The Art of Song & Art of Voice
After having given numerous master classes in Europe, Gino has come to the conclusion that it was time to do the same here in America—the only difference being, in an even more personalized and conducive atmosphere. Gino plans to set aside July 9th to August 9th 2012, in order to spend time passing on the tools of the trade he has learned and applied to his own career that has spanned the course of four decades.The idea is an intensive master class: to have no more than five students in each of the five, 3-hour classes, over the course of a workweek. This way, personal attention, can be devoted to each student, offering one on one conversation and guidance to each student. The classes will be held in the United States, at Gino’s personal recording studio in Oregon.  

Because of the recording equipment available, there will be recordings made of each student as part of the curriculum. The recordings will serve to document progress made by the students during the week. The students are free to take the recordings home to continue to learn from and study.  There will be two separate classes offered: one concerns the art of song, a comprehensive demonstration of techniques of songwriting, both musically and lyrically. The art of song will also entail harmony, chord substitution, rhythmic regard, thematic content, and some musicology, in terms of understanding the birth and evolution of song writing as we know it. In the same class, there will also be a good measure of focus on the composition of lyrics: what role, words, in regards to texture, rhyme, rhythm, scansion, story, theme, and singability, play in the crafting of contemporary song.The second class will be devoted to the art of voice: an extensive course in singing, complete with vocal strength building, phrasing, and practical methods and necessities regarding vocal expression. Note, these are two separate master classes. The Art of Song will be scheduled for mornings, between 10am and 1pm. The Art of Voice will be scheduled for afternoons, between 2:30 and 5:30pm. A student is free to apply for both classes if he or she chooses.In order that the class be comprised of serious and dedicated applicants, Gino will personally choose students for this 2012 course, after listening to a demo or any recording, (Mp3 or Mp4) submitted by the perspective student. Once Gino has selected the students, he will personally contact them via skype or telephone.The price of the master class is as follows:$1,250 for 5 classes given over the course of a workweek (each class 3 hours—15 hours total) Recordings are included.Gino’s management is available to help guide and inform students in regards to hotel and transportation for their stay in Oregon. Applications are being taken as of this week.

Contact: coapro@verizon.net for more details

Dear Dutch and Scandinavian fans, Gino will have to postpone his concerts with the Concertgebouw Jazz Orchestra, and the new Danish trio this January. A few weeks ago Gino had a stage accident that did serious harm to his ears. A crew member unwittingly unplugged a mic cable while Gino was testing his in-ear monitors. The blast was so loud that Gino lost his hearing for a moment. It returned after a few seconds. Gino went ahead and performed but in a few days the damage to his ears manifested. Not fun.      Gino has seen a slew of doctors. Thankfully there is no permanent damage; but in flying, doctors say, Gino risks further harm to his ears. It’s a risk not worth taking, especially with a ten-hour flight from Portland, Oregon to Amsterdam.    Gino sends all, his deepest apologies–he was hoping he would heal in time. At present, Gino is on a strict diet and a regimen of herbs and vitamins. Doctors have grounded Gino for the next 60 days.    Management and all involved are in the process of rescheduling the dates. We are aiming for late April, early May.  All the January dates have been postponed.  As soon as we have any updates we’ll let you know. Love to all from Gino
-Gmusic

Let’s see: I imagine I had reached that critical juncture when one suddenly finds himself at odds with his better angels, terribly misjudged and undervalued by his totally uncool parents, a regular at detention hall, and a might too cheeky with entrenched moral authority for his own good, especially in light of parochial school—you know, a time when you’re basically at war with the cold, cruel world that just don’t seem to revolve around you anymore since the short curlicues sprung below and dark peach fuzz hit the chin and upper lip (in my case, encroaching upon the eyeballs.)

There you were, full of hope and promise, destined to be Dave Clark, when in a twinkling, there goes the charming baby face, vanished into the cosmos, doomed to the black and white pages of the family photo album. Oh the heartbreak, as every once-doting aunt is suddenly loath to pinch your cheek, and inclined to keep a healthy distance from this newly spawned creature with a unibrow and a voice that keeps dithering between soprano and baritone midstream.

