And Sometimes, Ya Suck.

When I say "Ya", I mean me.

Man, did I suck at the jazz jam the other day. I have been struggling for a while now, with anxiety and depression and fear and sadness and terror. And it was all I could do to show up at the jazz jam and sing. I've felt that way for a while now, since I've been in Taos. Sometimes I have to drive around for a half hour or so, before I muster up enough courage to walk in that door. Once I get behind the microphone, though, somehow I feel a lot calmer.

I am always grateful for the kindness of the musicians and the willingness of Gary, who runs the place, to find and print out lyrics to the tunes I don't know.

Here's the dirty secret that I suspect they all have figured out - I am really not a jazz singer. I like it, but I rarely listen to it. Even when I was studying scat singing, weekly, I didn't gravitate towards the greats (Ella, Sara, etc). My ear has always been drawn to R&B, funk, pop and blues. And, when I'm feeling down, it is really, really hard to get myself to listen to any kind of music, at all.

I have learned just how difficult it is for the musicians to change keys to accommodate singers. Hearing how they have to transpose in their heads, on the fly, has given me a new level of respect. But, I know most songs aren't written in keys that compliment my voice. I just didn't have the confidence to ask for different keys, this week. So, I sucked. A lot. Of course, I haven't been practicing and my voice is not very pliable. My anxiety made it difficult for me to concentrate on the music and when I tried to improvise or scat, well, you might have an idea of how it sounded.

But, I showed up.

Taos Sunday Nights

Colored lights strung along the adobe house twinkle. A smokey bonfire sputters and roars. 3 guitars strum 3 chords repeatedly. Hand drums and rattles find the beat. Hash and weed pass from hand to hand. Improvised melodies and random lyrics sputter into the microphone. I watch. I sing. I don't smoke. I reach for the soft grey and white cat with the little pink nose. He lets me hold him and I dig deep into his fur, getting rid of the winter coat. He purrs. He runs away and dashes up a tree. I walk to the makeshift table and spoon out some potato salad.

A wavy-haired Russian painter in a red bandanna spins and struts with the music. He invites us all to his gallery opening. The man tending the bonfire laughs out loud at an inside joke only he understands. I feel happy. Community, finally?