Musicians on Call

Your humble GuitarGirl reporting from the plane, en route to Italy. Go get your coffee, gang. I’m running long today.

Guitar backpack strapped on tight, I am walking along Sixth Avenue on my way downtown. It is a very pleasant afternoon. I hear Hebrew, Italian and Greek spoken in the street. It’s the day before our cruise to Italy, Croatia and Greece with the Israel holiday add-on. I am going to places where I will probably hear nothing but English in the street since apparently all of the locals are here in New York on holiday.

I arrive at the Foundling Hospital. It’s exactly as my friend Lisa Ludwig the rock star says it will be. I have come as a volunteer to perform music for three floors of kids, infants through teens. Most of them are too sick to be home and there are a too many palliative, non-responsive kids.

This is my first gig for Musicians on Call, a non-profit organization that arranges bedside visits by musicians to hospitals and homes. I learned about it from my first chance meeting with Michael Solomon, its founder, who also manages the fabulously gifted singer songwriter John Mayer.

Michael and I met when I attended a fund raiser for the Kristen Ann Carr Foundation, which labours tirelessly in its pursuit of a cure for sarcoma. When we first arrived, a wonderfully energetic and dashing young turk came by to say hello. In no time I learned that Michael had been the fiancé of Kristen Ann Carr, who was stricken with the disease which tragically robbed her of her life. Having lost a young love myself, I connected with Michael. Although you can never really recover from such loss, Michael was a true leader who took tragedy and made from it something positive and hopeful.

Kristen’s parents, Dave Marsh and Barbara Carr, were at the event and were surrounded by many of Kristen’s friends who now participate in the foundation’s events. They also get a lot of support from Bruce Springsteen and the E Streeters. Barbara is Bruce’s manager, and Kristen had basically grown up in the music business around these people. Dave is “That” Dave Marsh, the prominent rock journalist from Rolling Stone.

As we spoke, Michael mentioned that his father was a prominent Jewish communal professional. It turned out that his father was a longtime colleague of my husband. Furthermore, he and his wife had given us a lovely wedding gift, which adorns our house to this day. In fact, we had socialized with them and had been to their home for dinner. His parents were on the board of Musicians on Call.

Michael really inspired me. We kept up. The day came that I would be meeting him at his management office on the Upper West Side. I will never forget that day. It was gorgeous out. I figured I’d go for a walk in the park before the meeting. I even remember what I listened to that day: a reggae compilation.

I got to the house, feeling mightily righteous and ready to start my day. I called Michael on my way out the door at 9 a.m. The phone was out of order. There was only one other problem.

It was Sept. 11, 2001.

So now it’s four years later and I’m walking down to the Foundling Hospital, ready to do my thing.

It’s an amazing little hospital in what must be a historic building, filled with fabulous staff, all smiling and friendly. The kids are everywhere. I am being led around by a host from Musicians on Call who is also training a new volunteer host. We make our rounds together. They guide me and I go in there and do my thing.

Lisa Ludwig, who has a killer band called Black Flamingo and is a New York City icon, is a tough act to follow, but I do my best. I am the maverick cowgirl with funky jewelry to her black/leopardskin/sparkles rockstar. It’s a good match. The kids are thrilled to hear that we are connected. So it’s like a visit from a favorite relative. That makes me feel good and I am in top form, working the room, learning the names, improvising and playing with the kids as though I were one of them.

There are many rooms that are sealed off because there is a bug going around the wards and the kids are very susceptible. Or because some of the kids are very excitable or can’t handle the stimulation. Reasons for everything and signs up to let you know if you absolutely can’t enter a room.

I do manage a few smiles down on the third floor, where most kids are on respirators and are not responsive, other than eye contact. Yet, a few tiny kids in wheelchairs reach out to strum my guitar when I come around. I let ‘em. I sing. I talk to them. Sometimes we even laugh. Mostly their smiles made me laugh and that made them smile more.

