these discs; I should use them.

I settle on "History Repeating", as I've performed it before, and the backing is very lush.  Paging through my books, I hit upon "Cabaret".  I've never sung it before, but it would be a great song for turning 50.  "Start by admitting from cradle to tomb, it isn't that long a stay...Life is a cabaret old chum, and I love a cabaret!"

It's a big song, and some of the phrases are a bit high for me.  But suppose I had someone to sing it with me?

My friend Victoria is a singer.  She agrees to the plan, but only if we do plenty of practice beforehand, and also obtain some advice from her singing teacher.  So the two of us attend her singing lesson together once a week, for several weeks before the event.  Her teacher, Alison, helps us to divide up the song according to our respective vocal strengths.  It works well because Victoria is a soprano and I'm an alto.  She gets the high bits; I get the low bits.  We start to feel pretty good about the song.

Then there is the issue of movement.  We can't just stand there stiffly and sing.  So Victoria's daughter Genevieve choreographs us.  She gives us some simple moves and creates a slightly comic routine that plays on the fact that there's a six-inch difference in height between the two of us.  We practise in Victoria's lounge room, with Genevieve filming us on her phone so we'll remember the moves.

I hire a sort of karaoke machine; it's an all-in-one CD player, speaker and mic system.  It comes with two wireless microphones and it's reasonably portable.

I also hire a small stage and arrange for it to be delivered to the venue on the morning of the party.  We're expecting about 80 guests, and if we are on the same level, they won't be able to see us.

I've ordered a large birthday cake from the local bakery, and on the day of the party I collect it and take it to the venue, where they have space to store it in their fridge.

The day passes quickly, and we arrive at the pub in time for a quick run-through.  I'm wearing a fully-sequinned, silver mini-dress.  It's my party, and I'll sparkle if I want to.

It's not long before the guests start to arrive, in a seemingly endless stream.  The room quickly fills, and I do my best to circulate and talk to everyone.  Then, suddenly it's time for the speeches.

Bill gets everyone's attention and makes a short speech, then introduces me.  I thank everyone for coming, then talk about how, when you reach the age of 50, you start to see the same fashions coming around again, and how bands from your youth start making come-back tours; in short, you find that history is repeating.

Cue music - and I'm about to dive head-first into what I thought was a good idea, but is starting to feel like a Kamikaze plan, as I survey the faces of the assembled guests.  I'm standing on this tiny stage all by myself with a microphone, and they are all looking at me.  I start to sing, and I also begin to pace up and down the stage; why?  I'm not sure where to look - why are they all looking at me?  No one is reacting; but what sort of reaction did I expect?  Suddenly the song is over, and everyone applauds.

Then I call Victoria up on stage, and introduce her with some light banter.  I want to get her talking into the mic in order to settle her down before we perform.  The music starts and we're on.  By now the audience has got over the shock and is warming to the performance.  We know what we're doing; the practice is paying off.  We relax and enjoy our few minutes in the limelight.

My big moment comes when I sing "I made my mind up back in Chelsea; when I go, I'm goin' like Elsie!"  What a great line.  What a great song about living life to the full.  What a great night.

Again, lots of applause and now we are done; now we can relax for the rest of the evening.

A friend tells me later that when I began to sing, people started murmuring "She can actually sing".  Well, I'm glad they thought so.

Now looking back, I know that I did not sing well that night compared with the way I sing now.  But it's all a journey.  You have to make a start or you will remain where you are.

The guitar man

There's a saying that once you are committed to a course of action, events will conspire in your favour.

It's still Year 4, and as my obsession with Bossa Nova grows, I realize I want to perform it.

It's guitar music, but the guitarists I know cannot seem to play it.  They make a valiant start but then concede defeat, cursing "Jazz chords!!!".  I need someone who can play these mystical jazz chords.

But who?

One Saturday night, Bill and I attend a party for a colleague of his who is turning 40.  It's a lovely balmy summer night and it's a big party at a large house.  From a distance, some familiar music reaches me faintly.  I tune in.  It's "A Felicidade" by Jobim - and it sounds like live music.

I nudge the person next to me in the group.  "Can you hear that music?  Listen!".  She shrugs, uninterested.  I drift away and follow the music out to the patio, where I locate its source.  Two musicians, playing my favourite songs.  Clearly, they are accomplished musicians.  I loiter there, sipping on my wine, and when they take a break I introduce myself to Tony (keyboard) and Mike (guitar).  I compliment them on the music.  Rashly, I say "I sing these songs".  It feels completely audacious to call myself a singer, but I have to take the chance.  I find out that they both teach music at tertiary level.  I ask if they have cards.  Tony gives me his.  Mike writes his email address on a piece of paper.

They start the music again.  I hang around listening; dancing tipsily; hoping they will not misinterpret my interest.

On Monday I invite them both to join my networks on Facebook and LinkedIn.  Tony accepts both invitations, but Mike the does not respond.

I don't pursue him.  Why would he have the slightest interest in accompanying me?  He's way out of my league.