The temperamental artist

When I was in Australia earlier this year, I was speaking with a fabulous drummer (who shall remain anonymous) about the perils and pitfalls of being a side person (instrumentalists who are hired and fired at will) and playing with famous singers and songwriters. We were laughing about a particular concert he worked on, where the ‘star’ (who shall also remain nameless) was particularly brutal to the musicians. They survived by forming a betting pool whereby the next person who took the verbal abuse would win the pool of money.

The truth is, this story is a very common one. (not the betting pool part but the abuse).Most musicians have either heard, or heard of, the infamous Buddy Rich tape where he verbally beats the heck out of his entire band. It is strangely amusing to listen to, only because it was a long time ago and oh so far away. Or stories about entire bands being fired and put out of the bus on the side of the highway in the middle of a tour or in the middle of a show. I am constantly amazed by the number of front people who think it is ok to belittle, abuse and shame the musicians who stand on the stage with them. Especially when the musicians are throwing their whole hearts into making the front person (star) sound fabulous. They rule by fear and intimidation and seem to think they will get the best out of people this way.

It is something that continues to baffle me and yet I have seen it with my own eyes, I have heard it with my ears. The discomfort of being in the audience when this humiliation is taking place on the stage in front of me.

Of course there are those who also like to abuse the sound man, the audience, the wait staff. NO one is off-limits. It is just the weirdest thing. It’s like being a ‘star’ gives you the right to treat people badly and then move on as if nothing happened, while the assaulted are left to lick their wounds and wonder what they did to cause this…..

I am not famous, I am not a star, I am just one human trying to understand another….

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My first Christmas

The first Christmas I spent in America was on Long Island New York, in a town called Glen Cove. It was a Christmas full of magical firsts. It came at the end of a tough 6 months. I was rescued from a complicated personal situation by an angel of a woman by the name of Crystal..an artist, a bohemian, a gentle and wise soul who floated from place to place in long swirling skirts and a braid that fell down her back. She told me fantastic stories. Stories about doing the rounds of the art gallery openings in the 60′s in Manhattan. How if you arrived hungry, you could finish by being well fed and drunk. Stories about famous musicians and artists, how she married 3 millionaires and left each one with her dignity intact, but broke. She lived with her teenage son in a flat above a strip of shops. She took me in like a stray pup and taught me how to live. She taught me how to respect myself, how to be a woman with dignity and grace.

I saw christmas lights for the first time. Twinkling Deer staring out from fields, houses all dressed up in multicolored lights like the gingerbread house in Hansel and Gretel, santa’s and trees and nativity scenes. I walked in the snow, my first white christmas. I experienced a real Christmas tree..the smell, the joy of decorating the fragrant limbs with ornaments and lights. My first and only midnight mass, complete with a brass ensemble, Singing my heart out in the pews surrounded by new friends, Eating an omelette at 2 in the morning at Denny’s.Hell, I had never even been to a diner before.

It was an upside down Christmas, unlike any that I had experienced before. In Australia, Christmas is stifling hot, usually spent in a rental house at the beach, no Christmas Tree or if we stayed at home and there was one, it was a fake one we would put together. We would swim in the morning and lie around during the heat of the day and then swim again in the late afternoon. When I was little, and we had Christmas at home, my brother and I would lie in bed looking out the window, searching the skies for St Nicholas on his sleigh. We would write our pre-Christmas request letters to Santa and peg them on the clothes line. They always disappeared.

I remember the day my older sister told me that Santa Claus was dead. I sobbed and wailed. I was heartbroken. So, my first American Christmas was very special… In fact my Christmas’ in New York City were all memorable. It’s as if Christmas suddenly came to life for me…. Winter and Christmas together…

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