The venue (the note) was really cool. Well, it looked exactly like this, actually.
And the weird thing about playing solo–other than the rather overwhelming revelation as you walk onto stage that every last note about to be heard has to come from YOURSELF and JUST YOURSELF–is that you generally arrive alone. And, since you have to sound check and stuff, you generally arrive early. Which means there is a lot of downtime to be had. Which means that there is plenty of time to read the various things people have written on the walls of the green room over the years. And gaze at the pictures.

Some of which are not so gaze-able. 

Trust me on that.

But, I think my favorite thing I read on the green room walls of The Note had to have been this:

There are two keys in life:

The turkey,

The monkey,

and sometimes the donkey.

I am not sure why, but it just struck me as so funny. And rather nonsensical in that the phrase actually lists three keys instead of just two. But who’s counting, right?

And–here’s something so nice–the producer of the show gave me more than we agreed upon. And it wasn’t a mistake, either. I reminded him of exactly how much we’d set and then he goes and meticulously counts out more than that and hands it to me like it ain’t no thang at all. But it is a thing; it’s quite a thing. And I am grateful for that thing.

Tomorrow morning I go back to NYC and then I have a fitting for another fashion show and then a rehearsal with some bamf brooklyn musicians who have warned me that they own both a waffle maker and a juicer and not to be alarmed if waffles and juice come into play. Of course, I would be shocked and appalled, but I suppose I would choke them down for the good of musical camaraderie and all that. The fact that I LOVE waffles and juice would have nothing to do with it. Nothing at all.

Ahem.

And then I want to go into the laundry room to record something I have in mind for Valentine’s Day. Which is vastly approaching, you know. And guess what? It’s gonna be good this year. No, really, it is. Cause I get to play more music at Sleep No More’s Manderley Bar, so happy Valentine’s Day, indeed.

Maybe I will even wear pink.

Maybe. 

The music stuff. That’s official. The advice on my love-life? Well, that’s a bonus.

And he’s not the only wonderful guy handing out advice to me lately.

“Are you working on any new songs, Jess?” my pop asks, nonchalantly.

“Yep.”

“Are they sad songs about heartache?” he says, still playing at nonchalance.

“Uh…I guess…kinda…”

“Well, you better find another guy to break your heart soon…I mean, that gives you quite a lot of material,” he says, laughing now. And I am, too, cause we joke about everything in my family. You have to. Otherwise you’d be crying too much, I think.

But I wouldn’t mind a guy who doesn’t break my heart, if it’s all the same to you. 

I visited Rosa’s today with some friends. Rosa’s is a wonderful little Italian restaurant around the corner from my parents’ house. It has the best barbecue chicken pizza I’ve ever had. I am a little obsessed with it. Seriously. My friend Christian gets a little frustrated with me about it, because, I have literally arrived back from Japan and he’s all, “Let’s get lunch! On me! I’ll take you anywhere you’d like to go–ANYWHERE.”

I’m all, “Great. Rosa’s, then,” without missing a beat.

And he sighs. Because I think he is expecting me to say something a little fancier or a little less around the corner from where he works. every. day (of the week), or a little–well, not Rosa’s.

But, anyway, I have gained a reputation there for my taste in their pizza. So much so, that they haven’t bothered learning my name. No need, because they have their own for me. Something I realized when I was singing at a bar and the guys from Rosa’s happened to be there, too. They were like, “Barbecue Chicken? We had no idea you could sing like that!”

I was all, Barbecue Chicken? I had no idea you called me that! 

Anyway, today I get a facebook message from Andre, who works at Rosa’s. It says: ‘Barbecue Chicken! Someone posted a video on my wall last week of a girl playing and rapping and singing on the subway–I thought it was great, but only just realized it was you, after you came into the shop today! Way to go, Barbecue Chicken!’

Oh man.

Barbecue Chicken.

I’m kind of honored.

And it could be worse.

My favorite pizza could be extra cheese.

The time goes so quickly; the stars shine with this polished brilliance, like the sky has no wish for any traveler to be turned away, and it burns every last lamp to prove it.

“It’s good to have you home,” my mom tells me.

And then she asks me if the clothes on the pool table are mine. “I don’t think so,” I reply, really hoping it’s so–since I don’t have enough space for the clothes I have that are already accounted for.

“Well, they must be,” she reasons. “The jeans are skinnier than my arms and the underwear is very small and strange.”

My mom has a way with words. 

And so I take the ‘very small and strange’ underwear she hands me; I find a place for the super skinny jeans and realize that I guess I did leave some clothes on the pool table, after all.

And, oh! Did I tell you how, the other night, I dreamt (not once, but TWICE!) that I sang on the Ellen Show?

Because I did.

And I don’t normally remember my dreams so viscerally, but this one, I do.

