I truly enjoyed my time, and the many unique experiences, at the Showboat in Atlantic City, back in the early 90s, when I just about lived there (or it felt like it). And if it weren't so long ago, before the age of phone cameras and social media, there would be many fun pictures and wacky hijinks (and other stories) to share. Hopefully, as I go through old boxes and photo albums, I'll find things and post them, here and on Facebook. My initiation to the alternate universe of the Showboat (and other Atlantic Casinos) was as one of the 3 full time pianists who played daily shifts in the hotel lobby. Other than the restaurants and showrooms, this was one of the areas where you were a bit more removed from the huge casino floor, or at least not right on top of it, depending on where you were positioned. And I was far enough away from the casino entrance as to be a place to hang, away from all the gambling hubbub. Or at least the gambling (I was positioned in between the hotel reservation desk and the escalator up to the bowling alley - another alternative universe within the universe). It would have been a nice place to listen to music, watch the crowds go by, etc, had there been any seating, which of course there wasn't. But that didn't stop folks from congregating around for awhile (some with portable folding chairs) to listen, sing along, or hold conversation (with me). There was one gentleman I would see from time to time, spending long periods standing by the piano listening, sometimes conversing to help pass the time while his wife was gambling inside the casino. It eventually dawned on me that, with this gentleman, I was serving a similar function as a park bench in a shopping mall; as a place for displaced men to hang out while their wives or girlfriends were in the stores (spending, or losing money, in any case). But this guy was clever about it. He managed the money (and to some extent, his time) by giving his wife a $20 bill and waiting for her outside the casino. She wan't limited to $20, but she would have to come up (or out) for air for another round. So while he and I talked, one of his eyes (and one of mine, too, since this was often the subject of conversation) would be focused on the casino entrance at the other end of the lobby, waiting for his wife to emerge. And once there was a sighting, the conversation immediately turn to speculation with each of us trying to interpret the symbols: What was her facial expression? Was we carrying her coat or was she wearing it? Was she going to stick her hand out? And that was the big one, as he and I would watch her hand while talking like two play by play announcers. Keep your eye on the ... "Here comes the hand, better get out your wallet. Maybe next time". One thing I've always been conscious of throughout my time in the music business is knowing what my role is, on any given gig.

The other night I found a newspaper article about the house pianist/amateur night accompanist gig I had when I was 18 (which will be it's own blog entry. This is going somewhere else). This helps to bring something into focus as I ponder it. This would probably also be the case if I were contemplating the church organist/music director position I assumed when I was 19. So what was I doing, at least a lot of, early on in my music career? Not seeking recognition as a soloist or featured performer so much as I was engaging others in a supporting role. In other words, I was being who I am (which is easier to understand now, 4+ decades later). I am, at heart, an accompanist. I am not a natural soloist, at least not as much. Even if I do a lot of solo playing, with some of it in a "front and center" position. It's not that I can't command things all by myself (in my own way), but it's not where all my strengths best come together in one place. But they do in accompanying. And I'm returning to something I've pondered on in the past; that for me (and has been hanging out there for me to come back to, apparently); solo performing is also accompanying. Accompanying the listener. This is one of those concepts that I've believed is the case more than I've figured out how to explain it (at least until now). But it just fits, so well. When I perform, I don't have any personal statement to make, or goods to deliver, other than to be expressive. And that's one of those things that grows (or sneaks up) on a listener, as opposed to the flashy, attention getting maneuvers that can typify solo, or featured performance. I can win an audience over. I do it every time I perform on an American Cruise Lines ship (where usually the only people in the room who have seen me perform before are the crew members). It's just a process, drawing them in over the succession of the first few tunes. Not something I hit them over the head with, or wave in front of them like a bright banner.
So what is my relationship to the listener, or an audience? It's not to dazzle or impress them. It's to engage. To connect. To welcome them into a shared space, where we experience together. Now I could read those last 3 sentences in the context of accompanying, and it would make perfect sense. Performance, for me, is not exhibiting, demonstrating or proclaiming something. It is an engagement; communication through expression, where what is felt can become a shared experience. And there it is. I think I just learned something. And will ponder some more.

