"Can I start again?"

I was seven the first time I ever performed in front of a live audience. My piano teacher had gathered his students and their parents together at his house for an annual piano recital, as piano teachers do. I'd been taking lessons for about a year. While I don't remember being particularly nervous, the excitement of the situation must've gotten to me, because I completely forgot the notes a few measures in.

"Can I start again?" I asked.

I could, I did, and I made it all the way through. It didn't occur to me that this might be something to be embarrassed about until years later, when my parents recounted the story.

The second time it happened was at an open mic, a year or so before Ron the Drummer and I met. I got through one verse of my song "Honky-Tonk Piano" and blanked on the lyrics.

"I forgot the words!" I said cheerfully. Then I started over.

By then I understood that performers were supposed to gut their way through a song no matter what. I was a little chagrined, even if I didn't show it. Sadly, I didn't have Ella Fitzgerald's genius for vocal improvisation, and there was nothing I could do but stop. The crowd was friendly and forgiving, though, and the second go went fine.

The third time was in the early days of Cinder Bridge. I played the opening chords of Moths in Search of the Moon, opened my mouth to sing, and nothing came out but hacking and coughing. We stopped. Ron procured something with honey in it for me. We started again and got through it with no problems. We were playing at a Borders Books & Music—total atmosphere gig—so there's a good chance that a lot of the audience didn't even notice.

Those are all the times. I remember every one.

Sunday during the Grammys, it happened to Adele. She was doing a George Michael tribute, sang kinda flat, and stopped because she believed that Michael, whom she'd known and admired, deserved better. Although Adele's kinda-flat sounded better than most mere mortals' in-tune, her do-over was a lot better than the first try.



Some people are apparently complaining about her lack of professionalism. Whatever. I find it comforting when a mega-talent like Adele has a human moment like that. I think she did her friend proud.

Get yourself some cheap sunglasses

Hanging out with some friends who came to see our Glass Onion gig, I got some spontaneous advice:

Look people in the eye more often. That engages them. It makes it seem more like you're singing to them and not at them.

A good insight, but kind of funny in light of Ron the Drummer's recent suggestion that I shouldn't do that so much. I had taken his words to heart and didn't attempt eye contact as often this time around.

Then another friend who'd seen us jumped in with a different suggestion. If I don't like eye contact, I should get a pair of sunglasses and wear them while we play. Then I can look at people, stare into space, close my eyes, do anything I want, and people won't care. He said that's what he did when he was performing.

It's a good idea, but it wouldn't work for me.

Sunglasses convey a sense of detachment and cool. Our songs are not detached, and they are not cool. Unless you're Stevie Wonder, donning shades whilst spilling your guts all over the stage doesn't really work.

Also, I hate wearing sunglasses.

Oh well. Back to the drawing board.

Inappropriate affect

Ron the Drummer had this bit of advice for me at our last rehearsal.

"I see you making eye contact with the audience and smiling," he said, "and that's great. But you don't have to do that all the time. You can close your eyes, or whatever you feel like when you're into the music."

The advice seemed a little strange. Yes, I do try to look people in the eye when we perform, largely to make up for all the times I'm so immersed in what we're playing that I almost forget they're there. The smiling is spontaneous, though. Why would that be a problem?

After a moment or two of thought, however, I realized what Ron was picking up on.

Sometimes I smile during performances because I'm happy to be there and happy to be doing what I'm doing. Unfortunately, sometimes that happens during the dark, depressing songs. I noticed it at our last gig during a particularly gloomy tune. Here I am, singing about how everything is falling apart because I'm a loser, and I'm grinning like an idiot because I'm having such a great time.

It doesn't really sell the song.

Our next gig is Sunday afternoon. I have until then to perfect the appropriate emotional displays. I'll just stand myself in front of a mirror and practice.

"Grrr. GRRRRRR."