I’ve been thinking on muscle memory.
Los Angeles rains for days and days and days, and then one day Ben and Tete are in our cutie home.
(and the rain doesn’t really matter anymore)
(funny how your favorites do that, eh?)
I’ve been thinking on muscle memory.
I haven’t seen them in so long. I miss them desperately. Also it was Ben’s birthday yesterday.
(Which means cake, of fracking course)
I offer him the classic chocolate chocolate. Am all set to go ham on decorations, my newest not so secret skill.
But Ben has other plans.
(This doesn’t stress me out, Ben.)
(But it also does not sound nearly as fun as cake decorations, my newest not so secret skill)
(Still, I’m the one who asked my dearest friend / former Hamsterdance pod-mate what his dream birthday cake would be)
(So I check my disappointment, because I am a sensational friend, okay!?)
I think on recipes. I remember that I made one such cake for Passover once, out of the legendary Cocolat cookbook. Back then I was a newbie baker and the cake was a challenge. I feel like I could do it now, though?
I can indeed.
Cocolat remains as complicated as I remember, but it’s doable this time. I chop a pound of chocolate, whip a fuck ton of eggs, bake the cake (a baked mousse, more or less) let it cool overnight. In the morning I pipe rosettes with whipped cream, since the recipe lines the cake with whipped cream instead of buttercream.
(Piping rosettes with whipped cream shouldn’t be possible, but good news! I am a way better baker now)
(High fives all around!)
Girl. If that chocolate decadence cake isn’t both delicious *and* squishy.
I take the appropriate amount of deep bows. I get ready for my darlings. They show up with In N Out because they are genius humans who know that nothing goes better with a chocolate decadence flourless than California’s finest.
I’ve been thinking on muscle memory.
The hang is perfect. You know the kind. That soul soothing social balm that relaxes muscles and reminds you why you’re alive and stuff. Ben and Tete affirm for me once again that despite my introversion/hyper-intense ADHD I don’t hate humans, I actually really, really love humans.
(These ones, at least.)
We talk about our mutual nomadic lifestyle, we talk about the challenges of the music business, we talk about Tete’s new (super-warm) pajamas.
(Tete is a cutie so cute the odds are high she may have been made up in a dream/is actually a Ghibli character and not a real person?!)
We also talk about the legend man from a few taalitalks ago, who recently mailed me a copy of the inspirational card deck from his house because he is brilliant and thoughtful alongside being a living legend.
(Casual!)
We all pick a card from the deck in his honor.
Ben, Tete and José’s cards are so accurate that we all get a little quiet. Ben takes a photo of his.
(I wonder if perhaps the living legend is also some sort of spiritual entity?!)
And then I pick mine.
And I am very annoyed.
Because it’s not the right one for me.
To be fair, there’s nothing wrong with the card. I’m happy to listen to my body, and with my ample amount of trauma I could always use the reminder. But frankly after the fracking clairvoyant level of what my bbs got? I’m underwhelmed.
I’ve been thinking on muscle memory.
Ben and Tete leave. I drop off a slice of the perfect squish cake with Daniel. I go back to regular life, whatever that means these days. José flies out for tour, I do Rainbow Blonde work, I panic that I haven’t done enough for the album release, I panic that I haven’t done enough for Tuesday’s NYC show at LPR.
(It is still happening, btw!)
(Look at me doing sort of enough!)
I get on a flight to New York. I land in New York.
I don’t know how to explain it, but I still feel like this show isn’t actually happening. I know these songs? I know that my fingers know these songs? But thank God the guys have asked for a rehearsal, because I really need to play these songs again.
When we finally do sit down it all rushes back in quick relief. I’m not prepared enough (yet), and also it’s going to be fine. Because music is magic and what I have been doing for the last 14 years. I know how to do this. It’s hazy, but I remember. Put your fingers on the keys.
I’ve been thinking on muscle memory.
I add more songs to the set. I hug the guys, find out that the dinner party I’m going to later is in the same building where Doug the bassist grew up.
(Jewish geography for the eternal win!)
I know how to do this. It’s hazy, but I remember.
New York made me.
I can do New York.
