Joshua White at Blue Whale

Saturday night, March 18th, 2017.
Overcast, but not fishy.

There are so many parties tonight that I was not invited to.
I can’t think of one in particular, but I know people are somewhere being electric without me.
People are flying off in airplanes, to London and Iceland.  
People are at home, getting laid, or eating consciously prepared meals together.

I'm in a Lyft, exhaling dry sarcasm at my driver.

He tilts his head left and back,
"It says there's traffic on the freeway."
"Well, it's the freeway."
He laughs, seems relieved at my jaded P.O.V on traffic.

I’m on my way to see Joshua White at Blue Whale. Joshua White will play a piano. And two other people, Dean Hulett, and Gene Coye, will play a bass and drums.
I have no idea who any of them are.

So many buildings under construction in Downtown LA.
Urban, high-tech-wasteland, giving me an Akira boner.
That’s not depressing.
The boner part.
Akira might be depressing, but I’m not sure.
This is all theoretical.
There is way too much Febreeze going on in this vehicle.
I suspect olfactory-induced brain-wave pollution.


Riding the escalator between a man with wondrous, round spectacles, and a mauve pocket handkerchief, and two little Asian boys with a bucket of power tools. Escalator empties till it’s only me, and the bespectacled man. We chit chat, the man is from Miami by way of NY, and has never seen Joshua White either. I’d guess him in his early 60s, and I adore his subtle pinstripes, handle-bar mustache, and woven-toe dress shoes. I want very badly to be his best friend.

At the Blue Whale entrance, we part ways after paying. I aim for the bar, because I am on a date with myself, and the lady would like a cocktail. I get the “Bees Knees.” Frosty funnel-shaped glass, yellow condensation, lemon rind, honey.

Sit myself down on a cushion with some space next to it, in case the rounded-spectacle man wants to sit next to me. He’s like a tan, dandy, with a Max Headroom slick-back. I want to know if he goes to the supermarket like that. And jogging.

Girl in her 20s glides by in all white, with black lipstick.
She doesn’t know we already did that in 1994.

The energy in the room is inverting my darkness a little bit, extroverting me, subtly. Feeling different.

I make toasts in my head.

It’s a good night for frustration!

Where there is cymbal chatter, there is the voice of a reverend, speaking in tongues!

To the brief union of myself, and my inner, rounded-bespectacled, twin of sartorial spirit!

To the abject horror of the existential loneliness of the consciousness trapped in my skull which, nonetheless, extracts science-fiction based arousal from the particulate-matter-ether of Downtown Los Angeles under construction!


Josh begins by shooing the notes out of the hedges. Scattering like pixel static, autumnal, feather, frenetic, softness. Dexterity, contained.

Dean (Bass), walks on, makes stinky face when Josh vacillates between flutter texture and pedal fullness. Joins in, deep wood rattles. Stunted, walking texture – that strait plus swing, thing. Double stops, plodding, lovely.

Gene (drums) comes in with the original meaning of Beat Drop.
This is what jazz is supposed to be. I’m so glad I came. I haven’t experienced this level of organic interplay, in a long time. This is what listening sounds like. Every mind on stage is an ear – I sound high right now, but hang with me. I gotta take off my jacket. Trumpet player enters. Snare chatter just synched up with the trumpet phrase– an accident with intention.

Dean moves into a bass ostinato, like a heartbeat. 1 to minor 3 with murmurs. It’s disarming, but affirmatively deep.

Flash! All in – all the blood bursts out, reckless, feathers frayed, mad walk.
A section of torrential time.

Winding down now with R&B suggestions, they’re playing at it. Loving mockery. A 3-note pattern in octaves by spider fingers. All smiles on stage. The simplicity is a joke, but simplicity is the most effective joke in music – which is the joke.

Drum solos over a bass and piano ostinato. It starts with a snare march, glides into deep pocket, now colors, now Josh is fucking with us with dabs and trickles – gliss – bass groove laid so far back, music historians will have to analyze this. Groove is laid so far back you gotta Carbon date it.

