Where the Southern cross the Yellow Dog.

We rehearsed last night and the night before without Grandpa Mike. It’s his concert, i.e. he’s the organizer and “curator” of this show, the jazzier side of blues being his idea. Tonight is our dress. Tomorrow is our concert. I have no idea what is going on here. We need Mike for the intros and codas because otherwise the boys, including Hubby, have no idea what’s happening. I still don’t have anything memorized.

(Hubby thinks he knows what’s going on, but he has a tendency to start every tune too fast, his solos don’t bear any resemblance [or very little resemblance] to the melody of the piece, he admittedly doesn’t listen to my words, so, unlike the bass player who does, he has no idea where the end of the piece is [usually when I repeat the name of the song] and didn’t hear at all when certain chords he was playing had no relationship at all to what I was singing. I love my husband. I think he’s a fine musician. But he is so steeped in classical tradition that he cannot “wing” things the way the other guys do. Everything is very rehearsed by him, and when something out of the ordinary is thrown at him, like “let’s do this in a different key,” he can’t just switch gears and do it. Having said all that, though, he is an incredible guitarist and when it comes to playing things accurately and with a good sound, I haven’t heard very many better.)

So far I have two, three-quarter hour students. That’s one and-a-half hours of teaching per week, hardly worth my time to go to the university. However, they are good students, so I don’t really mind. The woman who started with me privately last term and who is taking the course for credit now, is known by our new jazz piano instructor, and he told Hubby that she praised her lessons with me to the skies. So, I feel vindicated, even though it looks like two of my students from last semester are not coming back.

The new dishwasher arrives on Saturday. That will be a very nice birthday present, don’t you think?

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