Reuning

I should be sleeping. Maybe I am, and this is a sleepwalk, this wide-awake half-dream I'm in, back in my own adult life, reflecting on returning to a place I spent 4 years of my youth. I am certainly sleep-deprived and, admittedly, still a bit hungover (thanks to Liz Garland's reprovement at about midnight that I was way too sober for a 20th college reunion, as she led me to the large bottle of Cuervo). But the haze is worth the price of admission for the past few days of tripping and stumbling down memory lane.

Reunions have the capacity to make anyone shrivel into a ball of self-doubt, no matter how much false bravado worn like red lipstick. We throw hand-shadows at the walls of our old dorms, proving -- mostly to ourselves but also to others -- that we deserved the cap and gown, we were bright young things and we have made Something of Ourselves. And then we watch the shadows we create play, grow, perhaps get out of control and move independently of our fingers and we wonder what is real and what is parlour trickery? We measure ourselves against our former selves, then we backslap and handshake and measure this mirrored thing against their mirrored thing until we're all just walking down runways. Or at least that's what a reunion has the capacity to create. Shallow conversations, clustering years into a blurb, asking someone how they are without really hearing the answer. This is what we expect from a reunion. That, and free booze. And dancing to "Rock Lobster".

And perhaps that's what is done at the early reunions, 5 years out, 10 years out, parading our jobs and careers and cars and wives and children as proof of our consequence on earth, post-college.

What I found this weekend was quite different. A measure of...well...measure. Connection. A sense that this community is a vital one and an important one to me, not just for those long-long-ago brief years before my knees creaked, but now. And maybe, the wonder and blessing for me is, that most especially now.

I remember the 5th Reunion. I was 27, adrift professionally and personally, wanting to Matter, surrounded by people already (seemingly) on their way, whether in graduate school or professionally. I still hadn't heard my calling yet, and was lonely. And the posturing was fairly evident. I was still fairly freshly out of this environment, still missing it somewhat, the people, the ease of the day, the rigor of the reading. I remember dancing joyously, ecstatically, almost dervishly, hoping the whirl of our movements might slow time, rewind. I missed the 10th. Returned with my then-husband to the 15th. There were babies of others' by then, we'd all multiplied, a bit more stable and rooted in our adult feet. More real that time. We had sunk further into our becoming. I still felt adrift and not yet anywhere.

So to my 20th. In some ways I've always been a bit of a late bloomer, and these past 5 years have felt more like a quickening. Certainly this time, I could return to my college armed with a career and accomplishments, not having to suffer the "So, are you still doing that music thing?" At this point, most of us could (whether the accomplishments were quiet or loud, personal or professional). I also returned armed with failure and acquiescence, clarity and acceptance of the murkiness. And from brief and strong encounters with my classmates, I felt we all did. There was a realness this time. Shedding of the skin. We have famous and extremely accomplished friends amongst, we have classmates who have amassed a great amount of wealth, we have classmates who lead quietly devotional lives, who have had great conversions, who have failed and fallen, who have raised children and devoted their time to their families, we have classmates who have suffered cancer and run marathons and we have classmates who we lost along the way. There's something about a small college experience, where faces are as familiar as rain, when returning to see those faces older, thinner, lined with joy and pain, you feel a homecoming serenity. Might not have liked all of them, but without these faces, most of whom you barely knew, the landscape wouldn't be right. Look across a tent decorated like a wedding cake, and see the 40 year old faces of the 18 year old you'd pass every morning in the hallway, muttering a polite hello, or the boy you once thought you could love now with his beautiful wife and children, or the beautiful girl who intimidated you still beautiful but the hardness softened....

Maybe the days of the puppet shadows are passing. Maybe as we have been bruised in our quest up the hill, holding on tightly to the spouse or the children or the career or the friends, we return to a very small portion of our past, such few days together, really, in the scope of a lifetime. But what days....

