My daughter, T.J. asked me, "how do they understand what you're saying?"

Great question! The truth is I have an affinity for languages - a musician's ear for hearing and repeating. I know a few useful phrases that I can use in French, Italian, German and Spanish. The other unfortunate fact is that I've been very lazy about seriously learning languages.

Talent isn't enough.

The answer then, T.J., is that I rely heavily on the graciousness of strangers for answers to my questions.

"Is this the way to the train station?", I ask the gentleman approaching me.

He doesn't get it at first and I am too out of breath from walking up a steep winding hill from my hotel to dig for the Italian word for "train". I do remember how to begin, though. It's "dove" (pronounced doe-vay), for "where". Quite a handy conversation starter, since traveling in a foreign country means being lost most of the time.

I try again, this time with a physical enactment of a train.

"Is this the way (I am pointing) to the... (here I pantomime the universal gesture for a moving railroad car, my arms bent at 90 degrees pumping in a circular motion)...train?"

The Swiss stranger smiles and repies, "Yes, the train. This way, yes". The look on his face suggests he is relieved I am only asking about the location of the railway station and not inviting him to a fist fight.

Gestures can be misinterpreted, after all.

I'm on the train now and settling in for a three hour ride to Zurich. I am determined to relax but not sleep. I am not carefree enough to dare missing my stop. At home, if I miss an Amtrak train stop, I could end up in Wilmington, Delaware. Here, missing my stop means ending up in Stuttgart.

Higher stakes.

If ever you get lost in Germany, by the way, you would ask, "Wo ist...?". This is prounouced 'voe ist'. After that, the pantomimed motion for "train" or "restaurant" or "bathroom", is completely up to you.

Leaving the hotel here in Pasadena, we hit a wall of heat. There is no way you should be this hot at 7:30 in the evening unless you're minding the brick oven in a pizzeria.

Earlier, onstage at the Old Pasadena Jazz Festival, it was a even warmer. We played at high noon - one hundred and five degrees Farenheit. By the time my band and I left the stage, I had lost five pounds in jazz sweat.

What is jazz sweat?

It's very different than sweat of any other genre. First of all, you have to let it flow down your face as though you barely notice. After all you're so absorbed in music making, things like a soaked shirt and sweat in your eyes don't matter.

You're a jazz musician and you're cool on the inside. Jazz sweat is the sweat you don't wipe.

Then again, there's Louis Armstrong.

By the way, the Old Pasadena festival is a great one. Great audience, promoter, production staff and setting. It's a nice mix of subgenres of contemporary jazz. I was especially looking forward to hearing one of my favorite singers, Maysa, who was on the bill.

Unfortunately, the heat had gotten the best of me. Besides, my band and I had to take a red eye flight back to the balmy Philadelphia climate, where I believe the heat finally dropped down below ninety degrees.

Do I sound like I'm complaining? Actually, I'm whining. There is a difference, you know.

Three news stories caught my eye today. 

First, the passing of Rosa Parks. I learned something interesting. Her 1955 refusal to relinquish her seat on a Montgomery bus was not her first act of civil disobediance. In 1943, Rosa Parks was kicked off a bus for not observing the strict Jim Crow law that kept tired working white people from sitting next to tired working black people on buses.

That day, in 1943, Rosa walked home. Eight years later she had had enough and her actions would jump start a civil rights movement that would change this country forever.

Eight years later. Guess what? It was the same bus driver!

Destiny.

I've been wondering, "Why that day, Mrs. Parks, when you knew you would be arrested?"

On my car radio, today, I heard Rosa's answer, in her own sugary drawl, more befitting a Southern socialite than seamstress, "I wanted to see what rights I had as a human being and as a citizen of Montgomery, Alabama."

The second interesting news item was the retirement of Alan Greenspan as Chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank and the selection of his successor. I find it fascinating how Greenspan's every utterance was dissected by Wall Street.

What power!

He didn't shrink from the attention either. Greenspan came up with some hum dingers for economists to ponder.

Try this for size: Greenspan cautioned investors against "irrational exuberance".

That's style.

I like that phrase. As a musician, my life is the epitome of "irrational exuberance". I vow to take my temperature each day just to make sure I am irrationally exuberant.

The final news item is about somethng called "Blackberry Thumb". It is a repetitive motion affliction caused by overuse of the thumbs in typing on Blackberrys, Treos and other handheld devices.

This doesn't affect me. My thumbs are strong and my Blackberry is not a problem for me.

Ouch. I'm signing off now. Goodbye.

You can't stay in Catalina forever. I came home where I belong. I had a lot of preparation to do. As host of a soon-to-be-seen television show called Music Lab, I had to get background information on my guests.

This sounds like one of my self-deprecating jokes but it isn't. I host a show for INHD, an in-demand high definition network. They only broadcast content that's shot in high definition. You haven't lived until you've seen broadcasts in high def. Everything is so clear. Nose hairs, for example, are stunningly realistic.

The point of Music Lab is to present intimate interviews with important music makers. The easiest way to understand the concept is to think of Behind The Actors Studio - without the interviewer asking, "what's your favorite swear word".

The format for the show is: the guest performs a short piece, we talk a little, we play together, talk some more, play some more and so on. There is very little crying and no arguing.

Sorry.

The appealing thing for me as host, is not in coaxing tears or profanity out of my guests, but rather in gaining insight into how people like Joe Sample or Michael McDonald or Bela Fleck deal with the challenge of being a creative person in this world. As a creative person myself, I'm very interested in this subject.

By the way, when I refer to "the challenge of being a creative person in this world", I am not implying that there are forces in this world that are enemies of creativity. Only a paranoid person would suggest something so sinister. But, if there IS a vast anti-creativity conspiracy out there, I would not be shocked.

Watch your back.

Anyway, when I returned from Catalina, I had to prepare for the following:

Interview Jethro Tull's Ian Anderson - who turned out to be both quite brilliant and mischievous;

Jam convincingly with Charlie Watts of The Rolling Stones - I yelled with delight when it struck me that the guy on the drums playing "Satisfaction" was really Charlie Watts and that "Satisfaction" was the very first bass line I ever learned;

Also I had to practice the deliciously tricky tune, "Spain", so that I could play it with Chick Corea. After we finished playing he jumped to his feet and with a big grin, shook my hand saying, "you came prepared!".

Homework is a good thing.

What insights did I gather from these great artists?

1) When I asked Ian Anderson about his musical education, he replied that he has never taken a lesson. Ian is known as the musician who introduced the flute into rock. He was the first and the last rock flautist. I think I know why. Have you ever tried to play the flute? I tried it once. It made me as light headed as a Santa Monica cheerleader. To play the flute without instruction is some kind of magic trick.

2) Charlie Watts likes to play jazz. He swings with pure joy and "satisfaction".

I know, that was cheesy.

3) Chick Corea thinks of the piano as an orchestra. To demonstrate this conceptual approach, he played the piano as though it was a string, woodwind and percussion section.

Personally, I think of the bass as an AK47 assault rifle. But, I live in a big city.

I'll keep you posted on when Music Lab will start airing. In the meantime, check out Studio Jams on BET Jazz. It's produced by Tom Emmi, the producer of Music Lab.

Visit www.studiojams.com

Upon hearing my recent activities a friend, "at least you shouldn't be bored".

What he meant was that mine is a varied life of doing this and that to make a living. No two days are the same, hence - excitement!

I would appear ungrateful to disagree, so I won't. Better yet, I'm going to list all the "this and that" I've been up to so I can better appreciate the variety.

Item: performed Catalina Jazz Trax Festival with new all-star project, The Triad Tour featuring Michael Paulo on saxophone and Steve Oliver on guitar and vocals.

Result: Eight standing ovations! No exaggeration. Frankly, it was an embarrassingly enthusiastic response.

Where do you go from there?

Answer: Nowhere. I stayed in Catalina to play with Pieces of a Dream the next day.

Item: Performed with Pieces of a Dream at Catalina Jazz Trax Festival.

Result: Despite playing different music and wearing a different shirt, people recognized me as being the same bass player as the day before. Very astute.

