Especially when they have a baby in the middle of the night.

I just got a text from my best friend J, who gave birth to a baby girl, Evelyn, at 1am.

Huge, huge love to you both, guys. I can’t wait to meet her.

 xx

Life is, indeed, a rollercoaster.

Such a strange night.

I’ve felt like my singing has been pretty ropey over the past few nights; and at the end of the second set tonight, virtually burst into tears as soon as I came off stage.

(Being a professional, I did of course burst into tears out of sight, backstage.)

It was a combination of things: feeling like I was singing poorly, and that I’m just not fulfilling people’s expectations of me here - feeling like an amateur, I guess, not some pro from London who knows what she’s doing; feeling like I was ‘fire-fighting’ again on stage, not feeling confident about how we were sounding, and downhearted as a result; people not clapping and therefore feeling like I’m just rubbish, and failing in some way (see first ‘thing’); and, well, probably just an outpouring of stress of feeling all the above, on and off, for a few days now. Being surrounded by new people, being in a hotel, performing every night… It’s like I’m constantly ‘on show’, and, well, I just couldn’t hold it in any more. Feeling the tears coming, I grabbed L (the drummer) as soon as the set finished, and in the back room, sobbed a bit as I told him how I was feeling.

He was lovely, and reassured me that I sounded fine; that he and the band were all happy working with me; and that people here, well, “they don’t ‘get’ jazz. It’s difficult”. (Which goes back to this whole requests-for-pop-songs thing).

While I was in the midst of this outpouring to L, one of the bar staff told us that there was a Chinese gentleman who wanted to talk to me. L and I finished up; I wiped my eyes and hoped that they weren’t too smeared, and went out to meet the man in question.

He only turned out to be some bigwig from Marriott. He told me that he really liked what I did, and wanted to know if I’d be interested in playing the Marriott Hotel (or hotels, maybe there are several, I don’t know) in China sometime. He gave me his card, and said to give him a few months’ notice about when I wanted to do it.

Ten minutes’ earlier I’d been feeling like an utter failure; now I was being asked to come to China.

(Unfortunately - or possibly fortunately - the whole ‘human rights issue thing’ only hit me a few minutes later).

So, buoyed up by this unexpected meeting, and wondering just how bad those human rights abuses really are, I went back on stage for the final set: and my voice suddenly sounded ten times better. It sounded like it should; like it does when I’m on form.

It made me realise completely that I’m just not warming up enough before gigs; and that I should get to the bar much, much earlier of an evening to simply sit at the piano, or even just stand at the mic, and sing. I’ve never taken the idea of warming up very seriously in the past. But then, I’ve not had 18 sets a week to perform, on a stage, to a listening audience in the past, either. Lesson learned.

The evening took another twist at the very end of the night, too. Two 40/50-something women in the audience asked me to join them for a drink. One of them (A1 - all chat-chat-chat and hearty laugh) had asked for ‘Cry Me A River’ earlier in the evening, and I recognised her from a previous night, too. Anyway, she and her friend, A2, were just fab, and insisted that we all go out sometime. They gave me their numbers and suggested they take me and my friend V (who’s arriving on Saturday for a week-long visit), to Penang’s main beach resort, Batu Ferrenghi, next week. “Make sure you call me!” was A1’s parting shot.

And that, leedezengennelmen, was my night. Phew.

The other night, I filled a big grey plastic bag with clothes to be washed - and not only were they were delivered back to me the next morning, but when I opened the bag, my washing looked like this:

After being a) amazed, b) amused and c) delighted by my packaged underwear - they never even looked this good when I first bought them - I then realised that all my other washing was missing.

Until I looked at the wardrobe:

Every single item neatly ironed and hung on its own hanger, even my ‘I’m Blogging This’ T-shirt, which, fabulous as it is, really doesn’t warrant such executive treatment.

How on earth will I be able to return to normal life?

So, I’m channel-surfing in my room, and guess what appears?

That photograph doesn’t do justice to the fact that I got to Channel 9, and there was my mug, in all its Technicolor glory. Just before the still about the cigar shop on the ground floor, I think.

