Muchness and Light

Well I know you will remember, 'cause the music is forever.

It's been a really busy year for me. 

• I finished losing 115 pounds.
• I had three surgeries to removed 120+ square inches of skin.
• I went to South by Southwest for the first time.
• I got to see both my beloved The Gracious Few and LIVE with their new lead singer on the same night.  (Plus some other band.  I forget.)
• I fell in love with the Mynabirds.  (Missing Patsy Cline song – "We Made a Mountain")
• I finally got to see the Afghan Whigs live and to meet Greg Dulli in a dark alley behind the Masquerade.  (And Ric McCollum and John Curley.)
• I filed for divorce.
• I released my first novel. 

Even with all of that, there's still something missing.

Wednesday night, I will finally get to see Concrete Blonde live. 

"What's the big deal?" you ask. 

Well, let me tell you. 

Sometime during my freshman year of high school, I went one weekend afternoon to the Southside Festival, which was a great little outdoor music and arts thing that used to take place in Five Points South in my hometown of Birmingham, Alabama.  Five Points is a funky little area, artsy and eclectic—and it was much less dirty then than it is now.  (At least it seemed that way.)  My friends and I hung out there on weekends and sometimes after school, sitting around the fountain, bullshitting and getting into far less trouble than we probably deserved. 

So this specific day when I was 14, some record label promo people were passing out albums to the crowd.  Yes, vinyl, in the 12x12 sleeve, and for free.  They handed me two: Pleased To Meet Me by the Replacements—who I saw play at Sloss Furnaces a couple of years later—and Concrete Blonde's self-titled debut.  I tromped up the rickety stairs to Charlemagne Records and also bought a Billie Holiday best-of collection, as well as Metal Circus by Hüsker Dü. 

(It was a very eclectic day.  For those in the know, I ran into Broderick Brakefield and Bryan Simmons, who'd missed their ride the night before and had been running around down there, barefoot, for a couple of days.)

I went home and locked myself away in my bedroom, planting myself on the floor in front my stereo.  I might even have stacked the records on the turntable.  I loved them all, each in their own way, but I adored Concrete Blonde. 

It was the first day of a now-26-year love affair from afar with the incomparable Johnette Napolitano. 

As I've discussed before, I'm an alto.  (Really, a contralto.)  I don't have a lot of patience for wimpy soprano voices.  And Johnette's voice was the farthest from wimpy I'd ever heard.  It was deeply female with the most amazing breath control ever.  Ever.  (Those booming notes aren't higher; they're simply bigger.) 

I was blown away.

So this goes on for years, but somehow I miss them live, over and over and over.  I was too young for the clubs they played.  My ex-boyfriend was an asshole who beat me up the night before we were supposed to go to Atlanta to see them.  I lived in Huntsville where they never played anymore.  They broke up. 

I was supposed to see them two summers ago during their Bloodletting anniversary tour.  I had ruptured two discs in my back and was in so much pain that I had to give the tickets away.  (I cried.  A lot.)

So when I went to Variety Playhouse with Growler and Mandypants a few weeks ago (for the Psychedelic Furs, thank you very much), I was thrilled to see that Concrete Blonde would be playing on December 19^th.  Finally, finally!, I get to do this shit after twenty-six years. 

It's the voice and the lyrics and the fact that she plays bass.  She does the most wonderful covers of Leonard Cohen and Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, in part because her voice lends itself to that.  But my favorites, undoubtedly, are the ones with the complicated harmonies, where Johnette seems to wrap her own voice around itself. 

And, ultimately, I owe Johnette Napolitano my life. 

There are a couple of people who know this story.  If you're one of them and you're hearing (reading) it for the dozenth time, I apologize.  This anecdote was in the first draft of what would become Persona Non Grata: A Story of Junkture.  It was cut entirely when I fictionalized the book, though Concrete Blonde still made mention.  (page 81, at the end of chapter 6—you can search inside the book on Amazon, btw) 

NOTE:  This is still incredibly difficult for me to go back to, to put myself in the place where I felt the things I write about below.  I can deal with a lot of my shit, but this is one of the most personally-shameful moments of emotion in my forty years, and I'm not callous about this. 

The horrible ex-boyfriend (Damien) and I had broken up for what would be the last time.  After four tumultuous years with him, I was a mess.  I was devastated when we broke up.  For the third or fourth time since I'd known him, I decided that ending my life was the only way I would ever be able to deal with the pain. 

I had a plan.  I had the implements.  I was crying vicious tears while driving on I-65 north in Birmingham, determined to do it as soon as possible.  My little car had a cassette deck, and my very favorite tape was a home-recorded, 90-minute thing that had Concrete Blonde on one side and Bloodletting on the other—my two favorite Concrete Blonde records.  Bawling my head off, I intended to listen to "Bloodletting" and all of the subsequent tracks from that records, all so dark and somber.  It's an amazing record, but all I wanted was to let my own heart find its reprieve in that sadness. 

Instead, what I got was "True", the first track from the other side of the tape. 

Well when I've had enough

I'll get a pick-up truck and I'll drive away,

I'll take my last ten bucks just as far as it will go.

 

Well sometimes I'm easily fooled,

Take a painful step and I get knocked back two.

I do all I can and it's all I can do to be true.

And if I had the choice I'd take the voice I got

Cause it was hard to find.

You know I've come too far to wind up right back where I started.

And they tell me who I should be,

I'll never let those monkeys make a mess of me.

I am who I am and it's all I can do,

But I'm true.

One more sunrise

Open my eyes up – true

One more sunset

Lay my head down – true

They talk you up and then they talk you down

And you begin to doubt.

Sometimes the reasons seem so very far away.

But I'd stop breathing today,

Cause if I can't walk proud, I'd rather walk away.

I do all I am and it's all I can do,

But I'm true.

I'd give all I am and I'd give it to you.

So true.

That was what I heard, instead of a song of a crack in the mirror and a bloodstain on the bed, about being turned into the walking dead. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" I screamed into the otherwise-empty car tearfully. 

I went home instead.

So every time I get really down, feel really lost and can't find my inner compass, that's where I go back, to that piece of time (still so fresh inside my mind) and remember that moment of pause that saved my life. 

Was it really Johnette Napolitano that saved my life?  Not directly.  But I don't know that I would've been listening to anything else, or that I could've heard anyone else quite so clearly that late afternoon.  But I did hear it, thankfully.