By the way: Congratulations to Art Good for 20 years of presenting music his way. You can check out Arts radio show online at www.jazztrax.com. You can also hear some of the performances from the festival.

Don't bother with the standing ovation, I won't be able to see it.

More info about my varied bass life coming soon!

The flight attendant has just encouraged us to "sit back and relax" on this flight from Las Vegas to Ontario, California. If you've heard my latest CD or seen my live show lately, you've heard me encourage my audience to do the same thing - "just sit back and relax". You might suspect I borrowed the phrase from the airline industry. Not so. I am an artist and therefore truly original.

In any case, on this leg of my trip I am actually quite relaxed. That wasn't the case on the flight from Philadelphia to Las Vegas. I had the misfortune of sitting in the row in front of "Disgruntled Traveling Couple" or DTC, for short.

They were disgruntled because they had missed a connecting flight into PHL airport by five minutes - the airline hadn't held the plane for them. Thus, DTC (Traveling Disgruntled Couple, have you forgotten already?) was forced to spend part of their vacation in terminal C.

How do I know all this? DTC told everyone within striking distance their tale of misery and distress. When they ran out of passengers to entertain with the account of how bad the airline was, they called friends and relatives to include them in the fun, too.

Meanwhile, I started thinking I should say something witty like, "Are you two going to whine all the way to Las Vegas?". I don't think that would have gone over too well, though I did have a right to ask.

When did we start taking flawless air travel for granted? Roxanne and I watched a People's Court segment in which the plaintiff was suing an airline for the cost of her entire trip because they lost her luggage and when it was recovered there was damage to some of her clothing. Apparently, some water had gotten into a suitcase and dye from one of the garments had bled onto other clothes, clothes she was going to wear to a wedding. Oh, and she was the matron of honor.

Before you become too sympathetic, keep in mind she was suing for the entire cost of the airline ticket because her clothes had been ruined. Now, I realize wearing tie-dyed clothing to a wedding is not the most fashionable choice, but was her trip really "ruined"? By the way, even though she took the trip, she didn't show up for her matron of honor assignment at the wedding.

I'm telling you, as air travelers we are downright spoiled. Have you ever seen the old footage of early airplane flights? When those rickety planes got off the ground and stayed airborne for a few tentative minutes it was a cause for celebration. We have no idea how miraculous it is to get from say, New York to San Francisco in the same day. If you had attempted this journey in 1849, because you wanted to get into get into a new career like gold mining, you would have had more serious things to consider than your luggage.

There was no air travel, your most likely mode of transportation would have been train, or for families on a budget - covered wagon.

The preparation for a journey by covered wagon would go like this:

"Do you have the map, honey?"

Your spouse might ask

"Yep."

"Do you think we packed enough food? You know rest stops haven't been invented yet."

"Yep."

"You kids make sure you go to the bathroom before we leave - we're not going to be stopping at every tree we pass.

Honey, don't forget to pack the chalkboard for the kids, you know the Game Boy is decades away."

"Got it. Oh boy, almost forgot the buffalo repellent. Alright, let's get this wagon on the freeway before rush hour."

"Honey. There are no freeways.

Hey, let's stop and buy a Cherokee phrase book on the way out of town. You never know when we might have to talk our way out of a tight situation - or ask for directions."

"Directions?"

"Yes, Mr. I-Know-Where-I'm Going. Please don't have us riding around in circles in the desert because you're too darn stubborn to ask for directions."

"Don't worry. I went to Map Quest."

"Honey..."

"I know - you don't like Map Quest. Just trust me. Ok?"

"You know I trust you. After all, you're my cowboy."

"Yep. The Brooklyn Cowboy and don't you forget it, my little squaw."

Ok. Maybe I went too far with the "little squaw" part, but you get the idea. Travel in the old days was no picnic. Let's keep this in mind when we're tempted to berate a flight attendant about the air conditioning, pretzels, lack of blankets or late departure.

By the way, saxophonist Michael Paulo told me a great story about a disgruntled traveler. Her flight was cancelled, therby making her late for a meeting. She was beside herself with anger over the inconvenience. Meanwhile, a couple of hundred other passengers, including Michael Paulo, were experiencing the same inconvenience.

Nonetheless, the DTP (Disgruntled Traveling Person) took the flight cancellation personally. She told the airline customer service rep, "This is unacceptable. I am an important person and I have to make a presentation at a very important meeting."

Michael couldn't help himself. He leaned over and cheerfully reassured the woman, "If you're that important, they'll wait for you."

Travel Light

Travel Light.

I made it back safe and sound from Johannesburg then immediately went to Washington, D.C. with a delegation of music industry professionals to meet with members of Congress. The event was dubbed "Recording Arts Day" and was spearheaded by the Recording Academy which brought together a broad based coalition of music industry organizations. Our goal was to focus attention on the issues facing our industry such as, Illegal downloading, and piracy. I think Recording Arts Day was successful in sending the message that musicians, recording artists, publishers, managers, and labels are all united in our desire to protect the sanctity of copyrighted music.

From Jo'burg to D.C. Talk about changing gears!

South Africa was great, as usual. I love the people and the culture. After four trips it is really starting to feel very familiar to me. In the fact, the strangest experience I had was looking at the BBC news broadcasts from New Orleans. What I saw on my Johannesburg hotel TV looked more like an African phenomenon than an American one.

Masses of dark skinned people clinging to hope and a sack of their belongings, shouting to an unseen audience on the other side of foreign cameras to do something. We're not accustomed to seeing those images emanating from the richest country on the planet. That's supposed to happen far, far away in a place called the Third World.

Reality check.

This whole event has been disheartening - the wrath and aftermath of Katrina, as well as the feeble reponse of our government.

The only thing that lifts my spirits is seeing the actions of people doing their part to help - particularly kids. They are selling lemonade, having readathons, collecting stuffed animals - doing whatever they can to make a difference.

I'm sorting through various things that I can do. There are lots of ideas, such as concerts and other types of fundraisers being considered. In the meantime, I believe the biggest, immediate need is money. I am donating money to the American Red Cross as a start.

I am hold right now with 1-800-HELP-NOW. The recorded voice asks me to hold on because my call is important. Sometimes when you hear that "your call is important to us" it seems just like a formality.

Not this time.

Try it yourself: 1-800-HELP-NOW. If you don't like the hold music, just hum one of my tunes to pass the time.

I am about to land in Johannesburg, South Africa. Whenever I told someone I was taking this trip, invariably they would ask, "How long is that flight?". They don't ask what the people are like, or how is the food or music. Everybody wants to know about the flight.

Here's the answer. The flight from New York to Johannesburg is three meals, two movies, six video games, seventeen songs, and one half of a best-selling novels long.

It's also long enough to have an in-depth conversation with the passenger next to you. Charlie is a South African returning from vacation in Orlando, Las Vegas and New York. He is the owner of a stationary wholesale business, which employs 80 people - no small thing in a country where every job counts. He and his entourage - wife, son, sister-in-law, and two nephews - had a ball in Disney World, and enjoyed Vegas. The only dissapointment was that his son wasn't able to be in the casinos. He's a nine year old poker enthusiast. He was more excited about the prospect of getting tips on Texas Hold 'Em than seeing Mickey Mouse in the flesh - so to speak.

Charlie's wife really enjoyed the multitude of shopping choices in Manhattan. They were wowed by the Nike store. I'm envious, I've never been there.

Most remarkably, this South African family had one pleasure in common, the sense of freedom from crime they felt in New York compared to life in Johannesburg.

"You can wear jewelry in the street there", Charlie remarked in amazement.

His wife added, "I was so afraid for people I saw talking on their mobile phones in their cars, with their windows rolled down. This could never happen in Jo'burg."

As the target of a car jacking she ought to know.

Charlie has done well with his stationary business. He's got a huge house with a tennis court and the most essential accessory in the Johannesburg suburbs, an elaborate security system, complete with eight cameras.

With fear of crime being at the nexus of their life you might expect Charlie's family to be bitter and hardened. Instead, their attitude is stoic.

"The number one problem in my country is poverty. Where there is poverty, of course there's crime."

