This line from Madonna’s ‘Jump’ seems so appropriate… and rather strangely, it came on my iTunes Shuffle as I was packing yesterday. I say ‘rather strangely’ because it was exactly the tune I was listening to as I packed to come over here - and because, clearly, it resonated both times:

<Andrea grudgingly gives Madge more credit than she really wants to>

A crescent moon has just appeared above the KL skyline, and it’s just too beautiful.

I’m planning for this to be my last post on Lost In Transposition. Thank you for reading this blog. It’s been an amazing thing, to keep it up (although I think some people who have spammed me could have helped with that issue); and I’ve been so touched by the fact that people are reading it, and by your comments, and even by your lurking. Thank you, lurkers. And thank you B, for the inspiration to do something every day.

I hope you’ll forgive me if I round the whole thing off by talking about what this whole crazy Malaysian shebang has meant to me.

<The world forgives Andrea>

So…

Musically: I have learned for the first time how to truly articulate what I do. How to articulate about jazz. How to teach jazz. How to teach. How to teach men. How to teach men who are older than me. I was only half-kidding when I compared myself to the hero of Footloose: if you thought jazz was a niche market in the West, you should try it out here. Maybe there really are six degrees of Kevin Bacon after all. And I am degree one.

It’s been great to be appreciated by a venue. For the management to love what you’re doing, and to support you to the hilt. It’s so uncommon, and to have the rein and the support to do what you feel is right to do, has felt… well, wonderful. And I will desperately miss the opportunity to make music six nights a week. Because of this, I am, without a shadow of a doubt, a better singer now than when I came. My chops are better, my confidence sky-high. And I realise why yesterday’s experience at the street market, and the previous night’s on the bandstand - especially when we just jammed - meant so much to me. It’s because, feeling that way, I felt like anyone for whom music is a full-time occupation. Like all the people who I’ve seen performing who studied music and so take it for granted that it’s OK to make music like this, who stand up there with fellow musicians like it’s the most natural thing in the world. For the first time truly in my life, I feel that way about making music. And that feels incredibly liberating. It feels amazing. Thank you, thank you, T, for giving me the opportunity to feel this. It’s been a privilege. And a blast .

Culturally, I have come to a place where many values differ from mine. Where it’s taken as read that someone is religious unless you find out otherwise; where the ruling party controls the media; where dissent and protest and real analysis is lurking, and as the recent election proved, becoming ever-more powerful, but is not acknowledged nor encouraged as some sort of right. It has at once opened my eyes and made me realise how sheltered my experience has been up to now; yet also made me appreciate how lucky I am - we are - in so much of what we take for granted in the West.

I have come from a developed nation to a developing nation, and seen some of the differences which that entails. T and I talked just yesterday, for example, about how he just doesn’t have time to think about ‘big things’. He literally spends all his time thinking about his own situation, his own survival - and told me that that is very common here. People are literally trying to survive. Compare and contrast with the West - where the Roman Empire, for example, gave us infrastructure; and was later followed the Renaissance and the Enlightenment, so that Europe went on to produce Michaelangelo and Leonardo Da Vinci and Voltaire and Mozart and Beethoven and so on and so on… While South-East Asia was simply trying to survive, let alone go to concerts and eat grapes. It’s really no wonder that even major capitals like Kuala Lumpur and Singapore are relative cultural deserts (and by that I mean lacking in music and arts venues, museums, galleries and such) - or why as a result, why I couldn’t live here permanently. Unlike most ex-pats, it seems, I couldn’t just choose somewhere because of the weather and the shopping.

And a brief note about music and culture: I’ve realised that the high import taxes on CDs here utterly affects the musical tastes of the nation. Malaysians buy their albums in pirated form, where stall-holders on the street sell the latest CDs for 4 Ringgit (60p); whereas in record stores like Tower Records they cost the same as in the West (ie £8). The result? Everyone listens to the pirated music. Which means that they listen to the music people think it’s worth pirating. The big sellers: Kelly Clarkson. Britney. The Eagles. Michael Sodding Buble. No-one’s going to pirate a copy of Coltrane’s Giant Steps. So nobody in Malaysia is going to get to hear it unless they have money. Result? It’s difficult to get jazz gigs and clubs going. The audience just isn’t there. Because the audience isn’t listening to the music to the first place.