So now, twenty-six years into this love affair, her music is still so often the soundtrack of my life.  And of Tierney's.  Six Concrete Blonde songs were included in my playlists.  All of my friends know how much I love her.  Half of them love her, too, because I introduced them. 

Tickets for Concrete Blonde at Variety Playhouse are still available.  Wednesday, December 19^th, at 8:00 p.m.  I'll be the first show for me and Growler, as well as for Tierney.  Come say hi.  I'll be the glittery Amazon belting out every last song. 

SXSW - Day 4

Day 4 in Austin came way the hell too early, as usual, but I dragged my ass toward a shower and breakfast before catching my shuttle back downtown.  I hit one panel on licensing, a Day Stage set by the Big Pink, and then decided, "Screw it!  It's St. Patrick's Day!"

By noon, 6^th Street was painted with all shades of green.  I'm a good Irish girl and made a point to find a good Kelly green tank top to brighten my day.  I wandered for a while, listening and watching, and was surprised to realize I was ravenous.  Chupacabra Cantina it was for some great Tex-Mex tacos.  And some Jack.  The hot bartender bought me a second round.  Turns out he used to play hockey for the former Atlanta Thrashers' feeder team, and his ex-wife used to babysit for Ed Kowalczyk, former LIVE frontman.  (More on that later.)

Jack and Ginger and I danced our way down 6^th, and we were immediately drawn to this voice coming from inside Friends.  It was sand-in-your-ass-crack gritty and awesome.  Turns out it belonged to Austin blues singer Rachael Crawford, and it was totally worth the chafing.  She did the best version of "Folsom Prison Blues" I've heard since the original. 

But Jack and Ginger and I had big plans for the evening.  After four good dances, we decided to shuttle our way back to the hotel for a shower and a quick nap.  Candlebox was doing a short acoustic set at the Bayou Lounge at 7 p.m.  I watched them do "Cover Me" and "Far Behind" then walked with Kevin and Sean over to Antone's for the Microsoft Big App on Campus party, hosted by the Gracious Few.

I was in the door quickly, at the front of the stage where Chad Taylor normally stomps.  The Canvas Waiting opened, their set including a fabulous cover of New Order's "Bizarre Love Triangle", which holds a very special place in my heart.  I totally approved. 

Then my groupie love, the Gracious Few, took to the stage.  I hadn't seen them since May and was thrilled that they opened with "Silly Thing".  It's my song.  I loved it long before my path intertwined with theirs, and it's one of those songs that can sweep me away to a deeply, personally happy place, every single time I hear it.  TGF holds the spot for two of my top-five favorite songs (the other being "Labor of Love"), so it made me stupidly happy to start the night with it.  (No, Kevin, I don't blame you for not singing it with me this time.  For so many reasons.)  They were good.  They were my band.  And I was overjoyed to feel that pulsing rhythm that has been the soundtrack to so many miles of the most recent part of my journey. 

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 Blahblahblahblah from Microsoft.  Then came LIVE.

 

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 So, the boys from LIVE had been on a hiatus for nearly three years, mutually cutting ties with Ed Kowalczyk.  This was their first public show with their new lead singer, Chris Shinn.  They'd played a private event in York, PA, on Monday night.  I was supposed to have been at that show but had a last-minute family emergency that prevented me from going.  I was heartbroken at having missed such a special event in the life of the band I've loved for nearly twenty years, but it was unavoidable.

Chris had previously been with Unified Theory.  He also released a self-titled solo record in January that I really love.  It's a grown-up album and wasn't at all what I expected when DH gifted it to me during surgery recovery.  But I was concerned that Chris was too first tenor for the LIVE catalog.  (Later in his career, Ed's voice settled more toward his falsetto, but there are certain songs that even my natural contralto can't quite reach, when I have to pop up an octave to maintain the melody.) 

The guys came out to the first strains of "The Dam at Otter Creek", which was the song to open the best LIVE shows I've ever seen.  The whole set list was good—though I was very surprised to see "Freaks" on it.  There was nothing from Mental Jewelry, which was a little disappointing, but there was also nothing from V or Birds of Pray or the wretched Songs from Ed's Big Head Black Mountain.  It was fantastic to see Chad Taylor stomping and playing Ruby Lou.  Chad Gracey was out from behind the Plexi panel and pounded the fuck out of his drums.  I saw Patrick Dahlheimer smiling more on stage than I can remember having seen in years.  Sean Hennesy was kind enough to play the part of Adam Kowalczyk for the evening, even though that meant he had three straight sets with three different bands.

Chris seemed visibly nervous, and who can blame him?  The LIVE fans are rabidly split about whether or not they can support "their" band without Ed.  I wondered about it two years ago, too.  But this is totally up to Chad and Chad and Patrick, and I was more than willing to give a chance to any singer with the balls to step into that groupie firestorm.  Does he sound just like Ed?  No.  But there's a similarity there that lends his voice to the old songs.  Having been to dozens of LIVE shows over the years, I couldn't help but see the shaven ghost of Ed stepping across the stage, passing through and around Chris as he did his own thing.  But he did his own thing, and it was good.  I am looking forward to seeing where these guys go now that they're really opening a new chapter of their career. 

More Microsoft blahblahblah.

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Strangely, it was my first Candlebox show.  I was never a huge Cbox fan (Kevin, you were right—I always loved LIVE more.), but it was interesting to see how different he is on stage from one band to the next.  You don't notice it as much with guitarists, who can hide behind their instruments, but there was a different onstage persona that came out of him for each band.  My heart is still with TGF, but I knew enough Cbox to sing along and have him put his mic in my face, like he always has.  Okay, yeah, so it was "Far Behind", but I have my strangely personal reasons for liking that song, just like everyone else does.  (Well, except that I didn't get laid to it.)

After the show, though, was my favorite part.  Walking past the bar, I heard, "Stephanie!"  I turned to see Chad Taylor standing there, who I hadn't seen since May.  Big hugs and laughter.  "Gracey said to me, 'I think that skinny girl is Stephanie,' and I said, 'No way!'  Oh my God!  Look at you!  You were right in front of me for the entire Gracious Few set, and it wasn't until I came out with LIVE that I realized it was you!"  He promptly took me by the hand and twirled me around to see the difference that even the last forty-five pounds (and a new belly button) had made.  I knew I must be doing something right if even the rock stars can see the difference. 