I was right about to walk onto that stage where the couch and the coffee table sit . And there is Ellen, looking adorable in her tailored trousers and cute button down shirt, when I hear this announcement:

AND THIS IS JESSICA LATSHAW. SHE GOES AROUND SINGING, “BABY, YOU AIN’T MY FRIEND.” SHE MUST BE VERY ISOLATED AND HAVE NO FRIENDS.

It sounded like the announcer felt sorry for me, and, honestly, I did, too, once I heard what he said.

But the good news is that I have many friends and don’t feel isolated at all. In fact, I love a little bit of alone time now and then–it’s akin to breathing–meaning, I find it absolutely necessary. And who knows? Maybe I will sing on the Ellen Show at some point. I mean, as my friend John says: miracles happen, so why not to me? That would certainly make my sister pretty excited. And, who am I kidding, it’d make me pretty excited, too.

Speaking of my sister, isn’t she beautiful?

Yes, I think so, too.

“It’s a recording present…and it has a ukulele on it!”

And look at that–isn’t it so adorable? I am one very lucky girl.

And WE DID IT!

We recorded FOUR SONGS in just under TWO DAYS. And, I must say, I am so excited about these tracks. I keep listening to them. In fact, I went to the gym tonight (yes, I’m the girl who goes to the gym on a Friday night. Romantic, I know)–but, I was in the weight room and listening to this one part of my song that breaks down into a rap. And there’s this rolling snare drum that just makes me SO EXCITED (that’s why I used caps, guys, cause caps are EXCITING!), I cannot help but dance when I hear it. So, I am standing there with one weight in my hand while the rest of me is sort of dancing, when one of the trainers walks up to me.

“What are you listening to that’s making you dance?” he asks.

And for a second, I can’t even hear him, my music is blasting so loud through my earphones. I see that he’s not going to stop asking me whatever it is he’s asking, so I regrettably stop the music and listen to his question.

And am instantly embarrassed and evasive.

“Oh…” I say, scrambling to think of something–ANYTHING!–other than: “Myself. I am listening to myself and it’s making me dance. And, oh yeah. I don’t go on dates on Friday nights–I go to the gym. At least you’re here because you’re getting paid to be here; I cannot say the same about myself…”

Right, so I don’t want to say that, so I say, “Oh…it’s nobody you would know…” and just kind of hope he goes away.

But he keeps standing right in front of me, staring, muscles bulging through his polo shirt, looking like he’s ready to talk to me about whatever it is that’s making me dance —even if it takes all night. Or at least until ten, when the Y closes.

“What kind of answer is that?!” he says, “Come on, what are you listening to?!”

“Uh…myself? I am listening to myself…” I finally admit. “I didn’t want to tell you that I was dancing to my music. That’s kind of embarrassing to be caught doing. I mean, I never thought anyone would ever ask me what was making me dance…”

And then that led to a whole conversation about me being a musician and then another guy came over and, having talked to me at my parents’ Y last time I was in town, asked me if I’ve cut some weight. Cut some weight. Not lost it. Huge body building men have their own language, guys. So I admitted that I might have. “But not on purpose–I’ve just been so busy lately, that I keep forgetting to eat.”

Which, once these guys got over the shock and incredulity of anyone EVER forgetting to eat, of all things, led to us talking about what’s happened since youtube happened to me.

And then I came home and played the tracks for my parents and one of their dogs. Strider seemed to enjoy it. Well, he slept through it, but he seemed to enjoy whenever I scratched his ears–and my tracks were playing when I was doing it–so there’s that. My parents listened to it in a kind of reverie, smiling or moving a little or closing their eyes (but unlike Strider, I am pretty sure they didn’t fall asleep).

My nephew and brother are geniuses in the studio. Their help is immeasurable and I could not do this without them.

Like I said, I am one lucky girl.

And it looked like this:

(that’s Wayne Tucker, Biet Simkin, me, and Tom Larsen, from left to right–they are incredible musicians; such a privilege to collaborate with them)

I also met with my publicist today. Yes, this means I have a publicist, which is quite new for me. She took one look at my safety pinned-together purse and was quite taken a back. “We need to correct this situation,” she said. “You cannot just walk around looking like…”

“…a homeless person?” I supplied.

She nodded and I made a mental note to drop my purse off at the leather shop this weekend while I am recording.

I wore three inch heels last night. This makes me 5’11. “You are sooooooooo tall,” said someone in the audience as I walked by them. What’s interesting about that kind of statement is that it’s hard to know how to respond, exactly. You can’t say ‘thank you,’ because it isn’t a compliment. You can’t say ‘so are you,’ because it’s generally a short person who makes that kind of observation. You could say that you are not so tall when compared to most trees, but that would start a conversation that you might not want to have. Plus, there are always bonsai trees–and they totally trump your argument.

I usually just end up agreeing and then trying to move the conversation on.