Well said, Charlie, well said.

Job descriptions are fascinating. Take mine, for example: Bass Player. You won't see many listings for this job in your Sunday paper's classified section.

Then again you won't see job openings for Nuclear Physicist either.

This past weekend I encountered a dizzying array of folks with multiple job descriptions.

I already told you about Tammy from the Jazz Cafe in Charlotte. Her business card reads "Public Relations". This is a half-truth in that she also does Artist Relations - meaning she is at the beck and call of jazz musicians who need to go to, say, Circuit City or Rite Aid. Isn't that a nice escape from corporate America?

Speaking of corporate America, that's where Tammy met the Jazz Cafe's owners Kennedy and Mascot as well as the general manager, Dirk.

By the way, where is Corporate America? Is it in the vicinity of Middle America? Can you reach it from Central America?

I'm just wondering.

People grouse about Corporate America, but it must be nice. Everybody running the Jazz Cafe smiles a lot. They are so nice. Apparently, nobody has told them that jazz musicians are mostly a sour bunch.

Not me and my band, of course.

After Charlotte, we went to Nashville, where we received more insight on job descriptions. The server at the hotel restaurant was a comical blonde from Kentucky who was actually a harmonica player and karaoke D.J. in real life. She established an easy rapport by addressing us by our job descriptions.

"What would you like, Artist?", she asked, referring to me.

Then: "More ice tea, Management?", she asked Luther.

And so on. Carl Cox was "Saxophone", Will Brock became "Vocals", and Donald Robinson, who in real life is a choir director (as well as keyboardist and producer, and composer), was referred to as "Minister of Music. The best part, though, was Lucien Dowdell's new name: "Production".

The irony of ironies is that I had just given Lucien a promotion - from tech to production manager. This promotion does not come with an increase in salary, but the change in status is intoxicating, I'm sure.

I like Nashville. It's obviously a great place for music and strangers are friendly. It seems I've been there a lot the last couple years - to teach at Victor Wooten's Bass/Nature Camp, attend a trade show, and last year, I played Darryl Griffin's festival.

Darryl and his partners brought us down to play Nashville again - in a club this time. If the harmonica playing waitress ever met Darryl, she would undoubtedly dub him, "Promoter".

Before soundcheck, "Promoter" took me to WFSK to do a live on air interview with Tory Barnett. Let's call her "Dee Jay".

When we arrived at WFSK, Promoter called to tell DeeJay he had arrived with Artist. The station, owned by Fisk University, is on the fifth floor of a campus high rise. Since it was a Sunday, "Security" was off duty, and DeeJay had to run down five flights of stairs to open the locked door. After an exceedingly courteous hello - for someone who had just navigate five flights with high heels - she led Promoter and Artist up five flights to the studio.

We arrived in the studio just in time to hear a Stanley Clarke tune fading. Tory, aka Dee Jay, calmly put on her headphones and said in a breathy voice, "You're listening to Sentimental Sundays on WFSK 88.1".

Impressive.

From my new foray into radio, I appreciate how difficult it is to switch gears like that, although, I can't fully appreciate the trickiness of going up and down five flights with high heels and still have some charm left.

What's even more impressive, however, is that later that evening, Tory came on stage and sang a "Nancy Wilson meets Erika Badu" version of Summertime with the band. She sounded great. That's right, she's also "Singer".

Multi-talented people abound at WFSK. After my show that night, I met another radio personality who is a Phd. in real life and yet another who introduced himself to me wearing his chef uniform.

I'm convinced all this role switching would give Tammy Greene conniptions in her Corporate America day gig. What does she do when she's not carting jazz musicians around Charlotte?

Human Resources, of course.

Riding in the Van with Tammy

You know it's going to be a good day when the promoter picks you up wearing a Donovan McNabb jersey. Tammy Greene, originally a Philly girl has opened a venue in Charlotte that is the envy of the Southland. It's nice to know folks like her migrate to warmer climates and business opportunities but keep the Eagles close to their hearts.

Since the Eagles are in the midst of a public relations nightmare, they could use the support of their fans. But you probably don't care - you might be a Dallas Cowboys fan which means you've been putting pins in a Terrell Owens voodoo doll in the off-season.

Anyway, this is not about the Eagles. It's about Tammy. Did you know it's her birthday? How do I know? She mentioned it once or twice. In fact, she said the reason we're here is to commemorate her special day.

I don't think she was kidding

As I sit in the mini van she drove to personally pick us up, I am starting to feel guilty that the band didn't bring flowers or a citation from the Mayor of Philadelphia. I have exactly five hours before showtime and I need to come up with some sort of suitable gift for a hometown girl who loves jazz.

What do you give the promoter that has everything?

Of course, an audience! Duh...

There's going to be a great crowd at the Jazz Cafe tonight - for sure. But I want to see one of those standing-around-the-corner waiting to see the Rolling Stones kind of lines at the club

Here's how you can help: visit the website www.thejazzcafenc.com and buy your ticket or tell someone that you know in Charlotte to buy a ticket. We're playing the Jazz Cafe today, August 25th and tomorrow as well.

This is not for me, it's for Tammy. By the way, I like her already. She is optimistic. I like optimistic people. What else would you call a person who endeavors to load a seven person mini van with eight people, instruments and luggage?

Optimistic.

August 22

When I’m juggling all the extra-curricular stuff I do with actually earning a living as a musician, it’s hard to keep up these journal entries.  This is too bad, since I enjoy seeing my thoughts on a computer monitor.  It’s a great way to reassure myself that my brain is working.  One-word-at-time. 

Since the last journal entry, I’ve been - as my friend John Ernesto says - “runnin’ and gunnin’”

• Hosted two broadcasts of my radio show on WJJZ.
• Hosted two episodes of a new Hi Definition television show, called Music Lab.  Guests were Paul Jackson, Jr. and Bela Fleck.
• Went to the Chicago area for Candid Conversations & Jazz, a unique event created by Denise Jordan Walker, featuring frank discussion and music by yours truly in front of a live audience
• Was interviewed by a half dozen journalists from Johannesburg to Nashville.
• Played the CD 101.9 smooth jazz cruise in New York
• Was featured in a Memphis concert along with Boney James, Phil Perry and Pieces of a Dream
• Performed at the Wilson Creek Winery in Temecula, California with Pieces of a Dream and Mike Philips
• Played my Philadelphia CD release concert at the World Café Live.

That was the last eight days.  I’m not saying I’m tired, but I feel like a bootleg version of myself.  I look a little grainy and my coloring is off.  The sound of my voice is garbled too, like there’s dust in it.  When someone suggests that I’m probably exhausted, I answer, “I feel fine”, but my saggy eyes betray me. 

I’m not complaining. I’m grateful for the opportunity to do what I do. And I have boundless energy.  I’m definitely willing to travel.

I had to say all that in case you are a Hollywood movie producer who is considering me for the next blockbuster that needs a hunky black action hero.

Good night. 

August 14

The Way It Is

Today’s another hot one, making this officially a heat wave.  Weathercasters warn, “Don’t go out unless you really have to.”  The heat index numbers on the regional weather map are all in the triple digits.  

I like to think of myself as sanguine about the weather – that I can take it, no matter what it is.  My motto is Run DMC’s “It’s like that…and that’s the way it is”.  In other words it’s hot, we can’t change it, so just deal with it.

If only it were that simple.  Complaining about the weather is a national pastime.  It’s also a ready-made conversational ice-breaker: 

“Another hot one, isn’t it?”

“Yep, you got that right!”

Or try this one:

“Can you believe this weather?”

“Phew.  This is crazy!

The possibilities are limitless.

On the first day of my first trip to South Africa, one of the local tour organizers said to me, “It’s so hot”, while fanning himself.  I thought, “What do you expect? This is Africa!”  It would have been impolite to say it out loud.  Maybe he was just establishing a rapport with me.  How was he to know that complaining about things you can’t change gets on my nerves?  

I need to be more tolerant.

I am starting to understand that suffering under the common abuse of bad weather, bonds us together.  If you could get the U.N. ambassadors of two hostile countries, for example, to agree on how hot it is, imagine the progress in international relations:

“Mr. Ambassador, we find your demands to be totally unacceptable, but could we take a moment to get some lemonade? I’m parched.”