Advantages of performing in a foreign country, No.2: No one you know is there when you sing ‘Have I Told You Lately That I Love You’ and ‘Vincent’.

Mind you, I think I did a surprisingly good job of them.

Yes, I thought it was about time for a music update. I would have written and posted this yesterday, but the hotel’s internet connection was down. Yes, even in the Executive Lounge! Imagine!

I ended up singing ‘Vincent’ and ‘Have I Told You…’ at the start of the evening the night before last, when the audience consisted of two young women who kept handing the waiter song dedication cards asking for things like ‘The Power Of Love’, various other Celine Dion numbers, and yes, the Don McLean and Van Morrison songs above. Having noticed that ‘Vincent’ is supremely popular over here, I should have known that it was coming. So we made a fist of it… Although it didn’t last long, as I didn’t know all the words. Looking later for the lyrics online, it turns out there are an awful lot of words to ‘Vincent’, so that’s no great embarrassment.

And as for ‘Have I Told You Lately’… Well, I could remember the words to that, having heard it enough times (I’m a big Van Morrison fan). But I would never choose to sing that song because it’s about loving God, and I’m not A Believer, as The Monkees almost said. You’ve got to hand it to Van: he found God and Jesus, and consequently went on to write a smash hit song about his love for both of them, cunningly disguised as a regular love song. And most people have never noticed. Which was, presumably, the idea.

So, yes, as you can tell, I am feeling more open to doing requests for pop songs - although in future I will only attempt them if they’re remotely jazzy and/or we can do them in a jazzy way (’Vincent’ with a gentle latin feel, anyone?). I’m not going to add any of these sorts of songs to my set lists, but I will keep copies of the words on my music stand just in case anyone asks for them. A few punters, and D the pianist, have told me how popular I’ll be if I know certain songs; but it’s a fine line, as I said the other day, between keeping the crowd happy and becoming their Performing Pop Music Monkey.

Music-wise, I’m wanting the band to get tighter and slicker; we’re still faltering in certain places and over certain tunes, and as a result I feel like I’m doing too much ‘fire-fighting’, instead of just being able to relax on the gig and be confident that everything’s going to be OK. Because it’s only when you can do the latter that you can really shine, and try out new stuff musicially, and can communicate a song properly. If you’re worried about anything, anything at all, it makes all those things almost impossible.

So as a result, I’ve told the guys that I don’t want us to learn any new songs at our rehearsal this coming Saturday, but to use the time instead to fine-tune the 50 or so songs we’re already doing. On the one hand I don’t want us to get bored, and would love to add new songs - but there’s no point in adding more if we’re just going to continue to perform them in an OK, but not great, manner. You have to perfect the ones you’ve got so far before tackling more.

And as for the audiences on the past few nights… Well, Saturday’s was request-tastic; and on Monday and last night, the audience contained a living legend on the island of Penang: a glamorous, elderly jazz singer, N, who sang at the E&O Hotel every night for 28 years. Yes, every night. For 28 years. Celine Dion, eat your heart out! (But then, if you do, I suppose it will still go on, won’t it?)

N used to perform with her pianist husband, who passed away several months ago; and she was in the bar watching us with a lovely Dutch woman, C, who also used to be married to a famous jazz pianist, David Ng. My bass player friend CC told me that David Ng was phenomenal - “the Malaysian Bill Evans” - and he used to play all around the world, even working with the likes of Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra. David died four years ago, and C was back in Penang - where she’s returned every year - for a memorial service for him, and to scatter his ashes here. On Monday night, after the service, she and N filled in a dedication card requesting ‘Unforgettable’, in memory of their late husbands. “Because they are,” said C. It was an honour to sing it for them.

Whenever I hear the word ‘executive’ used as an adjective, I can’t help but think of two characters created by the brilliant Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie.

“Busy senior executives” Gordon and Stuart made their first appearance in this sketch, from the pilot episode of A Bit Of Fry And Laurie. They dine in the executive breakfast lounge and use executive trouser presses and order executive room service because they’re executive businessmen. Or as Stu/Hugh puts it in a later sketch, ‘Gordon And Stuart Eat Greek’: “What am I, a peasant or a busy executive?”.

