Baby says, if ever you see skin as fair, Or eyes as deep and as black as mine, I know you’re lying

One assessment down. Eight to go. I think. Maybe I left something out when I counted…

I thought I’d post a photo from one of the longest and happiest days of my life (San Francisco, November 9th 2010), seeing as I’m trying to be optimistic about everything at the moment.

In the next month I will become so sleep deprived, stressed out and high strung that ferry rides will be my bedtime and my fingers will bleed. Welcome to assessment month hell at jazz school – a.k.a. the last month of semester. My face will start breaking out in pimples, emulating aethestically what will be the chaos of my life. Generally, I never ever get pimples, except when I am SUPER stressed out. I don’t mean to brag (I count myself lucky and thank my mother’s genes, to be honest), but I have such nice skin that one pimple is a cataclysmic event, let alone during assessment time when I get up to three. This is too much gross detail, but with me, pimples generally never form or “ripen”, as some people like to call it. They just stay under the surface and hurt like a bitch.

Basically, life is extremely stressful at the moment, and I really really need to step it up and average out my general performance standards at a higher level. It’s so ironic in many ways that I’ve stopped caring about my grades since I got to university. I used to be the sort of person that will get B’s for not trying, and A’s for pretending to give a shit, or the classes that I enjoy, and that was perfectly fine with me. More than fine, it was bloody swell. I always felt like I always got at least 10% more than I deserved, considering I had never done any actual “studying” in my life, to be perfectly honest. But jazz school is a completely different ball game. It’s not academic in any such way, so none of this being “naturally bright” business bullshit comes into play. To a large extent, it is down to commitment, and time spent, but really, it’s about a whole lot of heart.

I finally received my feedback for the jazz combo recital from the end of last term, and the identical raw mark from both assessors on the panel that night had no bearing on my feelings at all. However, I was thoroughly pleased with the fact that their comments precisely reflected my thoughts on how I played that night. The things they thought I did well, and the things they pointed out that needs improvement were all in agreement with how I felt, so that’s really the biggest thing for me. I no longer care about the ABC’s and care mostly about my growth not just as a musician, but as a person. I mean, for gods sake I got something below a B for the first time in my life when I got to university! Nerves, freezing up and mind blanking have been some of my top enemies, and it all comes down to confidence, so I’m trying to work on that.

It’s funny thinking back on all the employers I’ve spoken to in the past who have said that they would happily employ a music graduate for a non music-related job. I remember most distinctly a barrister I had met, with whom I was discussing how I had gone about the most painful decision of my life – choosing jazz school over law school. After chatting for a good half hour, he told me that he thought I would have made an excellent lawyer had I chosen to pursue it; but also that he can see why I didn’t, and the fact that I hold the possibilities of so much more. And I think it’s this obsession with there is something more, there’s got to be more to life, there’s got to be more to me, more to be discovered, more to be devoured, more to be enjoyed, more to be read, seen, photographed, written, learnt, heard, felt, touched, loved – MORE! that ultimately drives me in the supposedly “unconventional” and “creative” realms that I enjoy so much to delve in. I don’t think it’s enough for me to simply aim for a decent paying job, end up with a nice husband, bright children and then repeat the cycle. No. Yes, I want all that, but I also want so much MORE. Having said that, it is terribly hard for me to let go of the “black-clad powerhouse woman of a lawyer with a disposable income, too little time and the world at her fingertips”-type image that I’d spent a large majority of the past decade aiming for. But also having said that, at the same time, I also harboured dreams of being a performer. I still haven’t figured out quite yet the precise sort of perfomer I’d like to be, but I think that there is merit in all forms. And in a larger, more abstract sense of the word, I also don’t think that you have to be physically doing something like playing music, dancing or acting to be “performing” – I like to think that there are such things as literary performances, which is the accumulation of those dashing, inspired moments transcribed into text on paper, rather than in the form of something you sit down to watch or listen to… which ultimately is what a musical/theatrical/dance performace also is: an “accumulation of those dashing, inspired moments”, except executed in a single setting, so to speak.

