Snark Watch

Wow. I got a bit snarky last night in my post. I'd apologize but I stand by the snark.

Choice

Actually, Miss California, we do NOT live in a "land where you can choose", but perhaps the botox that you used on your lips went a bit further north into your brain and you were just, um, a bit, um, befuddled. Or perhaps you missed that, um, vote in your State. About Gay Marriage. Where now you cannot chose. In California.

Now go back to your tanning bed.

Greenwich Morning

Perry Street, NYC. One of those West Village streets you wander on a spring morning, the trees are just beginning to bud, the asphalt holds the echo of last night's rain, the little squares of soil where the trees stand on the sidewalk are fresh-wet, and everything smells a bit like the inside of a tin coffee cup in your grandma's kitchen.  The sky is greywhite but with enough brightness to justify the sunglasses no matter the lack of sun.  There are independent bookstores, small cupcake shops, non-Starbucks coffee places (my favorite is right there at the end of that block, you can almost see it).  I like these little brushes of green in the grey. I like the walking of this village, the winding of this village. And the bursts of color that creep up one morning after the sky has opened up as if to say Enough to the winter who creeps away with his tail between his legs.

Rainy Mondays

Rainy and cold out. I think I'm too old for this:

But just the right age for this:

Which would go better with this:

Chicago to Jersey City

My 4 show swing to Chicago was filled with change, emotions, music, friends, support, love, loss and some shoes. In grief, one must find levity. Breathing and laughing help.   Last night at the show, John dropped his guitar. A sad sad moment....

I got to play 3 shows with my old friend John Abbey, one of my favorite musicians and people, a brilliant bass player and guitar player, King of All That Is the New York Yankees (despite his migration to the windy city), and all around good egg. We had a blast with a small, yet fierce crowd at the Uncommon Ground on Devon.  A lovely newish venue, large room, Miguel on great sound. Awesome wine and a menu for musicians that had healthy and good food (macaroni & cheese with 4 cheeses! salads! not just fried bar food). I love this place. They treat you really well and have a wonderful place to hear music while having a nice dinner. The next night I played solo at Nancy & Peter Clark's house concert in Oak Park, re-meeting old acquaintances and making new friends, and converting some new house concert attendees who seemed a bit nervous about what it was all about (I told them that the human sacrifices didn't start till the second set). Nancy & Peter made me dinner of beef stew (yum! my favorite). Lovely people. Lovely home. I wore my new boots. :) The next night was the radio show at WFMT which was also really fun.  A great live in-studio audience. John and I did a 1/2 hour warmup show and then the "On Air" light went on and we had our hourlong (almost) show and it seemed to go fairly smoothly. Been suffering with seasonal allergies so hacking through that veil of hayfever mucus was just going to sound awful on the radio, so I had my Throat Coat tea nearby. A small glass of whiskey or Oban scotch would have done nicely too, but I thought that might be too much for folk radio. :) Rich Warren the host couldn't have been nicer or more supportive and I almost sold out of my CDs.  I had hoped to go to the Field Museum or the Modern Art on Sunday, but understandably spent the day in the hotel room, writing and reading and connecting with my family. That night, John and I met up in Evanston to play Bill's Blues, a great little club. A nice audience for a rainy Sunday night, including old friends from college days. It was a lovely capper to a nice 4 days in one of my favorite cities.  

Came home today

to rain and chill in Jersey, but a few lovely suprises while I did my laundry readying for the journey to my family. A new bike shop opened up near me. Since my bike was stolen from Yakima off my van last year, I've been lusting after a Specialized Dolce and voila! Here's my new fav

orite store. Of course, I'm going to have sell a lot of CD's for this bike. Maybe I'll start a penny jar. But it bodes well for my cool little neighborhood on this side of the Hudson. 

And in the four days since I left, my backyard has gone green! Never underestimate the healing powers of a little tree in a city backyard.

April showers....

Radio angels

My beloved Uncle Will passed away today. I know it might be unseemly to pass this news along to strangers, blog about something that hurts so much. But I'm in a hotel room in Chicago alone after a very satisfying show that I know many of you heard, where I mentioned my Uncle, and I feel like since in the past few weeks I've sung my song "Piece By Piece" and dedicated it to both my Uncle and my father, maybe some of you have shared in this story.  I can't cry anymore alone here. I didn't know what else to do. I ordered some food. Got a beer. And I'll write. 

My Dad and my Uncle Will are identical twins, the kind of identical twins that laugh outloud together at something that silently passed between them. The kind of identical that after 41 years on this planet with both of them as mirror images in my life, I still had moments when I wasn't sure who was whom. Uncle Will is softer than my Dad. Uncle Will is thinner than my Dad. Uncle Will was the gentler version of my father. I always felt like Uncle Will wouldn't get mad at me or punish me. Not that my Dad was scary or always punishing. My Dad is my hero. But he's MY Dad so there were times when I deserved punishing and he was the one doling it out. I always imagined Uncle Will would let me slide. 

