Music Notes: Tales from an American Singer

By J.J. Maze and Ryan Prakoso

Music Notes: Tales from an American Singer serves up an entertaining glimpse into the alternative perspective of people who sacrifice the American dream to answer the call of art. From fun to fantasy, romance to ruin, and road life to stage-life, you'll get an insider-look into the daily routine

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nonipeek Press
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088017425

J.J. Maze

Jade J. Maze was born in Minnesota, raised in California, and currently lives in the Chicagoland area. She ran away from home at the age of 15, becoming a high school dropout. After spending many years as an internationally touring singer (jazz and pop), J.J. doubled back to get her GED and went on to graduate with honors in her college career, earning an MM in classical vocal performance from Northwestern University. She splits her time between teaching, performing, and writing (songs and prose). Her award winning memoir, Walk Until Sunrise, is a vivid recollection of her runaway experience.

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Copyright © 2022 by J.J. Maze

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

FIRST EDITION

Published and printed in the United States of America by Nonipeek Press.

Cover art and book design by Jose Pepito Jr.

Illustrations by Ryan Prakoso

ISBN: 978-1-0880-1769-2 (Hardcover)

ISBN: 978-1-0880-1736-4 (Trade Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-0880-1742-5 (E-book)

Author Information:

jademaze.com

instagram.com/jade.window

facebook.com/@jjmazewrites

Credits:

Two for Nothing first published in Workers Write! Tales from the Key of C in April 2022.

This book is dedicated to people who live

passionately with a song in their heart.

Contents

Two for Nothing

The Blood in My Veins

Creatures

Don’t Just Stand There

Do You, Can You, Will You

Royalty After All

The Voice Lesson

Introduction

The great singers are fascinating, masterful storytellers. You can feel their life experiences in every breath, pause, distorted pronunciation, and drawn-out tone. I’ve often wondered what encounters, realizations, and emotions have stamped the uniqueness into each individual vocal artist. Why do some people growl, or croon, or whisper? As a child I was obsessed with the biographies of Judy Garland, Billie Holiday, Edith Piaf, Tina Turner, Elvis Presley, and Michael Jackson. The stories that made up their lives were bountiful and colorful, and they were recounted as mostly sad. I firmly believe that sad stories, when shared by the people who actually lived them, are emotionally multifaceted and express much more than singular sadness in real time.

The purpose of this collection of stories is to entertain the reader with an insider look into the lives of songbirds. It consists of five stories and two novelettes that either were born from a kernel of truth and expanded into fiction, or they are fiction, spiked with a dose of truth. A singer inhabits every tale in one form or another sharing their reactions as they negotiate life’s daily trials. The beautiful continuous line drawings by Indonesian illustrator and graphic designer Ryan Prakoso give this project just the right amount of old-world elegance and charm needed. Two of the stories (The Blood in My Veins and Don’t Just Stand There) were written as part of a hackathon where the first line or paragraph was given as a writing trigger. The rest of the tales came from moments of silence.

Two for Nothing

Isat in my car parked at the curb in front of the Velvet Lounge jazz club. Should I go in? I wanted to see him but knew she would be there. He told me it was okay—that he was with me and would show her that. But this was new. I didn’t know him well enough. And my life experience had taught me never to trust a man.

Neither one of us had the right to claim him. Nor had we the right to feel betrayed. He had not lied. All he was guilty of was exuding tons of energy—sexual, passionate, playful energy. All I could claim with any authority was my love of music. And that’s where everything began.

Two months ago, I was seeking a new drummer and put an ad in the Chicago Reader as well as on bulletin boards in Guitar Center and other local music stores. It was cold out, and the holidays were just around the corner. That meant steady gigs. I could promise the new drummer a fair amount of work. The phone rang.

Hello?

Yah. You need a drummer? I’ve played with the best ... His tone was dripping with indignation and contempt. I’d heard it enough times before from underappreciated players to know he would be difficult to work with.

Are you playing somewhere I can come check you out? He rattled off the name of a club.

Cool. I’ll stop through. I wasn’t going to show up. A few more calls came in. Same vibe. Then:

Hello! May I please speak to Ms. Stone?

Speaking.

I understand you are looking for a drummer.

Yes.

That’s what I do. I was intrigued. The voice conveyed unapologetic confidence infused with mischievous glee. His braggadocio didn’t come in the form of a list of impressive famous people or venues. You could just hear that the guy could play in the click of his consonants and the fullness of his tone. No one could talk like that and drop time.

And there was an air of hilarity in every word spoken. He was looking for the humor and entertainment in everything. He would be searching for that in the music as well. The shows would be fun. It was worth a shot.