And the reason I mention it? Well, I’m typing this on an executive computer while sipping on a bottle of executive water in the environs of the hotel’s ’Executive Lounge’. M, the hotel manager - who is an absolute sweetheart and can’t do enough for me - learned of my Macbook plight and said I could use this place on the 15th floor because the atmosphere is much nicer and, well, more executive than the ‘business centre’ on the ground floor, which is clearly meant for peasants.

It has an executive view:

And executive furniture:

And pipes executive music through the executive sound system (mainly ‘I Believe I Can Fly’ on saxophone). There’s also executive tea and coffee (various sorts), executive cookies (at least two jars), executive papers (the Wall Street Journal and the International Herald Tribune) and executive fruit (mangoes). It’s all very fabulous. And executive. Thank you, M.

But now I must away to the pool, to sunbathe and swim and write an executive setlist for tonight. Ta-ta!

…it’s 1.26am and I need to go to bed… but I’m finding it hard to leave the ‘business centre’. Because, I realise, I’ve become addicted to using my Macbook last thing at night. In my jimjams. Emailing/blogging/whaddever, then turning it off, and getting into bed.

But right now I can’t do that. I’ve got to leave the ‘business centre’, walk to the lift, get in the lift, go up five floors, get out of the lift, walk along a corridor, put my key in the door… oh, you get the idea.

Must. Log. Off.

Very hard. To leave. Computer.

Maybe a “one last thought of the day” post will do it.

One last thought of the day: The Grammys.

I’m delighted for Amy Wino. I know she can over-egg the musical pudding, but she’s hugely talented, and it’s nice to see that talent rewarded.

Sadly, Kurt Elling didn’t win in the Jazz Vocal category. Sadly, Freddy Cole didn’t win, either. Now Freddy: if only you’d recorded a follow-up to Waiter, Ask The Man To Play The Blues: Freddie Cole Sings And Plays Some Lonely Ballads - perhaps Waiter, Ask The Man To Play Agadoo: Freddy Cole Sings And Plays Your Party Favourites While Mysteriously Changing The Spelling Of His Name - then you could have been in with a chance.

But the final factoid of the night: you know who did win a Grammy?

That’s riiiight!

Your favourite and mine - or possibly just yours - Mickey Bubble. His album Call Me Irresponsible scooped the prize for, believe it or not, ‘Best Traditional Pop Vocal Album’. I had no idea such a category existed, but if it puts Michael’s (I think I can call him “Michael”) win into any sort of context, in the same category he was up against:

Cool Yule - Bette Midler

Trav’lin’ Light - Queen Latifah

Live In Concert 2006 - Barbra Streisand

James Taylor At Christmas - James Taylor

No, that doesn’t make it any clearer, does it? Still, it could have been worse. He could have won the Jazz Vocal category. Nice to know the Grammy judges are on my side.

I didn’t stay in last night and watch Night At The Museum. Instead, I went out to explore and to get something to eat. Foraging, if you will.

Remember that scene in Lost In Translation where Scarlett Johansson goes out walking through the streets of Tokyo alone, just sort of quietly drifting through this alien environment? This should jog your memory, although I don’t remember her turning to camera and smiling at any point:

Anyway, that’s the LiT moment I had last night.

Just 100 yards from the hotel, there’s a tarmaced area which houses a whole load of food stalls - or ‘food hawkers’, as they’re known. I’d been down to see this place a couple of times before: the first time, at around 5pm I think, when it was pretty quiet; and then again one lunchtime, when it was very quiet. Because they were all closed.

So, realising that the best time to go to this place was probably the evening, I went down there last night. And this was the scene that greeted me:

It was unbelivable. Absolutely rammed with hundreds and hundreds of people, all eating out (or eyeing me suspiciously. I can see you, woman in red!). It was part funfair, part beer garden minus the beer and plus lots of food. Clearly this is what Malaysians - or at least Penangites - do for dinner: they go out to eat with friends, family or presumably work colleagues at one of these street food places, gathering together round rickety old tables on little plastic chairs (the people, not the tables).

