Over the Moon

Better than Sex

I have to start with a little story. A thousand years ago, in my third marriage, Tyler had gone to Safeway with my [Mormon] husband and my severely learning-disabled [Mormon] stepson. They got what they needed in the store, then proceeded to the checkout line. As they were waiting, Tyler was perusing the candy display. He saw a Dove chocolate bar and suggested they get it for me, explaining, "Mom says these are better than sex."

Implicit in that story is the knowledge that I caught hell from my husband when he got home from the store for ever speaking to my teenaged son like that. He was horrified!

Well, Boys and Girls, I had an experience last night at Raz that was better than sex. Not that I remember sex. But I digress.

Does the name Mel Rivers mean anything to you? It didn't to me. This man walked into Raz last night and recognized what was happening on the piano, recognized the gift I have been given. He walked up, leaned on the piano and started singing along. You know I pride myself on being skilled as an accompanist, and within four measures, it was clear I had died and gone to musical heaven.

I don't think I can adequately describe what happened. It's just one of those magical moments, a lightning-striking-the-piano occurrence.

I've had a few of these in my life, this ultimate mutuality between pianist and singer. It happened the first time I played for Judy Sokal at one of her fabulous parties; it happened when I sat down next to fiddler-as-singer Lindianne Sarno; and, boy, did it happen last night.

When we stopped after two songs, I asked if I could take him home with me. Mel turned to the Professor to get my phone number, and told the Professor that he was in love. As we left at the end of the evening, the Professor told Mel he was afraid for a while that he was going to go home alone. (It's a euphemism, okay? He was going home alone, but only by choice.)

This morning during my shower I was thinking about being a pianist versus being an accompanist. The singer Marilyn Kaye came in last night and I asked if she'd like to sing a few songs. And even after the high of accompanying Mel, playing for her was torture.

And this morning it occurred to me. Marilyn doesn't know how to sing with an accompanist. She only knows how to follow. I follow her, slowing down to support her as she slows, and then she slows down because I've slowed down, and pretty soon we've spiraled down the toilet.

Mel, on the other hand, maintains incredible eye contact, has the confidence to just forge ahead, knowing his accompanist will continue supporting him.

It doesn't get any better than what I experienced last night.