It all winds down to open octave in the left hand, and a few echoed dabs and droplets above.

No sustain.



 I had to stop writing after the first tune, because I needed to experience the music in the moment. I had to be fully present.

After the set, I speak briefly to Josh. He is very kind, very tall, and very brief. Emotionally, on stage, he already said more than some say in a year, so there was no call for long-windedness.  I hope to see him play again.

Rounded Spectacles is at the bar, looking observant, and anachronistic.

Dean, Gene and the trumpet player (SO bummed I did not get his name.), are hanging outside, overlooking the plaza. I tell them they were brilliant, incredible. We talk in short sentences, and it comes up that I’ve played Blue Whale too.
“What do you play?”
I want to say, “I write at home, when nobody is around. I write notes for instruments, and give those notes to people who play them better than I do. Then I sing.”  I didn’t say exactly that though. I said something more like I write music, and I sing, and then something vague, with wishy-washy arm gestures.  I should always remember to pretend like I’m horse, and just go around with a box of lined cards, with pre-prepared responses. I can totally rock the “hot enigmatic chick” thing, but once I get talking, the “you had a Star Trek poster on your wall” thing becomes apparent.

I walk back to the elevator, with what swagger I still have. Feels like pants around my ankles. I was never cool.


The Joshua White trio is, in the words of Duke Ellington, “Amazeballs.”
Whenever he’s playing, stop everything you’re doing, and go see them.

The “Bees Knees” cocktail is as advertised.

The Blue Whale ladies’ toilet has a broken handle. This, I assume, is due to zealous wizzers. Some recent night, several jazz-enthused ladies NEEDED to get back to their seats before the bass solo, and so were callous with their flushing technique. So of yer in the ladies' lounge at Blue Whale, the inner flusher thing is jerry-rigged to a knot of TP, which is hanging out of a hole in the porceline. Just lift it, it's all good.

@Jazztoilet, that was for you.





Return To The Mint Jam Session

The bald man didn’t recognize me. In fairness, I did not remember his name, just his head.
He’s the guy who was in charge of the door at this club a decade ago, and he is still here, still shiny.

Oh jazz world. I’m here for you. I’m out in my tight pants and you are being you, starting late. Not even an opening band to warm up the room for the jam session. In fact, it’s 8pm and I’d assumed there would be some earlier bands, but no, the club just opened. Nuthin’ goin’ on. I Lyfted here, and now I’m stuck on Pico Blvd.

So I call Lyft #2 of my night, and roll to a nearby Starbucks at Pico and Robertson, and now I’m sandwiched in a corporate-conglomerate, Ménage à Trois with Walgreens and Radio Shack.

There’s a paunchy dude doing a newspaper crossword.
A lady peeling cellophane off a Starbucks, assembly-line approved, bread product - the mound of starch is the textbook definition of “moist.”

I text my friend, Jeff Hoeppner:
“I’m trying to be #JazzLife and be at a jam session but I forgot jazz is always late. Now at Starbucks having normcore immersion crisis. Venting.”

“LOL. I can utterly sympathize. Where is the jam?”

“The Mint.”


Lyft #3 drops me off back at the club. I’m here, it’s cool. As long as I get to sing a tune, I’m happy. Anything but “There Is No Greater Love,” because, Jesus Christ, if I sing that song again in my NEXT life, it will be too soon.

Now it’s 9:46, and I’ve sat down at a table next to Tom Meek, renown jazz-knower, reviewer, and walking historian of LA jazz. Tom has Galdalf-The-White shoulder-length hair, and nefarious plans for nitty-gritty conversation. He knows everything about everyone. He’s been coming to my shows since I was in college. He brings up the last time I played The Mint, probably in 2008, for my Telarc album release show.

Tom and I talk a little smack about people we mutually know, then Josh Nelson appears around the side of the stage. He was at my 2008 show…I think. I swear, hitting the jam session scene after a few years away, is like re-joining the dating circuit. Exes everywhere, but they’re all musical relationships, and you can forget who was where and when. Especially with the return of this particular session, which Kevin Kanner ran 10 years ago, before he temporarily relocated to the East Coast. It’s surreal to be back.

