It was a dreary morning on a wet winter’s day when I found myself in the remote Scandinavian town of Falkenberg. I dug at the inside corners of my eyes where a few stubborn crumbs of sleep still remained, as the television cameras swooped in on me during rehearsals for the upcoming live broadcast. I felt as if my space was being invaded -- hardly what a singer ought to be feeling before a live shoot. I suppose the very things artists abhor about live television are exactly what make it interesting to the viewer. Unpredictability, spontaneity, even outright gaffes give it the ‘human touch’ -- but tell that to the sleepyhead behind the mic at nine in the morning. During rehearsal break, I marched straight to the coffee bar and reached into the butter cookie tin in search of a little encouragement.
   The pianist on hand, a tall, splashy Swede named Asbjorn, joined me for breakfast on the fly. After making small talk about jazz and offering a smorgasbord of flattering comments on some of my early works, Asbjorn paused and squared his well-over six-foot frame with mine. He seemed to be scrambling for a little pluck, as he smacked his lips and wrung his hands, looking at me with a ‘hope-you-don’t- get-angry’ glint in his eye. "Gino, would you mind if I asked you a personal question?" he asked, in his deep, basso voice. "At this insane hour, are you kidding me?!" I was tempted to say, but instead it came out, "It’s a bit early, but go ahead; only, careful what you wish for," I cautioned with a smile, happy to have put a muzzle on my attack dog, but at the same time mark the territory between professionals.
   The pianist from Falkenberg’s eau de toilette must have beaten him to every finish line by twenty lengths. He wore a glossy black flo- ral brocade dress jacket over a white satin Francis Drake pirate shirt, exploding with frills and lacy, flared sleeves stretching to the parade of semi-precious metals and stones on his fingers. His a-la-mode ‘do’, a coiffed riot of red and yellow streamers shooting this way and that, looked meticulously and painstakingly tousled to the last strand. His long, arched alligator shoes whipped up images of a couple of two- by-fours that had bowed after a deep soaking. I kept wondering how his feet could manage the piano’s damper and sustain pedals with those things on. The tricked-out man was the picture of someone who had hit the pillow one evening and woke up on the wrong side of forty - and he seemed hell-bent to have none of it. (While remaining a mystery to the one observed, this kind of fustian display raises the observer’s suspicions that something slung beneath the layers keeps coming up short -- more to the point, he had timing issues, and most noticeably, a gummed up ‘stride’ solo in Brother to Brother.)
   Sipping at his coffee, Asbjorn suddenly gazed at me with the eyes of a nervous suitor about to propose marriage to his dearly but slippery beloved. "Tell me -- what was it like -- being you -- in the seventies?" he asked, looking like he finally got something heavy he’d borne for so many years off his ruffled chest. Thus far, I had managed to be a shifty politician every time that question had come up, in some cases even taking a swipe at whoever dared stick their finger into the tiger’s cage. Such a loaded question was nothing more than cheap taunting as far as I was concerned. It most always came from journal- ists too lazy or disinterested to do any legwork, content to skim the surface and settle for upchucking a few already regurgitated internet blobs. Some just love poking around for a little pulpy comeback from a man whom they might consider to be an aging stud that lost a little bounce in his trot. Judging from Asbjorn’s frothy appearance, add, ‘comparing notes’ to digging in the dirt.
   His given name being somewhat unique, I bit my tongue a few times, as I was tempted to ask the prying Swede if he was the only Assbjorn in his family; but quickened by a cup o’ Joe and a butter cookie and now shrewd as Solomon, I viewed putting my accom- panist the least bit off just before performing on national television as counter-productive. (I openly confess to my habitual calculated choice of civility over hot-headed gut reaction in the interest of achieving the best possible artistic outcome - and in this particular case, hoping restraint, even at the cost of a bloodied tongue, would help bring the pianist out of Asbjorn)
   The man stared at me, frozen like a drooling pubescent, braced to hear all the illicit details of Casanova’s amorous adventures, while I pondered the situation. Perhaps his big, unblinking, droopy eyes and too-big-to-fail investment in my response made me inclined to soften and season justice with a little mercy.
   I suppose I could have confessed that my life in the seventies had been an endless orgy of Lear jets, parties, fine wine, and beautiful women; that I had a secret stable of ghost writers in my employ, while I lived a life Dionysus himself could only dream of. Or--I could have mentioned -- that I, in fact, could take most of the credit (or blame) for the material I had recorded; and, while there was no shortage of beautiful women in the front rows and flitting about backstage, it was about as close as I would ever get to them, given the fact that I toured two hundred nights out of the year sleep-deprived most of the time. I might have also pointed out that at twenty-two I had met a girl and fell frantically in love, thereby putting a serious crimp on any tempta- tion to stray. Though the second answer would have been closer to the truth, I knew the first is what the big man with pricked ears really wanted to hear. Before I could make up my mind as to which answer would better serve the occasion, Providence came strolling in.
   As if coming out of a cloud of mist, a woman, per- haps in her late twenties, early thirties, walked – no, more like sambaed–her way toward us. Pivot-step-dip-dip – pivot- step-dip-dip, she floated across the floor. She was tall and slen- der, and blessed with harder curves than Highway 1 north of San Francisco. Her iridium hair, cut page-boy style, made her eyes all the more shocking blue. She held a piece of paper in one hand and a pen in the other. I decided to let Provi- dence intercede on my behalf. I turned to the lathered-up co- lossus and, through the corner of my mouth, whispered, "Well, Asbjorn, you’re about to find out what my life was like in the seventies."
   "Mister Vannelli," she said calmly. "Gino," I gently reprimand- ed her. "Can you please make an autograph for me? "she asked in her breathy Swedish accent, handing me the sheet and pen. I turned and gave Asbjorn a quick raise of both brows, as if to say, "Behold a master at his craft," then proceeded to sign away. At times like these there is that small part of me that is involved in the moment, but the far greater part simply observes, and in this case, mouths off like a raucous ring-side commentator in my head. "Seventies, my ass, this ought to show Big Jim Dandy this boy ain’t gone toes up just yet," railed the inside man. Big Jim seemed genuinely impressed with me, as if I had just lived up to the lady-killer image he’d constructed of me in his teen years. What’s more, the fact that this heavenly vision of light, twenty-five years my junior, apparently so taken by me in the here and now, just about elevated me to Olympian status in his eyes. But alas, it soon became clear that for all his frills and foofaraw, the girl didn’t even know Asbjorn existed. Not a word or even a fleeting glance at the six-and-a-half-foot polyester showboat standing next to me. Indeed Providence had been a little hard on Asbjorn.
   Thus, the man’s face soon tumbled from awe to a hangdog look as he became the loudest, gaudiest, glitziest, most splendiferous invis- ible man in Falkenberg. Thinking back once more on his snarled-up ‘stride’ solo , the ring-side commentator added, "Now then, dude, are all your vicarious boyhood fantasies fulfilled and might you be tempt- ed to stop with this little pissing contest of yours, buck up, lose the quarry on the digits, roll up your sleeves and nail it for the maestro?" "There you go," I said chivalrously to the Norse goddess in den- im bells. She suddenly broke into a giddy laugh, waving the paper and pen wildly, scarcely able to contain her excitement. "Fantastik! Tack! Tack! Thank you so, so much, Gino! Oh, you have no idea!" "No sweat," I interrupted matter-of-factly, giving my pianist one more jab of a double-quick eyebrow raise on the sly for good measure. "This will make my mother soooo happy!" she cried, as she ran off, vanish- ing into the cloud of mist from whence she came.
   The room spun. The lights faded. The crowds grew dim. Ev- erything went hazy There was no place to hide from the death blow of her final words. I watched as Asbjorn hung on to the ropes for dear life, his stunned, blank face struggling to mask mixed emotions doing battle just below the surface. Was it pity or pleasure? Was he trying to find his legs because he had just died a little for his fallen hero, or was he drunk with delight, quietly taking comfort in the egg that dripped from my face?
   I wondered about many things, but mostly I wondered how this all might affect the Falkenberger’s ‘stride’ solo.