Up on the fourth floor my first encounter is with Lisa’s “boyfriend.” He is in his single digits, wheelchair bound. And at the computer station, playing a game. He has no time for music today.

“Uh-uh, not today,” he says, and I get brushed off, as does another kid. But he’s funny about it and I’m actually kind of flattered when he is told, “This is Lisa’s friend.” Even so, I am shooed away in favour of the game.

A West African kid with a gorgeous smile is flirting with me. I say to him, “Here’s a song your parents know for sure,” and launch into My Girl. He is excited and very appreciative. Doesn’t want me to go.

I turn to walk away for a moment and then I turn back to him.

“Parles-tu francais? I ask him.

He vehemently shakes his head no and laughs. I ask again. Of course he does. Note to myself: Next time, a French song.

I’ve loosened up now, in a room filled with three girls who are my teenage daughter’s age. I’m now singing in Hebrew if I sense that the child is Jewish. And I throw in a French song, too. These girls transcended their bodies and were just being girls.

I sang Stand By Me. I hadn’t done that song since the Passover seder at my mum’s, which was the Seder To Remember: her last one. My longtime musical partner, the wildly talented Ardene Shapiro, joined me in a little concert of all my mum’s favourites from our old band days. It was the last time I saw my mum smile and really interact with her friends and loved ones.

In this room, with these girls, I felt the presence of my mother for the very first time since she died. She was with me, and she was happy.

Before I know it, two hours have passed and it’s time to go.

A quick debrief with the music therapist. I mention to her that I sort of ethnicated my song list and tried to play to the crowd. We talked about certain kids’ responses. She was thrilled to hear that some kids actually sat up (or really tried to) and participated.

On the way home, I walk with the new volunteer and we talk about our experience. Uplifting. Profoundly sad. A little piece of Gd on Sixth Avenue.

You can really learn a lot from these kids, like how precious every second is. I was fortunate to be able to serve them a little piece of quality time. I hope I did a good job.

Great news. Musicians On Call asked me back. I’d love to take my girls next time. Maybe I will.

Huge shout out to Michael Solomon and to Lisa Ludwig. We need more people like that.

I'm doing this little ad for my wonderful friend, Annette Tedesco. Many thanks to Seth Lipkin. I couldn't have done it without him. :)



BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES FOR THE BIG NOR'EASTER!

You may be packing your lightest clothes for the heat of Reno, but it is not too soon to bundle up your Scrabble gear for the Nor'Easter in Lake George, NY. Registration is now open. From Thursday, Oct. 20, to Sunday, Oct. 23, it's guaranteed non-stop game action like never before.

Click on the link below to learn about the exciting, new TWO Early Bird mini tournaments plus the 15-game Main Event. You will find an easy-to-read page of information and a link to a printable registration form, which you simply mail back to Annette. All contact info, rates and dates can be found at:

http://www.cross-tables.com/lg2005/lgflyer.htm

For a very limited time you can also access the link to the Nor'Easter by visiting the front page of Seth Lipkin's amazing stats website, www.cross-tables.com . Click on "Flyer: Lake George Tourney October 20-23, 2005." Be early. Book now and avoid the rush.

See you in Lake George! Submitted by Lynda Kraar on behalf of Annette Tedesco and staff

C’est une chanson, qui nous ressemble
Toi tu m’aimais et je t’aimais
Nous vivions tous, les deux ensemble
Toi que m’aimais moi qui t’aimais
Mais la vie sépare ceux qui s’aiment
Tout doucement sans faire de bruit
Et la mer efface sur le sable les pas des amants désunis

- from Autumn Leaves (French lyrics Jacques Prévert, English lyrics Johnny Mercer, music Joseph Kosma)

Up in Gravenhurst:
A Town Stuck in Neutral


A week prior to my visit up to Sudbury was Yona's visitors' day at Camp Shalom in Gravenhurst. Marty came up from the States to see Yona with me. The party was over: After the blistering, record-breaking heat and humidity, the skies opened up and spewed forth the wrath of the gods. We were under inches of water everywhere you could see.