I was exhausted, having stood and danced in the same spot for five hours.  Two of my very favorite songs were played that night ("I Alone" is on that list, too.  Strangely, Chad and Chad and Patrick, you have four of my five favorites.) , and it was exhilarating to be swept up in the music and the moments I love the most. 

I bravely stomped around Austin in my Big Girl panties and my persona non grata t-shirt, on my own for five days, and I loved every second of it.  Even my nervousness and being in a strange city, on my own, served only to invigorate me, and I splashed my muchness all over that fucking town—in my own way, sparkled with purple, just like I always do.

So make your siren's call and sing all you want.

I knew the first time I heard "Little Lion Man" that I really liked Mumford & Sons.  It was a darkly catchy little tune with huge, open harmonies, and I love nothing more than a great harmony to hook my voice around.  The entire debut CD, Sigh No More, is really fantastic, with its heavily-accented British folk sound. 

When Brits use a banjo, is it bluebloodgrass music?

When tickets went on sale for Mumford & Sons at the Fox Theatre in Atlanta, I was in the midst of Spring Break travel.  I knew I wouldn't be available to get tickets during the regular sale time, so I opted to buy presale tickets a couple of days before.  In theory, they were shitty upper-tier, dress circle seats.  In reality, there's really not a bad seat at the Fox.  The acoustics are so good, and you really can see everything going on.  Yes, I would've preferred to be closer to the stage, but I'm glad I even got a ticket to the sold-out show.

I got to the Fox in time to see the opening acts, Matthew and the Atlas and The Low Anthem.  It was more if the same indie folk pseudo-rock.  Both acts were very talented, certainly, but it wasn't enough to blow me away.  Except for The Low Anthem doing a song called "This God Damn House".  Singer Ben Knox Miller asked the audience to use their cell phones to call the person next to them when he gave a signal toward the end of the show.  It created a beautiful multi-lights effect, but it also created this strange reverb/static/noise/feedback that was breathtaking over this hauntingly sad song. 

 

Mumford & Sons took to the stage to thunderous applause.  I don't have the set list (I never keep up with that, you know.), but I think they played the entire album during their two-hour set.  I couldn't think of a track they didn't play.  Marcus Mumford (Marcus Yumford) plays guitar and a kick drum at the front of the stage.  He took to a full kit for one of the last songs of the evening, and it was amazing.  (Beware, Kevin Martin.  I may have a new singer-drummer groupie love crush.)

They did several new songs, as well, including one during the encore that I really wish I'd been able to record.  It was a still-untitled track that Mumford said they were still in the process of writing.  He said they'd been working on it during sound check and that the crowd would become part of the writing process.  Spin me 'round/just to pin me down/on the cover of this strange bed/Spin me 'round/just to pin me down....  Everyone leaving agreed it was the best new song of the night.

The most amazing part of the show was when they managed to quiet 8,000+ people to perform two songs, "Timshel" and "Sister", totally and perfectly as acoustic songs.  No mic, no PA—just Mumford, his guitar, and four interwoven voices. 

 

The sound was great, the light show was fantastic, and they worked the crowd into an intimate frenzy.  It was truly like an 8,000-person drunken pub sing-a-long.  The energy reminded me a lot of the first time I saw Dave Matthews Band, in Birmingham in 1995 or so.  Under the Table and Dreaming had just come out, and he was playing with Dionne Farris, half of whose band was from Alabama.  They collectively did a ten-minute version of Bob Marley's "Exodus" that was mind-blowing.  I was on the front row for that show.

I've been to a lot of concerts in my life, and this Mumford & Sons show has jumped high on the list of best shows ever.  Nothing will likely ever beat Leonard Cohen at the Fox in October 2009, but what the hell could, honestly?  There's also a LIVE show, the week The Distance to Here came out, and we were on the front row.  It was the last night they were touring with Jimmie's Chicken Shack, and it was a ton of pure, raw fun in the steamy, pouring October-in-Alabama rain.  And then there's that Gracious Few show in Chicago, but it's special to me for so many other reasons that have nothing to do with the show itself, so I don't know if I even include it in my list.  (Sometimes my love for The Gracious Few has nothing to do with my fandom, you know.) 

If you get the chance to catch Mumford & Sons on this or any tour, do it.  I will be there next time they're close, and I will do whatever it takes to be in front.  I'm at a point in my life where I can afford to be elitist and spend too much money for better seats, and I fully intend to do so.  It was a spectacularly wonderful musical evening that I will remember for a very, very long time.

Nights, they sway like you do

I'm an impatient girl.  I always have been.  I like things to happen when I decide--when I make up my mind that it's time for them to happen. 

I was notoriously bad as a child and teen to tear the house apart before Christmas, looking for the stash of presents.  If my mom managed to get them wrapped and under the tree before I found them, I'd spend hours shaking and turning and pondering.  Eventually I learned how to slice the tape open at the seam of the paper and put fresh tape over it, so no one knew I'd been peeking. 

You'd think that kind of looking ahead would spoil the surprise.  Not so much.  Sometimes it made it worse, because now I had all this time to anticipate the actual opening of the gift, plus the using of it.  Of course, if it was something that sucked, then I just had more time to imagine all the ways I would hate it.  Or maybe what I would get at the store when I exchanged it. 

So here we are, in early March, and spring has totally sprung in Atlanta.  Everything's mostly blooming and shining and beautiful.  The weather is getting warmer, and now nightfall is later.  Like a kid, I'm anticipating summer.  Although "summer vacation" has taken on a whole new meaning now that I'm a mom, it's still a really great time of warmth and ease and fun.  Even when it's sticky and hot and I feel like praying for snow, it reminds me of all those summer breaks with my friends, hanging out and doing a thousand things we weren't supposed to be doing, probably in places where we weren't supposed to be. 

Part of the fun of warm weather was always concerts.  Maybe it was a huge outdoor festival, a small club show, or lawn seats on our favorite old blankets.  It didn't matter, because we were all together, in that moment, and sharing that music and that experience.  Even during the crazy electrical storm at one of many Pink Floyd laser shows, or the night some guy got struck by lightning twenty feet from us at the Steve Miller concert, it didn't matter how insane the conditions were--we stuck it out 'til the bitter end and then hung in the parking lot, waiting for traffic to die down and laughing at our inside jokes.  (Okay, so we were probably trying to sober up a bit, too, but it was still social.)