Anyway, before I ran off on a tangent, the point I was leading to about employers was the list of “qualities” that music graduates supposedly have, or will have achieved. These include all sorts of cheesy, typical-sounding adjectives which you can think of. And I admit, I’d always thought it a little over-repeated for the sake of encouraging young people to pursue a wide range of Bachelor degrees other than the “normal”, “conventional” or “money making” ones that usually come to mind; but funnily enough, these days I think I’m really starting to “get it”. I’m suffering such a bad case of low motivation and general difficulty with “getting on with it”, and I think that’s because in many ways, this music degree is actually indirectly designed to make me a better person – and that is what I’m struggling with. It’s not the actual coursework that I’m struggling with as such (although yes, it’s intense, and yes it’s difficult), but what it takes to do well in this course. You have to be so internally motivated, fight through intellectual, creative, physical and personal barriers just to get through your workload, let alone get good at it. It’s much easier for me to curl up in bed with a text book to cram for a test with, than it is for me to want to stand for hours on end and play until my blistering fingertips really can’t handle anymore bass playing. You have to want to and then make yourself go the extra mile all the time. Also, seeing as I’m self-professed not very obsessed with jazz – yes, I love it, but sometimes I just can’t conjure up the mental capacity for it, even to listen to it – it’s doubly hard for me to want to sit back, and spend hours listening to jazz recordings. By that, I don’t mean put it on and chill out, but I mean to sit there and fully pay attention to it. Over and over. Listening to all the different parts. Not just the chords, but the chord voicings, then the voicings over the particular note choices in the bass line, and the voicings used by another chordal instrument, what the soloist is playing, how they’re playing, their rhythm, time, placement, note choices, chords they outline, chords they imply, time they imply, feel, the groove of the swing… Oh by now my head just wants to burst!

My so-last-minute-I-should-get-shot transcription assessment went well today. Transcribed 64 bars of Hank Mobley’s solo on Someday My Prince Will Come and had to perform to the recording. Apparently my written transcription was pretty accurate, which surprised me. It was so hard to write out something when he plays so darn behind the beat.

Here’s a super lovely track by an amazingly sweet and talent vocalise, Rosa Passos with the legendary Ron Carter:

Stuck inside my imagination, Busy making something from nothing. Pictures of hope and depression, Anything is better than nothing

It’s been a mind-and-history-delving, poetic-reading and inspired-writing couple of days. The highs and lows are hitting me in waves, waves and waves like nothing before, but it’s been interesting to see how I’ve grown up and changed in the way that I’ve been dealing with everything. Asides from an intense hockey training tonight that kicked up with a huge run around the block (man, that block seems so much smaller when driving!), everything I’ve done for the past few days hasn’t really taken much physical effort. Oh yeah, I forgot that two days ago I trekked my way into uni in the stormy weather to have a kind-of rehearsal – but because of yesterday’s events, the day before feels like a month ago by now.

Three albums that have been on repeat for the day:

New Moon – Elliott Smith

A posthumous release, I had never really paid much attention to it until recently. But tonight,  the songs between “High Times” and “Going Nowhere” are really striking a chord with me. Pun unintended. For me, Elliott Smith’s music is largely about the mood and lyrics, since majority of songs aren’t instrumentally or musically complex at all. I mean, sonically, only “Everything Means Nothing To Me” (one of my favourites, ever – definitely worth a listen) from his Figure 8 album really really stands out, because it’s in an epic key on the piano, full of black notes.

Raven In The Grave – The Raveonettes

The Raveonettes is one of my favourite bands, and this is their latest album. My favourite is Lust Lust Lust, but that has its time and place, and is a whole other bittersweet story altogether. Point is, I don’t care what Pitchfork or whoever else says, this is a great album. Not a life-changing release that’s about to influence me and leave the same imprint as Lust Lust Lust did, for sure, but it’s enjoyable nonetheless. They just do concepts, atmosphere and nostalgia so fucking well. And I’m all about atmosphere and nostalgia. Oh nostalgia! Take me back, when…

23 – Blonde Redhead

Even though they’ve been around for years and years and years (in other words, they first released something when I was aged 2), I’ve only started listening to them recently. So it’s a huge testament to say that now they’re my 6th top band on lastfm, which I’ve been scrobbling on since late 2006 – albeit with a couple of years off in the middle. They’re just amazing and so far I’ve haven’t ceased discovering something new in the many layers of their music, every time I listen. In a way, I think that I look up to the Italian Pace – brothers who make up 2/3 of the band – because of their “backgrounds in jazz”. According to various interviews and web-sources, they seem to have Bachelor degrees in jazz, so it’s refreshing to see jazz graduates moving on and making such beautiful yet relatable music that isn’t jazz. They would be around the same age as my tutors at jazz school, and I can’t help but hope that their paths is the one I take. I mean, jazz is wonderful, but I just don’t have the same passion for it next to some of my fellow students. I’m kind of in the middle-ground actually. There are those that are wholeheartedly intent on making jazz waves and they live, eat and breathe jazz; then there are others who are purely doing it for a music performance degree, and don’t even enjoy jazz. And really, I’m in the middle of the two. I enjoy it, but it’s not my #1-always-all-the-time thing. Music in general is. Anyway, wild tangent aside, I love this album.