And finally, on the music and culture tip : this experience and this blog has led me to write for the first time about jazz, about the music I make, and as a result write for www.jazz.com. It’s led a heavyweight jazz critic and writer to praise my writing to the skies, and thats’wonderful. As some dead guy once said.

And finally, finally… The personal stuff.

Well. Erm….

I’m glad I came here alone. I think it’s led to all kinds of meetings and experiences that might not have happened otherwise. I’ve said ‘yes’ to just about everything and met all kinds of people I would never meet in London. And I will miss them terribly.

As I’ve explained recently to several people here: my life here isn’t just my life back home but with nice weather. It’s utterly, utterly different. I don’t meet CEOs. I don’t walk downstairs to a swimming pool. I don’t leave my towels on the bathroom floor, only to find them replaced by new ones on my towel rail (not unless some miraculous deal has been struck between my letting agent and my landlady).

I have, I think, managed the depression I’ve been going through. I have come here. I have jumped. I have made friends, made music, met wonderful people, had the utter privilege of doing something I love, night after night. I have realised how much I love my friends and family (and the musicians I work with!). And I have been myself throughout. And in the words of the song: That’s all.

My last night in Malaysia, and what did I do? Listened to some great live jazz, hung out with friends, drank a few glasses of white wine and had a night-time driving tour of Kuala Lumpur.

As you do. When it’s your last night in Malaysia.

I went a little snap-happy - even by my standards - tonight. Anyone who knows me, or knows the sort of pictures I like to take, will know that a fancy schmancy hotel lobby by night, and a city by night, are like a red rag to my photographic bull. A few examples:

As on my last gig, I wore my new Posh Frock (pearl bracelets a present from A’s recent trip to Hanoi):

It was great to meet K, and to hear her and her trio. They play in the high-ceilinged, rather vast, lobby lounge of the Hilton - so quite a different set up from mine, and much more like playing, say, The Dorchester every night. They also have a baby grand piano, of which I was envious, and a Saturday Night Fever-style floor, of which I was even more envious:

So there we sat, A and R (they should get together and work in A&R) and I, talking and listening to K and the band. I was particularly impressed by her ability to swing ‘Hello’ by Lionel Richie (go on, try it at home) and ‘Jump’ by Van Halen (ditto) - and particularly excited when she and the band did ‘On And On’ by Stephen Bishop, a song which I love and which has a huge sentimental attachment for me. It was all I could do to stop myself from leaping up on stage to singing backing harmonies with her. As it was, I did it from the comfort of my chair.

And then to our night-time tour of KL - for which A’s nephew played chauffeur, and A played GPS system. The Petronas Towers were pretty amazing, it has to be said. Very pretty, rather calming, skyscrapers… not unlike the Chrysler Building. If only there were two Chrysler Buildings. Side by side. And connected by a skywalk.

And then to bed. Or rather: to blog. And then soon, to bed. And in the meantime: the realisation that, sitting here in my dressing gown, with the skyline behind me, I have come full circle:

There could be no better way to end this trip than by spending my final night in the Hilton, Kuala Lumpur - in a room which couldn’t be more Lost In Translation if it tried (unless, of course, it was in the Park Hyatt in Tokyo). Here’s the view which greets you as you come out of the lift onto my floor:

- and yes, that is (those are?) the Petronas Towers you can just see there behind that skyscraper -

And here’s the view from my room right now, as dusk is falling:

Not too shabby, eh? Wait ’til you get a load of the room, too. It has a gorgeous deep bath (a bath! Bliss!), magazines in the toilet (well obviously not in the toilet, but you know what I mean) and a seat in the shower. Yes, I may just take a shower sitting down because I can.

T and C drove me all the way from Ipoh to the outskirts of KL - where, like a spy, I was handed over to R, T’s colleague (who was, appropriately enough, the very first person I met here at the airport two months ago). R brought me to the Hilton, and will be returning in a few hours to hang out avec moi for the evening. I’ve also just given A a call - my friend from Penang who spends most weekends in KL, and who is in town tonight. I’m going to be meeting both of them downstairs in the lobby bar (or ‘Cosmo Lounge’ as it’s called. Not sure why) because that’s where K, the jazz singer from Canada who’s working here for three months, and who I’ve been chatting to on IM, is performing. I’m also hoping to hook up with the manager here who emailed me some weeks ago about possibly doing the same gig… So, to paraphrase George Peppard: it looks like the plan is coming together .

