Deborah Crooks is a performing songwriter and recording artist based in San Francisco. She is an intimate and edgy artist whose lyric driven and soul-wise music has drawn comparison to Lucinda Williams, Chrissie Hynde and Natalie Merchant.

Singing about faith, love and loss, her lyrics are honed by a lifetime of writing and world travel while her music draws on folk, rock, Americana and the blues. She released her first EP "5 Acres" in 2003 produced by robertadonnay.com Roberta Donnay, which caught the attention of Rocker Girl Magazine, selecting it for the RockerGirl Discoveries Cd.

In 2007, she teamed up with local producer benbernsteinmusic.com Ben Bernstein to complete 2007's "Turn It All Red" Ep and inaugurate work on a full-length disc.

Deborah's many performance credits include an appearance at the 2006 Millennium Music Conference, the RockerGirl Magazine Music Convention, IndieGrrl, at several of the Annual Invasion of the
GoGirls at SXSW in Austin, TX, the Harmony Festival and 2009's California Music Fest as well as MacWorld 2010. She has toured the Northwest as part "Indie Abundance Music, Money & Mindfulness" (2009) with two other Bay Area artists, and followed up with The Great Idea Tour of the Southwest in March 2010 with Jean Mazzei.

Kali dosa @ SBP

I like eating with my hands. It’s one of my favorite things about visiting India, this fork-free (unless you must ask), chop-stick-less way of consuming food. It’s efficient, and primal and sensual and nourishing all at once. The rims of stainless steel Indian dinner plates are ideal for providing leverage to fingers and thumbs, bits of chapati or roti. And what would a thali meal served on a banana leaf be if you took a fork to it?

 

Anyhow, I was thinking this, Friday morning, while eating my ‘last’ breakfast of my trip at the ‘Secret Breakfast Place.’ I wasn’t the only one among the party of 11 who convened for breakfast @ SBP, who was to leave Mysore soon, so a high standard of Indian breakfast was on order.

A KBJ student discovered SBP’s stellar idli several years back and word-of-mouth has led ever-widening groups of yoga students to the place. This is saying a lot as SBP is an out-of-the way tarp-covered shack on a side street in Lakshmipuram and while not so ‘secret’ anymore, you still need a friend to take you there the first time.

Friday’s party filled the two benches and two stools placed on the sidewalk to serve as a dining room. The seen-it-all proprietor took our orders with ease and quickly handed metal plates our way filled with idli and dosa, beet-root sambar and coconut chutney while a cook filled tins with idli batter and loaded trays in and out of a metal steamer. They served other customers who stood or crouched to eat, and handed some of us seconds. There would be no written bill: when we were finished, he told us how much, err, little, we owed (it would be a little over $5 for nearly a dozen people).

Yum. Delicious, inexpensive, fork-free Indian fare!

Welcome to America. While shopping at Whole Foods Oakland Saturday, I was momentarily distracted by the site of a man doing yoga in the middle of the crosswalk at the intersection outside the store. Wearing black shorts, a black tank top and headphones, he had his mat sprawled out on a meridian. A few sun salutations, child’s pose, sideways planks.  He wasn’t really flowing and I wondered what was the point.

Maybe someone dared him? Or he was making a statement (‘yoga instead of shopping?’) or trying to sell classes (‘take my classes’). But he didnt’ look particularly yogic. He looked cold and uncomfortable.

I stopped watching and he was gone before I finished shopping.
A night earlier, I couldn’t take my eyes off Abigail Washburn who was opening the show for The Jayhawks at the Fillmore in San Francisco. Wielding three different banjos of varying sizes and backed by Kai Welch on guitar, keys and trumpet, she had a commanding confident voice and a style that transcended folk. Both she and her band mate looked like they’d just woken up (mid-set they copped to driving through the night to get to San Francisco), but were in full command of their instruments, playing a rich, varied set of a brand of music that was alternately jazzy, folk-based, bluesy or simply raw. Washburn has spent years in China studying the language and building ties that have led her to tour the country’s farthest reaches.  She and Welch along with several other band mates very recently completed a tour along China’s old Silk Road on a music and cultural exchange and the experience seems to have burnished them to a that-much-higher gloss of entertaining excellence. She brought the not-yet-formed or focused crowd together on an off-mic version of Keys to the Kingdom in which she and Welch went off-mic, tip-toed to the edge of the very stage to lead us in a sing along. I was thoroughly impressed.
The Jayhawks were equally tight if more rocking and nonchalant (and maybe slightly bored) by their own high level of competence. They burned through a set of old favorites and tunes from their latest ‘Mockingbird Time’ with an almost been-there done-that air about them. After Abigail’s small bonfire of a performance, I was both impressed and a bit underwhelmed.

The Mysore yoga community is inherently tight even if you’re being low-key about your social interactions. Inside the studio, you practice inches away from one another. Outside, you literally rub shoulders with other students while drinking your post-yoga coconut. Three different friends lived on my short little street who I could easily call on. I became acquainted with two neighbors who were long-time Mysore residents who ended up knowing a lot about my life after two months of daily chit-chat amid coming and going. As such, I really didn’t walk out of my door without being acknowledged and acknowledging someone else, if not stopping every 10 yards to have an actual conversation.