The weather's getting warm, and it makes me want the music.

I am absolutely that girl in the car next to you, who's singing at the top of her lungs, windows down 'cause she doesn't care who sees or hears her.  There's rarely ever a day that goes by that I'm not plugged in to my iPod or CD player or just my own memories of song, my voice fully embracing the vocal challenge before me. 

But the very, very best is when I'm at a show, and I'm right up front, and the music's so loud I can barely hear my own fortississimo voice over the singer's.  I thrive on the uber-bass that thumps so deep that I can't tell if it's my heart or the drums beating in my chest.  It's exciting and enticing and it drives my soul in ways that absolutely nothing else can.  Usually, if I'm that close, it's a band I love--especially if it's a general admission show where you're all-but-guaranteed a few sore ribs if you're against the rail.

When you're that close to the stage, you can see everything, just not at once.  You have to make a pointed effort to watch each musician, to look at the lights as they turn and sway above you blindingly, or to try to ignore the crew (and sometimes families) running around at the sides of the stage.  But you get to see the process.  You get to see what happens when the guitarist breaks a string (which seems to happen to Dave Matthews all the freaking time).  You get to see the close-up interactions of band mates, good or bad.  You get to see who drinks beer and who drinks water. 

You forget sometimes, from that vantage point, that the band can see everything you're doing.  The lights aren't always in their face like they're in yours when you're in the crowd, though spotlights can suck, I'm sure.  And when you're at the front like that, you get a lot of eye-to-eye contact, especially with the singers who really work their crowds.  Some are better at it than others, and some just have bad nights, certainly.  Honestly, it makes you feel special when the singer acknowledges you with a wink or a nod or a smile--it's just a heart-fluttering moment to be caught up in.

And then!  There are the most spectacular of evenings, when the singer (or the guitarist or the bassist, if that's where your groove is) comes to you as part of the show.  They'll stop right in front of you, singing or playing while they have your undivided attention.  It's this amazing little moment where you've connected with a virtual stranger.  You both get it, and--the crazy thing about it--everyone who sees you gets it. 

I'm a singer groupie chick (though I used to be a drummer groupie chick, but they don't move around the stage much), so I'm usually watching the singer and (gasp!) singing along, word for word and note for note to the very, very best of my abilities.  You never know when they might be watching you, you know? 

It's an especially intense moment if the singer gets someone from the crowd to sing with them.  Usually it's a mic held down to the fan for a few seconds.  But sometimes you'll see a singer who gets right in the fan's face with the microphone, singing to them and with them at the same time. 

To be that person... is MAGNIFICENT.  There's an incredible flow of energy that happens between the two of you.  No matter how many times you've heard him sing the song, no matter how many times you've sung along in your car or your shower, he's creating that version of that music in that moment with his voice.  He's putting it out there for the audience as a whole, but for you specifically, and you're taking it in and letting it wash over and through you and feeding it right back to him with your own voice.  There are a million thoughts in your head at once, and you're trying hard to remember the lyrics and to remember to breathe.  It's intensely intimate and fun and scary as hell, because you don't want to fuck it up in front of this person whose music obviously means something to you.

And if you're at one of those shows where the singer picks someone out of the crowd to entertain personally, it's always crazy to watch.  Sometimes you feel like you're intruding on their moment.  The truth is, you're not.  The singing fan probably has very little realization that you're even still there, that there's anything but them and the singer and the song, which is almost guaranteed to become their new favorite. 

So now it's almost time for summer and concerts and the music that I so adore.  I start next week with Adam Taylor at Smith's Olde Bar.  I have tickets for The Twilight Singers at Masquerade in May.  Cage the Elephant is about to go on sale, and I'm hoping to get news soon of Mumford & Sons, Taddy Porter, and I know They Might Be Giants will be on tour again later this year.  And, of course, my year won't be complete without a couple (dozen) of shows from The Gracious Few.  (There'd better be some singing involved, Kevin....)

The problem is, I'm impatient.  I want all of those shows now.  I don't like waiting for booking agents and bands and promoters to coordinate their schedules and fill their calendars.  I know how it works, I know what it takes to book tour dates, but it's worse than waiting for Christmas, really.  I always know when to expect the tree and the wrapping.  I don't know when I'll see the flashing par cans and lightly-scented fog, or when I'll hear the roar of the crowd as the house lights go down and the first strains of the opening song blast from the huge speakers, dragging my beating heart into the band's rhythm. 

I'm biding my time, plugged into the iPod, going on about my day as pleasantly as possible.  Smiling but impatient, breath abated.  And every time there's a new update via email or Twitter or Facebook, it's like sneaking a peek at the presents and just hoping it's the special surprise I want the most.

 

I returned a gilded man.

I talk a lot about my love of The Gracious Few.  I tell everyone, all the time, or so I'm sure it seems.  I won't go into all of the reasons I love them--you can check the archives for previous posts--but suffice it to say that I adore them.

I've been looping the debut CD again for the last several days, with the occasional non-TGF track thrown in for good measure.  Listening for what must be the thousandth time, seriously, I was struck by something about this album: it's very masculine.  That sounds kind of silly considering it's a band of five manly men.  (Well, four manly men and Kevin Martin....)  It's heavy on guitars (thank you, Chad Taylor and Sean Hennesy), and the drums and bass are ever-present (Chad Gracey and Patrick Dahlheimer, respectively).  Everything about it is in a guy's tone, though, even on the most melodic, ballady tracks, like "Crying Time" and "Sing".  Even on "Guilty Fever", when Kevin's voice approaches his full falsetto, there's never any doubt that this music comes from the deeply personal places of a man.

Amongst the many, many theories of psychology developed by Carl Jung, there are the archetypes of anima and animus, which are basically the female and male sides of men and women, respectively.  In other words, anima is the female psychic energy of the man, and animus is the male psychic energy of the female.  They represent the unconscious psychological qualities of the opposite gender that each person possesses. 

The idea (in a Stephanie-sized nutshell) is that we all originate from a zygotic state and therefore possess the traits of each gender in some capacity, the two parts equaling the whole.  For various reasons ranging from societal to genetic, we suppress one side more than the other, but the psyche has to find a way to let the other side speak.  Anything that taps into and expresses the subconscious can be an outlet for this psychic energy.  Dreams are commonly used by the psyche to work out its issues.  So are the arts, including music. 