In true Canadian spirit, no one cared. The 400 northbound lanes were packed with cottagers, their kids, ORVs and their two fours. There was a uniform noise coming from practically every car: the sound of Q107 blaring licks by every blazing triplet-playing guitarist known to mankind. And despite the terrifying road rage and crazy driving, everyone seemed pretty happy. An hour and a half after departing the Bathurst Manor Ancestral Home, there it was. Gravenhurst. I imagine it's like visiting one's grandmother's house.

I spent the summers of 1968 through 1977 up the road in Torrance at Camp Massad, which is now the Camp Crossroads. The Mennonites gentrified it, but it is still recognizable by us Massad orphans. They do get the occasional former Massadnik and they are pretty hospitable. Sometimes I am one of those trespassers.

Gravenhurst was where we spent our days off. It was always a hospitable place. We would go down to Gull Lake Park and then our dining options were pizza at Rombo's, a delicious slice of blueberry pie at Sloan's, maybe grab a beer at the Albion Hotel. Then maybe stop by the Kee to Bala and see what bands were playing. In true Muskoka time, these are still the options.

My reunions with Yona are always fabulous. She has such incredible energy when she first sees me. There's always a lot of screeching and a lot of jumping around. Yona gets into the act, too. After three minutes our shoes are filled with sand and we are filthy.

This day the grounds were nothing but water and mud. Nonetheless, we picked our spot and unfolded all the chairs. It was pointless to throw down a blanket. Instead, I draped the goodie-filled plastic bags over the armrests. Yona had a feast of her favourites. We had Gryfe's pizzas and bagels, strawberry yogourt with bitter chocolate shavings, gummy things from Johnvince, and three flavours of Kernels. The intention was to save much of it for the campers' afterparty in the cabin, but much of the crunchy stuff just wilted in the intense moisture of the air and the intermittent storms.

The weather did not put a damper on much. The program was performed in the rec hall of the camp. Yona was a star. When she screamed, the kids screamed. When she sang, they sang. She danced, they danced. She got an excellent report from counselors and also the specialists, particularly the drama specialist. She looked so happy. I was so grateful that at least for a stolen moment in time, once a year, she could have this carefree experience that will sustain when all other memories are gone.

Desserts were served, tea was taken. The kids were happy. We parents were ecstatic to see our friends and their kids, maybe catch up on a little gossip. At three in the afternoon, Marty and I departed. It took three gruelling hours crawling in the rain, the mist and among a lot of exhausted and drunken drivers to get back down to city limits.

As we passed through Orillia I had a flashback to last year, same trip, same spot. A sunny day, the end of another great visitors day at camp. The cellphone rang as we were in the middle of a bad zone. It was a doctor at a hospital in the west end. My mother was brought there by ambulance. She was having a bowel blockage. Phone cuts out. An hour later a message. He wanted to operate as soon as possible but wanted to be sure we approved, because the patient was not cooperating. Around King City I made contact. I told him to do nothing. He had not known she was a cancer patient at Mount Sinai downtown. We got down there at 5 p.m. My best friend Masha met me there. Before I went in to see her, we all stopped by the Second Cup for a coffee. Three Equals. A blend of skim and 2 percent milk.

Within an hour we had mum discharged and we drove her down to Mount Sinai where she was admitted. Marty and I got back to the house at 3 a.m. I was still in my khaki shorts and Merrell mocs. The house was eerily still. That was the first time I was convinced she was going to die. I was at the depths. I was debating graveside or funeral home. At 4 in the morning we took a spin to the 24-hour Dominion. I had a bowl of roasted red pepper soup, a cup of peppermint tea and went to bed. Funny the things you remember.