Big Star Tribute, Memphis

May 19, 2010

I drove to Memphis on Friday to rehearse for the Big Star Tribute Concert at the Levitt Bandshell on Saturday May 16. Its an easy 3 hour drive (if I can go 70 + the whole way) from Nashville. Got to the hotel in just enough time to check in and gather my guitar for the rehearsal. Jody Stephens met me and Brendan Benson (and wife Britt and 3 week old baby Declan!) to drive over to the private house we'd be rehearsing in. A beautiful house with a private studio in the back, the owners were kind enough to lay a spread of food out for all of us as we arrived. Jon and Ken of The Posies came, Rick Steff (of Lucero) was there, Van Duren came in. We ran through the songs we were all going to do, drank wine, ate barbecue, got to know each other a bit more, and then went back to the hotel to crash. I stayed up a bit too late writing, as just being with all those musicians inspired me, so getting up to run was hard, but I squeezed in a 3 mile run before meeting everyone at Ardent Studios for the run through there. I walked in partway through the rehearsal to cameras and film crew, lights and sound, all sorts of people...gotta say it was a bit mind-blowing. I saw John Fry, the owner of Ardent, whom I'd met a few years prior when I was doing a "Live At Ardent" show. Was tickled to see Sondre Lerche through some glass walls, pacing the halls with a J-45, running through "I'm In Love With A Girl". Saw Mike Mills at the coffee area, we exchanged hugs. Met Susan Marshall, who I'd heard about but hadn't met yet. She was super nice and said she'd heard great things about me through Sid Selvidge and heard our record. I didn't get a chance to run through "Try Again" but I wasn't worried--it was a really spare arrangement. Although I waved at Ken and Jon and Jody and they said, "Can you do the harmonies to 'Thank You Friends'?" and, without really knowing the song well, I said, "yes" and ran to the hallway and praised god I had the song on my I Phone. Learned the harmonies in about a minute, and was led into the studio with Susan to be the "doot doo" girls, which is always a blast (my next band: I just wanna sing backup and shake a tambourine and let someone else sing lead). I was singing harmonies with Jon and Jody on "Give Me Another Chance" as well. There was so much going on it was a bit overwhelming, between the amazing music, the star power and the cameras, that I found myself just hanging with Brendan who I'd hit it off with the night before, and I followed him into Studio C, where there were more cameras. They'd put up the original Big Star trax on the console and sat Brendan and I down, put mics on us, and we were able to listen to the original masters of "Radio City" and solo up tracks. We were obsessed with the background vocals, the handclaps and the sound of the overhead drum mics. The documentary folks were asking Brendan "Do you hear anything inspiring or new in there?" hoping for some educated rockstar answer. I liked Brendan even more when he simply said nothing, jaw agape, just said "Its just...amazing...I can't believe I'm listening to this..." And as the cameras shut down he leaned into me like a confession and said, "I'd really like to take this shit home and just sit in my room in the dark and quietly listen. I don't want to commentate." I wholeheartedly agreed, feeling like anything I'd say would just sound stupid.

Then we all got to the bandshell for a quick soundcheck. Backstage was decked out with Rendevous bbq--ribs, sausage, pulled pork, baked beans, greens, rice, it was incredible. Wine and beer and soda and whatever we wanted back there. Jon Davis of Superdrag showed up and soundchecked with the band. Sondre kept walking up the hill to hear the sound from the house. Mike Mills was listening from stage left. I was wandering around, just taking it all in. The crew was getting worried as there was a storm brewing, so the opening band's set got cut to only 2 songs and then they projected a film on the side of the bandshell of what I'm assuming was Big Star from the 70s (maybe 60s?), a black & white movie of Alex Chilton singing. And as that movie faded, Jody Stephens, Jon Auer, Ken Stringfellow took the stage with "Back of A Car. Jon Davis started the night out with a loud HOWL, tearing through 3 songs, blindsiding me with pure rockstar energy, very different from the mild and sweet man who I'd met a few moments before.

Here's the rest from Ken Stringfellow's blog, because he said it better:

Next Jon (Auer) led the three piece on “I am the Cosmos” playing Chris Bell’s Gibson 335. Jody sang ‘Way Out West’ and I thought…last time to play this amazing bass line. Van Duren howled (wonderfully) thru ‘Mod Lang’, which we’d never played live before. My version of ‘Daisy Glaze’ was very well received. Mr. Mills came out for ‘Jesus Christ’. Jody’s brother Jimmy came out to play his awesome Fender bass on ‘For You’–in fact, it’s Jimmy who played on the original version. I played Chris Bell’s vintage Gibson J45 acoustic. Jimmy had offered to let me use his precious instrument for the rest of the show, so I used it on a never-before-done-live version of ‘Give Me Another Chance’–me on bass and singing, Jon on guitar and BVs, Amy Speace and Jody also on BVs. By the end of the song, the rain had started to pour. I quickly ran back to the wings to give Jimmy his bass back and took the rental out. We huddled and Jon wondered if we should skip ‘Lady Sweet’ but I said, no–skip nothing. I asked the crowd if they were ok, and if we should skip any songs…YES and NO were the resounding responses. So, we brought out Rick Steff to play accordion on ‘Lady Sweet’, great version. Then Sondre came out to play a solo version of ‘I’m in Love With A Girl’ (Brendan Benson came out and held an umbrella over his head), and then Sondre sang ‘Ballad of El Goodo’ with us, both excellent. A sad but sweet version of ‘Thirteen’. I rocked out ‘Feel’. Mills came out, with Susan Marshall and Amy Speace (the Dut-Do-ettes) to do ‘Thank You Friends’. Then, Jon, Susan and I did a spooky version of ‘Nightime’. Jon, Amy & I did our almost bluegrass harmony ‘Try Again’. The set closed out with Brendan Benson on guitar fronting us for awesome versions of ‘O My Soul’ and ‘September Gurls’–of course, Mills and Sondre and more came out to sing BVs. End of set.