And as I listen to The Gracious Few (2010) yet again, it hits me: there's no anima. 

Not once do I hear the music or the lyrics trying to tap into the female anything.  I remember Chad Taylor tweeting during the writing and recording process that they were writing a slow song so "your girl can cum too".  (Several female fans all said to Hell with that--the rock is what gets them off.  Very animus.)  I can only imagine that he was referring to "The Rest of You" or "What's Wrong", both of which are beautiful and powerful odes to the difficulties of love.  But those songs are decidedly male, and it's from the man's perspective that we hear the questioning of the viability of those song-specific relationships. 

 

"Appetite" and "Honest Man" are screaming rock tracks, definitely, but "Tredecim" (that's a free download link, btw) is the one that really oozes testosterone for me. According to an interview with Kevin Martin, the lyrics originated from a comment by Chad Taylor that he felt like he was in the Harvest Moon of his life, with the fullness and strength he was feeding on with the new material with the new band:

"It made me think of the calendars life that we follow each and every year in regards to how it would celebrate its life through story or song.  Beginning with the Harvest Moon and ending with the rebirth of life as in the birth of the Harvest, a year's cycle actually being thirteen in regards to the birth month not ending at twelve with death.  The lyrics represent that full heart, the tired Autumn, the sleep of Winter awakening with Spring and the birth of life. Ending with the statement 'my life has made me flatland" as in unending, no obstacles just plains running as far as the eyes can see, our 'calendar'."

 

FYI, the word tredecim is Latin for thirteen.  So it's about the thirteen-month life cycle, a year in life from beginning to end and beginning again, though it starts with the adult male, not the newborn. 

Tredecim is also the name of a fictional beast described by Hugh Chandler in Indeterminate People (1985).  It's the physical form of a symbiotic cluster of thirteen different species.  Chandler's creature is more than the sum of its parts; it is capable of language and thought in ways far superior to any single species of its make-up, and its intellectual abilities exceed the expected composite of the thirteen entities.  When the tredecim is broken back down into its parts, each species seems to remember what it did, though none has any understanding of why it performed or how its own actions contributed to the whole. 

As I ponder these greater things, it strikes me that this is much like the months-in-a-year comparison.  To take one month out of a full year doesn't really show much about the year itself.  Its impact and import may not be fully known until the annal as a whole can be seen in reflection.  The Harvest Moon may be stunning, but it's still only a beautiful full moon until you see its impact on growth and harvest cycles, whether literal or figurative, and understand how it originally came to be so big and bright. 

All of this to say, what a manly way of looking at it. 

Women would never compartmentalize a piece of something as separate from its whole.  To separate a bit from the original makes an entirely different thing.  To take the snakes from Medusa would just make her a crazy, evil bitch, not a mythological villain, even if her gaze can still turn men to stone.  (What woman doesn't possess that Evil Eye?)  Her true, menacing beauty comes from the slithering hatred and the story that led her to that form.

I started to think of some very feminine records.  Sarah MacLachlan's Fumbling Towards Ecstasy (1994) was the first one that came to mind.  Even with driving guitars and bass, it's still a total chick album.  Which is why, of course, Lilith Fair was started in 1997.  Poe's Haunted (2000) is another girl record. 

So then I started to think about my long and varied love of music.  The first song I remember singing was Elton John's "Bennie and the Jets".  The first band I really loved was Duran Duran, and Seven and the Ragged Tiger was my favorite album.  Later would come the Babys, the Kinks, INXS, David Bowie, the Doors, and Live, among many, many others.  I'm also really partial to glam and glitter, androgeny and cross-dressing, hence my love of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Liquid Sky, Velvet Goldmine (but only the Ewan MacGregor parts and the soundtrack), Scissor Sisters, T. Rex, and Eddie Izzard. 

I've always had a fascination for the heteroflexible, I guess.  What I know of almost all of the singers of the bands I mentioned--whether rumored or confirmed-- just feeds my fetish for manscara.  Even the most masculine of those singers, arguably Jim Morrison, was deeply in touch with his girly side in his writing and music.  Personally, I don't care if he was bisexual or not, though I'm not inclined to think so.  But songs like "Love Street" and "The Spy" and even "My Eyes Have Seen You" have a certain anima about them.

Then here's The Gracious Few without a female bone in its body.  I have openly admitted that my long-time love of Live is what led me to listen to TGF originally, but the quality of the music is what made me listen again.  And again.  And again.  No glitz, no glam: just honest-to-badness Rock and fuckin' Roll. 

Would I pay good money to see Kevin Martin in manscara and red glitter lipstick?  Probably.  Will he like that I said that?  Probably not.  But I feel confident that he, and the rest of the Gracious Few, are secure enough in their individual and collective manhood to take the compliment at the heart of this: it's a guy record. 

For me, the biggest surprise wasn't the realization of the masculinity of the album.  It was that I found I liked it even more. 

And I think that's the truest hallmark of a great album, that you can listen to it over and over (and over and over and over) and still find something new in it every single time. 

On a side note, I want to wish the Gracious Few and their cast and crew a wonderful, fantastic European mini-tour.  They just spent a few days in Pennsylvania for rehearsals before heading to Europe for their first dates there as TGF.  (They'd all been there before, certainly, as Live or Candlebox, but this is the first time the Gracious men went together as a band.)  We're all breathlessly awaiting updates and footage.  And U.S. tour dates.  Don't forget the U.S. tour dates! 

Enjoy your man time while you're on the road, gentlemen! 

[DISCLAIMER: I, Stephanie Quinn Jackson, am fully and completely aware that Kevin Martin of the Gracious Few is, completely and totally, a manly man with a fantastic sense of humor.  Really.  No need to fill my comments with admonishments otherwise.  Unless you're Kevin and feel the need to defend your personal masculinity.  In which case, put your manscara on first, then we'll talk.]

Danielle Barbe is one hot Freshman!

When I was getting ready to go to Chicago in November 2010 to see the Gracious Few (perfectly timed with a visit to my best friend and her family), I was pleased to see there was a female opening act, Danielle Barbe.  I didn't know who the hell she was, but it was good to see a chick on the bill.  So I went to look her up.  (Young.  Pretty.  Soprano.  From Pittsburgh.  Got it.)