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The day was not going to wait for anyone. I felt I was missing out on a summer show already in full swing.  Bird echoes carried from longer distances than usual through the open bedroom window.“Sky must be crystal clear,“ I thought to myself, as the room slowly came into focus.Every moment spent in bed suddenly seemed a colossal waste of summer, almost criminal, seeing as the Northwest had thumbed its nose to ‘climate change’ for much of the year, making latecomers of the sun and warmer breezes.It was 6:30 am, and over Hood strawberries, fresh Oregon blueberries and Greek style yogurt, I decided it was time for Tricia and I to pump up the kayak again, pack a little sustenance and head to the Sandy in the next hour or so.

As soon as Tricia entered the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, I sprung the plan on her. What a sport my woman is—only a pause, a half yawn, a raised brow followed by a scarcely audible “m’kay”.Sandy River seemed a little faster, a little colder, and a much deeper shade of jade green than when we had last kayaked upon it a year before. Because of a couple of violent winter storms, a good many old growth trees were downed here and there, lying half exposed in the river like dinosaur fossils.

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Edmonton International—heaps of fresh white flakes had just fallen, spanning as far as the eye could see out the narrow turbo-prop window. “Minus 30 Celsius,” was the word floating around the cabin, as we slithered and skimmed over the icy tarmac for a moment. Our pilot had to pull a few video game maneuvers out of his trick bag to straighten our nose out.

“Okay,” I thought to myself, dude must be pretty slick at Halo or Warcraft III, or whatever the latest is.Flash forward to a bright spot in the top right-hand corner of my eyes and a bright red unidentified flying object hurling through space headed my way. “The Chinese flag?” I mused.

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Chicago, O’Hare: I found myself having to investigate my packaged chicken salad a little too closely for comfort. Finding my own little private piece of real estate, sitting cross-legged in the only dark corner I could find amid the blue-toothed hoards carrying on with themselves, I had noticed a little rust around the edges of my romaine lettuce after a few blind-eyed ravenous bites. Part of me wanted to put my trust in the whole healthy-food-on-the-go-scheme and not tunnel any deeper than the top layer. But then again, I remembered, the tendency is towards decay, according to Stephen Hawking. Thus, either my chicken salad was a heap of rotting leaves by din of human neglect, or ineptitude, or, in accordance with the laws of Nature, the salad itself was well on its way to parting company with space-time continuum all by itself. Either way something was rotting in Chicago.

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I noticed a wrecking ball being taken to the Philadelphia Spectrum on cable news the other day. For a moment I started turning the pages of my life back in time to 1979, and the day I was booted out of the country—hours before our concert at the Spectrum.  Pittsburg had been hit with snow pretty good. Yet, as was most always the case, the show went on that Saturday night.

The next morning I was having breakfast with brother Joe, both of us ravished. I was murdering my vegetable omelet, my nose entirely too close to my plate, as I lifted my eyes and noticed two rather stout, expressionless gentleman dressed in dark trench coats, marching our way.  Somehow I had a strange feeling these boys weren’t autograph hunting.  “Mr. Vannelli?” one man asked. The other followed with, “Mr.. . .Gino Vannelli?”        “Mmm—mmm?” I answered cautiously, with my mouth full.       “Is this your brother, Joseph Vannelli?“         I waited for Joe to speak for himself but suddenly found myself to be his reticent advocate. “Yes”, I managed to enunciate, swallowing a rather big sliver of my omelet at the same time.“You’re both in the country illegally, sir. We’ll have to ask you both to come with us.”

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My room at the Capitol in Quebec City was fine enough, but somehow I couldn’t manage a good night’s sleep after Thursday night’s performance. Curious and somewhat startling here and there, a procession of perfectly timed floor creaks and radiator cracks, sharp wall pops as the heat would come on just when the rattle in my head was slowing, late, late night traffic, delivery trucks beeping in reverse, and an all-nighter going on down the hall, might have had something to do with the Thursday night bed of nails.  By 4am I was certain every lamp, curtain pulley, coat hanger and crumb of furniture in the suite was conspiring with the Fates to sabotage the homecoming concert the coming day—just one of those nights where I couldn’t dive any deeper than a plank of driftwood bobbing on troubled waters. Long night, nonetheless, the morning came soon enough.

