circle of fire

I am a daughter of the blues, I said so at the beginning of my writings here. So it shouldn't surprise anyone that I have it. I have the blues.
I do.

Why shouldn't I?

I have it cause I can't feel anymore and to me it's all about the intensity.
There's a place inside of me, a place I used to fear and nurture, and now it's gone numb.
And so I mourn it.

Everything happens to (Monk and) me writes Brenda Marie Osbey, poet laureate of Louisiana, the best combination of verse and red nails I have ever seen.

And me, me, ME.

If you are reading these pages, you are STUPID and you didn't get the first thing about me. He wasn't half as important as you are. But I guess you missed me and I missed you.
And all systems are gone now.
And it would take more than the best line on death and life from the poet of the Faubourg Treme' to bring me back.
To you.

I hate it that you killed even the slightest chance we had to save something for us. I hate it that you should make that decision - to kill us in any shape of form - for me too.
And I hate it that despite all that I still worry about you.
I hope you're ok.
I hope you know who you are, who it is I'm writing this one to.

A hint.



It will take more than the best line on death and life from the poet of the Faubourg Treme' to bring me back.
To you.

And then it was London

Not 24 hours after licking gelato in my flip flops by Trevi fountain, I find myself teleported in cold - but sunny! - London. Realizing I will have to wear the same pair of pants and the same shoes (the warmest I have) throughout my stay doesn't concern me. But as I sway and curse, dragging my luggage and hitting repeatedly the subway's turnstile, completely unaware I have to swipe my metrocard AGAIN to get out, at the same time spotting ArcheoC, waiting for me as she shakes her head and cracks up at the sight of this sad show of mine, well it is then that it hits me.

I'm tired.
I'm not functioning properly.
I'm nervous.
It's time for a quick fix.

So, about ten cigarettes and three breakfasts later - Pookalu, this is in your honor, the multiple breakfasts thingy - I slouch in my chair and take time to let the brights colors in ArcheoC's gipsy-fengshui furniture soak in.


Her roommate paints, her roommate's boyfriend cooks, ArcheoC has the best collection of books on the Roman Empire - quick deja vu - Vivienne Westwoodesque clothes and great stories on men and common friends from Milan. I manage to talk to SexySA journo and we make a date for afternoon tea - but of course - at the National Gallery. I even receive the first txts from YumYum, via mobile and email - if I was ever doubtful on JT well it's time to back up. JT delivers.

Life is good. (if it wasn't for ArcheoC's toilet: it's out of order, to flush it you have to fill a bucket with water...)

About 24 hours and
** Leonardo Da Vinci's Virgin of the rocks and a side of Rembrandt
good reminiscing and planning for a trip to the Cape with the best guide you can wish for, possibly March 2006, or Fall of the same year
not so good Indian at a chain sort of restaurant and knock out good hot chocolate at a place called Carpe diem (deja vu again)
drooling over pates and compotes and jellies and jams and marmelades and pies and cookies and 100$ worth 1ml vodka sauces at Fortnum & Mason, right by the Ritz hotel
spending quality quiet time at Temple, a private labirynth of courtyards with fountains, statues, benches, perfectly groomed gardens, wrough iron gates, a Templar chuch, majestic oaks and a plethora of red bricked buildings bearing the insigna of the artistocratic (Sirs, Dame, Esq, Hon) lawyers - Temple sits right by London's Court of Law - living or working there.



Never have I seen so many Porches and Benzes and Bentleys parked in one spot**
As i was saying, about 24 hours and all the above later...all hell breaks loose.

Suddenly txting and actual calling between myself and YumYum runs riot. Her schedule keeps on changing and me and ArcheoC realize even our own schedule is so fucked up we will hardly have time to shave our armpits before hitting the road again, after going home and changing into hell knows what.
Back and forth back and forth while neither me or YumYum think of the consequences in terms of phonebills. The band just pulled into London and the guys are having a bite, maybe we can meet for coffee. Wait, no, they have rehearsal. Wait no, we are on the other side of town how about meeting up before the 6:30 reception but after the 6 bbc interview? Deal. Wait no, YumYum will skip the reception, we can meet up after 6:30. But we're late goddamit! Wait no, some other interview came up, poor YumYum is stuck!

Sigh.

Right after getting my tickets at will call, I run into tour manager SJ and suddenly I start relaxing. It is the first tangible physical evidence of the LCJO's presence here. I suddenly remember the reason why I'm here: to meet up with my girl, of course, but most importantly to hear the music. I start getting that spine tingling I always get when I hear musicians tune their instruments right before a concert. This is gonna be good.

It will be more than that.

All in 5 minutes prior to our entrance:
I spot YumYum, beautiful in what looks like a taffetas evening dress, with a stole, she waves as she hurries by with a camera crew
I spot AJ and CH, drum and bass, you can't go wrong right?
I hug WB, a cat with an Italian flair, wife and vocabulary (later he will proudly announce he even knows how to say "even", "perfino"): one hug from him and you feel like family. He promises to hook us up with backstage passes. I don't like to sneak in so I thank him and go find my seats instead.