At the time, there were a couple of free downloads available, including "Ghost Town", the first track on her self-titled debut album.  (I think the other track was "No Excuses", but I can't quite be sure any more, having now listened to the entire CD so many times.)  I liked them both but honestly didn't give them more than a couple of listens.  I was still totally immersed in the Gracious Few's debut album--to the complete and utter annoyance of pretty much everyone around me.  But I liked what I heard, so I was actually looking forward to the opening act.

Of course, I was there very early, drinking my vodka drink (I can tub-thump with the best of 'em!) after my chat with Kevin Martin and some quick tapas.  The BFF and I were right in front, almost dead center of the stage.  So here comes Ms. Barbe and her band, and I'm immediately struck by how gorgeous she is.  Just adorable.  Hair everywhere. 

And when she opens her mouth to sing, she has a huge, big voice.  She reminded me in a lot of ways of Fleming McWilliams of Fleming and John.  Drunk but not oblivious, I immediately recognized "Ghost Town".  I spent a lot of time dancing along and double-fisting the horrible screwdrivers.  THEN she launched into a really pretty song.  It sounded so familiar.  "In the Meantime".  Spacehog!

Spacehog is one of those bands that I love but often forget about when I go to grab a CD for the car.  (Orbit is another one.  And Garbage.)  I don't know a lot of people, personally, who listen to Spacehog, so I'm always excited when I meet someone else who knows anything by them.  I know, "In the Meantime" was their big single, but it still makes me happy, like it's a great shared secret.

So Danielle Barbe and her band finish their set.  Yay!  Time for more vodka!  After the craziness of the Gracious Few show, the BFF and I end up chatting with Danielle and her own BFF while I'm buying my copy of her CD.  (Hear that, American Bang?  I didn't buy your CD!)  She was even more gorgeous in person, and she was also very sweet and funny. 

Back at home in Atlanta, it took me a couple of weeks to get back around to her CD, though, because I was still so engrossed in the Gracious Few.  (It's a powerful addiction, that one!)  But then! I popped her into the CD player in the car one afternoon, and I was immediately hooked.  She has this great, un-annoying soprano voice.  And she's not a whiney girl who only sings about getting a man or keeping a man or losing a man.  There are songs about love in all of its varied stages, certainly, but even at her most tenderly melodic, she doesn't simper about it. 

I'm planning to do more with the lovely Ms. Barbe in the near future, so I'm not going into a ton of detail about her music right now.  I will say that my favorite tracks on this CD are "Wango Tango" and "Nothing Stays the Same".  Both kick my girly ass and take me to a great place.  (When the dream is breaking down/when the scream don't make a sound/pick up all the pieces on the ground/Don't wanna be the lonely one/I know I'm not the only one tryin' to understand)

Now, this brings me to my point.  Today is the first day that the video for her single "Ghost Town" is up as a contender in this week's Freshman poll on mtvU.  Five videos go head-to-head each week for a coveted spot in video rotation.  But I know you're asking yourself, Do music videos still matter? 

You bet they do. 

Even though MTV, as a lot of us remember it, ceased to exist long ago as cheaply-produced reality TV became the mainstay of their line-up, music videos cater to the frenetic, visually-dependent society we thrive in, especially across social media.  I know that when I'm listening to a song and think I'd like to share it on my Facebook, I prefer to find a video for the song.  Plus, the generation these Freshmen are trying to attract don't know life without MTV. 

"I used to rush home from school just to watch TRL and see the latest music videos on TV," says the early-twenty-something Barbe.  "Even though that show is now long gone, I'm happy to see that MTV is still supporting music videos.  I think every artist still dreams of being on MTV.  It's still such a huge part of our culture, and it's thrilling to be a part of this."

I also talked recently of supporting up-and-coming artists.  They're working their asses off and really deserve the chance to share their art and talents with the public.  Most of them are aware they aren't likely to go on and make a gazillion dollars a year doing what they love--though they'd all certainly take it if it happened.  But they're working, constantly, to hone their craft and support themselves as productive members of society. 

Danielle Barbe has no qualms about reminding you of this: "Go vote and support music videos.  Support the people who worked hard to make them and the artists who still think it's important to make them. It's a lot of work!"

Because it's back on the air, and I'm always thinking about my own answer to the question, I asked Barbe what her song of choice would be, if she had to be on American Idol.  One song, one shot.  What would it be?

"I'm not sure," she said.  "I just started to tune into Idol again because Steven Tyler is just so great on there.  I think I'd do something by Carole King or Stevie Nicks.  I grew up singing their songs.  I think it's important to do a song that's meaningful to you and suits your voice."

So I'm asking you to go to the mtvU website and give this girly a shot to sing her own songs.  Somewhere there's a little girl who's going to grow up singing "Ghost Town" into her hairbrush in front of her dresser mirror.  (My own boys sing "Explosive Minute" all the time.  Seriously.)  You can bond with her when you tell her about the first time you saw the video and helped get it on MTV.

Whether it's the music lover in you, or the lingering kid with your own hopes and dreams, or the edgy patron of the arts, isn't there some reason you can find to go click and vote a few (dozen) times?  Maybe the feminist in you needs a little push from Danielle:  "I just happened to notice I'm the only woman in this poll - go support a young female rock artist!"

Danielle Barbe - New Music - More Music Videos

No other slayer, no-how.

So I'm having a crisis of confidence today.  I'm in the middle of writing a fiction piece that's been brewing for a long time.  I'd let it sit for ages, busy with life, I guess.  I was a productive member of society, but I wasn't really working on anything for me.  Until this past October.

For my birthday (August 27th, for future reference), Dear Hubby bought me tickets to see the Gracious Few in Atlanta at the Masquerade.  I have been a LIVE fan since 1994 and had seen them dozens and dozens of times, under all kinds of circumstances.  The official announcement of their hiatus (read, "break-up") in 2009 wasn't surprising in the least, but it was painful.  All those years of built-up groupie energy were just... gone.  At the end of their time together, the Gracious Few was born, made up of Chad Gracey, Chad Taylor, and Patrick Dahlheimer of LIVE, plus Kevin Martin and Sean Hennesy of Candlebox.  (I was also a Candlebox fan, though not nearly to the same extent.  Kevin was too much of a pretty boy for me (in the 1990's anyway, compared to Ed Kowalczyk and his shaved head).

