Livin' the mythic dream...in the Big Apple

Being a jazz singer living in New York City has kind of a mythic sense about it. After all, it is rumored that the Big Apple was so named because a jazz musician once said: 'There are many apples on the success tree, but when you pick New York City, you pick the Big Apple.'



The Big Apple has a symbolic meaning for anyone in the arts. It is the place that you come to find out if you are really, really good as an artist or just some bloated fish from a tiny pond in Maine or the Mid West.


That being said there are times when you want to take a huge bite out the Apple, only to find (once again, if you have been at this for awhile) that there are all kinds of worms inside. The worms can represent many things for an artist. They can be obstacles that keep you from finding your niche on the scene, like exhaustion from a physically challenging 'day job' (that's right, you try standing for 9 hours in a 3 foot square space to which you are tethered like service animal, while the pumped in pop music blares in your skull like a sonic ice-pick... thanks Concierge job!), when you would rather be practicing; to the cold worms writhing with jealousy in your gut when your friends succeed as you squirm and throw yourself against the chains. 

I need to point out that I truly love and admire my successful friends, just giving voice to feelings I know we all must have from time to time...


Sometimes, the worms are fat and shiny from eating the best parts of the Apple that they have refused to share. These can be musicians who look at you funny like you have just asked a deeply personal question when you ask for advice or information on how they booked their tour to Europe, or a club owner who looks at you with a studied glaze over their eyes when you hand over the 3rd CD that they have asked for when you are looking for a gig. It's worms like these that make you wonder if the Apple isn't poisoned.


Like Snow White's apple, it looked so tempting at first, as the evil Queen handed it to her. Well of course it is in a way, polluted, poisoned, smelling as sickly sweet as the candied nuts roasting on the street. Or as sour as a poor unfortunate person who hasn't slept for days and hasn't showered for months as they lumber slowly through the subway cars asking for change, dragging their legs swollen with gangrene...(Yes, I did see this the other day. Gangrene is real and passed terrifyingly close to me).


But wait, it is so beautiful! A deep crimson red and unblemished, too if you just turn it over...and take a bite from the other side.


 From that other gleaming, fragrant side of the apple: I have a gig at Zinc Bar on Monday, November 18th at 7 pm and I would love to see you. I am going to be with a wonderful band who must like playing with me too, because they sure aren't making a ton of money playing with me. Yet. 

Vicki Burns Quartet returns to Zinc Bar!

When: Monday, November 18th 2013 7:00-9:00 pm

Where: Zinc Bar 82 West 3rd Street (at Thompson) Greenwich Village , NYC

With: Leonard Thompson on piano, Tom Hubbard on bass and Phil Stewart on drums.



You can keep up to date with me on my website and check out some soundcloud clips here:



https://soundcloud.com/vickiburnsjazz




http://www.vickiburnsjazz.com/



Or, purchase my CDs at itunes here: https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/vicki-burns/id112557949



See you 'round the Old Big Apple



Vicki Burns

New Year's Eve Gig...from hell!

It was New Year's Eve in 1981 or '82. Our 18 piece big band, The CPO (Clayton Poole Orchestra) rented a huge van and headed North to Vermont, to a little village (the name of which my memory has blissfully erased) next to the Canadian border. I was excited to time travel once again to the mid 1940's where I could be the glamorous girl singer, or canary as they called them back then. Every time I stepped on stage with this marvelous group of swingin' guys I felt like a star in a classic movie,  Miss Peggy Lee.

It was cold. Very, very cold. The mercury dipped way below the freezing mark and as I recall was something like 30 below. Nevertheless we were excited to perform for this lovely group of middle aged folks who had booked us into an Odd Fellows Lodge. Or was it the Order of The Moose? Ah well, those were the days...

After a journey that seemed to take forever, from the Seacoast area of New Hampshire to the Canadian border, we finally reached our destination. We piled out of the van and went inside the Odd Fellows Hall which was gaily decorated with NYE balloons, and streamers and noisemakers. It was joyfully tacky and I smiled knowing that the band and I would be in charge of not only entertaining that evening, but perhaps bringing back some sweet, loving memories for some of the older guests.

We set up our music stands, which had the trademark classy CPO on the outside and I scanned the bandstand to make sure all I needed was there as well. It was traditional for the singers, both male and female to sit next to the band as we waited to sing, so I made sure I had a chair next to the horn section.

When everything was in place, our leader Skip ( more formally Clayton who played a mean Be-bop tuba) herded us together (yes, probably the origin of herding cats, meant jazz cats) and we piled back into the van and headed to the hotel where we would freshen up and rest before the gig. 

