Viola surprise

Today's rehearsal was a little different. A violist named Rose sat in and jammed with us. On viola.

Every now and again I'll be writing a song and think, "This would sound better on acoustic guitar than piano." Or, "We could really ramp this part up with bass." Less frequently I'll think organ, electric guitar, maybe even cello. I do my best to come up with a decent arrangement on keyboard for live performances, and I file away the arrangements I hear in my head for when we record and bring in some session players.

Up until a couple weeks ago, I'd never thought, "I wonder how that would sound with viola."

But Rose heard us at our last gig, liked us a bunch, and asked if we'd like to play on the album she's recording. She also said that if we had any songs we thought she could contribute to, she'd be happy to do it.

So, viola. Viola? OK. I pondered everything we've written and made a list of songs that could maybe ... possibly ... be enhanced by that particular instrument. Couldn't hurt to try.

We did. Wow.

Viola, it turns out, adds a beautiful, rich texture to piano and drums. I guess I knew that already from listening to other people's stuff, but I'd never thought it could work for ours.

The jam reminded me of how, once you write a song and release it to the world, it's not entirely yours anymore. It can do things you never thought about, go in directions you hadn't imagined.

Viola.

Wow.

When practice doesn't quite make perfect

Occasionally I write a song that's hard for me to sing. I don't mean emotionally. I mean technically. Maybe part of it is out of my range, or there's a note I have to sustain for a long time without breathing.

"You're the writer," I hear you cry. "Why would you make it difficult for yourself?" Well, mostly I don't. If I can, I tailor my songs to my strengths. But every once in a while it just doesn't sound as good the easy way. So I write it the way I think it should sound, and then practice the hell out of it.

Hold Me in Your Arms is a good example. It's a love song, and it begins with me humming over a minimal piano accompaniment. The notes would be in my range if I were na-na-ing them, but they're uncomfortably low when hummed. To do the passage without cracking or sounding weak, I have to hold my face in a way that doesn't obstruct the airflow.

Practicing this has helped a lot, but I still haven't been able to count on hitting the notes consistently.

Yesterday at rehearsal, I sang the song for the first time in a while. And just before we started, a thought popped into my head. What if I just hummed louder?

Yep. That did it. I'd been humming softly for a more sultry effect, but going louder didn't change the feel. All I had to do was back off the mic a little.

Practice is good. But sometimes it helps to come to a sticky spot fresh.

Substance abuse, part III

The bag of M&Ms in the bottom drawer was calling my name. I considered my schedule. In about an hour and a half I'd be leaving work for rehearsal. Chocolate would gunk up my throat.

Eh, the hell with it. It was a rehearsal, not a performance. I opened the bag and went to town.

The good news: Somehow I was spared the usual vocal effects. No coughing, no hacking. In fact, my throat was more well behaved than usual.

The bad news: I hadn't taken into account the non-singing effects of an M&M binge. Tonight's rehearsal found me a little wired. During the first few songs, I made weird mistakes I don't normally make, like singing the wrong syllables even though I knew exactly what sounds I was supposed to produce.

Y'know, I have to admire musicians who nurse serious addictions. If I can be derailed by a sugar rush, how on earth do people perform under the influence of drugs you can't buy in the candy aisle of the supermarket?

Cattus interruptus

A few months ago, Ron the Drummer and his wife adopted a kitten. Unlike their other two cats, who are pretty mellow, Abby enjoys getting into everything and she knows no fear. Whatever the size or shape of the object, she looks at it and thinks, "I could climb that."

Also unlike the other cats, Abby has no problem being in the same room as Ron and me when we rehearse. The loudness doesn't faze her a bit.

It's made for some interesting rehearsals. As Ron and I practice, Abby will wind her way around the room, searching for some kind of trouble to get into. Sometimes she chews the cords or plays with the equipment. One time she attempted to climb a table lamp and knocked it over. The trick for us is knowing when to keep playing and when to stop what we're doing to prevent her from breaking something or hurting herself.

Today she wandered over to where I was sitting and gazed up at me with her patented "I could climb that" stare. Sure enough, a few measures before the song ended, she hopped up onto my lap.

I'm proud to say that I didn't miss a note. I finished the song with a cat on me.

In a way, it's good practice. At atmosphere gigs we have to ignore all manner of noises and distractions. If we can play through our own cattuccino machine, we can play through anything.

Tempo inflation

Listening to the recording of our last gig, I noticed that we played some of our slow songs a little fast. This is a common performance issue. When you're in front of an audience, the extra adrenaline makes you want to speed up, and also makes it harder to realize you're doing it.

We decided at yesterday's rehearsal to work on those slow songs and get them up to speed. Or down, as the case may be.

As we practiced, I realized I couldn't blame my fast count-offs on the thrill of playing live. Here we were, in Ron's living room, no one to hear us (except Ron's wife, who's allowed to witness our mistakes), and the songs at the correct tempo sounded like freaking dirges.

Why is it that music seems slower when we play it than when we listen to recordings of ourselves playing it?

Is there a neuroscientist in the house?

Playing hooky

Ron and I skipped rehearsal yesterday to catch the last Obama/McCain debate.

Our next gig is another Obama fundraiser. I'm not sure if that makes our playing hooky more excusable, or less.