So, anyway, the Gracious Few CD came out September 14th, and it sat on my desk for nearly two weeks before I could bear to open it.  It was like meeting Dad's new girlfriend for the first time.  I wasn't really sure I would tolerate it, let alone like it.  What if she was a total strumpet?  Where would I be then?  When I finally did give it a listen, I fell head-over-heels in love.  It's a really fantastic rock album.  It's not alternative, it's not adult contemporary, just balls-to-the-walls rock.  And it's really good.  (Try it!  You'll like it!)  It's one of a handful of albums I have ever immersed myself in for weeks on end.  My poor boys were subjected to it three and four times a day.  Three months later, it's still my favorite playlist for working out--it makes me want to sweat!

   DH and I went to the Masquerade, sat in the will-call line, made it inside.  Six Shot Revival was surprisingly good and had some hard core fans in the audience.  American Bang was fun.  Then the Gracious Few came on.  There were maybe 150 people there (based on what I saw when I turned around from the

front), nothing like the thousands upon thousands both LIVE and Candlebox have traditionally entertained.  (Interestingly, TGF was playing in the Hell theater.  GWAR was upstairs in Heaven.  Their fake blood ended up dripping through the ceiling in Hell before the show was over.  It was fucking weird.)  I could go on ad infinitum (read, "ad nauseum") about why I loved that show and that music and that band.  That was the first night I got to sing with Kevin Martin from stage.  (Though I haven't seen the video or pictures, I grasp desperately to the hope that it didn't suck like it did in Chicago in November.) 

Something happened for me after that night, though, that kicked my ass into gear.  I went home and started writing again, working on this story that had been stagnating for two or three years.  This all happened to be timed with the realization that I'd lost my muchness.  DH let me check out of my life for a couple of days, and I went to Birmingham to see TGF again.  I had a remarkable time hanging out with them the night before the show, just talking about anything and nothing.  I holed up in my hotel for most of my two days in Birmingham and wrote.  And wrote and wrote and wrote.

I realized I had some verisimilitude issues.  I needed some details that I couldn't really research online, and I certainly didn't have the experiential knowledge to fill in the gaps I was finding.  I took a shot in the dark and emailed Mr. Martin and asked if he would be willing to chat with me in Chicago, before yet another TGF show.  I openly admitted that I didn't necessarily expect a response, let alone willing participation, but I was in a "nothing ventured, nothing gained" mood.  To my delighted surprise, he agreed to meet with me.  We met at the venue and talked for about an hour, the evening before the show.  I had tons of questions, and he had unexpected answers for me.  My brain churned for days, I emailed him more questions, and I was writing even more.

I was at less than 12,000 words at the first of October, leftovers from when this process had originally begun.  As of yesterday, I'm up to 95,973, and I'm about two-thirds of the way through the story, I think.  Here's the rub:

I can either continue on this path that I have laid out for myself and these characters, or I can backtrack and change direction all together.  To go forward is new, but based on a concrete past determined by the choices I have already made, both in the story and in pre-production notes.  The subject matter at this point is emotionally challenging and will continue to be so for a while.  There will eventually be a good resolution; this is ultimately a love story.  This path was planned long, long ago.  The original snippets of story were written based on these ideas and this plan.  But it's hard.

Or, I can go back and undo the harshest parts of the story and still continue on to the resolution.  It would be easier, less likely to be judged harshly by the third-party eyes that will eventually be laid on it. 

Do I want to paint the white roses red?

All day, I've been going back to the Jabberwocky.  Tim Burton's version of the Jabberwocky, mind you, slain by Alice on Frabjous Day.  The Jabberwocky is definitely the embodiment of my crisis of confidence, as it was for Alice.  Her path to slaying the Red Queen's pet with the Vorpal Sword has been laid out in the Oraculum.  Her path seems to have been decided by choices made in the concrete past.

                Alice stared at the picture of the horrible monster that was winging its way toward them.  She saw her golden hair flying as she wielded the Vorpal Sword, but she still couldn't imagine how it would feel--the thunk of the blade slicing into flesh, the scrape of its long sharp claws against her pale skin.  She was not a killer.  How could she kill anything...let alone Underland's most dreaded creature?

                Overwhelmed, Alice turned and ran out of the courtyard.  She bolted through the castle and out into the gardens until she found the hedge maze, where she threw herself onto a garden bench and wept.

                "Nothing was ever accomplished with tears," observed a voice.  Alice lifted her tear-streaked face and looked around.

                "Absolem?"

Absolem, the Blue Caterpillar, is spinning himself a chrysalis to transform into a butterfly.  Alice begs him not to go:

                "I need your help.  I don't know what to do!"

                "I can't help you if you don't even know who you are, stupid girl."

But Alice does know.  She tells Absolem, and reminds herself, of all the wonderful ways in which she is Alice Kingsleigh.  She draws upon the power of that epiphany and straps on the armor and sword of the White Queen's champion.  Alice steps up to slay the Jabberwocky.  She comments to the Mad Hatter that it's an impossible task, but then she reminds herself that she sometimes believes "as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

The Jabberwocky doesn't see Alice as his enemy, though; that's the Vorpal Sword.  Absolem tells Alice, "Remember, the Vorpal Sword knows what it wants.  All you have to do is hold on to it."  As Alice fights, she remembers the six impossible things she has learned while in Underland.  And while she's working through her own issues of self-confidence, the Vorpal Sword continues to battle the Jabberwocky, seemingly of its own accord.  Alice jumps in the air and slices the Jabberwocky's head off.

                Alice was too exhausted to speak, but the dead creature's head seemed to say everything.

Alice always had the choice to not fight.  The events detailed in the Oraculum weren't guaranteed to come true until they had actually happened.  Even though she had the support of her talking animal friends, ultimately it was Alice's decision, as she learns before her battle:

                "Alice," said the White Queen, "you cannot live your life to please others.  The choice must be yours because when you step out to face that creature, you will step out alone."

I have the choice to not follow the illustrations of my Oraculum, to ignore the character sketches and story outlines that were decided so long ago, based on some inspiration that I may or may not remember.  I don't have someone else to be my champion now.  Perhaps I let my Vorpal Sword, my thoughts and words, run of their own volition and finish this battle.  Can I believe my own impossibilities and let myself slay these misgivings?   

