The Gypsies are coming!

I must admit that until recently I was not much of a fan of gypsy swing. This art form was perfected in the 1930s by the great Django Reinhardt, and since he died, all that's left is to try to copy his inimitable style. But something happened to me a few months ago on the way to the shopping mall that has changed my musical future.

Every Sunday I would perfom our regular jazz standards with my steadfast trio, Tamir Miller on piano (a very sought after accompanist), Oren Sagi on double bass, and myself. Oren has a parallel career playing with the "Swing de Gitanes", a great trio of the classic Django style. One day, Tamir couldn't make the gig and Oren asked one of the gypsy swing trio (Bar Tsalel) to join us. The rhythm completely blew me away. For me, their swing is just the thing. We barely broke for intermission (and this over three hours of playing). Another time, I asked the whole trio to do the mall gig, while I handled some university business. I managed to reach the mall in time to hear their last set. When I approached the mall, I was sure I was listening to a recording. Sure enough it was them. Wow!

About two months ago we started playing together, and have now a couple of performances (and demo) under our belt. We are hoping to play at one of the upcoming jazz festivals here. And, if you live in Israel, you can hear us at the Shablul jazz club on September 28th.

So now I have a split musical personality. I'm not giving up on Tamir and our standards, but I am hoping to soar with the gypsies. How do you like the name "Gypsy Flush" for our new band?

Big Band, Big Dream

Next week is an exciting one for me – my seventh performance with the HED Big Band in south Tel Aviv.

Singing with a big band has been one of my greatest dreams since I started to perform eight years ago. Let me tell you how it came true.

My sister-in-law Neta reads people's futures in Ecuadorian stones. "What would you like to ask my stones?" she asked one summer's day.

"Will I ever have the chance to sing with a big band?". I asked. I picked a stone from the bag. It wasn't the right stone. "I'm sorry", she told me, "according to this stone this doesn't look like it's going to happen."

I am not a great believer in reading the future. I don't cast much faith in Ecuadorian stones. The question was, how to prove them wrong.

Yossi Vardi, the famous and omnipotent Israeli entrepreneur, and jazz lover, came to the rescue. "Here", he told me, phone 03-7914914 and ask for Yehuda Cohen. He has a really good big band. Maybe he'll let you sing with them.

Yehuda agreed to meet me (perhaps Yossi had put in a good word, or the mere mention of his name was sufficient). My meeting with Yehuda started off poorly. I played him a couple of tapes I had made of live performances. He wasn't very impressed. He played me a recording of his regular male singer, Danny Saguy (I was impressed). "You see", he said, "I already have a terrific male singer. What do I need you for?"

At this point I began to believe that the Ecuadorean stones might have the upper hand. But I persisted. Finally, a crack appeared. "If you buy the entire hall (100 seats), then I'll make you a performance".

"No problem", says I. I am thinking, my birthday is coming, instead of presents, I'll ask all my friends to buy tickets.

But my parents intervened. To their thinking, it was pretty tacky to 'force' friends to buy tickets. As a birthday present (one of the nicest you can imagine), they bought half the tickets and gave them away. I did the same with the other half.

My premier performance was three years ago. My soul brother from Toronto, Chris McCulloch came for 46 (!) hours to be with me, and bought me a Sinatra-type hat. Other wonderful friends from Boston (Neal and Varda Farber) happened to be in the country and came as well. Family, university colleagues and friends filled the hall.

I soon learned that singing with a big band was like nothing I had ever attempted before. It's like sitting on top of a Boeing jumbo. When the roaring bird takes off, you're alone up there, and there's no stopping the song till it's over and you're safely landed. You can barely hear yourself sing. Horns are blaring from the left, piano from the right, bass and drums right behind you.

Despite my middling debut performance, the crowd was pleased, and Yehuda has invited me back on occasion, the seventh being a week Wednesday. I am appearing with Daphne Levy, one of the foremost jazz singers in the country. I may even play my horn in a song or two. I can hear my singing improve from one time to the next, and that makes me a very happy camper indeed. So if you are free on October 17th, come see this crazy dream of mine come true, again. Enjoy Daphne and the hot band. Have a drink or two. And don't put too much faith in Ecuadorean stones. I didn't.

Essential Mel

Essential Mel
Originally uploaded by Mel Rosenberg

Meira, who worked here in the Faculty of Medicine until recently, ordered this beautiful drawing of me as a present for her retirement.
It was drawn by a fantastic young artist: analgarlic.blogspot.com/ - whom I also thank for capturing my image so well!

Beautiful Lovers

Leonard Cohen lived just down the road from me. The road from Ottawa to Montreal, that is. Strangely, he didn't exist for me until the summer of 1969, when someone sang "Hey, that's no way to say goodbye" at Camp Galil in Pennsylvania. Since then, it's been a love affair. My love for his eternal words and music.