Oh, and here is a video someone took of us covering ‘I Need a Doctor’ from last night at Sleep No More, if you care to watch.

And that, my friends, concludes this blog post.

I am meeting a new friend who’s visiting from Britain tomorrow morning. We met because she interviewed me for a radio program, and now we’re hanging out. The internet is a crazy and wonderful place sometimes.

It’s moments like these when one wishes they had a typewriter. Preferably by a window. One with wainscoting. I don’t know why wainscoting came to mind, but it did, so I wrote it down. I’ve learned to do that. Write things down that come to mind. The mind is a breeding ground. Little, baby, innocent enough thoughts are born there; they grow up to be Mozart and Martha Graham and Tennyson–shedding so much light on the beauty that already exists here, but now the rest of the world can see it, too; we step out of our present darkness for a brief transcendent moment and we think, It’s so lovely here. So achingly lovely–maybe I’ll stay here forever…But then a bill that is larger than our meager bank account becomes due or a parent makes us feel very small indeed and we forget the call to think higher, to see beauty, to be free.

We forget who we are.

Until the next transcendent moment shakes us from existing within the confines of our regrets and our fears, that is.

But, right, the mind is a breeding ground.

Those little thoughts.

Those harmless thoughts; they are the tiniest grey-blue puppy pit bull with matching grey-blue eyes that I saw chained to a parking meter the other day, while walking to the gym. He was one of the prettiest things I’d ever seen and I wanted to take him with me just about everywhere. ‘Oh, there is that tall and thin girl with the puppy the color of the ocean at dawn,’ is what people would say when they saw us.

But a puppy the color of the ocean at dawn soon becomes a dog who can bite, no matter what color he is. And there is a lot of responsibility that comes with handling that potentially dangerous and lovely creature. You don’t let a dog do whatever he wants, no matter how pretty or innocent he looks; because, eventually, the dog will ruin the world–or at least the fabric of your best drapes.

Drapes and wainscoting; I must have dreamt pure Jane Eyre last night.

I did perform at Sleep No More, which was not a dream, but was so dreamy, it might as well have been. All smoky and speak-easy-like, dimly lit with lots of sparkling pieces of jewelry hanging around the throats and wrists and fingers of women who looked to have stepped right out of 1939.

But back to the mind and how it’s a breeding ground.

The puppy and how it’s innocent until it’s not.

Our thoughts and how they can grow into grace, if we let them.

Unless we don’t.

So, here’s to our thoughts growing up to be Martha Graham, Mozart, and Tennyson. Or maybe even a simple, kind farmer in South Africa that neither of us will ever know, but whose life consistently makes the world a stronger, better, safer place.

And here’s to writing our thoughts down.

Even if we still haven’t opened up both eyes. Because the morning came quickly.  Just as quickly as the night flew by while you spent it singing and rapping and talking and eating and platonically sitting on the laps of a couple of friends you’ve not been lucky enough to see for a while now. Not until last night, and on into this morning, that is.

He had told me that he played the organ and something about the vowel sounds in organ made me think of the word accordion, and so, when I ran into him a little bit later by happenstance, I asked, “Oh! is THAT your accordion, then?”

Looking at the black, rectangular speaker that he was rolling around via dolly, he quietly answered, “It’s actually a speaker.”

I know that. I KNOW that. I know the difference between a speaker and an accordion. Oh, man.

But, that’s not nearly as bad as last night, when I asked a sweet lady the question that I know nobody should ask. Not unless you actually SEE a baby crowning, do you assume a woman is pregnant.

But, what did I do last night? After I played at the Cake Shop, I met a couple who just missed my performance because a cab driver had gotten them lost (and they aren’t from the city). Often, I try to talk to people about themselves; I don’t like all the attention on me, so I will include their lives in the conversation. So I said, “Oh my gosh! And you’re pregnant?!”

“No…I just had a baby…”

What do you say then? JUST KIDDING? You can’t. I ran right on ahead to the congratulations part of the conversation, but still.

I KNOW NOT TO ASSUME THAT.

Just like I KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SPEAKER AND AN ACCORDION.

Now to actually act like I know these things, I suppose.

Oh well, the good (and random) news is that my sheets are clean. And so are my clothes at the moment.

Tomorrow is one of those days that is a bit of a doozy. A good doozy, don’t get me wrong, but a doozy, nonetheless. I have a rehearsal for an industrial gig for TDBank from 6-10 pm (which I am in charge of! Hello, my name is Jessica and I hardly like to be in charge of anything. Except maybe decorating my family’s Christmas tree. And, okay, some baking projects)–and right after that, I have to run on over to Sleep No More’s Story Telling concert in which I am getting all fancified up for in a vintage dress, some fishnets, and heels (thanks for the kicks, Bets!). While there, I will sing some songs–one of them being an eminem song on the ukulele. Another one being Sweet Child of Mine on the uke. And then another in which I get to play the piano (thank goodness!) and am just singing some background vocals (thank goodness again!).

