On a Sunday afternoon I arrive at an inner-city cafe/restaurant. My friend Lauren (from the inaugural Cabaret Summer School) is singing there, accompanied by a guitarist. I sit in the corner and order a coffee and a light snack. Sunshine streams through the open door as the music wafts in my direction. Lauren sings strongly and improvises creatively.
During a break, Lauren recognises me. She comes over and embraces me warmly. She mentions that she is graduating from her University music degree and her final recital is next week. I tell her I'll be there - I've already seen her event publicised on Facebook. She indicates a guy sitting at a table outside. "Luke will be one of my adjudicators", she says.
Luke is the other reason I've come out to this event today. He is one of the jazz singers I often hear about, but I've never heard him sing. His public performances seem always to be on week nights at locations I can't get to. He is a cousin of Chris, the gifted pianist who often accompanied me in the early days.
Lauren finishes her set and departs. Luke and his guitarist set up. It is now late in the day. Bill arrives and we order some wine and a seafood entree platter. We chat and enjoy the music. As the musicians announce that they are taking a break, they invite requests. Our platter arrives, and we munch on the delicious snacks.
When the next break comes, they plead for requests. I go up and ask if they play any songs by Jobim: "I'm sure you would have quite a few", I say. They reel off several titles. I make approving noises and suggest some others. Then Luke says "How come you know these songs? Are you a singer? Would you like to sing one of these songs with us?"
No, I would not. I have not come prepared to sing. I have had two glasses of wine. I am very happy listening to you both, thank you, anyway.
Luke says "Well, come back and sing next week." Guitarist Paul cuts in, "No, I think she should sing today." He is not going to let me off the hook.
I go to the bathroom to think about it, and I do a few warm-up exercises. I come back and tell them that I'll sing "Dreamer". You've got to take the chances that are offered to you. My heart rate immediately escalates, and I hope my newly-repaired valve doesn't burst.
During the final set they call me to come up. Luke produces a small saxophone. I perch on a bar stool and listen carefully to the introductory bars. Then I launch in to the song. It goes very smoothly. They are very good musicians, and I have had enough experience to turn an unexpected jam into a performance. It feels fantastic. Luke invites me to come back again. Normally I would dismiss this as pure politeness, but he repeats the invitation several times. Perhaps I will.
A few days later I visit my cardiologist for my three-month check-up. This time I get a friendlier nurse. As she applies the gloopy fluid to my chest, she says "Let's see if this valve is functioning the way it should". I close my eyes. I don't want to see anything that might scare me. I breathe deeply and try to remain calm. I cannot do anything about the result. It is what it is.
The cardiologist calls me in. He measures my blood pressure. It is normal. He declares "Everything is working properly. You are well."
I plant my elbows on his desk. I let out a sigh and my head drops into my hands. It has been an eventful four months.
I quiz him - can I go back to lifting weights in the gym? Is there anything I can't do?
"There is nothing you cannot do", he says. "I'll see you in twelve months."
I'm inclined to take him literally - that there is nothing I cannot do.
During a break, Lauren recognises me. She comes over and embraces me warmly. She mentions that she is graduating from her University music degree and her final recital is next week. I tell her I'll be there - I've already seen her event publicised on Facebook. She indicates a guy sitting at a table outside. "Luke will be one of my adjudicators", she says.
Luke is the other reason I've come out to this event today. He is one of the jazz singers I often hear about, but I've never heard him sing. His public performances seem always to be on week nights at locations I can't get to. He is a cousin of Chris, the gifted pianist who often accompanied me in the early days.
Lauren finishes her set and departs. Luke and his guitarist set up. It is now late in the day. Bill arrives and we order some wine and a seafood entree platter. We chat and enjoy the music. As the musicians announce that they are taking a break, they invite requests. Our platter arrives, and we munch on the delicious snacks.
When the next break comes, they plead for requests. I go up and ask if they play any songs by Jobim: "I'm sure you would have quite a few", I say. They reel off several titles. I make approving noises and suggest some others. Then Luke says "How come you know these songs? Are you a singer? Would you like to sing one of these songs with us?"
No, I would not. I have not come prepared to sing. I have had two glasses of wine. I am very happy listening to you both, thank you, anyway.
Luke says "Well, come back and sing next week." Guitarist Paul cuts in, "No, I think she should sing today." He is not going to let me off the hook.
I go to the bathroom to think about it, and I do a few warm-up exercises. I come back and tell them that I'll sing "Dreamer". You've got to take the chances that are offered to you. My heart rate immediately escalates, and I hope my newly-repaired valve doesn't burst.
During the final set they call me to come up. Luke produces a small saxophone. I perch on a bar stool and listen carefully to the introductory bars. Then I launch in to the song. It goes very smoothly. They are very good musicians, and I have had enough experience to turn an unexpected jam into a performance. It feels fantastic. Luke invites me to come back again. Normally I would dismiss this as pure politeness, but he repeats the invitation several times. Perhaps I will.
A few days later I visit my cardiologist for my three-month check-up. This time I get a friendlier nurse. As she applies the gloopy fluid to my chest, she says "Let's see if this valve is functioning the way it should". I close my eyes. I don't want to see anything that might scare me. I breathe deeply and try to remain calm. I cannot do anything about the result. It is what it is.
The cardiologist calls me in. He measures my blood pressure. It is normal. He declares "Everything is working properly. You are well."
I plant my elbows on his desk. I let out a sigh and my head drops into my hands. It has been an eventful four months.
I quiz him - can I go back to lifting weights in the gym? Is there anything I can't do?
"There is nothing you cannot do", he says. "I'll see you in twelve months."
I'm inclined to take him literally - that there is nothing I cannot do.
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