Phyllis Chang rushes into the Silk Lounge, a swank, modern bar located in a dilapidated hotel in Monterey Park, Calif., a predominately Chinese American suburb north of Los Angeles. She seems rushed and distracted, and before long she’s setting up heavy speakers, positioning mics, and unwinding wires in the narrow area directly in front of the bar.

An hour later, however, there’s no hint of all that anxiety. Chang stands in front of the mic, a jazz trio assembled behind her, crooning out classic, crowd-pleasing jazz and blues standards like Cole Porter’s “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” and “The Girl from Ipanema.”

A man at the bar comments about “that voice, that voice!” And indeed it is the quality of her sultry vocals that commands. Even in the acoustically challenged lounge, her voice fills the room with warmth and an intimate quality that recalls soulful singers from another era.

After a 10-year semi-hiatus from performing, this is Chang throwing herself back in the game.

 

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As a child, Chang loved to paint and draw. It was during her early teen years that she got her hands on a nylon guitar and was hooked. She began writing songs and singing, recording her own rudimentary multi-tracks with multiple tape recorders. But music never seemed like a viable career choice, so Chang decided to pursue art. Earning a master’s degree in art history museum studies from the University of Southern California, Chang took a job as the education director of the Craft and Folk Art Museum in Los Angeles.

“I was so involved with the visual arts. At the time, I thought, you have to do only one thing,” says Chang, who grew up listening to her parents’ jazz records. “But then I was always on my own [in my free time], playing guitar.”

In 1997, however, Chang’s life changed dramatically. Her mother had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer, and her father suffered from Alzheimer’s. Chang made the choice to put her own life on hold and care for her parents.

Refusing to place them in a convalescent home, she handled all their medical care, including administering medicine and helping them bathe. Their protracted illnesses rendered Chang virtually “homebound” for a decade. She worked out of a home studio and refused to travel long distances, worrying that she might be inaccessible in an emergency. She also relinquished her social life in order to devote herself solely to her parents and, any time leftover, to music.

“I [had] one leg in [and] one leg out,” she says about the period of time she was balancing her career with her care-giving responsibilities. “I was spread so thin for so many years.”

Chang’s parents were regulars at gigs, sitting in the audience in wheelchairs. Her mom, she says, was her roadie and her biggest supporter, helping sell CDs at her shows. When her mother died in 2002, Chang was devastated, unable to finish recording her fourth self-produced album, “On A Carpet Ride.” The project was put on hold until she allowed herself to practice some of the final words her mom left with her: be happy, do your music and take care of your father.