For as long as I can remember, my Dad and my Uncle have been playing seriously competitive tennis against each other and each family gathering boasts another victory, another chalk mark for one of them. We all, my brothers and sister, my two cousins, grew up with rackets in our hands. My cousin Stan has evolved into the family champion, but he still wouldn't beat my 72 year old father and his dad.  My guess is that the last game the twins played where they were both in equal health was last summer. My guess is my Uncle died a match up on my Dad. 

My Uncle was less an uncle and more like my substitute father. As a kid, I imagined sometimes swapping out. Uncle Will taught me how to hold the tennis racket. Uncle Will let me ride the big John Deere tractor. 

My best memories of my life are of the summer weeks we'd spend at the beach together, our two families, blended into one, husbands and wives joining as if they'd always been there, babies growing into toddlers into children knowing that these were no cousins, these were no Great Uncles, but more like a double set of grandparents and brothers. My cousins Stan and Brandon are brothers to me. We'd rent adjacent houses, sharing crab boils and cases of beer, playing games and laughing, toasting to our luck having been born in this amazing family of love. Having known that kind of support.

One of my greatest regrets right now is that 2 years ago, at their 70th birthday party, I was booked to play a show at the Sundance Film Festival, which I thought was some big IMPORTANT show. Something that might change my career. I might get heard by the RIGHT people. It turned out to be no more than playing a set in a bar for a bunch of loud indie film people who could have cared less about my folk songs, and a few of my good friends who already knew my music. I could have easily blown that week off and my career wouldn't have suffered one iota. But I made the mistake of choosing that over staying home for a family dinner to celebrate a milestone. At the time, I thought, well, I'll make a promise to be there for the 75th birthday dinner, which will be HUGE. 

I am writing this tonight, because just a few hours ago I had the great privilege of playing a show on WFMT in Chicago, a radio show that was broadcast on the web.  I was only to play for exactly 58 minutes and Rich Warren, the host, gave me the 5 minute warning just as I'd finished "Double Wide Trailer" which was to be my 3rd from last song. I was then planning on playing a new song, "Its Too Late To Call It A NIght" and then ending with "Piece By Piece", a song I wrote for my Dad 2 years ago when my Uncle Frank passed away suddenly. It ends with "If you fall down, I will be there on my knees. If you break down, cause you'll break down, I can sing you to sleep, put you back when you're weak, piece by piece."  When Rich held the 5 minute warning up, I sped right to "Piece By Piece" and took up 3 minutes of my time talking about my Uncle and my father, dedicating the song to both of them. I knew I couldn't sing the whole song, so I sang the first verse, a chorus and went directly to the last verse, a verse directly to my Dad. I almost didn't make it, and felt rushed, but also felt like I needed to sing that, even if it was an abbreviated version of this song. After the show, after mostly everyone had left, I took my phone out of my bag, saw that there were messages from my brother and sister and called my brother to find out that my Uncle had passed.

Singing the show tonight, I had a moment when I was looking up at the ceiling of the studio room, and I just felt like I was flying, like I was doing the thing I loved best, like no matter if I never made money from this career, or if this was the high point of it all, I was so elated to have had the chance to do THIS show, TONIGHT, with THIS audience, singing THESE songs. 

Maybe that was my Uncle's pat of approval from his position up in the stars, an angel amongst us.

Wicker Park Shopping Stroll

Chicago in the spring is a lovely sunshiney thing. No wind and everyone is outside walking. I'm here for 4 shows this weekend, a bit of overkill, but I'm happy to be staying in one place downtown for the duration, spending my days sleeping late and writing and wandering neighborhoods, shoe shopping and museum hopping, then nights singing for my supper. Watching the news and seeing the snow in Colorado, I'm happy to be here, on a blue sky lake, in a light jacket. I wandered Wicker Park yesterday, mostly window shopping. Oh, crap, who am I kidding. I'm entirely incapable of "window" shopping. I just spent money. Money I don't have, but I saw these boots and this boy who sold them and ... well ... had to buy the boots. And then this cool dress shop owned by the woman who makes the dresses. Stuff I would not find in NYC. And its tax-free weekend and everything's on sale and it just makes me more motivated to sell CDs. Sing for my supper Nah. Sing for my wardrobe, really. I realize its probably a sign of internal restlessness and some kind of medicator for whatever ails me, but still...

Surprise Party

So, to clarify last night's blog, I meant NOT to say anything at all untoward about the venue, if you're guessing the venue. Its a spectacular place to play. I loved it. I'd go back in a heartbeat. Do not think one table of talkers changes that....

