What's In a Name?

Would you like a song with your corned beef?


Centria (Kathy) asked where the name drechanteuse came from, and at first I thought, gee, there's no story there. Then I thought again. There's a story everywhere, especially for a writing fool like me. So, here goes:

I love music. How can I say that so it reflects the passion - looooooove maybe. I don't care what kind or where from. Sure, I have favorites. And after the recent rave that rocked the USC area like a techno-quake all night long while I had 104 temp, I must admit the sound of techno ranks right up there with the sound of nails on a chalkboard for me.

When I was in college, we used to get out of our theatre history class and head over to a little hole-in-the-wall called Jams for breakfast, One day, we got to talking about what we would be if there were no obstacles in our way, our true heart's desire careers. I knew right way. I said I would be a singer, a club singer, a chanteuse. I would love to sing for people - a packed house- even if I had to pay them to come, because I adore singing.

I was taking a class called, "Broadway," in college, and my instructor made a few choice comments such as, "People who make it as singers have usually started training as young children." Also, "You're not thin enough or fat enough to be successful. You have to pick one, and either lose or gain weight if you want to make it." I have a knack for running into people who like to inform me just how incapable, unacceptable and unqualified I am. I kind of liked this woman, though. Maybe she thought she was really giving me sound and honest advice. A pretty voice just wasn't enough.

Of course, I am me, and telling me I can't is like placing me at the starting line for the race of my life. So I came to California, got a job in the music industry, and to make ends meet, also kept my extremely well-paying job in the grocery industry, and because of keeping that job in Pacific Palisades (the new, improved Beverly Hills) I happened to get hungry for dinner one night and went to the local deli where I heard a band and singing coming from the next room.

Well, I asked the waiter, who also was a singer, what the heck was going on over there. He told me, "It's Didi. They have open mike." Well it wound up that Didi was Didi Carr Reuben, graduate of the famed School for the Performing Arts in N.Y.C., you know, the one from the show, Fame. She was married to the Rabbi Steven Carr Reuben, who she introduced as the "only rabbi in captivity who practices the rhythm method," (he played drums in her band.) It wound up being a gathering of professional and semi-professional singers who sang turn-of-the-century to fifties American Songbook numbers. The piano player was Gil Leib who had played with Maureen McGovern and Mel Torme pretty regularly. The conga player was a high-end entertainment lawyer, and the local (and very handsome) chiropractor would often sit in to play flute or clarinet or any number of instruments.

So, I left my salmon dinner behind, blundered into the adjoining room, asked if I could sing "If I Loved You," and low and behold, my dream was suddenly coming true. I was singing to a packed house of 50+ mostly Jewish people (I hadn't ever specified in my dream.) When I was done, they applauded, and though my shakes were shaking, I got up to sing another song on the second round.

There was a guy I had a crush on named Bob. Well, one night I looked across the room, and there was Bob, sitting way in the back. The microphone seemed to grow three feet, and my own feet felt stuck in quickstand as I approached the stage. I felt like saying, "The queen of England could be here and I would be less terrified than right now, with Bob in the room." I stepped up to the looming mike, I brought it down to size, I planted my feet, Gil played the first note, and I sang my heart out. After singing in front of Bob, I then knew I could sing in front of anybody.

Well, the Jam Night at the Oak Room became so popular that Didi decided to let me host a second night per month. I found another pianist and although we didn't have full band, the singers were showing up, I was emceeing, and my truest dream of what I wanted to be when I grew up was coming ever truer.

After a while, Didi got tired of hosting Jam night, Gil got mad because the restaurant owner wouldn't fix the piano, and eventually Mayor Riordan bought and closed the restaurant so the venue, the Oak Room, became kind of a shishi wine and cheese bar. Didi began sponsoring face lift field trips to Costa Rica, and Rabbi Steve became known as the Rabbi who was wearing leather pants less often nowadays. Nothing fun and wonderful lasts forever, but now, I sing around Los Angeles when I have the time to take a gig. And still, I don't care if it's like Sarah Vaughan or Ella Fitzgerald or Michelle Pfeiffer laying across the piano in "The Fabulous Baker Boys," I just love to sing. There's something about singing that zings energy all over the room, and makes everyone leave feeling much better than when they came. That feeling tends to last for a few days. What could be wrong with that?

And of course, the "dre" just comes from An-dre-a. That was easy.