“Well, my government is extremely disappointed at your unwillingness to meet us halfway, but maybe we should consider an icy cold beverage.  With this kind of heat, lemonade is certainly an excellent choice.”

“Can you believe this weather?”

“Phew. Another hot one, indeed, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Please, call me Frank.  More lemonade?”

“Thanks, Frank.  Now, where were we?”

“We were discussing your government’s demands, which I suggest we reconsider at poolside.”

“Brilliant!”

Based on this powerful potential for establishing common ground, I am softening my stance against weather-complainers. Whining about the heat index is perfectly acceptable in the interest of world peace.

By the way, the current heat wave here in the Delaware Valley is expected to break by next Sunday - just in time for my CD release party at World Café Live (www.worldcafelive.com).   However, if the oppressive heat continues, it will give us more to talk about – won’t it?

August 13

Sweat and Icons

This morning’s TV weather report promises a heat index of 105 degrees later today.  The thought of it makes me melt already.  It also changes my plans for this rare weekend off.  I had planned to do some house painting.  The weatherman has provided me with an excellent excuse to postpone this project.

Thank you, Accu Weather, whoever you are.

In terms of heat, last night here in Philadelphia wasn’t much better.  Roxanne and I attended The Trio concert last night at the Mann Music Center.  We put aside thoughts of the sweltering heat and met friends of ours from Reading at the show.  The crew from Reading was the usual suspects, John Ernesto and his cohorts who came down to Philly in a stretch limo.  Style.

Thanks again, Ramona, for the tickets. 

We had great seats to watch Bela Fleck, Jean Luc-Ponty and Stanley Clarke play some of the most inventive music I’ve heard in a while.  Thanks to Ramona, who is obviously well connected, our seats were just a few rows from the front.  The only problem was that at the Mann, an outdoor amphitheater under a shed, the closer you were to the stage the hotter you were.  If you sat perfectly still, you could close your eyes and imagine it was only 90 degrees.

Thanks again, Ramona, for the tickets.

It was the kind of heat that you can smell.  There’s dry heat, there’s muggy heat and there’s heat that has a distinctly unpleasant aroma.  Under these conditions, you’re bound to discover that someone has forgotten to apply an anti-perspirant.  You check to make sure it’s not you.  I know what you’re thinking – it wasn’t me – at least I don’t think so.

I’m not being critical.  What else would you expect to happen when you assemble over two thousand people and place them in an incubator designed to keep out the elements - like cool air?   Exactly. Heat you can smell. 

I’m not complaining, though.  As a rule, I don’t complain about the weather.  Besides, I was treated to a wonderful concert.  Bela Fleck was excellent.  He played some of the trickiest passages you could imagine on his 1931 vintage banjo.  Meanwhile, he barely broke a sweat – though he did wear a black headband just in case. 

Violinist Jean Luc-Ponty, who was a bit more animated on stage, probably sweated a little – though certainly not because of the difficulty of the music.  He approached every song, no matter how complex, as though it was as manageable as brushing your teeth.  And his solos contained one climactic moment after another – there didn’t seem to be any limits to the heights he could reach.

Most of the sweating was reserved for Stanley Clarke.  His playing on acoustic bass (except for one tune on electric) was at times, ferocious.  Stanley was “good cop/bad cop” all rolled into one – interrogating a suspect – the bass.  No technique was spared. He strummed it, slapped it, plucked it, and did everything you could do to a bass to make it talk.  When Stanley was through, the bass had confessed all.  Unfortunately, by the end of the interrogation, Stanley was soaked.  His crisp white shirt eventually became a dripping, clinging annoyance. 

I felt bad for Stanley Clarke.  I don’t want him to be bothered by things like sweaty shirts.  That’s for the rest of us bass players.  Stanley is an icon.

Stanley is the guy who invented this “bass player in the front” thing that I do.  I don’t care who else you might mention to differ with me.  There is no debate.  It’s Stanley Clarke, who, back in the heady days of jazz-rock fusion, went toe to toe with Chick Corea and changed the idea of what a bass could (and should) do. 

Thank you Stanley Clarke.

Maybe that’s what I should say to Stanley next time I meet him.  I always get tongue tied in his presence and end up saying something dumb.  Once, he and I happened to be working in the same studio facility here in town.  Someone came into the studio where I was working with the juicy tidbit, “Stanley Clarke’s upstairs. Stop up and say hi.”  I went to see my hero, trying to appear casual, all the while rehearsing what I would say. 

I opened the door to the studio lounge where my hero was seated on leather couch having a laugh with some of his friends.  For a few seconds, none of them saw me and they were still enjoying this apparently good joke. When I entered their space, however, the laughter died down.  I immediately felt like an intruder or bill collector. 

“Hi, Stanley, Gerald Veasley”, I extended my hand for a handshake.  We shook hands, but he didn’t get up. I had met Stanley Clarke three times before.  I have met him a couple times since.  I will never assume he knows who I am.  Whenever I greet him, I will always say my name.

“Hey, man, how are you?” Stanley asked.

Have you ever tried to make small talk with an icon?  It’s like trying to start a car with a dead battery.  No matter how hard you want it to go somewhere, it just won’t. 

“Fine, thanks. How you doin’?” I inquired, ever so casually.

“Great”.

“So you’re in town working on your new record, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s it going?”

“It’s going great.”

“Great.”

Pause.  I noticed his friends were studying me as though they were watching a TV report of a flood.  They were wearing expressions of pity, mixed with relief that they weren’t the ones with their houses underwater. 

I thought about the next thread of delightful banter then I started in again with more dead-end Q&A.  To his credit, Stanley was polite.  He let me go on and on, about this and that, without dismissing me.  To my credit, I got out of the studio lounge without a Jerry Lewis style tripping-over-your-own-feet incident.  Come to think of it, a good fall would have insured Stanley remembering our meeting.  Forever.

By now, I know you’re probably thinking “Stanley Clarke puts his pants on ‘one leg at a time’ like everybody else.” 

Ok.  But... what if he doesn’t?

Visit www.stanleyclarke.com and also check out The Trio if they’re in your town. It’s worth the sweat.

If you’re in the Philadelphia area next Sunday, you’re invited to my CD release concert at the World Café Live - www.worldcafelive.com.  This will be my first hometown appearance in almost a year.  It’s going to be a great show.  I’m putting in extra practice – trust me.

Thank you Stanley Clarke.

August 8

If you are a frequent visitor here and you noticed no recent entries, it's because I went on vacation with my family. I took along my laptop, but I was not interested in using it. I used my Blackberry only in case of a dire emergency - like if somebody needed my new CD or something.

I'm back online now and TJ and I are enjoying a slice of carrot cake in a Border's book store. She's really into crafts these days - the one she's decided on today is a bracelet maker. A couple of weeks ago she made a potholder with the loom Roxanne picked up for her.

This is great. Pretty soon she'll be knitting clothes for the whole family. She will be the envy of the fourth grade and I will have a new look. Colorful and warm, too.

My reason for coming to Border's is to check on my new record. It's nice when you see it there with everybody else's.

Incidentally, I noticed in the jazz section there are a lot of CD covers featuring people holding saxophones.

It's rare to see someone holding a bass guitar. I have nothing to add to that observation - it's just something I noticed. Actually - I'm embarassed to say it - it makes me feel special.

I have a guerilla marketing tactic that I employ in record stores. When I see my CD, I casually pick it up and peruse the cover as though I'm going to buy it. Then after glancing around to make sure no one is looking, I place my record in front of the others.

I admit this is an effort that requires patience and cunning. It also means having to visit about a thousand stores a week.

Hey, no pain, no gain.

Do you want to know what I'm buying?

Carlos Santana - Abraxas

David Sanborn - Closer

Joss Stone - Mind, Body & Soul

By the way, the carrot cake is tasty.

Belated Birthdays

I've been getting a lot of belated birthday wishes lately. Please stop feeling guilty. It's not a big deal - for two reasons:

1) There's always Kwaanza

2) My birthday is actually today.