Something I wrote two nights ago in a frenzy. Always in a frenzy:

Lines­ on my face
this clear trail you can claim to
Scars in my chest
these years you’ve been through.
So much easier now that she speaks
and you’re not listening
So much harder now that you talk
and she’s not hearing.
Uneasy questions on my face
you can’t respond to
Wounds in in the harshest place
those nights you’ve lived through.
Haunted by the spark I blew
The one true part I claim of you
Realisation in your eyes –
to truth.
I weep.
If I walked once so easily
What makes you trust and stick with me?
If I walked once so easily
What makes you trust and stick with me?

My copy of John Green’s Looking for Alaska just arrived today so I think I might tuck into bed with it now. Although I’m partway through The Great Gatsby, I think Fitzgerald can wait. Just a little while. And for now, some relevant, such relevant… food for thought (it makes more sense and is even more relevant in private, but I can’t go scrawling such internal ancient matters on the internet):

“The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.” – Elizabeth Kubler Ros

By that definition, who are the beautiful people you know?

So much for make believe, I’m not sold. So much for dreams we see, I’m not prepared to know

I just got home from CJC featuring James Ryan (Aus) down at 1885 in Britomart. It was a nice evening of jazz featuring Ron on drums, which always reminds me to appreciate what amazing musicians we’re being taught by at jazz school. I didn’t take many photos as I was mostly preoccupied with listening, and I also had a very corner seat which meant the angle wasn’t great either. Asides from James Ryan’s amazing tone and just lines, lines and more lines, I mostly couldn’t get over the facial expressions that Tom made whilst playing bass. We all know that drummers pull some pretty interesting faces, but woah, Tom’s taken the cake of anything I’d ever seen. That, and the fact that he is the only bass player I know (other than a shorter female) who has their spike lower than me. Although he’s only around my height anyway, the (lack of) height of his bass in relation to him really puzzled me. Perhaps it’s because he mostly plays bent right over…




Usually I really hate having incohesive blog entries that just fly left right and centre, but the following cannot wait for the next post! Yesterday I drove out to the Just Hockey store and  bought all the gear I’ve been needing to replace for a while. It completely emptied out my bank account, but my had kindly offered some support, plus seeing as it’s my birthday soon, we can bank it on that.

I am so in love with my hockey stick. For once I am really really really excited about going to training tomorrow just so I can try it out. I’ve been having forehand hitting problems with my previous stick for as long as I have had it (since 2008!), so it’s been such a relief to get a stick that has a decently balanced weight that will put a lot more power and accuracy on my forehand hit. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my old stick at the time of purchase, but I’ve really grown out of the feel of it – its good feel for reverse hitting just wasn’t making up for the lack of power that I need on my forehand. So here we have its successor, a Malik Gaucho. I’ve been wanting a Malik stick ever since I started playing hockey, because I had tried an international student’s Malik stick and fell in love with it. Unfortunately, New Zealand didn’t stock them for ages so I’ve only managed to buy one now. It was a close call between this, and the 2010 Gryphy Taboo Magnum. Which to some people may appear to be a better stick on paper, cos its original price was a hundred dollars more, but they really felt pretty similar in my hands. Now I just need to name this Malik stick…

I also had to get new turf shoes because my old ones have a large gaping hole in each foot, and always left my feet wet. I reasoned out having bought all this at once because the petrol and effort involved with getting out to the Just Hockey store again simply for shoes was out of the question. On top of that, I spent two hours ripping off my old shinguard lining so I could now use new ones. Phwroar.


Here’s something I wrote the other night:

Chances are found
In the alleyways of life
A little dark
A little scary
and you caught me,
Unwary.

Romances are lost
In the altered scales of life
A distant remark
A false guarantee
and you caught me,
Unwary.

/// /// /// // // /// ///////

Your hand in a tired curl
I hate when it loosens
As you disappear
As I stare
And I stare

(While you disappear)

 

Is it the way she looks at you? Seeing her face as you walk through the crowded avenue, That sets you afire

It’s Sunday now, and I haven’t slept in my own bed since Wednesday, thus it’s now piled with clothes, books and folders. In a monumental headache-related fuck up yesterday, I accidentally fell asleep after my hockey game, which resulted in getting nothing on my “Saturday To-Do’s” list done; I eventually did a fair bit of jazz theory at the boy’s house, which is a strike of today’s list instead, but catching up on this huge list is just a nightmare right now… In the meantime, I’ve rekindled my love for the album Primary Colours by The Horrors. I haven’t listened to it in a fair while now, and I’m just remember how much I enjoyed their noise, bass sounds and lyrics.

