The business of kindness, and the unexpected yes.
WHY — What I Believe
We are meant to care for each other.
“Mankind is my business.” That sentence from Dickens’ A Christmas Carol works on me all year long; always has, since I first read the book as a child. It’s so… clear. Caring for one another, being of service in some way, is, I believe, our job as human beings. It’s a requirement of humanity. Sometimes I forget — easy to do in this day and age — but then a lack of man-kindness, of care, rears its ugly head — on the daily, it seems — and I can’t forget anymore.
Unkindness, I think, often hides the things we cannot talk about. Music is a way to have those conversations. With music, I can give you a moment to connect, to breathe, to laugh, even. I can give you my voice, literally, and my perspective, and maybe help you find your own. I can share hope. Maybe you need it these days. I know I do. Music is my service — sharing it, living it, teaching it.
It’s not exactly the thing that will stop a war, is it? (Although they do say it soothes the savage breast.) I’m not a person of service to mankind in the traditional, tangibly heroic way: I’m not a nurse or a doctor, I’m not in the armed forces or a member of… something smart. So don’t applaud these noble-sounding virtues: I am a deeply, deeply flawed human with all of the usual foibles and weaknesses. But I must do something. To paraphrase the Bard: unkindness may do much, but it will never taint my love for this world. I can’t let it.
Kindness and connection are my business; music is how I practice that care.
THE RESIDENCY — A Place To Do The Work
And claiming the space to offer my voice.
The residency idea started because a really wonderful, incredibly gifted friend of mine was doing one. I asked him how it came about, assuming it was the end result of being “discovered” at one of his many gigs. His reply? “Sis, I just asked.”
And my first, very visceral response was: I could never do that — just ask for something that I want. But… why not? His story worked on me. And once I said yes to that idea, I couldn’t un-say it. For someone who’s spent a career waiting to be chosen, asking felt radical. Unexpected, even.
What I find, though, is that it is less about the ask, and more about the offer. This residency is my way to say, here, here, HERE — I made this for you, for us. I have something to say — to sing, really — that may help, comfort, clarify. It may also be flawed, just like me. But it will be honest: a song from my heart.
Cabaret is a visceral, immediate art form: it requires vulnerability from both performer and listener. And I believe that today’s messy world also requires that same vulnerability, and honesty, and flaws, and bravery, and the immediacy of showing up. It would also benefit from more reasons to gather. So here’s one: beautiful music that lifts the spirit, and a view from here.
And there will be multiple reasons to gather during this residency: it gives the work and the artist (that’s me!) time to breathe, to grow, and to be shaped in an ongoing conversation with the audience. In a world where quick gratification is prized, this is a rarity — and a gift.
If I can stand up there and let myself be seen (and heard!), perhaps you, too, will feel seen. And maybe we’ll figure out what the heck is going on in the world — and in the hearts of mankind.
HOW TO LIVE THAT OUT — The Unexpected
This show expresses that care through risk, change, and choosing joy.
The first show of the residency was set in familiar territory for my audience — the holidays. But now it’s time to spread the wings and do, you guessed it, the Unexpected.
As the title more than hints, this next installment will include songs you may not expect from me, unrepentant ingenue that I am. The Great American Songbook does indeed extend past the Rodgers & Hammerstein era, and so must I. But the show will also explore change — what can happen when you stop asking for permission and start following your instincts. It’s music for the messy, miraculous middle.
Sometimes the riskiest thing — the most unexpected — is to choose the joy instead of the worry, to choose immediacy and vulnerability and honesty and man-kindness, and to let ourselves sing out.
I hope you will join me for Unexpected Songs, and for the shows to come. And I wish you love, and hope, and unexpected joy.