Surprise. You didn't miss it. You just missed the party.

Incidentally, I missed the 35th birthday of a dear friend of mine, Jazz Times magazine. To make amends, I sent the letter you can read below.

Meanwhile, please stop feeling guilty and send me some chocolate.

What Do You Buy A 35 Year Old Magazine?

 Dear Jazz Times,

Thanks for the subtle reminder that I missed your 35^th birthday this year.  I know you probably never forgave me for missing your 30^th, but as I told you at the time, I was really busy.  Or not feeling well - I don’t remember which. 

This time around, I couldn’t decide what to get you, so I’m contacting you directly to find out what you would like for your birthday.  I know you like surprises but I’m the worst gift giver.  One Christmas, I surprised my wife with an expensive coat when she had asked for a watch.  She tried it on and said, “Well, it’s a beautiful coat.”  I have learned my lesson.

Before bothering you with this, by the way, I actually called some of your magazine friends to see what they thought you might like.  I called Newsweek, who said “No comment”.  I called both DownBeat and Jazziz who did not return my phone calls.  I even called Fortune who pretended to not be familiar with you.  Didn’t you tell me you guys went to Amherst together?

My wife said, “Just think about what you wanted when you turned 35”.  I’m not so sure that works, in this case. At 35, I wanted to be rich and famous, play jazz and have a set of washboard abs.  You can bounce a quarter off my belly.

Besides, you have done it all and seen it all.  You’ve been around the world and met some of the most fascinating people, from Wynton Marsalis to …Wynton Marsalis.  Just kidding. 

You do have it all, though, J.T.  I can remember when you were an awkward adolescent tabloid, searching for approval.   You’ve grown to be so confident and dare I say it – good looking.  You are the Tom Cruise of magazines, buff and shiny with strong, thoroughly researched opinions.  My only hope is that one day, you will find your soul mate like Tom did.  Is it true that you and Elle are an item?

To show you I’m serious about your birthday present, I’d like to show you a list of some of the gifts I’ve considered:

1) A Blackberry.  I couldn’t survive without mine.  This way you could return emails from readers and publicists while you’re sunning in Belize.

2) A spa treatment.  I saw this luxurious place on the Today show where you could get pampered for about $1000 a day.  You’re so stressed.  I could ask George Wein to chip in.

3) A consultation with a psychic.  There is a psychic who, for $175, can tell you everything you want to know.  She’s very good – all I need is the exact time and date of your birth.  Maybe she can tell you “the future of jazz”, since you’re always asking.

4) A Louis Vitton satchel.  I have one myself.  A friend of mine brought it back from Canal St. in New York.  My wife says it’s fake.  She’s envious.  Besides, you know me; I would never illegally download a designer handbag.  Knowingly.

5) A golf lesson with a pro I know down there in Silver Springs.  This is my way of suggesting you stop playing pick up games of basketball.  You’re not a kid anymore.

You can see my dilemma, J.T. 

Let me know what you really want.  What you really, really want.  Money is no object. 

Another thing.  Did you have a party?  I’m sorry about what I said to Nancy Wilson at your barbecue last year – two beers is my limit.

Your friend,

Gerald

July 26

Jazz and Royalty

At The Jazz Base is released today.  I’m enthused, as usual, but something’s missing.  It has nothing to do with the record itself – it’s me.  If you’ve never been on the receiving end of the phrase “it’s not you, it’s me”, then you’re not a grown up.  That’s a dreaded phrase for sure, but in this case, it’s true.  I am telling my CD, “you’re fine - I’m the one with the problem”. 

What’s the problem?  My name.

It’s not that I don’t like it – I do.  It’s just not as effective for selling millions of records as it could be. For one thing is, it’s confusing.  People still get me mixed up with Walter Beasley.  Not you, of course.  After all - you found me here.  Other people however, still don’t get it.

Walter and I laughed about it when we first met at a jazz festival in Las Vegas a couple of years ago.  We traded stories about fans and industry folks getting us all twisted up like paper clips.  Veasley and Beasley – two twins you can’t separate or tell apart.

Walter, being proactive by nature, did something about this confusion.  We were playing a concert at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame together and he came up with the following brilliant plan:

“When we play the first tune, why don’t you take a solo in the beginning over the groove?” Walter asked.

“Cool”, I replied, never passing up a chance to show off

“Then, when you’re done, I’ll say something like, ‘that’s Gerald Veasley.  He plays the bass.  I’m Walter Beasley.  I play the saxophone.’”

“Cool”

“Then I’ll point to you and say ‘Veasley’ then back to myself and say ‘Beasley’.   Then I’ll play the melody.”

I shook Walter’s hand, somewhat envious that I hadn’t come up with this idea.

After the concert, it became apparent that Walter’s audience education had worked.  At the autograph-signing table, no one approached me with For Her, Walter’s latest CD, and asked me to sign it.  Everything was going smoothly until about 15 minutes into the autograph signing, when a 40 something gentleman shook my hand warmly, looked me in the eyes and said “Walter, I have all your CDs”. 

I cracked up.  Walter looked annoyed.  Najee didn’t seem to know what all the fuss was about.

I have a new plan.  A name change.  You might say, “after seven CDs under the name Gerald Veasley, it’s a bit late.”  To that, I would say, “mind your own business”.  It’s never too late to act on a good plan.  Besides there is a precedent for name changing in jazz.

Does anyone really think that Kenny G was born to proud parents, “Mr. And Mrs. G?”  Does anyone believe Boney James could have a younger brother named “Chubby”?  Don’t even get me started on Euge Groove. 

So why can’t I become, “Gerald V”?  Too obvious.  What about, “Gerald Vee”?  That’s more creative.  Or I could go all the way with, “Gee Vee”.  How does that sound?

I agree.  None of these quite get it.

Personally, I like the way jazz names sounded in the old days.  Royalty.

Edward Kennedy Ellington became Duke Ellington.  There was only one count, Count Basie.  Benny Goodman was the King of Swing.  Even Aretha Franklin got in on the act and was elevated to the Queen of Soul.  And Prince really got it right by getting straight to the good part – the royal title.

Charles Mingus tried to coronate himself Baron Mingus.  Nobody bought it.  He didn’t stick with it long enough.  He also tried wearing a derby.  I’m not willing to go that far.

Are you ready for my new name?  Cover your eyes.  Now open them.  Behold.

Earl Gerald.

It’s either that, or my twin Walter and I will have to stop dressing alike. 

Since I’m a good sport, please visit www.walterbeasley.com. Oh. When you’re finished, please buy, order or request At The Jazz Base by Gerald Veasley. AKA Earl Gerald. 

See? It’s sticking already.

July 22

The Day After.  Great party last night.  Thanks to John Ernesto and his Stage Right partners for making my birthday party at the Jazz Base a memorable one.  Thanks also to Jim Bokosky and his Sheraton staff  – especially Anthony and Joanna.  Everything was wonderful – my family and I were treated like royalty.

Thanks to all the friends and musicians who came out.  It meant a lot to me.  It also meant a great deal to the Institute of the Arts in Wyommissing, PA, as it was the deserving recipient of the proceeds from last night’s event.

Do you want to know what happened?

Usually my stories are long-winded.  I’ll make this brief, in “bullet” style.

GV’s Birthday Party at The Jazz Base

• Balloons
• A big cake
• A slide show showing me at various life stages.  The highlight? Age16, sporting an afro and crushed velvet tux
• Meg and the Cliftones, performing “In A Gadda Da Vida” – a favorite from my era
• Trumpeter Rob Diener rapping the Sugar Hill classic “Rappers Delight” – sober
• Guitarist Dave Cullen singing “Do I Do” – sober
• Me singing “Hit the Road Jack” – definitely sober, but delirious from laughing so hard all night
• A presentation of his and hers Jazz Base leather jackets, courtesy of Stage Right Productions
•  A twenty minute version of “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy”
• A story about ageing gracefully, featuring Joe Zawinul, the composer of “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy”
• Air conditioning
• Joke cards about being old
• An unusual version of “Georgia” that included spelling – sobering
• Will Brock singing “Home” – sober, but spirited.
• The Berks Jazz Fest Horns and the Geraldettes
• A whole lotta love.  I don’t mean the song, I mean the night was full of a “whole lotta love”
• Old friends.  New friends. Family.
• Gifts
• Encouragement

The realization of how fortunate I am

July 21

The problem with having a journal like this is that people actually read it.  And make comments.  I didn’t expect comments.