So it's been a very lonely summer without my mum. She gave me camp as a centerpiece in my life. Like all good greenies, she sent me away for the summer so that I could have a normal time. Now I do it for my own kids. Even when I am a million miles away, in addition to my mum, I always have Gravenhurst with me. It keeps me sane. I know it will do the same for my kids when they go out and have their own lives.

Sudbury! Sudbury! Sudbury!


Friday. The barista at the coffee joint near the Bathurst Manor Ancestral Home hands me my Grande Rift Valley and I rush off to the airport to pick up Marty, who was arriving at 8:45 a.m. With one jittery hand on the wheel and Q107 blaring, we two caffinated wonders take off to Sudbury to visit Miriam at camp.

Make no mistake about it -- the 400 and all roads leading from Rome up to da nord country der, eh? are treacherous. They will kill you if they don't pass you, and sometimes they'll kill you AND pass you. Some parents reported that there was a fatal long after we had settled in at our downtown bivouac. That added another hour or more to many parents' trip time of roughly four hours, if you calculate in a stop in Bracebridge for a decent meal at a waterfront cafe plus a refueling.

Anyway, we were safely tucked away at our downtown Howard Johnson on Brady Street, not to be confused with the Holiday Inn on Regent, which last year was the Howard Johnson on Regent at precisely the time when the Howard Johnson on Brady was the Holiday Inn on Brady. We were all very confused. No apologies necessary, though, we were all there for a good time and didn't really care too much. Despite the fact that the Soccer Tournament was on, there were still a few rooms at several hotels in the area.

How were we going to use this weekend? We debated a visit to the science centre or possibly to the Big Nickel to see a nickel mine and the exhibits. There was a powwow on in the area; lots of music; art festivals and more. My choice was to sleep, uninterrupted, for many hours at a time. For most of the weekend. It was a plan that worked.

Friday night at 7 we were tooling down Long Lake Road toward Tilden Lake Road, all alone, no other cars in sight. We no sooner got to the opening of the camp when two BMW SUVs flanked us and together we made it to the parking lot.

We -- Miriam's parental units -- were VIPs, it turns out: the only parents of campers. The rest of the parents were there to see their kids who were on staff, or else they were board members whose objective was to raise funds for the camp from people like us.

Although Miriam was thrilled to see us, she wisely kept her distance so that I wouldn't be able to do anything to embarrass her. I will not name names here, but I did actually know around 70 percent of the parents there from my many previous lives. There were loads of people (now adults) who I knew from school and also from camp. When our own beloved Camp Massad (of blessed memory) in Torrance, Ontario, passed away in 1978, it left a lot of orphans. Well, here we were. Now with our own kids in a camp which has not only survived, but has apparently thrived with our own kids in the system.

Over the course of the weekend Miriam would approach me with some of her friends. Of course, right away it starts with the Jewish geography. Over the years Miriam has gone from mortified to kinda morbidly fascinated by how I know these folks. One thing for sure -- I adore seeing them from year to year, particularly now that I am no longer living in Canada on a full-time basis. It's as much a visitors day for me as it is for her. We had a great Shabbat evening dinner, hung out with the director, who has become a great friend, and left around midnight. In fact, we were the last to leave.

We had Saturday to ourselves since her program did not start until evening. I had managed to find a terrifc vintage store which had a handknit sweater with Ojibway patterns on it which was done in a combination of intarsia and Fair Isle techniques. It had a sewn-in lining. Just by the look of it, I could tell that some nice grandmother had made this sweater with the intention of having her marry "in."

The program that night was great and I got to see the rest of the "gang" who had not been part of the previous evening's experience. Once again, we closed the joint. But not before Miriam's tentmates had begged me to sleep over. Marty was quite willing to let me go, but I was scared that I'd get kicked out of camp and bring the innocents down with me. Instead I offered them accommodations at the NJ house whenever they come to visit.