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I left Damian Erskine (our new bassist) and Jay Koder (the new guitarist) to shed their unison lick during the solo section of Wild Horses while I went to get myself some liquid encouragement—two creams, at the coffee shop upstairs. By the time I got back, there it was, some countrified Coltrane string of notes that can’t help bring a smile to anyone’s face.  “Almost perfect,” I said, as I strolled back into the studio. In truth, it was perfect. But,  “you never know how much better it can get unless you prod a bit harder, about one inch shy of pissing someone off,” is my motto. (There are names for people like that.)

Been scratching my head trying to figure out a new opening to the show and where to put, let alone what other songs to add, to the new show.  So, I took a trip down memory lane, stopped at Nightwalker and found what I think could be the tune to jump-start the night—now, to explain the whole sequence to the lighting directors.  Tomorrow, rehearsals with the whole band begin, but for now, it’s off to a morning hike, work on the stage legs, maybe sing a couple of choruses of       Summers of my Life to the yellowing trees.

Here are the reasons why I decided to produce this video in honor of Jeff: To help raise funds for a memorial stadium at the local high school—to raise money for scholarships and Constitutional studies and annual trips to Salem and Washington—to offer thanks to Jeff and his family.
 

Jeff Lucas was a neighbor. He attended the same high school my son did. He was, and is still loved and admired by all in our small-town community. He died in Afghanistan doing his duty to country as a Navy Seal. The way his mother’s eyes still well up at the mere mention of his name tells it all.

Thank you for any small contribution you can make to the
Jeff Lucas Memorial Stadium Fund.

Go to www.jefflucasmemorial.com to make donations

Gino’s first book: and interesting testimony of his career and private life through 13 short stories relating to the greatest hits contained in the enclosed CD. A lovely book that will keep the reader stuck on every story to know how it ends. Many photographs, some previously unseen, make this book a must for every Gino fan and all music lovers.

Stories You Can Read About

1. People Gotta Move and a Mona Lisa Smile
2. Wild Horses and Extraordinary Wonders
3. Hurts to be in Love and Patti Jo Collins
4. Brother to Brother The Seventh of Seven
5. I Just Wanna Stop and Sacred Geometry
6. Crazy Life and the Art of Dummying Up Once In a While
7. Black Cars Dark Shades and Little White lies
8. Living Inside Myself and the Search for Three Other Words
9. Venus Envy and the man from Falkenberg
10. Wheels of Life and My Sleeping Beauty
11. Just a Motion Away and the Missing Muse
12. The Surest Things Can Change and the Park West
13. Put the Weight on my Shoulders and the UNstated World
14. Godlings and Feet of Clay
15. The Last Word Out of the Mouths of Babes

A Quote from Gino

“While I have always recognized the role that hard work, a few lucky breaks and raw mechanics
play in sustaining a life-long career, in Stardust in the Sand, I have set out to show that school-boy dreams can never be fully realized without a little bit of magic and hopeless idealism to grease the wheels—the task in our older and wiser years being not to forget it.”

But Not to Those Who Travel

But for a good-natured and sweet-scented woman to sit the groggy and grumbling beast down, a 3am wake up call would have surely left me foggy and a little wound up all through the long trip to Monaco from Portland. A couple of mimosas and scattered stolen pecks on the cheek, who cared that the sun was nowhere to be found above, I was ready to take on the sky another day.

About seventeen hours later, Trish and I found ourselves in Nice, greeted by a black-clad woman holding up a hand-written sign saying Vannelli. (and with two n’s, what do you know) We snaked along the French Riviera until we arrived at the Roquebrune in Cap Martin, just a few miles south of Monaco. It seemed to me a rather average hotel dug into the rocks and wedged hillside. But once inside, that all changed—a king could not have asked for a more sumptuous gastronomic bounty or a more genial legion of doting matrons who took care of their guests like motherless children. Trish and I spent six long, hot days time adjusting while walking along calm green shores, sipping peach daiquiris, then squeezing tight into a sun bed for one, getting in a bit of pulp while exchanging appraisals of passing yachts. There were those nagging distractions of topless women who would stroll by, having two distinct looks in their eyes. One was: “Pfff! I don’t care what you think, Calvinist!” The other was: “Hey pilgrim, what do you think?” Though I confess to a few snoops here and there, I happily kept my eye mostly trained on the book in hand—defiant ultra-bronzed, elderly hippies sporting bare racks seemed all too much to absorb compared to a simple murder story.

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