Upon reading my bagel and jazz story, a friend of mine, Glenn Fox advised me, “Do yourself a favor and carry a plastic knife in the car.  Life would be so much simpler.”

As you can see, Glenn is a Jazz person - and an attorney.

Glenn is in fact, a visionary – he’s the one who suggested I seriously consider doing a radio show.  The rest is history.

Regarding bagels and knives, today I have taken matters into my own hands.  I made my own bagel sandwich in my own kitchen using my own knife.  A very big knife.

As I have said before (July 1, 2005) it’s a DIY world.  Do it yourself.

Anyway, enough of this dilly-dallying.  I’ve got a party to go to.

Ah, the life of a celebrity.

One more thing - I met Gervase once. You may remember Gervase from the reality TV show, Survivor – the season when another guy took all his clothes off and walked around the island naked like he owned the place.  As a reward for his cunning and exhibitionism he took home a million dollars. 

Gervase took home celebrity status.

He and I met when we were celebrity judges at a signature cocktail contest.  Don’t ask.

Gervase was a cool guy.  I have his phone number somewhere.

What?  You expected more? I told you already, I’ve got a party to go to.

July 20

While working on ideas for my radio show on WJJZ, I stumbled on something interesting – my own music.  I checked out one song, which led me to another, then another.  Before I knew it, I had devoured four of my seven CDs.  What’s that old potato chip company slogan? “Betcha can’t eat just one!”

I have a confession to make.  Once I’m finished with a record, I rarely listen to it.  I’m on to the next thing: rehearsing the band, promoting the CD, playing shows, changing the world, etc.  By the time I’m finished with composing, recording, mixing and mastering a project, I’ve heard it a zillion times. 

There are some artists who are constantly listening to their own music.  If you walk up to him and he’s listening to his iPod, and you ask, “What are you listening to?” he’ll say, “check this out.”  You put on those ubiquitous white headphones, and lo and behold, it’s one of his very own tunes.  Again.

To me, this is the equivalent of checking yourself out in the mirrors in the gym.  It makes sense to make sure you are using proper form when lifting, pushing or running on something, but some guys check their own bodies out incessantly.   Like kids in the back seat of a minivan, these guys keep asking their muscles “Are we there yet?”

The most interesting thing about hearing one of my own tunes is not just the fact that I say to myself, “Hey, that’s pretty good!”  It’s the memory that will inevitably pop into my head - a memory about the process of recording it.

For example, when I hear Optimistic from the Love Letters CD, I reminisce about recording a lot of that record while on the road with Grover Washington, Jr.  I carried a recording rig on the tour bus and did a lot of mobile recording in hotel rooms. 

One of my crowning achievements as a mobile engineer/producer was recording Pablo Batista’s congas in the bathroom of a northern California hotel room.  I hung the bedspread over the shower curtain to dampen the reflected sound, positioned the microphone perfectly on the conga drums, sat Pablo on the – what’s the word? – throne, and reminded him not to flush. 

When I hear Quiet Storm from the Soul Control CD, I think about being on a conference call with Bill Jolly and Philip Bailey from Earth Wind & Fire trying to work out the key.  I remember thinking, “this is the guy that sang Reasons – cool.”

I also remember living in Mark Knox’s studio (along with co-producer Richard Waller) for three days and nights trying to get the CD completed by the deadline - sleeping on his floor, the sessions fueled by chocolate donuts and orange juice.   Mark’s business partner, Frank, was not amused, although I’m sure his advertising clients thought we were as harmless as alley cats.

  With virtually every song there’s a story - some significant, some silly.  There’s also usually a narration to go along with the story.  In fact, I can barely hear my music over the thoughts in my own head.  The narrator’s voice sounds like Barry White.

July 18

What Is Jazz?

I am going to solve this riddle once and for all.  If you know someone who is curious about this topic, direct that person here. 

Even though I’ve been playing it, teaching it and studying it for years, I’ve never been able to define jazz – until now. 

Yesterday, since I was running late in taking Taylor to Sunday school, there was no time for breakfast at home.  I did what a typical harried American parent does – stopped for fast food.  I am not proud of this and please don’t tell my mother –she would say it’s a disgrace. 

TJ and I decided to split a bagel sandwich on the way.  We would use the drive-through and share the sandwich, both as time saving measures. I won’t reveal which fast-food restaurant, in case I need their corporate sponsorship one day. 

Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

Placing a food order without eye contact requires trust.  It typically involves an awkward communication – speaking and listening through a billboard - followed by an unsentimental exchange of money with one person and then the release of your food by a brand new person.  You never get to know anybody.

This was one of those days when the order taker and I just didn’t connect.  This is what happened – exactly.

“May I take your order?”

“Yes, I’d like an bacon, egg and cheese on a bagel, and can you cut it in half, please?”

“We don’t cut bagels, would you like anything else?”

“Wait a minute.  You don’t cut bagels?”

“No sir, we do not cut bagels!”

“Do you have a knife?”

“Yes, we have a knife!”

“Then just cut the bagel in half, please!”

“Ok. Anything else?”

“Yes, I’ll have a coffee with cream and sugar and a Boston Crème.”  The donut was for my daughter.  Honestly.

“Anything else?”

“No thanks.”

This transaction was not as quick as I had hoped but at least an understanding was reached. When I pulled up to the window, the server even apologized.  I graciously accepted.

As we drove off, I handed our order to TJ in the back seat.  Meanwhile, she was cracking up – imitating me, using her annoyed father voice as she repeated, “Do you have a knife?  Do you have a knife?” over and over.

Anybody who has ever ordered food in a drive-through knows the number one rule – always check your order.  Always, no matter how charming the server.  So naturally I asked TJ, “Did she cut it?”

“No, Dad.”

“Really?”

“Nope.  Do you have knife?  Do you have a knife?”

Very funny.

No doubt you’ve experienced this type of negotiation.  You have a simple request that does not fit within an employee’s guidelines and you can’t break through.  Not with logic, and certainly not with common sense.

Some people can’t deviate from the script.

They are not jazz people.  Jazz people can improvise.  They can use the script as a guide and then use their own creativity and flair.  Jazz people are brave enough to exercise their own judgment, if necessary.  Jazz people are the best at customer service and make excellent meter maids. 

You are a Jazz person.

What is Jazz?  Cutting a bagel when you have a knife, even though it is not in the script, is the essence of Jazz. 

Any questions?

July 14

"Smooooth Jazz WJJZ".  I am practicing saying this on my way up to the radio station.  I am to receive more training today from Frank Childs the music director. He is, like Ken the rock-climbing guy, very patient and encouraging.

Frank is helping me prepare for the launch of my own radio show on WJJZ on Sundays from 3 to 7 PM. One of the things he has told me is "just be yourself".  Sound advice.

I have asked my radio friends for advice - people like Pat Prescott, Dave Koz, Paul Scott, Alexander Zonjic, Steve Williams, Tiffany Bacon the guy who is hiring me - Michael Tozzi and of course, my son Kyle, who is a radio "lifer".

They all say, among other things, "just be yourself". I don't want to be myself.

I want to be Barry White.

This leads me to the topic of Authenticity. Like the theme, Travel Light, this is stuff I give talks on at the Bass BootCamp. People pay big bucks to hear my lectures on these topics. You are getting it for free.

Show a little gratitude.

Actually, they pay big bucks to learn to become better bass players. While I have a captive audience, I share my ideas about Traveling Light, Authenticity, Taking The Breaks Off.

Nobody throws anything at me or heckles. Actually some folks leave the BBC feeling quite inspired to change their lives.  One day I'll tell you all about it.

Not now, though. I've got to practice, "Smooooth Jazz WJJZ 106.1".