We have a show this Saturday at a small place called the Gateway. Just a set worth of music. Then we open it up to jammers. If things go well, we can take it from there. Are you available?

Absolutely! Thank you for this opportunity.

I can drop off a recording of the music for you somewhere.

I’m happy to come pick it up. The sooner I listen to it, the better I’ll play it on Saturday.

I lived in an old, beautifully restored first-floor apartment at the northernmost point of Chicago just before the road curved with the lake and turned into Evanston. My roommate was never there. Kat was practically living with Javiero, her much-older Portuguese boyfriend, in a condo stocked with world-class wine and cigars. That would’ve suited me fine except for the fact that my neighborhood was infested with gangs fighting over territory and drugs.

At first, I was scared. I was a singer and came home every night at three and four in the morning. As luck would have it, the bad guys thought it was cool having a professional singer on the block. So, I got a pass. They even gave me a street name—Lalala.

Once I had relaxed into that safety net, I enjoyed having the place to myself. The high ceilings and empty rooms seemed to match my own height, and they invited me to fill the void with all forms of expression.

I set up the place to my liking and fell, completely and utterly, into the obsession that is music. My solitary life was all about writing songs, notating arrangements, planning recording sessions, and booking shows. I was gravely diligent, only allowing myself to connect with other human beings on stage. It was there that I sought ultimate intimacy, trying to go to the deepest level possible.

I gave the audience what they wanted, which was anger and pain. For us band members, it was a musical orgy; the stage was full of sex and truth. There was no mercy. Whoever was doing it to the song best—not deepest, longest, fastest or most technically perfect, but best—got all my encouragement and love.

I heard a knock on my front door just as night fell. My eye, pressed to the peephole, saw the brim of a black cowboy hat and lips. I opened the door.

He tipped his hat. I anticipated the Howdy, ma’am in my head. Instead, he smiled and said, Hi, enjoying the entire diphthong of the word. I laughed heartily.

Come on in. His name was Augustus, Augie for short, and he was a strange and goofy duck— simultaneously awkward and alluring.

I like your place.

Thanks. The apartment’s great, but the neighborhood is shot. We moved into the dining room, our footsteps echoing on the shiny wooden floor. I gave him a glass of water.

The only thing country about him was the hat. Otherwise, he was oozing Latin flavor with a bit of urban swagger. His skin was dark, highlighting the gold chain around his neck. His speech pattern had a nerdy quality to it; his southern drawl, almost imperceptible. The puzzle was pleasingly peculiar.

So, the show’s a 50-minute set mixing a combination of original music, some soul classics, and a few jazz standards. Does that sound workable?

Yah. I love it all. What’s the feel on your original stuff?

I put my CD in the boombox. We’ll be doing these three songs this Saturday.

First, I played him a Latin-funk tune with drum breaks in the middle. He was percussing it perfectly on his knees in a matter of seconds.

These next two are kind of sexy grooves.

I was still at the stage in my musical career where I was consumed with my own process. I didn’t understand there might be shock value to my lyrics. It didn’t even dawn on me. He tapped through the tunes with eyebrows raised high.

Those two are the ones with the unusual stops and arranged endings. The other originals are loose vamps. Think you can handle it?

He sat there leaning forward in the dining-room chair, his elbows on his knees with both hands clasped beneath his chin. Then he broke his pose so quickly it made me jump. With a finger raised in the air, he said, Those last two songs are questionable—very, very questionable. Yah. I can handle it.

Okay. Well...good.

There was an awkward pause. He was staring at me in a quizzical manner.

That’s it. Take that CD with you. Here’s the set list. You have to bring your own drums.

No problem.

Okay. He still stared insistently. Thanks for dropping through. It shows real incentive.

Can I use your restroom before I go? I pointed it out to him and walked into the living room. I was excited. He was young, tall, lanky, charismatic, and I couldn’t wait to hear him play. The audience would love him. So would the rest of the band. I heard the bathroom door open and walked over to show him out.

He had taken off his cowboy hat and his pants. I had a six-foot-five-inch young man standing in my hallway wearing nothing but a gold chain, a burgundy velour shirt, and white briefs. It was the last thing I expected to see.

Giggling and stammering I said, "Uh...wh-what are you doing? He looked down at his bulging briefs then looked back up with a big, sappy smile planted on his face. It’s lust," he said matter-of-factly as he walked toward me with outstretched arms.

Well, I said bursting with laughter, "put your lust away. This is business!" I was practically crying. I tried to look serious.

He went back