I saw Alice Groves perform exactly once. She was the feature at the open mike at the Center for the Arts in Natick, in the old storefront before they moved to the firehouse. She must have been 75 or 80 at the time. And I thought, arrogant little snot that I was, “Aw, that’s cute, Buffie’s mom is the feature tonight.”
Alice Groves, jazz chanteuse, guardian of the American songbook, is – well, was – one of the most effortless performers I’ve ever seen in my life. This is what they preach: make it look effortless. Once in a while, one of my faithful fans will walk up to me and tell me that I looked effortless, and I’ll tell you, I glow – it’s right up there with when you tell me that I look like I’m having so much fun onstage (which I am). But effortless, man, that’s the pinnacle. When you don’t even look like you’re working – when you don’t even look, or sound, like you’re trying – when nobody notices, until after you’re done, that they didn’t see the seams – well, that’s performance heaven.
I didn’t know Alice, but I know her daughter Buffie, who many of you know as half of Fishken and Groves, folk duo extraordinaire and, more significantly, my performance coaches for a few very critical months several years ago. I write this newsletter because they suggested it, and I assembled the final crucial keys of my act under their stern, entertaining, and not particularly polite, guidance. Both of them know exactly what they’re doing onstage, and after I saw Alice, I knew where Buffie got it from.
Alice passed away in February, and my wife, She Who Must Be Taunted, and I attended her memorial service this past weekend. It was at her church in Bedford, and a good chunk of the congregation was there, reminiscing about Alice and her struggles and the musical treasures she bestowed on her friends, neighbors and fellow congregants. Alice didn’t have an easy life, and although she was a child prodigy, she walked away from music for a good chunk of her adult life. But it permeated her household, and she came back to it, and she was something else.
And here I am, getting older. My friend Mitch and I were joking around a couple weeks ago – his wife was heading out of town, and he said, “Rager. My house. Wednesday. Be there.” The joke being, of course, that neither of us can stay up past 11 PM anymore. I thought that evening that I should write a song called “I Wanna Be Sedate” (nobody take it, it’s mine). And I’ve frequently reflected on the sense in which my performance style doesn’t exactly age well.
I don’t know what to do about that. I’ll probably end up like Mick Jagger, prancing around the stage with a walker, or something. I look at old age and wonder how I’m going to stay relevant – how I’m going to deal with the world having moved on from me, and how I’m going to contribute. I don’t want to be one of those folks watching “The Price Is Right” and heading out for the early bird special and reminding my nonexistent grandchildren of the time I met Alf Landon.
I want to be Alice, pretty much. Cross your fingers.