By the way, check out www.wjjjz.com.  Let Michael Tozzi know how brilliant he is for hiring me. It's a good way to show your gratitude. 

One more thing, right now Barry White is on the radio. I swear it.

Syncronicity.

July 13

What if you could shed things that you don’t need anymore in your life?  What if could get rid of that extra layer you carry around – outmoded, overly critical and completely inaccurate ideas about yourself, for example – and do it as easily as a cat?  What would that feel like?

Freedom.

I call it Traveling Light. 

Traveling Light is about choosing what concepts you want to hold onto and getting rid of the rest.  Think of it as a garage sale - in your head. There’s a lot of junk up there. 

Let’s take a quick inventory:

“I’m not good at math.”  “I’m a nerd.”

“I’m just a country boy.” “I’m a city boy.”

“I’m lazy.”  “I’m a workaholic.”

“I’m too young.”  “I’m too old.”

Where does this stuff come from?  You store it in your head, without ever really looking at it.  You may think - at least it’s yours. It’s not. And it’s so heavy.  It’s also ridiculous, dragging these self-concepts through your life, day after day, like they are suitcases full of diamonds.  They are not.  

Let’s take the age thing.  Who told you that you were too old?  In the blink of an eye, I will turn 50.  Society will tell you that this is old. Really?  Yes, this is not the ideal age to decide to become an Olympic gymnast.  Just about everything else is fair game.

The fact is, we don’t know the extent of our capabilities. I try to teach Taylor this every time she says she can’t do something. Guess what?  She uses my lessons against me.  She won’t let me get away with saying, “I can’t”. 

Last week she talked me into rock climbing.

The folks at Eastern Mountain Sports (www.emsclimb.com) must have an excellent employee-training program.  They do not laugh at you.  No matter what. 

Say for instance, you have an eight-year old daughter who takes to a thirty-foot rock climbing wall like a grade school Spiderman.  Suppose this girl gets to the very top (on her first attempt) through sheer determination.  You are looking up at her with your mouth wide open. She repels down beaming and saying, “Now it’s your turn, Daddy.”

The twenty-something EMS employee (at least if he is named Ken and works at the Philly location) won’t laugh.  Your wife, or husband most certainly will.  This is what spouses do.  Your spouse will double over with laughter, especially when you position your 6’3” frame against the wall, place your hands and feet strategically the way your daughter did, and you can’t even get a foot off the ground.

“You can do it Daddy.”  Try again – no go.  Try to block out your spouse’s laughter reverberating throughout the building.  Shake out your left shoulder, which is now rebelling and full of doubt.  The doubt is contagious.

Except for Ken – he believes.  Or is a very good poker player.  He says, “Try to keep your body close to the wall, like this.  This will give you more leverage.  Then push off with your left leg.”  You concentrate on this simple set of instructions, offered with the most patient and reassuring tone of voice.  Try again. No Go.

Now you are laughing.  And looking for a way to get out of the harness without leaving too much of your self respect behind.

Even this is too hard.  You can’t get the thing off.  Ken, who ought to be rock climbing employee-of-the-month, is not helping.  You are stuck in the harness, which is now starting to feel like the biggest wedgie since the close of the Garden of Eden.

Then – out of nowhere - acceptance.  Not that you can’t do it, but that you haven’t figured out how to do it.  “What if I start with my right foot instead of my left?”  Try again.  You are off the ground – you’re actually on the wall. 

You say to yourself, “Don’t celebrate - think about the next move.”  Something is clicking. You are moving. You are halfway up the wall.  Your arms need a rest.  Straighten them out and coax the blood to go back where it belongs.

“You can do it, Daddy”.  It’s Mommy’s voice.  That’s enough to propel you another 10 feet. 

About a foot and a half from the top you run out of gas.  Everything hurts and the wall has won, but at least you made it this far.  It’s time to come down.  Except nobody will let you.  Everybody wants you to finish.  They don’t seem to understand that you are out of strategies and have hit the physical limit of your arms and legs.  Your arms and legs were in their prime when Nixon was making mix tapes in the Oval Office. 

Eighteen inches away.  What are the limits of your Watergate Era will?  Try again. Rest. Try again. Rest again.  This time, try like you expect to make it.  Shed the doubt that is housed not in your exhausted limbs, but in your head.  Reach up. Step up.

Victory.

Cue the heroic theme music. A father’s lessons validated. A husband’s reputation redeemed. Another typical day at Eastern Mountain Sports.   

Ken is not visibly impressed.   He is wearing the facial expression of someone who is accustomed to seeing people do what they think they can’t do.

The limits to our potential are stored in that cluttered garage called the human mind.  I’m having a garage sale.  Anybody need a slightly used age excuse?

Travel Light. 

July 12

Our cats, Coco and Molly, are shedding. 

Did I hear you sarcastically utter, “fascinating”? I’m going somewhere with this. Trust me.

I’m not bringing up the subject of shedding because I am a cat person.  I am not.  I got tricked into having cats.  Almost from the day Taylor said her first intelligible sentence, she has been asking me if we could have a pet.  I did not know that eventually I would acquiesce out of guilt. 

I fought hard.

When prodded by my daughter, I employed all the pet avoidance tactics I could muster.  I tried subterfuge - “We’ll see”.  I tried distraction, “What flavor ice cream cone do want today?” Even substitution – “Let’s get a hermit crab”.  Somewhere, wandering around this house, the ghosts of three lost hermit crabs are searching for their shells.

Coco and I were destined to meet. Taylor caught me on the one day when I couldn’t say no.  “Let’s go see the litter”, I said.  With those words, my fate was sealed - my cat-less existence was about to end.  Cute and small enough to hold in one hand – Coco was the one kitten in the litter that didn’t look so much like a cat.  He was the color of Hershey’s unsweetened baker’s chocolate; a dusty brown with no markings at all.  And he seemed to not mind the awkward way I cradled him in my arms.  “Let’s take this one”, I heard a voice say.  It was my own voice. 

Two years later, this is Coco’s house.  He lets us feed him, pet him, change his litter and pick up his discarded fur.  In exchange, he is pretty friendly – actually, spoiled.  At least he is not aloof.  That is the one thing that I always distrusted in cats – that superior attitude.  Coco is a down-to-earth Superstar.

Molly is an Earth-Mother type.  She is chilled out, would be totally comfortable in Birkenstocks and enjoys a good meal more than anyone I know.  I don’t think she gets high, but she sure has the munchies a lot.  

This past winter, Roxanne and Taylor started feeding this stray black long-hair with white feet.  (Insert your own punch-line here______)  She came to our porch with regularity, at first for a meal, and then for companionship.  Like Romeo and Juliet, Molly and Coco would gaze at each other through the front window – Molly perched on a porch chair, Coco on the windowsill - sometimes nose to nose.

When Molly was gone, our little Romeo would pine away for her.  During their courtship, Coco was amorous but not honest enough to admit to Molly he was fixed.  Men.

This is how Molly came to live in my studio.  It was too cold to leave her on the porch and we thought the couple - though they wouldn’t be able to consummate their marriage - would be good company for each other. 

However, once Molly moved in, Coco started to reveal his dark side.  Either he forgot this was the same girl he longed for, or he was toying with her feelings all along.  Of course, now all our cat expert friends tell us that cats are territorial.  Thanks.  That would have been nice to know before my house became the set of a feline version of “War of the Roses”.

Coco has possession of the entire house except my studio.  Molly got the studio. 

What do I get?   Cat hair.  Lots of it.   I’m not saying it’s unbearable – it’s natural for cats. But if you’re visiting and you’re wearing white, I’ll meet you outside.

Of course, cats shed because they don’t need all that fur in the summer heat.  Here again, cat experts, don’t warn you about shedding, or fur-balls or the never-ending quest for a cat litter that actually works.  There is a conspiracy among cat lovers to only speak about cats in the most glowing terms.

Nonetheless, today I think shedding is fascinating.  Really. The idea of letting go of something you don’t need anymore.

I’ll elaborate in the next entry.  Isn’t this riveting?

