I opened for songwriting legend Jimmy Webb this weekend. You know his songs: By The Time I Get to Phoenix, Wichita Lineman, McArthur Park, Galveston. The concert was in NJ so I stayed with my mom, and she came with me to the theater. We leave early because I have the soundcheck at 5pm. In the car she listens to a pre-release copy of my new recording. After the first piece she tells me “Someone is going to ice skate to this one.” That makes me happy as I can’t think of a better compliment.
When mom is in the dressing room I know to expect inspection. “Why is there nail polish in your make-up bag,” she asks. “You don’t wear it.”
“It’s there in case I get a run in my stockings or something,” I tell her.
“But it’s red. You need clear polish if that should happen.” I take note.
“What are you playing tonight?” she asks.
“Not sure…I just worked with the piano. I was waiting to assess it. Now I can figure it out. Got any ideas?”
Of course she does. Mom helps me make the set list. She changes the sequence. She comments on my hair. She likes me to leave it naturally curly rather than use the flat iron. She approves of my bra. Mom has opinions. All of them are very useful. She watches the show and I join her during Jimmy’s set. She hangs out by the CD table to see what’s selling. When someone is confused as to which album to buy, she let’s them know that hands down, “Memories of Utopia” is the quintessential Robin Spielberg experience.
It might seem strange that after all these years I still turn to my mother for help with set lists and what to wear on stage, but the truth is, she is just so darn good at these things! Thanks mom.
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