The next day we picked up Miriam from the designated spot and before long we were driving around in the misty, dreary rain, looking for a little hot action. So we went to Value Village where I did my usual Garbageologist schtick and checked out the tees and sweatshirts for the wealth of information about how the locals live. Miriam found a Tim Horton's soccer jersey. I admired the incredible selection of hand-knit blankets in the bedding section. As I described what I was looking at (intricate chevron pattern which was made on a large circular needle; clapotis; bowtie pattern, etc), a lady overheard me and decided she needed to have all of these magnificent blankets. She thanked me for the knitting lesson and tossed the beautiful handmade items into her buggy. Total cost: mebbe ten or twelve bucks. A bargain!

Eventually we went for an early dinner where I got the real 411 on what's happening this year. It was a classic mom-daughter gabfest, which I have missed all summer long, since both my babies went to camp.

Not terribly eager to leave camp, naturally I snuck back in with poor Marty in tow. Miriam took me to the lounge where a bunch of the guys were jamming. The bass player had popped his low E string and was banging away on three strings, although he sounded terrific. The guitar player unstrapped his Strat and gave it to me to check out. I plugged in through a recent model solid state Fender Champ and flipped it to the out-of-phase position, and then I set the reverb to 7, bass to 3, treble to 7 and volume to deafening. It was time to wail.

I cannot imagine how embarrassed poor Miriam must have been, but she sucked it in pretty good and watched me bang out some blues with the guys. We chit chatted about Stevie Ray Vaughan and Jimi Hendrix. I showed the guitar player a few licks. The drummer was actually the other guitar player at camp, but he wanted to listen, so he took a seat behind the kit. After a few measures here and there -- just enough to whet their musical whistles -- I unstrapped myself and told them, "remember, never underestimate the blues."

As I left, two of them ran up behind me and Miriam had the unfortunate duty of confirming to htme them that I was her mother. She lamented that this would mean that from now until the end of camp, she would be bombarded with taunts of "your mother's so kewl!" She and I know the truth; that I am not kewl; that I just play guitar.

Before we left, Miriam promised me she would take guitar as one of her interest groups. All I ask is that she come home with a few chords. Once again, we were the last ones to leave. With Mattisyahu blasting on the camp sound system, and also from my car CD player, we headed back south and arrived safely at 10:15 last night.

Survival of the Fittest

After tae kwon do class yesterday one of the students shocked us with her story of a car that had just almost knocked over her and her new baby as they tried to cross a busy street in Teaneck, NJ. The car was being driven by an elderly gentleman who apparently was not as sharp as he once was. The sidewalks were under construction; she had a tricky time negotiating the bits of the sidewalk that were usable. Out of the blue, this man's car sped toward her. She darted in between a parked car and quickly pulled the stroller up with her. Meantime, the driver knocked over four large traffic cones and sped off. My fellow student was sure that he didn't see her.

Lookit, in Canada, we drive crazy, but we drive close to each other because essentially we trust that the other guy will get out of the way and let us pass if we really need to keep barrelling. We are a fairly unassuming, social bunch. And we do really trust the other guy. The other big reason that you might want to get out of the way is because in Canada our beer is made with actual alcohol.

And besides, it's altogether possible that the guy knows you and just wants to drive close to say "Hey, how's it going?"

My tae kwon do instructor and I talked about this and then equated the scenario to the midwest, where -- strong beer notwithstanding -- the same thing could happen.

However, here in the Northeast it's about survival of the fittest. The driver may have been thinking that if this little lady with her baby buggy couldn't get out of the way fast enough, they deserved what they got.

I think he's onto something. It could also be that he is a martial arts master. I will ponder this when I'm out blading today, listening to ZZ Top on the iPod.

Mum and her grandchildren 

Some Girls

In our very PC culture, I find that I get asked what it's like being a female. Especially when it comes to the guitar life. What's up with that?