7/2   You gotta have a gimmick.   This is the advice I heard early on in my career and it's still suggested to artists today.  Maybe the word "gimmick" is not used, but the concept is the same.    Do you remember Kriss Kross?  This was a pre-teen rap duo discovered by Jermaine Dupri.  They wore their clothes backwards.  It created quite a sensation.  Many of their fans emulated their ground-breaking fashion sense and the result is hip hop history - sort of.   Some artists have gotten by quite nicely in spite of their lack of gimmickry.   Take Luther Vandross, for example.  I was fortunate to see him in concert. A Luther Vandross show was, by today's standards, as simple as an egg sandwich. No fancy choreography, no props, no computerized laser light-show. No motorcycles.  Just great singing and great songs.   Well, actually more than that.  Luther had an unfair advantage over many of his R&B counterparts - a buttery voice that he used with a controlled intensity.  He also had infallible musical instincts that inspired him to create and re-create R&B classics.  What's more, he did all this with class and style.  As far as I can tell, he did not wear his clothes backwards.   I happened to hear the writer, Nelson George, on the radio yesterday talking about Luther Vandross' contributions.  He said something that was right on the mark, "If Luther was in town, and you cared anything about your girl, you took her to the Luther concert".    Roxanne and I are driving to Pittsburgh today. It's typically a boring drive, but in the spirit of Nelson George's excellent advice, I'm going to serenade my girl with some Luther. 

7/1   Let's face it.  It's a DIY world.  Do it yourself.   From home improvement to building websites, people now have the information, tools and inspiration to rely on themselves rather than the experts.  I even think the explosion of reality TV is an extension of the DIY mindset.  Why hire a trained, spoiled actor for an expensive sitcom when a telecast of the girl next door eating cow intestines can be just as entertaining?  And cheaper.   I am gradually becoming like that too. DIY, baby.  Got my own band and my own club to put on shows with my own band.  In my own way. It's not that I'm not open to doing things with others, it's just that sometimes I need to do things in my own way.  Yes, I'm a Leo.   I have a narcissistic nature.  At least I admit.  There is nothing more intoxicating than seeing your name in print.  Gerald Veasley, Gerald Veasley.  Try it with your own name.  What a buzz!   Unfortunately, I can't always count on music journalists to write about me to get my fix.  I have a new CD coming out, so that's good for a while.  Some journalists administer tough love, however, and will not write about you, no matter what.   Take Ben Ratliff, for example.  He writes for the New York Times and was given the assignment of reviewing the Portrait of Jaco show at the Beacon Theater.  The review was mixed.  That is not as important to me as the lack of "Gerald Veasley" in it.  I won't quote from the review because I don't want to be sued by the New York Times, although my career could use it.  I won't complain either.   Instead, I have decided to write my own reviews, from now on.  I know how to do it.   This is the format for writing a review of a concert:   1) Write something clever to show you are smart.  It is important to do this at the beginning of the article.   2) Foreshadowing.  Suggest from the outset that the show might be either great or a flop.  However, don't commit until the very end of the piece.   3) Give a few essential facts about the show.  Time, place, names of musicians, titles of songs.  That's plenty.   4) Use interesting vocabulary - especially adjectives.  Ben Ratliff talked about the "astringent strings" on one song.  Cool.   5) The Big Finish.  You absolutely must write a brilliant ending to the review to wrap it up. Ben came up with a doozy. If you want to read it, it was published June 24.    The New York Times did not cover my CD release concert at the Jazz Base last night.  I am not upset.  I've written my own review, of my own concert, with my own band, in my own club.    Here it is:   Brilliant Bassist Shines Bright   Once in a century, Haley's comet passes through our solar system in all it's splendid, though ephemeral, glory.  How fortunate we are indeed that the bass luminary, Gerald Veasley, can be observed more often.  Blah, Blah Blah, etc.   Considering the industry hype over Veasley's new CD, At The Jazz Bass, I frankly wondered whether he could deliver in concert.  Blah, Blah.  Clever Stuff, etc.   Last night's show in Reading, PA...Blah, Blah.  Jazz Base, Veasley's own club...etc.  Greatest band in the universe... the astringent strings on Forever...blah.  Chris Farr...salacious saxophone...blah.   Gerald Veasley...Gerald....Veasley, etc.   This new century has witnessed two cultural phenomena, The DaVinci Code and Veasley's concert, At The Jazz Base.    Review by Hector Heathcliff   Hector is not opposed to assignments from the New York Times, by the way.  If you have any connections, please let me know.           June 28

What do you do after a 12 hour trip from St. Kitts to Philadelphia? Moderate a panel discussion, of course.

June 2

I am still jet lagged from my recent trip to Hawaii and the previous trip to Germany. Now, I'm not complaining, but 6 hours in one direction on the globe,back home, then 6 hours in the other direction and back home again, can make your body clock protest a bit.

So I'm a little loopy - more than usual. Still, I know what I know. For example, I know I played in one of the best jam sessions in my life.

In Hawaii, I was involved in long Recording Academy (Grammy) trustees meetings during the day, and at night had free time to do other things, such as jam with other trustees.

The following event is the kind of moment you wish you had on tape. I especially wish I had documentation for the non-believers.

Kurt Clayton (aka KC) , quite a funky keyboard player, was on the piano in the hospitality lounge of our hotel in Maui. He was "riffing" - playing a soulful (very soulful) groove befitting his Memphis roots. There were maybe 20 people there, including a few folks around the piano waiting for something to happen. Ducks at the park wait this way - eager but confident - knowing with certainty that somebody passing by has something tasty in a paper bag.

Since I had my bass with me (don't leave home without it), I plugged in and KC and I became a duo. We played through this chord progression that had an element of traditional jazz ("rythym changes" for those who care about jazz theory details).

When we finished, Kurt Elling stepped over and started singing the blues standard "Centerpiece". If you don't know Kurt Elling, he is a Grammy nominated vocalist who is at the very top of his game in terms of style and substance. The man can deliver a jazz vocal performance like nobody around today - period. In this little lounge, Kurt was singing like we were in Carnegie Hall. Serious.

By now, everyone was enjoying these musical morsels - including our trustee from L.A., Dave Koz, who ran to his room and came back with his alto sax. Can you tell this was not an ordinary night?

Dave is known as a modern day smooth jazz renaissance man. What doesn't he do? Recording artist, producer, songwriter, radio personality, record label owner and entertainer. If you've ever seen his show, you instantly know why Dave is so popular. He is a ball of energy and enthusiasm. Dave knows what his audience likes and he gives it to them - in hepas. He is the polar opposite of the self-absorbed jazz artist. The man will work a crowd unlike any instrumentalist since Cab Calloway.

Here's a little known secret, though, Dave can swing - hard. If you don't believe me ask jazz writer Neil Tesser (Grammy trustee from Chicago). He was sitting ringside.

Dave played a burning blues solo that got everyone's attention, even the people you might think are indifferent to jazz. That's one of Dave's secrets to success, though, isn't it?

After the blues, the piano player changed, but the straight ahead jazz intentions didn't. We were joined by another Memphis soul man on piano, Marvell Thomas. Must be something in the water. Marvell took things to another level. He's got an old-school respect for playing the tunes "right". And we did - one jazz standard after another.

Kurt Elling called "Bye Bye Blackbird". Nice choice. Miles Davis' version is a quintessential interpretaion. Here's a weird little sidenote. On the way to Maui, I heard the Miles recording of "Blackbird" in an airport book store. I took special note of how Miles, the master of space and drama, started his solo and sustained tension with very few notes.

Now here's the weird part - Kurt Elling sang the Miles trumpet solo - note for note. You can't plan this stuff.

Meanwhile, Marc Dicciani (former Philly trustee and chair of the Advocacy committee) managed to sneak in a drum set. How do you sneak in a drum set? Somehow, he did and then we (officially) had a band.

If you've ever seen any old movies with the impromptu "jazz jam session" scene, you recognize this story. It was just like that - the gradual entrance of players, the casual nature of it all; not really a performance as much as a good time, and folks gathered around bobbing their heads to the music inciting the musicians to a kind of riot of swing. The only thing missing was cigarette smoke. Modern life.