SassyBlonde

Sometimes all a girl needs is a little hot sax.

I've had a monster case of the blahs for the last couple of days, and it's amazing how much better I feel after a little groovin' on the tenor sax. (I'm sitting here at work tonight and surfing in between numbers: hooray for WiFi at the adjoining hotel.)

The tenor is the brooding leading man of the sax section-- all quiet harmonies and dulcet tones until it's time to throw down, and then he rocks your world. There's just something about the sound and vibrations of a good tenor sax lick that sort of cleanses the soul-- it can be raw and screaming and visceral and cathartic or sultry and sweet and ensnare your heart with sound. And playing it is sort of an all or nothing proposition-- there's no nancying around the horn: either you really blow it or it just doesn't work. It's like a good run: after a little while the endorphins kick in and you can't imagine stopping.

Mr. Sassy came back from his jazz workshop today, where he spent the week polishing his improv skills, and he was so excited he was bouncing around the room, full of stories. (On the flight back home he sat next to one of the original members of Three Dog Night, and got autograph goodness as well as an hour of great conversation.) I'm so proud of him for going to that workshop, because that's one of the things about sax playing, or playing anything I guess, that quite simply terrifies me down to my shoes. Improv solos are supposed to be fun when you get the hang of it, but something in my mind just gets all tangled up in the details and I get too caught up in sounding like a complete moron, thus the terror. Hopefully D will have some good ideas on how to help me out now that he's gotten schooled this past week, because learning how to overcome that terror is definitely right at the top of my to-do list.

Because I loves me some good sax.