Part 4: Fresh Meat

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A drive from Oregon to Florida, to experience music and living across the USA, and ultimately join a jazz cruise. AKA, a listening practice, unfolding in real time—written on the road, in the spaces between cities and notes.

Day Five (Evening)

The World Stage
Los Angeles, CA

That night, I head back out. Not entirely sure where I'm going—just following the thread—but somehow I land what feels like a perfect parking spot directly across the street from the World Stage. Or so I think.

Drum circles spill into the street—layered rhythms colliding, echoing off pavement and brick. Heat hangs low. The smell of pot is thick enough to register before thought. This doesn't feel passive. It feels participatory. As if simply standing there places a hand on my shoulder and says: "you're in it now." The air settles on my skin, in my lungs. I feel slightly altered-not impaired, but alert.

I sense it before I see it. The heat of someone staring at the back of my head. I turn. A man stands less than six inches from my face. The World Stage door is closed. I'm clearly lost.

"Are you a musician?" he asks. "Looking for the entrance? I can take you there."

Normally, the answer would be an unequivocal no. N.O. But I assess quickly: closed door, smoke, drum circles, crowded sidewalk. Standing still doesn't feel safer than moving. Occam's razor. The simplest solution—the lesser of two evils—is to let him walk me there. I accept his offer.

Inside the World Stage, the room resets everything.

Before I sing a note, the emcee introduces me as "fresh meat"—a grin in her voice, the room laughing with recognition. She knows I've only just gotten my voice back. She pauses. Then slides a condom-like cover over the microphone and says, "This is for your protection."

The room laughs again—but differently now. Not at me. With me. Care is named.

The sign-up sheet circulates. A tight trio settles in—no flash, no proving. Dynamic.

When it's time, I sing "Body and Soul." My voice is newly returned, so I stay low—inside the center of the sound. No reaching. No forcing. Just breath, phrasing, truth. The trio meets me there. The room listens.

When the tune ends, I remove the mic protection. It feels good.

Then the chant starts. "One more." "One more."

I hadn't planned on it. But I'm good. I reach up and return the mic cover. Not for protection this time. For respect. For the room filled with fellow singers supporting the music.

I call "All of Me"—not because it's easy, but because I wasn't satisfied with how I'd sung it at the Sheba. Because sometimes momentum means choosing the tune you want another chance at.

My voice feels better now. The band locks in. The drummer and I catch each other—Conversationally. We trade fours. Easy. Shared time. Shared trust. For a few bars, it's just sound passing back and forth. And it's fun.

I leave before the moment dilutes. Momentum doesn't mean blowing through every chorus. It means knowing when to swing, when to bridge, and when to come home.

Miles ahead.

To Be Continued / See Chapter List At Top