I don't think I ever really realized that girls were different from boys. When I picked up the guitar, my world became two worlds -- those who played and those who didn't. I never realized that I was the only girl in my universe who played. I never got any special treatment. I carried and set up my own gear and rented the truck when I needed a truck.

One day I got a questionnaire from a feminist group asking me about my music. Did I have a message? Do I play to a particular audience? Have I ever been discriminated against because I was a girl? Stuff like that.

I answered honestly: I play to the crowd, my message is "lessez les bontemps rouler" and I have never been a guy, so I don't know if I've been discriminated against, because I only have the experience of being a girl. I am sure those were not the right answers, but they were mine and I mailed them back. I never heard from that group again. I actually felt that the feminists discriminated against me because I didn't answer the thing right.

Now that I'm older I still don't really feel I've ever suffered discrimination. I try to teach my girls that Job One is to go out into the world, be true to yourself, and be the best you can be to others.

It could be that I'm just denser than most. It could be that my mother - despite sharp warnings from her other immigrant friends - came to Canada and opened a retail store with nothing more than a bank loan. My mother probably was the only woman in her circle to do such a thing, but I honestly did not notice. She was a great boss - #1 in her shopping center in sales per square foot for many years, loyal staff, great Christmas parties.

It never dawned on me that Mum was the only one who sat at the card table with the guys while the other women watched TV in the den. Or that the people calling asking for my mum were Harry, Louie or Jack. Dare I dwell on it? Laissez les bontemps rouler!

GuitarGirl and her 1963 Gretsch Chet Atkins Nashville back in the Day. 

I don't know how it first happened, but I admit it -- I'm a cave dweller. I set up my music teaching studio in the basement; recording and writing gets done down here; my office is down here. There's absolutely no natural lighting, because the window boxes were covered over ages ago. So when a little light from the outside world gets through the cracks, it can illuminate the entire footprint of the basement. Sunlight down here would just plain be unhealthy.

I do my best thinking down here, because it's night all the time, and I can recreate my early days in the bars of Toronto, and later, the metro New York City area. My mum used to say that I was a "nine-to-fiver -- nine at night to five in the morning." Although, come to think of it, my latest late-night gig was in Jaffa, Israel, where the gig started at 1 a.m. and ended around 4. I used to go to that job from an early one up the street, which started at 9 p.m. and ended at 1 a.m. That gave me an hour's break for an early breakfast and coffee, plus a glance at the next day's newspaper.

Fast forward to now. I'm staring into the green glow of an old Ampeg jewel which has made its home in my 1968 Fender Princeton Reverb for at least 25 years. I know this because I swapped jewels with an old and unsuspecting Ampeg piggyback amp back then. The Princeton is my alter ego. It looks interesting and intriguing with that emerald jewel. I know that the years have passed but I am still that kid with the Princeton, playing Steve Cropper or Django Reinhardt licks as I sit in front of my parent's hifi with records scattered all over the floor. Gonna keep going 'til I nail it!

The first time I heard Los Lonely Boys doing "Heaven" on the kitchen radio, I basically did the same thing. I dropped the spatula and headed down to the cave and fired 'er up. I don't know a single guitar player who didn't do this.

I still have a handful of my erstwhile toys -- old amps, guitars, effect pedals, guitar picks. I pride myself on preserving my vintage stuff. Mind you, it was vintage when I got started collecting it, so I'm not panicking yet. And I don't have an outrageously gargantuan collection -- just enough to be slightly over the top.

One of my students last night asked me about my older stuff and I explained that although I do have some pieces from the 1950s and even the 1920s, I prefer collecting from the early 1960s because I was alive then. I even vaguely remember the Beatles on Ed Sullivan. I haven't figured out why my students are so devoted and want to hang around with an old broad, but I take the compliment.

And meantime, here in the cave, in my solitude, I watch Arlen Roth instructional guitar videos while I do a couple of miles on the treadmill, just to keep me inspired.