This choice is solely and squarely on my shoulders.  How I wish I could run to a hedge maze and cry!  I'm sure my Absolem would remind me to not be stupid and to know who I am, were he not tangled in his own gilded chrysalis. 

Twinkle, twinkle, little bat! How I wonder where you're at!

I love music.  I always have.  All kinds of music.  I remember spending long hours locked away in my bedroom, flipping albums over and reading along with the lyrics and liner notes in time to the music.  Looking back, I'm sure my dad's downstairs neighbors had to have loved INXS's Listen Like Thieves as much as I did, right?  And no one has ever sounded better singing along with Michael Hutchence.  (I so totally should've won Rock Star:INXS.)

Music was a big deal in my house from a very early age.  I was raised on daily doses of the Eagles, the Doobie Brothers, Elton John (before he sucked), Billy Joel (before he was an ass) and Linda Rondstadt.  I loved nothing more than choosing the albums for the day at home with my mom, stacking them on the turntable, and singing my little strawberry blonde heart out.  The first song I remember singing is "Bennie and the Jets", though all I knew was the "B-b-b-bennie and the Jetssssss!"  I knew all the words to "Hotel California" long before I ever knew what a colita was.  And my grandmother famously tells of how I spent hours one summer on her front porch--my concrete stage--serenading her suburban Atlanta neighborhood with the repetitive strains of "Delta Dawn".  (I'm so sorry, Kennesaw!)

I did my first performance at an All-County music festival in the 6th grade, moved on to choir in junior high where I performed with the grade level choirs, the girls' choir, and the smaller 16-person chamber choir.  I did a short stint in choir in high school but found that singing melancholy songs of teenage angst in my bedroom was much more fulfilling to my tortured psyche than any six-part Latin piece would ever be.  I did a couple of homegrown musical theatre performances and even toyed with the idea of taking opera lessons.  But I can tell you from experience that it's really hard to sing scales for hours on end when you're hung-over.  And nothing will make your tongue trip over 1-3-5-3-1-5-1 interval patterns like cotton mouth. 

I still spend hours listening to music, picking apart the bass line, or comparing how the countermelody of the guitar syncs with the singer's voice.   For me it's always about the lyrics and the vocals, so intimately tied together.  But good lyrics can overcome a less-than-perfected vocal talent, a là Leonard Cohen or Greg Dulli, both of whom I adore unconditionally. 

And then there are the harmonies.

I'm firmly planted, vocally, in the alto camp.  I can remember many times of having to lip sync lyrics in group performances because my line would traipse into first soprano territory.  I have been moved into the tenor section on more than one occasion, when they were lacking boys whose voices had settled yet, or just because it was a better vocal fit.  So I have spent a lot of time singing harmony.  I like to pick the harmony line out of my favorite songs, or sometimes I will make up my own.  As Adam Taylor expressed to me recently, you feel like you're helping the singer and the music, making it richer and more complicated. 

So imagine my surprise when I lost my voice.  Oh, yeah.  After my second son was born in 2004, I never felt quite right.  At my one-year check-up, my OB/GYN found a growth on my thyroid.  Two months later I was having a partial thyroidectomy, to remove the right lobe.  Apparently my thyroid sat very, very close to the laryngeal nerve, and the only way for the surgeon to make sure the nerve was intact was to move it.  It was moved a lot.  The nerve went into shock and didn't work for three months. 

There I was with 5-year-old and 1-year-old boys, each raising their own kind of hell, and no way to yell at them.  I didn't just need to yell at them to stop torturing the cat or to keep their voices down.  I needed to be able to get their attention in a parking lot or on the playground.  I needed to call for help across the house when a diaper had unexpectedly ruptured. 

And I needed to sing.  By that point in time, early 2006, those years of singing and practice had reduced me to singing "The Wheels on the Bus" 342 times a day, almost exclusively in the car.  When my elder son was 18-months-old, we took our first family vacation to Gulf Shores.  He was so agitated from the onset of toddlerdom and the Benadryl we foolishly slipped into his apple juice, he screamed from Greenville, Alabama, to Birmingham.  I had to sit in the back seat with him and sing every word of the Dragon Tales soundtrack CD to keep him quiet.   When my throat was too parched to continue, I resorted to singing to my husband, "Ple-ase, we neeeed to get some w-a-a-a-teeerrr...."

For three months I did my best to not lose control when I could only stage whisper.  I could barely talk, let alone sing.  Eventually the nerve started to work again.  The surgeon warned me that sometimes the voice was not the same, though not everyone would be able to hear the difference.  He was right, of course, which is why he was the most sought-after thyroid surgeon in Birmingham. 

I was reluctant to even attempt to sing, afraid of what I would find.  The range had dropped, both on the top and bottom, by a couple of notes.  The timbre was a little different, though perhaps a bit richer.  I stuck with the easy melodies I knew best, the ones that were least taxing on my stagnated vocal chords.  Eventually I did move back to the harmonies I love: Johnette Napolitano on "(You're the Only One) Can Make Me Cry", Elaine Summers on Pete Droge's "Straylin Street", and anything else I could find to wrap my voice around.

Recently I had the distinct and wonderful chance to sing my current favorite song, "Silly Thing" by the Gracious Few, at the Double Door in Chicago, with the ever-delightful Kevin Martin.  He'd been sweet and sung with me at a show a few weeks before in Atlanta.  He knew how much I loved the song, the entire album, and pulled me into the song from the edge of the stage.  I started fine, we had great fun; he left me to do his regular show but then came back before the song was over.  I was nervous and excited and drunk.  I decided to go for the harmony on the full chorus.  Apparently so did Kevin.  I knew at the time it was off, but not until I saw the video a few days later did I know how awful it was.  I was so caught up in the interval of the harmony that I stayed on it, moving from wherever the heck Kevin's voice was.  I can laugh about it, because it's really funny and I'm that kind of self-deprecating girl.   But it was also a little heart-wrenching, that I had this moment to shine and barely glittered. 

Since I had the boys, it seems there's been a constant search for my voice.  I can hear it now, though it doesn't always sound to others the same way it does to me.  Ultimately, though, it's my voice.  I can't rely on anyone else to define it for me, to lead me to use it in any certain way.  Sometimes I may be forced to sing for the Red Queen, but I will sing it in my own style, even if it costs me my head.