The last few weeks have sent many of us into uncharted territory. Our lives have been abruptly suspended, or upended. And those of us who are not physically suffering with the COVID-19 virus can sense the trauma lurking outside the boundaries of our shelter in place spaces, if these spaces are even totally safe. I live alone, in a small house that I have renamed Social Distancing Central. I am safe, and any circumstance or decision that would have me otherwise is totally within my control (like, am I willing to live without bananas, which will run out in a day or two). This blog post is not concerned with what I've already written about in recent blog entries; How I view my work. How I'm not worried about the near complete loss of income for a time. How this social isolation becomes a "sabbatical" where I can practice, explore and grow using this gift of time and opportunity (Yes, a gift, and one that I have already unwrapped and intend to put to good use). This is about something that hit me today, provoking me to ponder and to acknowledge (again) the bigger picture; that we often don't see, or that we lose track of, obscured by the urgency or the weight felt over our current circumstances. And perhaps this has something to do with why it is not that difficult (at least not yet) to be rather Zen about it all right now, within my own space. I turn 60 in a few weeks, which provokes reflection anyway, so my thoughts today turned to how many places I've lived. or more specifically, how many times in my life I have moved. 21, if I'm remembering everything. Not that I actually remember moving from the Marine Corps base at Camp LeJeune when 3 months old. But the rest I do. By the time I was 7, we had moved 5 times, landing in Southern NJ when my Dad was transferred to the Marine Corps Supply activity in Phila. after returning home from Okinawa. While he was overseas my Mom rented a little house in Ashland, KY, up the street from my Aunt. Mrs. Wilson was my first grade teacher, at the school a few blocks away on Holt Street (which made me happy). On Halloween, I was excited to trick or treat at Mrs. Wilson's house in my impenetrable disguise, only to be disappointed when she opened the door and greeted me with "Hello Joey", recognizing my shoes. Ashland, KY, off the Ohio River bordering Ohio and West Virginia (our TV stations were in Huntington, WV, as was my favorite amusement park), was my normal for a year and a half. Soon after we moved to Bellmawr, NJ, I was upstairs watching the Philadelphia TV newscast when the weatherman announced "The weather forecast for the tri-state area is ..." I lept with excitement, running downstairs to proclaim to my mom that we hadn't moved so far way after all, since we still lived in the tri-state area. We search for whatever stability we can find, I suppose. 

Bellmawr, NJ would become my new and unexpectedly permanent normal for the rest of my growing up. (Though there would be times of looking over our shoulder waiting to learn when and to where the next transfer would be. Once I remember starting to pack, though I don't remember where the next destination was to be. Utah, perhaps?). My dad was compelled to retire on disability in 1973, by which time he was Supply Chief, reaching the rank of E9. (He'd still be active duty today if he had his way. Once a Marine ...). It is highly unusual in the military to remain in place for 7 years, but I'm grateful for that. I had a "normal" growing up. Fast forwarding, I'm also grateful to have been able, for the most part, to give that (a normal growing up) to our kids. We were renters for many years, working our way from Southern NJ to Newark DE, to Elkton, then Galena, MD (by then our friends were joking with us, as we kept moving south, that by the time we retired we'd already be in Florida), with several additional stops before landing in Chestertown MD.  This is where the opportunity presented itself to buy the house we were renting at the time, and to give our kids the gift that I had been given: a place to say "I grew up here". Prior to that, it was a bit of a roller coaster ride. Some self imposed, like making a decision because we felt led to, or because we could. And some just imposed, like the several challenging landlord relationships we faced. One instance involved our next door neighbor landlords divorcing and the husband offering to pay me to carry on at all hours of the night to disturb his ex . Did I mention searching for stability? Much of the time stability (or perhaps, sanity) felt out of reach. 

In more recent years, as the page turned on a season of my life, I found myself in flux again. But it was different this time. Being upended didn't necessarily feel less uncomfortable. But it felt more purposeful; tied to a bigger picture, tethered by a trust that I was on a path, and feeling connected to all of it. At points along this journey, I came to some particular realizations, both about myself and the journey. One was to realize that the person I am is one who only has a wide angle lens from which to see beyond myself (as well as within). Embracing this has helped me to make the adjustments to see more clearly. Another realization took the form of a commitment made to myself; to avoid forming conclusions. Insisting on understanding something (anything) that is tied to a bigger picture (as ultimately, everything is) places a barrier on my perception, allows preconceived ideas to cloud my vision, and chains me to myopic self interest, of one form or another. Life was teaching me, and more now than before, I was listening. And learning to trust. Not in my ideas, thoughts or even beliefs, but in that which connects me to that bigger picture. Call it intuition, call it trust, call it faith. Whatever my word is, your word is your own. Every seemingly jagged edge on the path has, in retrospect, simply been a turn. All paths turn. Every upended circumstance is for a purpose. Although, I'll admit that I don't like phrases such as "everything happens for a reason". I know some find comfort in that. But for me, this can become just another place to chain ourselves to seeking contentment in our own understanding, even if we are willing to defer knowledge and say "someday we'll know the reason". Maybe so, maybe not. Who cares. 

So now I, and all of us, are faced with uncertainty. And I could say that, for me, all of my life has been in training for this moment. When I had the thought earlier today to count the number of times I've moved (some of them not of my own choosing. and who knows how many more there might be), my wide angle lens rested on a place of comfort. Not comfortable circumstances, necessarily, but comfort in, first of all, that there IS a big picture. As we move through (what we perceive as) time, having the experiences that we do, we don't leave those experiences behind us as we move on to the next thing. These experiences are our story. And you can read a story like turning pages in a book, but you can also pick up the book and hold the entire story in your hand. And this is what I see, even as my book is still being written (as I can perceive it). And yes, I do believe that my book is held for me, even as I will tell you that I don't have the need to understand that in my own thoughts. It is beyond the limits of my mind to figure it all out. But not beyond the limits of my heart to embrace it. With social distancing as the norm, we are forced to refrain from embracing (as uncomfortable as that is for someone who lives on hugs). There is a time to refrain from embracing (with our arms). There is a time to embrace (with our hearts). For everything, there is a season.