30 seconds to start:
Royal Albert Hall is an arresting sight. In its gold and maroon it reminds me of La Scala Theater. But it's more open - stalls replace boxes, and the top gallery has a higher ceiling - and overall it exudes grandeur. It's an arena. Let's get ready for the bullfight.
YumYum txts me "I'm near the soundboard, where r u", I reply "I can see u, I'm on your left, stalls area", I see her read the txt, I tell ArcheoC "she's reading it, get ready to wave", YumYum looks up and left, we wave, finally CONTACT!
My chatter flows at lightspeed. I have the feeling the blond guy sitting in front of me can understand what I say. I'd better check myself.

All rise. All rise. All rise.
I wish the drums on Jubal step had been more powerful and the choir more commanding (especially the female solo on the title track). But save for that, it is everything I wished for, and more. What has been profusely described as a celebration of humanity, the trial-and-error process, the loss and rediscovery of faith, through the power of music across the genres and the continents, speaks tonight of a brand new message. I hear the choir sing "Save us", I hear the wild strumming of fiddle, the cymbals and brass call and response, the gospel and slow drag, the heartwrenching line and the second line upbeat and
all
I
see
and
hear
is
New Orleans.

It's like hearing the voices of the bodies floating on putrid waters and of the people outragedm, ammassed, scattered, impotent. As we go from movement to movement, that's all I can think of. And so I cry. And I cry more, out of joy and pride, when supposedly cold Brtis greet such beauty (maybe not the same beauty I found in it) with five curtain calls, standing ovations, bravos and a stubborn refusal to leave.
That is until Wynton Marsalis takes the stage and our hearts with a crescendo from whisper to shout of his signature encore, "Embraceable you". He plays with soul, so much I wonder if this arena is big enough for it. He sounds tired too, so much I wonder whether his lip is bothering him again.

Triumph it is, anyway.

Now, the afterparty:
- backstage: WB did find passes for me and ArcheoC and as we bump into YumYum in the corridor (HI! FINALLY!) she urges us to go look for him. So we're in.
Backstage the Italian connection rules.
Turns out the blond guy sitting in front of me does really understand what I'm saying. Me, loud, in Italian "ArcheoC, I have a feeling someone understands what we're saying". Blond guy, laughing, in Italian "I do!".
Turns out he's the founder of WM's Italian funclub and first official website. They're very good friends. We'll end up having dinner together. I tell him he's my hero. He wants me to contribute to the site, claims I'm his female alter ego. When we go over WM's discography we realize we not only like the same albums but also the same tracks. And we seem to share the same insight on his soul. Funny. He asks for my contact info: fastforward to 5 days later, he will call me to wish me a safe trip back to nyc. I have a feeling we'll meet again.
We say hi to FS, VG, VG2 and more. I put FS on my phone with YumYum. They're on their way to a gala dinner at the US ambassador private residence. WB doesn't want to go and asks me and ArcheoC to tag along. We haven't been invited, smells like groupie spirit and THAT is not my thing. So I decline. He's a sweetheart. We'll just catch up later!

-drinks at the hotel: After saying goodnight to Postmaster (and his parisian cousin) with whom we had dinner at a gay restaurant in Soho, we join the guys at their hotel. Highlights from the show: laughters, wine, cigarettes and munchies. CH is intimidated by the tip of my shoes, MP asks me to bear my feet, then offers to rub them as CH wonders if I have a French pedicure (since when do men know so much about feet?). I speak with VG and that is always an honor: we discuss possible common projects, the performance of his new Rapone & Cazzini tenor sax, which he claims still needs to be broken in, the new guys at Juilliard jazz program. I speak with WB and make a mental note: tell him, in private, how good he's become. WB and VG and TN, A+ perfromances back at the Hall. Hands down. DN a bit less, but he's still in the process. And I missed HR on drums. I also make a verbal note, to him: to learn a new Italian word, "ventriloquo". Reference to a scene: ArcheoC sitting in an armchair, WB kneeled by her, between them is a friend of his, some Italian weirdo whose age and sex orientation is something to debate, but overall funny and friendly. He's wearing a red silk shirt, is very petit. WB is kneeling by him, with his arm around his back. It's like a ventriloquist with his puppet.
More talking, with YumYum, hugging and kissing her (Ducati! You're gonna see me in two days!). And with EW.
I haven't talked about him yet and there's a good reason for that. He feels different. And I'm bracing myself. Also I haven't been thinking of .amp in the past few days, yet my inner radar still reads his presence, somewhere in between the folds of my self. I need to be careful and I need some me-time.

My horoscope mentioned "a new love, or the rekindling of an old one, starting Sunday night". And it IS Sunday night. Wait, no: it's already Monday morning, 4am. Time to go. I have another plane to catch and four hours to sleep.