Josh spots me, makes the “Mind-blown OMG!” face, and comes over. Hug, he says I look “Like a peach.” So the hair is working tonight. Josh has never been hard on the eyes, himself.
Not flirting, just reporting.

Josh and I talked about being LA lifers. How he’ll be driving through town, and he’ll remember landmarks as he passes old shuttered clubs, and think, “Hey, I unloaded my gear there that one time...” And he’ll have a rush of memories. I tell him, so many evenings I drive through LA, and the visions compile until I enter a fugue state of recollection. Impression upon impression of extended harmonies, fitting and not fitting into my idea of myself.

Life is a text, overwritten. The ink is always on our heels.

Alright, it’s drink time. I weave through college-age dudes with instrument cases, and other faces with shades of familiarity. I find an elbow rest at the bar. I text Jeff, in my mind.

“Dear Jeff,
I don’t know where I am, it’s like a re-run of a night in my 20s that I never had. All the same people are here, but they’re all going gray. Except me. I’m a fuckin’ peach, ask Josh.”

I order a whisky sour, my old standby (from nights with Laura Picarello). $15 minimum? I give over my card. They are conspiring against my fragile maturity.

I’m back at the table with Tom, talking politics. Michael Flynn just resigned as national security adviser. We toast to whatever that means.

I shouldn’t drink too much before I sit in, or I might forget how to jazz.

“Dear Jeff,
It smells like herb in here. Not lemon thyme.”


Kevin Kanner counts off the band.
(At 10:35, which is jazz for 9pm.)

I don’t know the name of the tune Kevin called - beebop, hard, burning.  According to Tom, Kevin is in the habit now of calling “New York tunes,” which are not standard session cannon for West coast players. These tunes are hectic, ripped, and vascular. There are many notes, and the saxophones (Danny Janklow, and Ralph Moore) are playing all of the notes.

Ok, Josh just struck a match on his tongue and lit the piano on fire. (This is a metaphor, for any readers who are concerned about either the piano or Josh’s face) I haven’t heard him play this ferociously in years. He’s been in his own exploratory projects, subtle, contemplative offerings….this is hard swing. I remember this guy.

The tune is galloping around the stage. Ralph caught it in his teeth, but the motherfucker is really feral. So Graham Dechter caught it with his pinky, but it’s getting flirtatious and spastic up the guitar neck. He’s wrestling it down now, and Kevin is cussing about it on the snare. Solo bounces to Nick Mancini, who narrates it to the masses, he’s good with direct address. Something about the vibraphone tone is hollow and fulfilling. Nick is almost impossible. My earholes are experiencing things my mouth hole cannot explain and my pen hole cannot express in ink. His solo comes to a point, Nick slams it on the 1 and spins, bodily, away from the crowd.
The audience has a small orgasm.

Now Danny Janklow has my heart in his bell. He has clearly played the saxophone before. His tone is just abrasive enough to scratch the “bad boy” itch.
Not flirting, just reporting.

I finish my drink.

“Dear Jeff,
This place got a B rating. Why? Did a bass player drop a bar, and fuck-up a restaurant grader’s mellow? Do the people who grade restaurants prefer electric bass? Fretless?”


Kevin gets on the mic, informs everyone “We’re going to change it up a bit, slow it down.”
Melissa Morgan gets up to sing “Love You Madly.” Kevin takes a sublime solo on this tune.
You see, he starts with some chatter, some rhythmic variations to let us all know he’s going somewhere, then…he plays time.

He just plays time. Brushes.

The club is holy for a moment.
He does some imitation of echo on the snare, something like a delay effect. It’s not an affect, it’s a meditation – intentional and internal. Kevin is no longer the 18-year-old I met when I was 18, callous, and hot to the touch. He has gravity now. He has time in his body. The entire club is wrapped in the sizzle and patter, unified in hush.