I fly out at 6pm tomorrow; so hopefully will get to see some of KL during the day. Well, at least those famous Petronas Towers, which I’m dying to photograph; and quite possibly, hopefully, the Hilton’s outdoor swimming pool, too ;-).

I’ll write one last post - probably before I go to bed tonight - to round off the trip. Unless I have any sort of deep and meaningful and hugely insightful thoughts following that, of course (unlikely), in which case I’ll probably be blogging from the departure lounge of KL Airport. Either way, watch my Flickr page for more pictures of KL which I may not feature here.

Speaking of photographs: I’ve also added my final ones of Penang (including the street market), and ones of the stunning scenery on the drive down to KL, to Flickr (here, in a nutshell, is what Malaysia looks like):

And finally: for the curious amongst you, here is the famous, the wonderful T - his less famous but just as wonderful wife C, and their children H and N. Thank you so much again, guys, for everything. x

So, this afternoon, I sang at the Penang Street Market - sort of the monthly village fete, in which a street in Georgetown is taken over by stalls selling all manner of wonderful local arts and crafts, and there’s a marquee with live performances from local bands.

R had asked me to join him and his sons during their set; and it was a lot of fun, doing ‘Little Sunflower’ and ‘Route 66′ with the three of them, and then singing more songs with just R.

It was increeeeeeedibly hot and humid, and I was sweating buckets - always attractive, I find - but it was great to end my time in Penang this way. (Performing in Georgetown that is, not sweating buckets). And as I sang, and chatted to the crowd in between songs, it also made me realise how far I’ve come. Because I think I did a good job. Singing in the daytime, to a crowd of ‘regular’ people, suddenly seemed a little scary - it felt like I was performing at a festival - but I didn’t let my nerves get in the way. Instead, I let my inner, secretly confident performer persona come out (as I write that, I realise that it sounds strange: don’t most people have a secretly unconfident persona inside them?), and this persona is at once happy and secure in her ability to sing, and to communicate with people. She talks confidently, and sings well, and most importantly: cracks gags which people laugh at. It’s a strange mixture of being utterly, truly myself and yet simultaneously standing outside of myself, almost watching myself half-incredulously at how I’m being… and yet knowing that I’m being my true self. If that makes any sense. Maybe I’m just surprised at seeing myself being able to do that. Hmm.

After the market, T, C and I returned to the hotel, where I packed up my final bits and bobs, settled my bill (approximately 25% of which consisted, alarmingly, of one single phone call), and popped back into the jazz club to give E a few things which otherwise would have been thrown out, such as mosquito spray, suncream and honey (which pretty much sums up my time here). She was there rehearsing with one of her two (count ‘em!) trios; and so that involved me saying goodbye all over again to a few people, who were surprised to see me again after last night. I walked in shouting, “I’ve changed my mind!”.

And then, T and C drove us to Ipoh - and I sit here in their family home writing this at silly o’clock, when I really should be in bed. T is a nightowl too, so after dinner at an Indian restaurant tonight we sat at his computer talking about life, the universe and everything (or at least: life, the universe and geniuses) and he talked me through the agency work which he wants me to get involved in when I’m back in London. All good stuff.

Earlier in the evening, I spent a fair amount of time hangin’ - and we were definitely hangin’ - with T and C’s seven-year-old daughter, H (they also have a very cute, very smiley, one year-something son). H is fantastic, and I may try to instigate a penpal-ship between her and my eight-year-old niece. Well, they both do ballet, and they’re both fans of High School Musical, so I think it could work out…

I did take some final photographs of Penang, and of T and C and co, today - but as it’s now half-past silly o’clock, I’ll wait til tomorrow to upload and link to them. Well, a secretly confident performer persona needs her inner beauty sleep, you know. Nighty night.

Fresh fish and vegetables, cooked to perfection. I have effectively dined out for every meal, every day, for two months. Next thing you know, I’ll be saying that I don’t do stairs.

