My Mother Tried

My mother tried. I got piano lessons as a child. I just didn’t “get it.” The woman she hired was a crummy bored piano teacher and I was a crummy bored student. Uninspired squared. There was one recital. I had learned the piece by rote—my ear probably helped that process immensely. The lines and dots, as far as I can remember, meant little or nothing to me. Then shortly after college, I booked a big job where I had to go into the studio and sing for John Williams and I was faced with sheet music—and I vowed then to learn what the Rorschach dots and lines meant. So I took an Introduction to Music Theory class at a junior college. The professor loved me, but boy, did I struggle. He thought it was strange that someone so engaged, with a BA under her belt, had such a hard time the material. “You invert your correct answers,” he said. “You are probably number dyslexic.” Which just means I need to work a bit harder. My friend, mentor, and bass player (when I can get her), Katie Cavera, recently decided to start a jam for women only. Yup, no boys allowed in this clubhouse. No prior music training to join into the mix—just a desire to have fun and learn something about music. Oh, and as she herself said: “Snacks are usually involved.” The first jam I couldn’t make because I was gigging out of town. The second one I was in New York City, but three times a char