Melissa stayed on for another tune, Mood Indigo. The piece starts intimate, and rises to rollick. The jank, upright piano shakes with Josh’s impression upon conceptual impression, then sideways in blue. In the circa 15 years since I met Josh at a party at Nadir Jeevanjee’s house, he has found his gravity too. He’s always had the dexterity, but the weight of identity is under his fingers now, there is a “self” in his playing which is open-hearted, yet unapologetic.

Oh God, we were all children together, and here we are now.
Almost all of us.
The last time I was at The Mint I saw Zane Musa.
It was the last time I saw Zane.
I take a deep breath in, and breathe him out into the sound.


“Dear Jeff,
I went into the bathroom to take bathroom selfies - because it is this time in human history - and there was a lady sitting on the sink looking at her phone. That was an hour ago, I’m going back to see if she is still there.”

“Dear Jeff,
She is.”

Bathroom selfie. Very serious.

Bathroom selfie. Very serious.


The band has come off stage, and I’m not sure how the jam session works itself out here anymore. I’m kind of depending on my “vested jazz-person-ness” to get me on stage. I find Kevin behind the bar. He says he’ll call me up, second tune. This is good because although I am a WORLD-BEATING-NIGHT-RAGING-FUCKING-SCENESTER, mommy needs her sleep.

Jam tune #1. Forgot the name.
Eric Reed on piano YES! So excited to play with him! Ok tune is over. Kevin talks into the mic,
“Ok I’d like to bring up to the stage, Raya Yarbrough!”
During the break, Nick and I talked about doing a tune, we settled on My Funny Valentine…now where’s Nick?...Eric?…wait…Kevin’s switching out the band. Hey, I don’t know any of these cats. These dudes look really young. They are really young. Kevin asks what I want to do.

“My Funny Valentine with…” Kevin makes a queasy face.
“Could you do something up-tempo? I got a lotta guys who need to blow. A ballad is…”
more queasy face.
“You want something… up?”
“ *sigh*. . .‘There Is No Greater Love?’”
“Yeah! That’s perfect. Hey man, thanks.”

I turn to the band. College-age dudes. Probably good, but not my homies.
“There Is No Greater Love, in F.  Cool?”
Everyone nods. I turn to the bass player.
“You and me, first A-section, walking. Everyone in on second time through the head.”
Bass player’s got it. “Cool.”
“Give me your first note.”

He plucks the tonic. I count, I sing. The tempo and road map seem to be in play for a few bars, but everyone comes around. I want to focus on the audience, but with a new ensemble I’m in band-maintenance mode, like I have a rein on each instrument, and I have to make sure everyone is coming along. Playing behind a singer is a different skill than playing instrumental music, and I remember how long it took my contemporaries to nail it. These guys are at the beginning of that path.

Solos pass between instruments like complicated handshakes everyone’s still trying to remember. Not like the solos from the first set, those were passed like an ice-cube at Rocky Horror. I trade 4s with the drummer, everyone trades 4s with the drummer. Everybody got some? Everybody good? I feel like a beginning sex-instructor. Ok, head out. I signal the band to tag the ending a few times. I trade with the sax player, starting to have some fun. Me and sax dude copy each other, riff off each other, mimic colors, play over each other, scales, quotes, good sounds. Then it’s enough. I toss up my hand to cue end of the tune, and we all hit the finish line together. Not a bad run. Audience applauds. Nodding, waving. Hopping off stage.

Me, apparently saying "ooooooo."

Me, apparently saying "ooooooo."



Holy Crap it’s 12:30. It’s tomorrow.

Eric Reed was in the audience for the whole thing. I had SO wanted to sing something really cool with him. Wanted to slowly murder ‘Round Midnight. Wanted to lean into it and ring out all the dark notes. Nope, not tonight. Still, I walk over to Eric, catch up for a second. Let alone being a baddass musician, he’s just a fantastic human.

Sitting back down next to Tom to collect my things, the next band assembles on stage, another count-off starts. Goodbye to Tom, hug for Kevin and I book it to the door. Chat with Josh just inside the entrance, more “Holy shit! The years!” and we part.