The whole thing was incredible. There was such an amazing sense of camraderie, no nerves, no one upstaging anyone, anytime someone came offstage the rest of the gang were there, watching from the wings, to high five and backslap and "rock on man!" each other. It just was an incredible show. The crowd never left. As I sang "Try Again" the rain fell steadily and it was perfect. At one point, while Jon was taking his guitar solo and I was over with Ken, playing to each other, I raised my face to the sky to feel the wet on my face, just amazed that I was there, in that space, in that sky, joyous. Later, the best moment of the night came for me when Chris Bell's brother David came to me, introducing himself with tears in his eyes, hugged me and thanked me for singing "Try Again" saying that he loved that song of his brothers and that I made his late brother proud with my rendition. I was speechless.

Brendan and Sondre and I (and Brendan's manager Emily) were tired and chose to not go to the late-night hang at Ardent, but instead went back to the hotel, finagled a few bottles of red from the bartender, and sat up till the wee hours having a nice, quiet, intimate hang, where we talked about music and A Ha and what's real and what's not and it just felt like the perfect coda to a perfect day with perfect music in this imperfect lovely lovely world where you meet your heros and they invite you to dance with them.

Sid Selvidge -The recording of "I Should Be Blue" 2010 (Archer Records)

After the Flood

I am home today after 11 days journeying through my past. But today, I landed: Home. Really--Home. It sunk in with a capital "H" like nothing has for a long long time. Nashville. How did that happen that this southern place that in 2007 I attempted a move toward, which gave me hives, which freaked me out, which made me call my friend Dave Crossland crying "I can't do this..." and now, 3 years later, it has sunk into my bones and blood like I've been called here. Is it simply a land swollen by water and loss that my heart aches for? Is it the people who I have followed by emails and Facebook and Twitter for the last week, wishing I was on the ground, my feet muddy, part of the community I crave? Or is it just this rightness of soil and music and friends and smallness and love and a sense of the whole of it all?

The rains fell while I was talking to one of my best friends, stuck late in a job, the rain cracking at the windowpane a few floors up. "Its getting bad here," they said to me, a slight tremor I sensed from a history of tornado losses. I didn't think much of it as I slept. But then I woke to voicemails and texts. I was in Massachussetts, on dry land, in sunny skies, a day ahead of coffee and mountain biking and leisure before a late show. I could tell from the urgency of the messages something was wrong. Very wrong. Streets were impassable. Flash flooding. People asking if my beloved dog, June, was ok. Was my house ok? Was I ok? Friends texting: new friends. Friends I'd recently met who were texting me like I was part of the immediate family--their hands reaching across the fiber optics, grasping mine, pulling me into the Community. I felt a part of something so far away. I turned CNN on to find nothing. I could find very little about my town, my home, my friends. All of a sudden, this new place to me, this foreign land of southern food and the music of my father's people and 'bless your heart friendliness" became very very dear to me and I needed to hear about its safety. And there was radio silence. Thank goodness for Facebook. Seriously. That is where I got my news--from the minute by minute postings of friends and neighbors. Thank god for my East Nashville list-serv that a week ago annoyed me with its postings of garage sales and questions about spiders, that was now giving blow-by-blows about floodings in Inglewood, people needing shelter and clothing, where to sign up to help with the volunteering. From far far away, I fell deeply, madly, truly in love with Nashville. I finally watched the news catch on, sort-of. I was in New York City and bought a $2.00 NY Times to see the only mention of the flood was on page A-17 at the bottom, a brief 3 paragraphs, as if 11 deaths in one day in a random flash flood weren't worthy. As if someone's guitar collection, the history of the music we cherish, wasn't worthy. As if Opryland under water wasn't an historic occasion. I wondered if that were the Hollywood sign felled by an earthquake, would it be buried on page 17? I felt even more loyal to my new town.