I am actually really excited for it. Collaborating with other musicians–super talented musicians–is like getting to share the wealth. Wealth being music, in this case.

Hopefully, during this doozy of a day I will not say anything extraordinarily ignorant, rude, or stupid.

Here’s hoping.

The subway was the opposite of that tonight.

And I had my musician-turtle-shell-on-her-back getup going on. The keyboard (IT’S GOT STAPS!) like a backpack, the stand in one hand, and the uke in the other. And all of that stuff makes me tired. And the train suddenly just skipped Delancy Street. Just didn’t stop. It was all, “NBD, I’m not stopping at a stop that I normally make. CAUSE I DON’T FEEL LIKE IT.”

Must be nice, train; must be nice.

Sometimes I sure don’t feel like paying a bill or brushing my teeth or just plain getting out of bed, but do I just pamper my feelings? No. Cause I’m what some would call an adult. Unfortunately, I was riding on a little toddler train who just didn’t feel like stopping at Delancy AND SO DIDN’T. I bet Momma Train understood, but I sure didn’t.

Anyway, all that to say, I think it took about the same length of time to get from Inwood to the East Village as it did for the settlers to Conestoga wagon it from the east coast to the wild wild west.

I’m not sure, but it’s got to be close, at least.

But then I got to my gig and the place was just awesome. Lots of people, lots of good vibes, and, yes folks, the Cake Shop sure does have cake. I love it when a venue lives up to its name. I went on last and the audience was all listening and recording and swaying and smiling and saying inappropriate things.

Well, one guy did, anyway.

But I made it into a joke and we all had a good laugh.

AND!

The percussionist for the band that played before me (the Bischoffs; check them out, they’re incredible, actually) was happy to play with me for my set. He had never heard any of my songs before (with the exception of ‘ain’t my friend), and he just jammed with me like it ain’t no thang. Maybe it’s my niche; jamming with percussionists I’ve never met before, I mean. But, the coolest thing is that Amit wants to start playing with me around the city. How great is that? I’ll tell you (cause you might not have heard his beats): it’s super great.

Afterward, I met so many fantastic people and took pictures with them and just enjoyed them in general.  There was talks of me being in a dance-off as the night got later, but that turned into more of a talk-off, which I was just fine with, to be honest.

And I am not setting my alarm but I AM going to bed.

Happily, I may add. And happy don’t always come easy, so I’m feeling mighty thankful right about now.

A very kind lady did my makeup for the pre-shows fashion event tonight. “I have googled you,” she told me, upon first meeting. “It does not look like you wear much makeup–are you comfortable with me doing your makeup?”

I assured her that I was.

And she got to work.

And then a very sweet Japanese man did my hair.

It was nice to sit back and let other people take care of me, actually. And this is what they did:

They also put me in a dress. Courage B is the designer. And they let me keep it. And I totally would have, too–had someone not stolen it. Which sucks, but what are you gonna do, right? I didn’t have that dress yesterday, so not having that dress tomorrow won’t be that different, anyway.

Here’ s a picture of me playing (in case you couldn’t figure that out). Oh man. I had to walk the catwalk to get to the stool and microphone to sing. People were so kind and cheering. Plus, I didn’t fall or even trip. Added bonus.

The mic situation was trying, though. They only had one and nothing to plug my uke into, so I had to somehow use one microphone for both my voice and my uke. I hunched over like some sort of creature to get my voice and uke as close together as possible for the mic to pic it up, and then I BELTED THE HECK OUTTA THOSE SONGS.

Here’s me and my wonderful, completely lovely friend Jes.

One of the best parts of the night was that two of my dear friends came with me.

And here is me and beautiful Bets.

Oh! Also, I had an awesome rehearsal in Brooklyn today with some AMAZING musicians I am collaborating with for the Sleep No More show on Monday. I feel so lucky to play my ukulele with these guys. Their groove and vibe is just plain dreamy. In a musical sense of the word. Plus they have a HUGE STUFFED LION in their apartment, just chilling. And they call him Aslan. Um, what’s not to love about that situation?

I met a kind Italian man who spoke to me for a while tonight. Considering the music was thumpin’ and his accent was pronounced, I did a lot of smiling and nodded without totally understanding what it was, exactly, I was smiling and nodding about, unfortunately. But, there were two things that stand out from that conversation:

1). I kept thinking that maybe my Italian grandfather (who passed away before I arrived on the scene, but worked in 30 Rock as the senior VP of RCA) sounded a bit like this guy, and the thought warmed my heart.

and

2). At one point I noticed liquid pouring down the side of his pants. I was really afraid that I was witnessing him peeing during our conversation…Until, with some relief, I realized that he was just holding his bottle of beer upside down. Thank goodness that’s what it was.