When I first arrived in Penang, I noticed that the hotel’s spa offered a range of treatments. One of these was a facial which involved ‘whitening’. I didn’t think much of it - I don’t tend to, where this silly ‘beautifying’ malarkey is concerned - although I’m sure I vaguely wondered whether that meant the facial also included whitening your teeth. “How interesting,” I thought. And how wrong I was.

Not that the idea of a facial which also offers teeth-whitening isn’t interesting. Indeed, it’s so “interesting” as to be “completely silly”. Because, obviously, I got it completely wrong - as multiple trips to the pharmacy next door over the past few months have proved.

While the beauty products - or more precisely, the skincare products - on offer in a Malaysian pharmacy look exactly like the ones for sale back in the West, more than a cursory glance shows that there’s one, rather stark, difference. It’s the presence of products like this:

and this:

Yes, my fellow Western ladies: we may think we have it tough, being subjected to the pressure to be thin. But women in the East not only face that (slimming and dieting products are everywhere here, too - despite, or perhaps because of, the general smaller build of Asians); they are also told that they should be more white.

As this article in the New Straits Times pussyfoots around says, the culture here rather uncomfortably tells people - and most specifically, women - that it is desirable to have skin as white as possible; and there are all manner of beauty products (and spa treatments) on hand to make that happen. Lancome, Chanel, Estee Lauder, Clinique, Dior, Olay… they’re all at it.

Clearly there’s a link here between being white and being of a higher class, as well as the implication that it is better to look as least ‘Asian’ as possible. Being of a darker skin is associated with being of a race that is more undesirable; or of a lower class (all that working outdoors in manual jobs).

Conversely, of course, we in the West see having darker skin - but not too dark, mind! - as something desirable, as at its roots it has the association with being either a) healthy (all that time spent outdoors) or b) rich (all that leisure time spent outdoors).

It’s all very strange, and rather worrying. Where will it end? Well, apart from ‘with Michael Jackson’, that is?

Papaya. Don’t worry: I didn’t know what it was, either.

Hopefully.

Thank you everyone for your advice - as you can see, I’ve taken it all on board. Apart from the whisky and cloves bit (Rachel).

I left my room after 24 hours house arrest to go and buy all of the above; and to have lunch downstairs (baked salmon with salad, followed by fruit, since you ask). As I told someone the other day, I never, but never, lose my appetite. No matter what’s happened to me - I could have fallen sick/had my heart broken/survived a nuclear holocaust - there’s one thing that’s guaranteed. Through it all, I’ll be able to eat like a horse*.

M, the hotel manager, called me yesterday to ask how I was and to see if there was anything he could do. Bless him. I really am so lucky to work for a place which treats me so well.

M also told me that when he used to work at the Savoy, Pavarotti would sometimes come to stay (the Savoy being his London hotel of choice). Apparently, Pavarotti requested on room service five - count ‘em! - litres of freshly squeezed orange juice every day. Five litres a day! No wonder he got fat - all that fructose! M used to squeeze his oranges, too (missus) - he said they were even imported from Sicily. Fancy.

And speaking of health food - I read this story in the paper over lunch:

The young lad above just scored the highest number of top grades in his SPM exams (Malaysian ‘A’ levels). He got 1As in 21 subjects (including Higher Arabic Language and Accountancy) and told the paper that he only studied when he felt like it. Adding: “Of course, you have to consistently ‘feel like it’. I studied every day.”

And the other secret of his success (apart from an unfeasibly large brain)? “I also did a lot of hajat prayers**, watched my diet and took the advice of my headmaster to consume a lot of dates, honey and milk.”

So there you go: this post has not only brought you the cure for the common cold, but also the secrets of a diet guaranteed to win you a place on University Challenge. Hurrah for me!

Now, back to looking pitifully out of the window at the sunshine…

*ie. with a big nose bag around my face.

**Explanation of a hajat prayer - albeit in a slightly Hitchhikers’ Guide to The Galaxy form - is here.

(sorry, V)

…their cats may be teeny-tiny, but look at the size of their multi-vitamins!!

Of what happened in Malaysia this weekend, and why, is here.

Meanwhile, back in Britain…

I read this headline in The Guardian:

Less TV makes children healthier

Viewing related to consumption of fast food and a more sedentary lifestyle, new study shows

Erm, maybe that’s because you watch TV sitting down?

Coming soon: ‘Running related to less sedentary lifestyle’.