June 2009

Night at the Gulf

   Just back from Mexico. Playa del Carmen, clear and warm green waters, powdery-white sand, biplanes and streamers, wind sails and pleasure boats on the on the horizon, the strand scattered with topless sun worshippers (one that brushed by me ought to opt for a little support for the jog) Had a chance to jet ski on the gulf right after doing some early morning yoga with some mysterious Mayan, nature sylph outside my room - par for paradise. The bones are not so compliant at that time so I bailed on a few of the inverted postures and observed closely while trying hard to keep the big grin on the inside.
   Sound check was a unique experience in the ninety-five degree sun. Because of a few technical bumps it ended up an hour and a half longer than planned, the hot ball in the sky beating on the first thing in its path - my nose. The air cooled a full 3 degrees for the performance. What to wear, oh what to wear - wet socks after the first tune - nose burning up, so much sweat pouring out of me, my in-ear monitors kept slipping out. Couldn't run a finger, much less a brush or comb, though my humidified rat's nest before hitting the stage. Standing in front of a mirror wishing it weren't so only seemed to make the situation worse. (The whole thing had a missing link vibe about it)
   What a lovely audience. I could read my words on their lips. Largest crowd I've played to in years - 15,000 they say. A bit soul stirring, especially after the sixteen-year hiatus from Mexico. Add Playa del Carmen to my list of happy moments.

Gino

March 2009

Such a Day

   Such a day in the Netherlands as to inspire a mite too many grand designs for the few hours left of sunlight and shopping hours. (Those lone clouds overhead are tending to buddy up and form gangs in the blue, but I'll give the azure odds today)
   Let's see, what does one do on his personal Sabbath. Ok, here it is: first, a five kilometer run, then a critically necessary shower post run, (lots of sheep along the path) bike to the train station, head to Amsterdam, have lunch with a friend (most any friend will do), talk religion, politics and the present state of art, end up no richer or wiser, but with that mysterious feeling of accomplishment one gets rearranging furniture in the living room, snag a p air of slightly garish blue boots I saw in a store front window a week or so ago for the upcoming Canadian shows, perhaps the Vermeer showing is still in full swing, if so, then off to the museum, then do my ritual bumming 'round for an hour or so, maybe catch a glimpse of Cleo or Calliope playing hide and seek in the flea markets or five and dimes, go on safari for a good Italian cappuccino and a piece of 80% African chocolate, then, must get something for the woman who is beginning to feel like a widow back in Oregon. Trinkets, a blouse, perhaps something spiritually nourishing like a Thomas Merton book. . .thoughtful, but I can't seem to get a warm hug and passionate kiss going in my mind's eye offering such an item. There is always the fail-safe gossamer piece of skimpy under garb. But I will have to do my damndest to keep my horns tucked in when she opens the weightless box and holds up what could likely double for gauze in case of a kitchen accident. Something on the chic side might show good taste and inspire a memorable homecoming, on the other hand something on the cheapo side might be the way to go, in light of the fact that I'll probably tear the damned thing off with my teeth in the condition I'm in.

Gino