tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35944745.post-20688878456304964812007-12-06T17:29:00.000-08:002007-12-06T18:08:59.496-08:00October 14, 2007. Red Room at Grill, Tucson, Az. We found out that according to it's interesting title, "Red Room at Grill" is indeed a Red Room attached to an awesome all-night diner called "Grill." Our evening began with the sight of a real piano. Yes, a real piano! This strikes two feelings within me. One, I get excited about playing on my instrument for reals, and Two, the piano technician in me gets scared about the condition of said beast. It was a Mehlin grand, one of my favorite companies, probably circa 1910, given the body. It was in dire need of regulation, tuning, and all of the bridges had cracks in them, but it was decent enough to play. So after tinkering around a while, I decided to leave the Kurzweil in the car. Yay!! Carlo, the waiter, showed us to a booth and handed us hilarious menus. Paragraph upon paragraph of rules and sass were printed for the benefit of patrons and employees alike. The food was Amazing... I don't know of too many all-night diners that serve up portobello mushroom sandwiches with a homemade basil aioli. Carlo had his hands full, running around taking orders and dishing out a seamless blend of courtesy and mild contempt. It was a perfect fit for the place. When we crossed over to the other side into the bar to begin playing the first set, our eyes fell again on the giant painting of Bob Dylan's head on the wall by the Mehlin. "Make you nervous?" Ji inquired. "No, it makes me feel comforted," I replied. He was surprised at my answer, given that one of the greatest songwriters of all time (next to Joni Mitchell:) would be looming over my busy hands and even busier vocal chords. But ever since I saw the documentary on Bob Dylan, where his band was booed incessantly while they rallied through their songs on a stage in London, I found my role model for persistence in the face of outright naysayers. No matter how rude they were, he would not yell back, he would not cuss, nor would he stop playing. Dylan simply and calmly said in between songs, "C'mon. I don't do that to you," and called out another tune. It was so brave and so gentle and so gallant, it made me cry. The footage also made me realize that if he could go on in the wake of all of that, I certainly could move through any negative comment here or there, and also the barrage of snide post-it-notes from the itty-bitty-shitty-committee inside my head. Take that you bawlers and brawlers! In the words of Coach Bob, from John Irving's great novel The Hotel New Hampshire,"You've got to get obsessed and stayobsessed." During our break, I met a fantastic woman named Loyee. I am sure that I've spelled that wrong... forgive me, wherever you are!! She was this gorgeous Asian woman with a shock of long, blonde hair. Her intelligent eyes had a way of gathering up all she observed in a detached, listening way. She told me she'd seen that I was coming, and since she always goes out after work to hear piano players, being a player herself, she ended up at Red Room with a glass of wine, and a copy of Dwell, ready to absorb the evening. Apparently the Red Room was the hang-out of choice for people of the "industry," i.e. those just getting off of work after tending other bars and serving up food at other restaurants. Here is where they would come to wind down after a long day, bitch, gossip, relax, and talk of their real dreams... coming, coming, just down the way... While she told me of her travels throughout the world, Ji was meeting this fascinating man named Matt. He hailed from Los Angeles and was in the business of writing original music for circuses! He also transcribed Native American songs and put them down on paper. Doing this at the behest of chiefs, the act nonetheless stirred up the communities, as people did not want their ancient chants reduced to the same John Phillip Souza marching instruments that sounded the death knell for so many of their tribe. He was stuck in a quandry, but the chief insisted that the songs be written down, whatever way he could manage. The second set was loose and improvisational. Without the knowledge of the customers, or Ji, for that matter, I followed an instinct and wrote a song and lyrics as I went. Ji jumped right in with me and out came a dandy! I paused afterwards to jot down the skeleton of the idea, asking Ji to sit in on the grand while I scribbled. He coursed his way through "Naima," as is his usual want. Lovely. Our closing tunes were cut-off early, though it was pretty late. Next door, the club opened up and a Hispanic death metal group began playing in earnest. I thought at first it was a car outside blaring the speakers loud enough to rattle the windows, but it was in fact, our lively neighbors. It was an ironic and weirdly cool accompaniment to the delicate overtures of "Unita." By the way, I wrote that song for Unity for her birthday in 1997. And tonight is her birthday again. Buon Compleanno Unita!!!! And Buona Sera to you all.Rebecca Sanbornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17643402552767922980noreply@blogger.com