Re-entry into Western life after a couple months of this lifestyle always entails a bit of withdrawal from effortless community involvement. Interacting with others, in person, while living in the states takes a much different level of planning. Much of the past few days have been checking in with my stateside friends… and realizing how much we must drive to see one another.

Which is partly why I’m starting to host a new Local Music Vibe Meet-Up in Alameda where I live. Founded by music lover and evengalista Shelley Champine, Local Music Vibe is all about connecting people to the live music around them. The idea of the Meet-up takes it another step by connecting other musicians and music industry folks to one another in their own backyard. The Alameda Meet-up kicks off next week, Feb 7 @ 10 am at The High Street Station. If you’re a local musical sort come on down and introduce yourself. 

Alameda Local Music Vibe Coffee Meet-Up —Feb 7 10 a.m.
1303 High Street
Alameda California 94501

After a near-week of home-practice, mail-sorting, friend checking-in, boyfriend re-acquainting, rehearsing for shows that are coming up quickly and … passing out at 1pm each day due to my body thinking it was 2:30 a.m. (‘oh I think I’ll just rest for 10 minutes…’ turning into ‘oh s*%t!’ when I woke up 3 hours later), I’m starting to feel back on California time. Good thing as it’s already February. Groundhog Day even.

 

Hello time going by quickly! Anyhow, I finally made it out of the living room to practice at Ashtanga Yoga Berkeley this morning. It felt good to be with the hometown crowd, especially in the new studio digs!  Situated in the same West Berkeley ‘hood as venerable Berkeley landmarks and institutions such as the Sawtooth building, Fantasy Studios, Berkeley Bowl and The Westside Cafe, the studio is in great company. Plus it’s got lovely high ceilings, a dedication to lineage and an overall good vibe. Yeah!

After two months in India, one is inclined to get their haircut (and colored) and my number was up today. The salon I frequent is, conveniently, across the street from a favorite cafe meeting place. When I emerged two hours later more kempt that I’ve been of late, I was met not only by two friends but a brand new guitar built by one of those friends! No number of exclamation points can do justice to how cool I think this is.

More than a year ago, having given himself an assignment to build a certain number of acoustics to properly learn the luthier trade, Mario Desio asked me — yes, I was fortunate to figure in his count — what type of guitar I’d like.  I already own a lovely Martin, but I’ve always admired those little Elvis Costello Gibsons. Mario tasked me with choosing and buying some wood (in this case, Indian Rosewood) and then he went to town (or rather his workroom).  And here today, it was, shiny and resonant and beautiful…and mine! I’m so grateful. And I’m glad I have a gig tonight to give it some play.
If I were the groundhog, based on this day, I’d say spring is coming early.

A friend, cognizant that I was leaving town in a few days, asked if “I’d checked out.”

“I hope not!” I didn’t want my ‘last’ week in Mysore to be any different than the other weeks. That is, I didn’t want to cram in everything I hadn’t done yet, go on a last-minute shopping spree or put too much pressure on achieving something more in practice. My intent was to be in the moment.

In truth, it’s been impossible to not feel the clock ticking down as I go about arranging a car to the airport, assessing what and how much of my things I’ll pack and carry home and deciding if I’ll leave a trunk of household items in storage here that will be useful for any future trip(s). The question of when and if hangs in the air. All I know is that even as I’m looking forward to being home with loved ones and playing when I get back, this place, my lifestyle here — sleeping specific times for specific practice times, practicing in the shala, eating South Indian food, the sounds, being surrounded by the community of other semi-migratory students for a period of time— has become a bit ingrained. It’s so different than my life in the States, but here it is, equal and different in its own way.

So, today, not so surprisingly, I worked through a variety of feelings in practice  (“Too much emotion,” Sharath would say), the irony after two months here being not feeling so yogic! But then that’s why they call it practice! Every day it’s a new day with its own unique rasa.
After I walked down to Gokul Chats to have my tea and dosa outside in relative quiet and wrote a bit before turning on my Kindle (can I reiterate how GREAT a Kindle is for this kind of travel?) and the day really got going. Truth be told, I haven’t been studying up on The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali (recommended though!) or the Gita but instead have been loving reading the Keith Richards book Life. It’s hilarious. A tale of adventure, the Blues, rock and roll, perseverance …and ultimately following one’s one unique and often irrational bliss. Yeah.

India is big on holidays. Even Christmas gets a nod between all the Hindu celebrations. But signs of Chinese New Year were scarce to my eye. Nonetheless, the Mysore Ashtanga community counted among it enough people used to celebrating the end of the winter season on the Chinese calendar, and they weren’t about to let the New, Year of the Dragon, go unobserved. Chinese New Year’s Eve, I soon learned, is traditionally a time of families gathering to feast. So a large contingent of the Mysore Ashtanga tribe were orchestrated by one of its consummate hostesses in gathering together the ingredients for a traditional Year of the Dragon shindig, conveniently, on the eve of our Moon Day holiday.  I shopped for lanterns (albeit more Indian than Chinese) and red and gold decorations; another student found a large block of fireworks while another group of folks exercised their culinary talents.