It’s funny because at jazz school, asides from some of the tutors, no one else seems to participate in any form of sports or physical activity beyond the fitness that we need to strenuously play music for hours on end. On Thursday evening, I was engaged in a lengthy conversation with the head of jazz about windsurfing and various other water sports that he does. And I’ve had many conversations with my old bass teacher about the diving and spear fishing he’s into, but really, no one else is into anything physical. It’s funny to me that in a discussion in the common room on Friday, none of the other jazz students could get their head around the idea of how I’m excited to get back into winter hockey again this season, because I’ve missed the stress relief it brings me. Plus the fact that it allows me to directly exert some physical aggression that might be building up due to stress… and the fact that I’m a bit of an intolerant, grumpy person to begin with anyway.

See, despite all my terrible living, sleeping and eating (the latter is improving though) habits, I’ve been rather missing the feeling of being physically capable, fit and toned. In other words, I really miss the feeling of being able to walk and walk and walk, run and run and run, and carry a load of heavy stuff without feeling like collapsing. I also miss how flexible I used to be. Gone are the days of doing splits and grand battement in ballet!

My point is, surely I’m not the only one who used to be and misses being much more physically active as a kid, running around playing sports every lunchtime and then playing more sports after school? As if to rub salt in the wound, lots of people I know could care less what they eat/drink/do, but still have “better figures” by definition of being slim. And boys! Think about how many boys you know that can eat four times as much as you and still complain about how they aren’t putting on weight. If only females had that luxury… especially as we are the ones who are more likely to have bad food cravings anyway.

On the topic of indulgence, here are two cakes that mum’s friend paid her to make for her daughter’s 1st birthday yesterday. I helped the the icing. An absolute nightmare:


Why must chocolate frosting taste sooo good? There’s a bit left over and all I want to do is eat it by the spoonful!

This is what happens when you sleep on me. You get photographed. Applicable to humans also, but in this case, darling kitty.

Isn’t he just such a sweet sweet?

I really want to fast forward into this time in 6 days because by then I will have done my three-assessments-in-a-row and will be enjoying my 2-week Easter break. It also means I get to finish off a the films I’ve started in three separate cameras, get them developed (ouch, expensive!) and see what the heck is on them.

You say can we still be friends… If I was scared, I would. And if I was bored, you know I would. And if I was yours, but I’m not

I’m about halfway through working on my transcription which is due to be tested in Improvisation* class on Thursday. The transcribing part is down, but next I need to learn how to play these 64 bars of Ron Carter’s solo on “Bohemia After Dark” from the Stardust album.

I had a really long phone conversation with Miss Felisa M.D. last night, which involved hanging up as close to 59 minutes and 59 seconds as possible, because we have this phone deal at the moment that charges $2 per hour of international calling, but a lot more if the time is breached. We went over the hour mark by a few seconds once, so I really, really hope the bill doesn’t fly too high, because mum frowned when I told her about it.

Speaking of my mum, she took this awesome photo on last night when the boy and I were busy stuffing our faces with butter chicken and beer:

Also, I now stake that this post marks the day I became domesticated enough to voluntarily cook dinner whilst not home alone, and without mum having to pull the “I’m really tired and have a headache” card. Tonight for dinner I whipped up a waistline-threatening amount of couscous and then proceeded to flavour it with anything I could think of that was in our fridge. It started innocently enough, with me thinking “now I need to cook extra because I want to solve the problem of having to pack a lunch tomorrow”, and ended up involving: 4 fresh diced tomatoes, yellow and green capsicum that were diced and then pan-seared in butter, chicken cooked also in butter and some rosemary from the back yard, 4 hard-boiled eggs, a questionable* amount of olive oil, and nice dollops of whole seed mustard and pesto.

The results are as follows:

Rounded off with a beer, it was really a lovely meal, if only I hadn’t spent so long cooking it, I think my appetite would’ve been better!

*Just as I was typing the word “questionable”, I suddenly remembered the web-Comic Questionable Content that I used to follow religiously back when I was like… 15, 16? I have just over a thousand posts to catch up on, but I really mustn’t let myself indulge until the holidays, or I will never get any work done! I’d highly recommend it for anyone who enjoys a good serving of sarcastic dry humour and indie references.

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