All these emotions and all that jazz. I hope my heart has room to hold some more.

Roman holidays (and London calling for more jazz)

Let me bend over so you can better kick my ass.

I am guilty, of negligence and omissis. Too many days have gone by without me contributing to these pages and a lot has happened. Now I am faced with two options, either a) offering a detailed recount of my past adventures therefore succumbing before getting past day one or b) sketching an outline of what would fit nicely in a three acts opera

I choose the second one. In respect of the zest and juice of my jest in Europe, though, I will make an etching of it. Outline it, but with great care for the main lines, which will be indeleble.

1)Prologue: I leave nyc in a state of prostration. I get into a stupid argument with .amp and he won't talk to me again. I won't get into the dynamic, if not that of my own sanity, slowly slipping away. I can only sleep with valium or weed. I am one week away from a trip to Italy, to see my family, a circumstance which always taps into something buried to deep to stir (childhood! unresolved issues! immaturity! nostalgia!). So i freak out. I cry all my tears. I owe survival to a glass pipe, the molecular perfection of benzodyazepines and the big heart of those who came to the rescue - my friends Pookalu, YumYum, Beluria and Art.

2)Preparing for the tour: What was originally intended to be a "relaxing holiday at some Italian beach" has somehow morphed - see how I make it sound as if I had nothing to do with its morphing - into a frenzy. It's like a tour. I'm on tour, Double L "Eat Europe alive" 2005 tour. For booking check with my manager.
So it's Milan Rome London Milan. In 5 days. Or, in terms of mission/emotions, it's love work (crazy) fun love.
I spend an hour trying to find the least expensive combination of trains and ariplanes. I spend the rest of the day persuading myself I can make it without getting a nervous breakdown - and my perplexed parents that "this IS a good idea". I spend part of the night thinking how in the world I'll ever be able to hook up with YumYum in the UK. I'm going to Rome to work the people working with the Mayor. And to meet the Artistic director of Casa del Jazz, who is going to show me the venue. I have projects to propose. They suggest sitting in for two concerts in one night. This promises to be good. Even better is the masterplan for London. Staying at ArcheoC's place, meeting with sexy South African journo, whom I haven't seen in ages (we parted on a minor key). Most importantly, seeing All Rise at Royal Albert Hall, LCJO with London Philarmonic, conducted by Kurt Masur.

Personal top 3 by Wynton Marsalis (original compositions only). The majesty of the blues, All Rise, In this house on this morning (au pair with Black codes and Marciac suite). I can't miss it, are you kidding me? Only problem, YumYum is on the road and has barely had time to confirm she's going. I make a last minute decision. She has a US mobile, mine is Italian, ArcheoC and sexy SAJ's are UK. Coordinating will be one nutty ride.

3)Rome. Rome has always been a city where power was celebrated and fought and exchanged and conquered. The walls near the Coliseum feature a "slideshow" (a sequence of murals) of how the Roman Empire grew from a pimple on the world's ass to be the ass and the world itself. I find this crash course in power inspiring on my way to multiple meetings at il Campidoglio, an elevated palace overlooking i Fori Imperiali and housing Rome's mayoral offices and Rome's finest Art collections.


Highlights of my stay include two nights in a 5 stars hotel, comp'd. Strings have been pulled to find me a room - a suite, more like - including Napoleonic antiques, a gigantic fruit basket and fine china, a Jacuzzi for five, drapes, oriental rugs, a chandelier: all looking slightly dusty, worn out, uhm, decadent - so called "Prima repubblica" (First republic) style, a reference to a specific time in Italian politics, that is "once were luxurious" (and corrupt, at the expenses of taxpayers). Anyway, back to my hotel, it is the first time I ask a friend if he can recommend a nice hotel and end up, well, like this.


I won't even have time to dip the tip of my toes in my Jacuzzi. I'm busy discussing another Jacuzzi - the gold plated Jacuzzi Enrico Nicoletti had installed in his villa, in the Park of Terme di Caracalla. There was also an altar and more gold on doorknobs and window frames. And maybe money and body parts buried in the garden: Enrico Nicoletti was a member of Banda della Magliana, a notorious gang that took over Rome's crime scene in the 70s-80s. Following his fall, the villa was confiscated and has recently been beautifully restored and turned into a flexible performing-recording-educational-housing (feeding!) space, for JAZZ ONLY. A first, in Italy.

As I sit in the office of the Artistic Director, discussing a late night Vespa ride up and down Rome's hills, to go from a smaller gig featuring young prodigy Petrella's all trombones quintet, at Casa del Jazz, to a star studded sold out concert by Enrico Pieranunzi at the beautiful Auditorium, my eyes wonder on a picture of the inauguration. Meryl Streep and Robert De Niro, at the entrance of Casa del Jazz, smiling, admiring.

I have a smile on my face, even at 5am on Saturday morning, when my concierge wakes me up. I have a plane to catch. Going to London - arrivederci "Eternal city", city of smiles and (beautiful) masks.