The choice of food was similarly incredible - although I really need to revisit this place with someone who can actually tell me what most of the dishes consist of. Because, as the sign below proves, a translation into the roman alphabet doesn’t help much if you still don’t know what ‘Koay Teow Th’ng’ means in the first place:

That said, some stalls were more obvious:

Thoroughly confused by what I could and couldn’t eat, I ended up by opting for what looked like stir-fried noodles with prawn, being made fresh in a giant wok by a man who looked about 80. Or was that a giant man with a wok which looked about 80? Either way, it tasted amazing and looked like this (foreground only. I’m not a pig):

Looking for a soft drink to wash it down with, I was intrigued by this sign:

And the further explanation in this sign:

Yes, salt plus fat may equal flavour, but sugar plus lime equals… no, not Sprite, but ‘Sugar Cane Special’! Which is made by following the method below.

Step 1: Cut a hole in the box. Chop your sugar cane:

Step 2: Put it in your slicer-masher-blender-thingummy:

Step 3: Pull out the mashed-up sugar cane from the machine:

Step 4: Repeat steps 1 and 2 until enough of this mixture is produced:

Step 5: Sieve this mixture and add freshly squeezed limes and ice (step unfortunately out of shot).

Step 6a: Drink whilst wandering around, Scarlett Johansson-like, through the crowds. (Optional Step 6b: Photograph own hand):

There are more pictures from my night out eating prawns and drinking pure sugar here on Flickr. I walked the entire length of Gurney Drive and beyond into Georgetown, where I ended up watching a fantastically cheesy covers band for a short while (I think I left after ‘Smooth Operator’) before taking a taxi back - through the window of which I took this shot…

…which is, of course, my favourite of the whole night.

(Or should that be ‘My life as a film: The sequel’?)

Just heard back from the Apple place, and my Macbook is, indeed, dead. Or to use the technical term the assistant used: “Completely fried”.

It turns out that Penang is currently bereft of 13″ white Macbooks - how do these people cope? - and the earliest I may get one is Friday.

Until then, I’ll have to make do with blogging and emailing down here in the ‘business centre’ and it’s exTREEEEME! air-conditioned environment.  Brrrrr.

Well, officially it’s not dead yet. But it is in intensive care, and I’m not holding out much hope. *Sniff*.

I spilt a bottle of water on it last night. Or perhaps I spilled it. I’m not sure. All I know is that the end result, after trying to dry it off, is that it powered down in my arms.

(And yes, I know how stupid I am. Trust me: I’ve learned my lesson this time.)

I dropped it off at Penang’s main Apple reseller/service provider earlier today - and now I’m waiting for their diagnosis.

<Cut to Andrea pacing up and down a hotel corridor, nervously dragging on a cigarette>

<Cut to Andrea realising she doesn’t smoke, and stubbing out said cigarette>

This does, as our American cousins would say, suck. Partly because I can no longer blog/email from the comfort of my own room/dinner table/swimming pool (I’m speaking to you from the little ‘business centre’ at the hotel, which is actually just two PCs and a printer - but hey, at least they’re always free); and partly because my Macbook was also my telephone.

But it mainly sucks, of course, because I fear it will cost me a fortune to have it repaired, or worse still, buy a new one. That said, I’ve just checked my insurance with the Musicians Union and it does cover accidental damage to equipment (my Macbook is counted as a tool of my trade… I hope)  - which is fortunate, because Apple Care doesn’t. And while we’re looking on the bright side: being a canny girl, I do have all my files, accounts, etc backed up onto a spare hard drive - and having my iPod Video and speaker dock means that I’m not, fortunately, sans music.

Fingers crossed it can be repaired; and/or that my insurance covers it; and/or that I don’t have to fork out for a brand new one. That’s a lot of fingers, admittedly. But here’s hoping.

In the meantime, I’ll keep blogging, either from here or an internet cafe. But apologies in the meantime if I don’t respond to emails as swiftly as usual; or if you don’t get Skyped, either. Believe me, I’m far more upset about this than you are ;-).