One of them, Sam, a professional pastry chef when he’s not busy traveling the world or studying yoga in Mysore, was enlisted to bring the desserts.  I’d asked Sam for some professional advise on pies and tarts when I was first clued into his skills at one of his periodic bake sales here. Given the task of baking for the New Year’s party, I subsequently spent Sunday afternoon as his apprentice making Chinese almond cookies. Plus, he gave me a bonus lesson in frangipane. By default, I picked up some tips on measuring by weight rather than cups and teaspoons.

“This is simple,” Sam said as he placed ingredients into the wet-dry blender. “Only four ingredients, and everything is 100 grams.” Eggs are about 50 grams each, so that’s two,” he said, placing the eggs aside a moment to expertly grind 100 grams of almonds. A moment later,  he whirred the flour, sugar, almonds and eggs together together and, voila, we had frangipane cream. A pate brisee was already chilling in the refrigerator.
Another benefit of spending time with the other yoga students who find their way to Mysore is discovering the high level of talent lurking behind the asana practice.

What’s wonderful is how people may scale down their lives as chefs, dancers, filmmakers, art directors and musicians to be here for a few months, but still dazzle everyone else when they share those talents.

As such, Sam wasn’t planning to do any baking in India. But after helping with a bake-sale fundraiser for Odanadi, and realizing he could buy a small convection oven for his kitchen, his bake sales, a cut far above regular bake sale quality, became a semi-regular event. Now he has a hard time keeping his schedule open as other yogis request birthday cakes, raw pies and spreads for special occasions. People he hasn’t met stop him to ask him whether he can make him something. He’s become expert on finding hard-to-find ingredients in Mysore as well as getting the most out of a small kitchen.

While the pate brisee baked, we walked down to three different fruit stands searching for pears to complete a frangipane tart (there are no pears, but we find some nice Gala apples). Back in the kitchen, we pressed almonds into cookie dough while the tart baked.

Later, at the roof-top party, the almond cookies were served (and consumed quite quickly) alongside a special “prosperity toss’ salad made by two other talented yogini’s. After everyone read their Chinese Horoscopes for the year and munched through a bountiful spread of more salads, soups, momos and home-made sushi, we clambered up to the roof for a fireworks display that was as beautiful as it was scary. Fireworks in India are no joke! The bigger louder and brighter the better — and seemingly anyone can buy a huge display. Let’s just say the Dragon seriously roared. Happy New Year!

I live down the street from “The Chocolate Man” aka “The Chocolate Stand” or ‘Trupti’s,” a much-loved and very packed little storefront whose proprietor, wife,  son and daughter-in-law roast coffee, special-order pasta, organic jam and soy milk for Western tastes and have a little business making their own chocolate. The 40-80 rupee bars, coming in flavors such as chocolate-cardamom, dark chocolate almond and chocolate coffee, stave off many chocolate Jones. Otherwise, the chocolate in India isn’t quite up to US or European standards (albeit Cadbury has a large presence here) and tends to look but not taste that chocolaty. That isn’t to say Indians don’t love their sweets! Sugar dominates cups of chai and coffee and is whipped into plenty of ghee-heavy local delicacies. The price paid is a high rate of diabetes (India leads the world in number of people with diabetes) and tooth decay.

Most likely due to my mom diligently giving us fluoride as children, I’ve made it through my life thus far without getting a cavity.  When I went to the dentist here they reminded me to rinse, but opined I didn’t need a cleaning ‘unless you insist.’
This week I’ve been back at the dentist, albeit helping take some of the children from Operation Shanti who need dental care to their appointments.  These children spent much of their young lives on the street before coming to Karunya Mane, OS’s shelter for children in need, and the concept of a toothbrush is fairly recent to their thinking. As such, many have cavities already— only one girl of the few I took to the dentist Wednesday didn’t need a filling. Instead, she received a cleaning and a good talking to about brushing up and down.
“They are very cooperative,” the dentist noted as the last one got up from the chair.
And they were! As well as surprisingly joyful and easy with themselves. They loaded into the rickshaw with me, holding on tight as we bumped along, and stuck their noses to the wind like dogs in a convertible, inviting the sounds and the views of the fields and roadside sheds we passed selling meals and puffed treats and chai. I marveled at how wise and wonderfully in the moment and far beyond their years they seemed. They took their turns in the dentist chair without whimpering at the drill, shrugged off their procedures like it was no big deal, and delighted in my iPhone photo album as we waited in the lobby.

 

“Friend?” they asked, pointing to photos of my loved ones in the states. “Friend,” I said. Every time a photo of a friend’s child came up they jumped, cheered, clapped and smiled.
Back home at KM, they clambered out of the rickshaw, smiled and waved to me, and were off to their beds without a backward glance.