Back out onto Pico blvd., into the cold tease of LA February.
Waiting alone, completing the circle of the evening.

Lyft #4 is here.

I leave tonight with a sentimental heart, but also a renewed heart, full of pride about the incredible musicians I came up with, and the new cats out there. I leave with a song in my head, liquor in my body, inspiration for the future, and minus one credit card.

Because I totally left it at the bar.


It’s still there.



A Night At Perch


Said the rye whisky, through my mouth.

The fog is doing the reverse cowgirl on that tall building next to the ONE WILSHIRE PLAZA building. Mist is insatiable over downtown Los Angeles, engulfing the edifice tops, everything is obscenely wet, and I am so graciously drunk.


I should’ve made reservations, but I have this “musician self-righteousness” thing when I know the band, and it brings about bad assumptions. I’ve been kicked out of several table settings, reserved for reservation people, and I’m sitting now on a folding chair under an ambitious heat lamp. This chair is unworthy of my peacock tights. Whatever, I’m a fucking artist. Peons. Kick me off the drizzling deck for “safety concerns." Do you know who the fuck I am?


I’m still sitting on the folding chair.

I’m writing this on post-its, I’ve gone through four.

Kevin Kanner has come,

“Come hang with us in the break room.”


Told you I was somebody.


I follow Kevin back to the band set-up, and then Brian Swartz leads me through the back stairway, “the catacombs,” he said. I first hired Brian, in 2001. He did my gig on the condition that we play two of his original compositions in my set. I agreed. I always respected him for his insistence on that. Brian is the best kind of pain-in-the-ass. The true artist kind. I mean that with love.


And Brian eats steak like a man. We talked about his kids, and divorce, and life fazes. I envy his red meat consumption capability. He makes it look like it tastes good because it seems to go down easy. Big cuts, red in the middle. Juice. I can’t finish a steak. He asks what I’ve been up to, I genuinely have no idea.

I feel like there’s a big answer in me though.


We leave before the rest of the band, because Brian says the managers have been coming in and out (I didn’t notice) and eyeballing the crazy-hair, beatnik black-turtleneck-sweater girl. We leave and take the stairs back up through the catacombs.


Back at the bar now. Kanner says,

“The room is balmy with people trying to get laid.”

Brian is singing “All Of Me." I'd never really listened to him sing, and it's genuinely lovely.

Kevin sounds amaze too, like he always has. Missed him.

I'm getting soft and sentimental.

My drink is wearing off.

I want to drink something sharp and sudden, something that tastes bad. My first drink was a whisky-based cocktail called “Writer’s Block,” but clearly, 8 post-it-notes later, that didn’t work. I’m gonna get one called a “Lolita.” Maybe I’ll end up on the lap of an English professor, twenty years my senior.


The band begins “Let’s Get Lost.” I agree.


Lolita arrives. I drink her. I didn’t show up to get drunk, I showed up to get lifted – and in my defense, I totally am.

It’s not drinking alone if I’m surrounded by other people, right?

I text Tai Woodville. She gives me the thumbs-up on the cocktail.

So there.


I decide to make toasts.




To the Donald!

May he drown in his own rectum.




To America!

I thought we had something, but you joined a cult, and you left a swastika up my country.



To Earth!

All your children are to blame, and half of us know it.



To my husband!

You’re too good for me. And we’re out of coffee.



To my Lover!

You have no idea what you’re missing. Or maybe you do. Which is why you’re not here.



To God!

I love you for all of this.



Drunk and dazed in lights and stone deco facades. It’s my meditation. Boundless, amorphous, jukebox shapes, hung with fog.I love you Los Angeles. I see apartments lit with purple from within, laticed with string lights. I don’t know who lives there, but I love their luminous vacancy, I love their lives.


Brian is playing “Misty.” Steve Cotter is soloing now.


I’m coming back here next time with a slammin’ bitch like Leah Zeger. She makes me look good.

Nobody’s going to read this.