Haircut next. I lug my enormé synth a couple of blocks up to Mona’s for a routine trim. When I sit down in the chair I hear some wild words come out of my mouth.
“What if we just cut all my hair off?”
Mona, an artist of epic proportions whose specialty is curly shapes, happily obliges.
I’ve cut off a lot of hair with Mona before, but never really like this. She senses the serenity in my voice and she just freaking goes for it. I feel peaceful, I feel clear. As it all falls around me I realize that for years I haven’t been wearing my hair, my hair has been wearing me.
I am very, very ready to set that balance straight.
(Also Mona is a genius.)
I’ve been thinking on muscle memory.
I meet Reuben at Barney Greengrass. I can’t decide what I love more: Barney Greengrass’ unchanged since the 70s wallpaper or this perfect face.
(New York speed.)
(Five thousand hangs in 24 hours)
(You’re in midtown, you’re on the upper west, you’re in a century old iconic Jewish establishment, you’re in a diner)
I meet J. Hoard and his perfect friend Alexis for milkshakes at a diner on 101st Street. We talk about how I almost died, how the prospect of death was uneventful, how there is so much absolute fucking beauty in knowing that.
I’ve been thinking on muscle memory.
The day ends at a dinner party. New friends of my parents’ from a recent international excursion. I happen to be blessed with two of the coolest parents on the planet of earth, so I trust their invitation.
Up to the 15th floor. New York speed.
I’ve been thinking on muscle memory.
My parents’ friend’s home is gorgeous, my parents’ friends are also fucking fantastic. Kind and wonderful and devastatingly interesting.
The husband has cooked an absolutely stunning feast. The wife has baked challah and desserts.
I’ve been thinking on muscle memory.
The night progresses the way a good night does, like water. Right off the bat I notice that every conversation feels genuine, unrehearsed. We all learn, grow, eat the most delicious meal we’ve had in months.
It’s a long hang, the best kind of Shabbat, snaking into midnight with all of us yawning. As we’re all leaving the wife tells me she’s going to the show on Tuesday (!) (thanks, wife!)
The husband tells me he can’t, but wishes me luck. I learn he is a professional writer. We commiserate on how miserable the pandemic was for us.
I tell him: I don’t know how to explain it, but I still feel like this show isn’t actually happening.
I tell him: this album took me three fracking years to make, so now it’s stale.
He tells me, “That’s a normal turnaround for writers, you’re right on track for a novel”
(Thanks, king!)
(I will put that in my pocket and hold on to it for emotional safe keeping!)
I ask him: “How did you shift out of survival and into art again?”
He looks at me and tells me.
“You need to focus less on your brain.
More on your body.
When you get up on stage you’ll know.
Your body knows how to do this.”
Or, in other words,
(Gasp!)
I realize he’s right. The card’s right. We’re all right.
My body knows how to do this. But it is weary, to be honest, from three years of things it does not know how to do. I hope I take the genius writer/chef’s advice on Tuesday.
Because my body knows how to make music (it does not know how to wait to release an album, how to push it for two years)
My body knows how to sing and write songs (it does not know how to discuss the metrics of those songs with people who barely care)
My body knows how to share experiences (it does not know how to posture, how to post on social media rather than connect)
My body knows how to create, how to love others, how to flow like water at dinner parties.
And my body knows how to play a really beautiful show.
So I lean on muscle memory, on New York, on you.
See you Tuesday, if you’re in NY. And, holy shit, see you Friday, when this album finally lands on the planet of earth.
(And then Sunday, like always.)
(I adore you.)
More next week.
t
gasp. an arrow from your heart to mine, again. not a bad arrow nor a cupid arrow but an arrow of shared something. understanding? well heck no not really because I'm not a professional artist. can i call you my spirit animal? or maybe i'm your spirit animal? or target audience (TARGET! HIT!). Anyway, i adore your writing and feel like i know you and i guess that's the point. Also, my elderly mother lives with me and for the first time, couldn't remember my name this weekend. i've put that in a box because i'm not prepared. all my love and good juju and all the good things for your what will be MOST AMAZING SHOWS EVER...in NYC!!!!!!