It was only a short distance to the hotel and as we pulled up I took a look out the van window and saw what looked like an abandoned old hotel from the set of an old Western...we made our way with our suitcases and band uniforms and my dress up some very rickety broken stairs and I thought: Damn, they need to replace these steps!

We entered what must have been a grand old lobby 100 years ago, to find the the hostess at the front desk seated behind the desk in a down parka, gloves and a hat. It was freezing in the lobby which was lit by a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling.  She apologized for the heat saying: "Don't worry! They are working on it now and it will be fixed for you by the time you get back. Your rooms are all ready for you." I asked: "Can you point me toward the elevator? " I didn't see one in the dimly lit lobby and thought I must have missed it...She said: "Oh there's no elevator. The stairs are right over there" and she pointed to her right. 

I looked in the direction she was pointing up a very long, winding staircase and said: "Oh!" I was inwardly a bit miffed to have to haul all of my stuff but I set to climbing up a narrow, steep staircase that never seemed to end. Finally, panting a bit I reached the landing and noticed something a bit strange. There were women's names painted above each door!  Names like Cathy, Peggy, Mary and Jane. I thought, wait a minute are these private rooms or someone's residences? Then it dawned in a flash...no! it's a brothel! Suddenly I was furious. I found Skip and said, "What the hell is this place? It is in terrible condition and know I have to change in a prostitute's room??" Skip had a look of panic in his eyes and said he was sorry. This was the only hotel that they offered to put us up in and that we needed to just get through the gig...

 I turned and headed down the hallway to Jane's room.

Entering I saw a room in total disarray. There was a filthy, dusty, cot in the middle of the room and several pieces of furniture had pulled away from the wall. Behind the cracked mirror of an old vanity, I saw what looked like a rusty reddish brown spatter... looking closer I realized it was...blood! Now, I felt as if I were in Steven King novel instead of a great old jazz film and felt distinctly less glamorous.  

So, holding my breath while I changed and quickly put on my make up, I tried not to think of what this room would be like later on when I was supposed to sleep in it. Ugh!! Well, at least it wouldn't have rats because it was too damn cold. Even the spiders would freeze mid way in the webs that they spun in this place. 

Joining my fellow band mates in the van, we all described our rooms in equally dismal terms, noting the various states of decay and putrefaction in as many colorful ways trying hard to laugh at the impossible situation that we found ourselves in...

Once we got the Hall however, our moods shifted when we saw the happy celebrants. A swinging and joyful time ensued (and much champagne for the band as well) and toward the end of the evening, around 2:00 am after the last blast of the New Year's horns, we had all but forgotten Hotel Horrible. Until after we had packed up and finally headed back.

As the van pulled up we saw that the hotel was completely dark. No light anywhere, not even the glow of the single lobby light bulb which must have been turned off in our absence. Skip sighed and said: "Anyone have a flash light?". Someone pulled a flashlight from his bag and we walked slowly through the brittle cold night, over the snow drifts in our formal wear and single file, very slowly all 19 of us up the rickety stairs and into the lobby which was clocked in total darkness. At least the front door had been open. 

Inside the lobby it was painfully obvious that there was still no heat on in the hotel. "Maybe there is individual heating in the rooms upstairs?", someone said hopefully. So, groaning and grumbling all 19 of us trudged up the long winding staircase by the light of the flashlight. 

"Look!" said someone. There was a light coming from the middle room down the hall.  It was coming from Cathy's room. None of the other rooms had anything like it so we all went down the hall to check it out. In Cathy's room was a single vintage space heater from circa 1956 or sometime close. On it was a tropical scene of a woman reclining in a beach chair under a palm tree.

By now it was about 4:00 am only a few hours til sunrise when we could leave. We hadn't left earlier because everyone who could drive was in no shape for the job, we were all beat. So, in groups of 4 or so we all huddled around the space heater as if we were stuck in the woods huddled around a camp fire. No one had taken off their clothes so we were still dressed up and in every piece of outerwear that we had with us. Some of us piled on the dingy bed trying to keep warm with body heat. It must have been a strange scene, 18 men and one woman trying to stay alive for 3 hours in sub freezing weather. The space heater's beach scene cheerfully mocking us.

Finally! It was dawn....I rushed to the window to greet the sun and the New Year. I was never so happy to see it rise. I turned to my left and my jaw dropped. I called to my friend (later fiance John Melisi )one of the tenor sax players and said: "Look! I can't believe it!" It was an old fashioned wrecking ball which had already destroyed half the hotel! We had spent the night in a condemned brothel. It was definitely a first.