I saw him twice. Once, in concert in Jerusalem (Binyenei Hauma, 1972 or 1973). He walked offstage halfway through a song towards the intermission. He told the packed audience that the music wasn't right and that if he couldn't get it right he would refund the tickets. The worried impressario came on stage at intermission and asked us to show him our affection and sing him a song when he came back on stage. Boy, did we ever. He sat down on stage and listened to the audience sing "Heveinu Shalom Aleichem" for him. The rest of his performance was awesome.

The second time I met him in person was in 1984. It was at a party in his honor thrown by the Canadian Embassy at a posh Tel Aviv Hotel (not the Chelsea). I remember him well. He was so pleasant and unassuming. I told him that I had always wanted to be a musician. He told me that he wanted to be a scientist. We called it even. I was so excited that I forgot to ask him the critical questions of my existence here on Earth. Who really were the Sisters of Mercy? More importantly, who was the guy in "Famous Blue Raincoat" and why was he building his little home in the desert. Was he a kibbutznik (sometimes I imagined him milking cows in Yotvata, and writing his memoirs)? These are questions that not even Stephen Hawking can answer.

What sticks in my mind in particular is the conversation I had just completed with R.S., a professor of literature at one of our universities. He lamented that Leonard Cohen had turned into a songwriter, abandoned his 'promising' career as a poet. After all, why inhabit the beating hearts of hundreds of millions of beautiful lovers, when you could be critically appraised by a couple of thousand lobotomized intellectuals ?

Sing on, Leonard.

Getting there

I am the kind of person who looks for glasses while he is wearing them. I have trouble finding everything and anything. I look for keys in my pocket when I am holding them in my hand. I get lost two blocks from my own house. Several years ago I was at an important meeting in a large building in Germany. I went to the bathroom, and upon my exit, could not remember where I had come from. I wandered the labyrinth corridors for about half an hour. By the time I found my way back to the conference room, the meeting was breaking up.
In Germany, Mira and I once boarded a train for Holzminden. At least we thought it was the train for Holzminden . Our tickets had some funny words in German, like ob and off. We didn't realize that they are German words with a distinct meaning. Meaning we were supposed to get OFF that train and ON another one. We ended up staying on the first train and were railroaded about 300 km out of the way. But I digress.
Today Alon and I have an appointment at 4:30. What can possibly go wrong? We leave the office early, maneuver through the traffic jam, and get to Yakum a few minutes early. But sure enough, I have forgotten my diary at the office. Where is the meeting? We make a few phone calls (thank the Lord for mobile phones, and oddly enough we are on our way to see Samsung), and find the right building, park in the wrong parking lot, repark and arrive, only to find that our meeting has been delayed. But that is not why I am telling you this story.
While we are waiting, I ask the secretary at Samsung where the bathroom is. "You go out through the doors" she says, and it's there. I go out through the doors. Look thoroughly on my left. Nothing resembling a bathroom. I head back to the secretary. "No, it's out through the doors on your right." I exit the doors and head to the right. I find a billiard room. No bathroom. What is wrong with me? I can't even find a simiple bathroom. Perplexed, I head back. "Oh, have they moved the bathroom again?" she asks.
Now I come to my story. Six years ago I arrive in Philadelphia. I am as tired as an air traveler can be. The taxi takes me straight to the downtown Marriott, where I decar, slither to the reception and receive my key to room 1820. Up the elevator, and I am there. At last. A hot bath and to sleep. My sister says that a hot bath is part of our family heritage. As children, we were subjected to a boiling water bath every evening, followed by a generous dowsing of talcum powder. So whenever I check into a hotel, the first thing I look for is my comforting hot bath.
Room 1820 is spacious and lovely. I open my suitcase to take out pj's and my bahing accessories. I happily head for the bathroom. No bathtub. No can be. I am in America at an expensive hotel. There must be a bathtub here somewhere. I search high and low, checking the doors to the cupboards. No bathtub. I check again. Finally I make one of the most embarrassing phone calls of my life, down to reception.

Me: Hello, it's Mel Rosenberg here in room 1820.
Her: Good evening Mr. Rosenberg, welcome to the Marriott. What can we do for you?
Me: Well, I've just had two very long plane trips and I'm very tired. So please excuse me for this stupid question. Is there a bathtub somewhere in my room?
Her: Of course, sir.
Me: Well, I'm really sorry, I'm so tired and can never find anything, can you send someone up to show me where it is .
Her: Silence
Her: More silence
Her (finally): Mr. Rosenberg, can you repeat your room number.
Me: 1820
Her: Oh, I'm so sorry. We have put you in the handicapped room. It's the only room in the hotel with no bath, just a shower.

Which just goes to show. Sometimes even people like me cannot find what isn't there.