But that venue was THE venue in town. The big one. The one we all want to play. And the one I played tonight was the unknown quantity. The little engine that could. The underground one. The place you go on Thursday nights to hear local songwriters work out new material. The place that you walk into and the bartendress has already poured your drink and there's a photo of you on the wall from a party a few years ago, stuck in between the other regulars' photos. The place where the owner makes a big pan of lasagna and brings it in to serve as dinner. The place you'd miss if you weren't looking. Not the place with the expensive ads in the paper. The local joint. A joint.

And that's where I played tonight. The joint. But the joint was full. Packed. And people listened. Intently. And were kind. And laughed and smiled and drank and enjoyed themselves. And I ate homemade lasagna and drank wine that wasn't the best wine but beat anything I'd had lately because it was bought by a few new fans who were cool and kind and talked to me. And this guy told me an amazing story about how his father took him to see the first show of "Camelot" in the 1950s that came through Toronto and when he was a kid he had 3rd row center seats to hear Julie Andrews in that production and how his father, who was a teacher, loved the theater and this guy had such a light in his eye sharing this story with me. And then someone else asked me about the guitar I was playing and the pickup and we were talking gear. And the owner was happy to have me. And another person bought my CD only to write inside it something and give it back to me as a gift. Inside he wrote:

"In my vulnerability, my safety lies"

And gifts come out of the place you aren't expecting.....

March Rant

To: The table that sat directly in front of center stage, down front, at my latest show

From: Amy, the working folk singer, just trying to get through a set that you paid $15 to see

Dear Gabfest:

Let me start by saying this. I am not angry. I am simply perplexed. I'm perplexed as to why, between what seemed like 6 of you, maybe 7, maybe 5 (it was dark, the lights were in my eyes, please forgive me), you paid $15 a head, which comes to a good amount of money for the night, plus dinner, plus drinks (multiple drinks) at no cheap-bar price, and that big ass piece of chocolate cake the one lone respectful (and quiet, bless her heart) woman at your table ordered...I'm perplexed at the amount of money you spent to sit down front and center at my show (or if you came to hear the opening act, you at least stayed for my show, so thank you) and if you spent all that money, why did you talk consistently, very very loudly, through the entire show? Did you hear a word of the show? I'm concerned for you, see, and this is why I write you this letter. Did you realize there were many bars, very nearby, walking distance even, that could have saved you a few bucks, maybe even a hundred, if you'd have chosen them? You could have sat with a jukebox as your background noise, maybe listened to a few bars of Bryan Adams (not Ryan for you, oh no. Bryan) while you discussed your latest breakups loudly. At the bar. Where loud conversations are expected. I'm just baffled. Why go to a folk club. Seriously? A folk music club to have a loud conversation over the folk singer. And not just some dark hideaway, pass the hat, cheap beer folk club like you'd expect on Bleecker Street in NYC or in some University town with some eager co-ed strumming a Martin, singing Pete Seeger songs while Frat Boys throw popcorn and peanuts his way a la John Belushi. Nope. You chose a well-respected "listening room." Basically, a theater. With a high ticket price. You had to make that decision. You walked in the doors, reached into your wallets, pulled out your money, paid the cover charge, sat down at the table, chose the freaking center down front table, ordered dinner, spent a wad of cash and then...

PROCEEDED TO TALK NON-STOP VERY LOUDLY AND VERY RUDELY I MIGHT ADD THROUGH MY ENTIRE HOURLONG SET.

If I weren't so pissed off, I might applaud you, because quite honestly, that took some lung power, to talk so constantly, about seemingly nothing. And to ignore the pleas of the waiter who kindly and gently suggested you take your 4th Vodka Tonic to the bar. To ignore the "shush"s of other patrons. 

Did you think when I stared at you during my quiet ballads that I was attracted to you or seducing you? Did you get that I was just trying to get your attention and shame you into shutting up? No. Did you understand when, instead of singing more loudly, I muted my guitar playing, got off the microphone, stood in front of the monitors on the edge of the stage and sang without amplification to the room, smiling at you, did you get that that was a gesture FOR you?

No. You kept talking.

When I engaged you, asked you if you were having a good time, desperate to try any measures to get you involved so you'd discontinue your blathering... nothing was working. I had to bite my tongue from shouting "SHUT THE FUCK UP" or even saying something kind like "I can't concentrate here. Can I impose upon you to move to the bar?"

No. You got none of this. And what is truly amazing and baffling is that at the end of the show, you came to me with the CD of mine that you bought and a pen poised and asked me for my autograph. Did you hear a word of what I sang?

So to the table that talked consistently. Thank you for being there. Thank you for your purchase of my CD. Thank you for teaching me that sometimes there are no tricks in my bag to charm or quiet or disarm my audience. That sometimes there's nothing to do but play despite the Storm.

And one last thing. I'll buy you a round next time if you'd just go next door and leave me alone.

Warm Regards,

Amy Speace