The days went by and the nation caught on, but as I played shows, and brought out an old song, newly urgent, "After The Flood", and heard post-show comments like "So, I hear Nashville got some water damage..." I was disheartened. I just wanted to go home. To hug the town. To put my northern feet deep in the mud of the Cumberland and root myself right here on the East Side of the South. To help clear Shelby Bottoms, my beloved park. To get out to the areas where people lost everything--homes, fathers, soil, cars, daughters, dogs, horses.

So I am home now and the waters have receded and I thought I'd see something flying in over this land. I came home and the town is different now and I missed the change. Tomorrow I'll get in the mud. I remember walking to another river on a blue Tuesday 9 years ago where smoke wafted from 2 towers and I watched with a friend and a handful of other observers. That time: I watched buildings turn to dust and although I saw something I never thought I'd see, I still wonder if I saw it for real or I remember it from television. I also remember how quickly strangers became comrades and a town without pity became a town full of family. I remember wandering around the photos tacked to a makeshift board on 14th Street with a candle, just a few days later, in awed silence, feeling very close to everyone who's eyes I caught with mine.

I have moved so much that its hard for me to call anyplace home. I was born in Baltimore. Left when I was 8. Went to Minnesota for 5 years. Then Pennsylvania for 6 years. Then Massachussets for 5 years. Then New York City and Brooklyn and New Jersey for 18. I landed here, in Nashville, in October. On a whim. A well-educated whim. A whim brought on by faith and hope and love.

This town has dried out, mostly, and it will survive and thrive, but the last time I felt so proud to say "This is my home" was about 9 years ago. A long time coming...

6 Degrees

I'm forever astounded by surprise. Does that sound strange? Can you be thrown sideways by being thrown sideways, because if you can (grammatically speaking, that is), then color me thrown. Over and over again.

This is my life: I get booked into a place I've never heard of. I get the contract and I skim it, look at the relevant details like the money (I'm being honest here), size of the room, area of the country, if the gig calls for side person-hiring, etc. I trust the good people I have put my trust (and percentage of what I make) into--manager, agent, etc. And I put the date in my calendar and then deal with it when its about a month away, knowing mostly that the details are being taken care of (the sending of the posters, the publicity, the technical stuff, etc.). I travel so much that I tend to forget where I was last week. Tours blend into each other so that when someone asks me "how long does this tour last?" I think that is -- well, as someone said to me once in a really snippy annoying way -- an "imprecise" question. The real question is "how long until you've got a few days at home," as I've been on a tour now for, um, well, since 2002. I can't see a way around it and I like it, actually. Gypsy life suits me. To a point. I love my time at home. I love my dog. I love my house. I love my friends. I love doing laundry (I really do). But I do love travelling. So back to this description of my life.

I get booked to a gig. I know the relevant details. I follow my GPS voice to the place I need to get to for soundcheck. Sometimes, not often, I stay with either the person who booked the show or what is commonly called a "Host Family" (which always reminds me of Foreign Exchange Students). I stay with friends of the person who booked the show who have a good, clean, cat-free guest room. Strangers with big hearts who love folk music or are just generous kind-souled people with a big empty nest.

So. Tonight. I see that I'm staying with a host family in this tiny town where I'm playing a series that I've never heard of for people I don't know. I mean, seriously. This kind of life is wide open for assault. I could show up, play to nobody, and make absolutely no money, have driven 5 hours for nothing, get frustrated and have an awful night. I could find that the hosts are awkward or awful or they have cats hidden behind every door, ripe for my allergies. I could be walking into The Shining. Who knows. Its all a faith-based life here. I have faith that people who love folk music are good people and they have faith that I'm not a drama-laden diva who will trash their homes and drink all their liquor like a let-loose-teen.

Without all the details, let me write this. The hosts? Amazing people. Funny, creative, charming, interesting. I could have stayed up all night long talking about life and projects and learning about what they do and have done. Amazing food. Like truly amazing. Fresh and local and healthy. Great wine. Great conversation. I felt like I wanted to take them home to Nashville with me and make them part of my real life, not just the "one night stand" life I feel like I have. I have this all the time: these one-night-stands where I meet these amazing and cool people and I can't get over how lucky I am to have this life that brings me into their world and allows me to meet new and fascinating people every day. And then I'm onto the next town and I meet similarly extraordinary people in the next town.

I guess what I'm trying to write here at almost 3am when I really should be in bed because I have another town to drive to tomorrow morning, is to thank these people, from Susan from Princeton to the woman who owns the yoga studio in Houston to Neale & Laurie and Sherry & Steve to Mart in Elba, Alabama to all the people who allow me into their lives and tell me their stories and uncork a bottle after the show is over and cut to the heart of the matter. Life is short, man. That's what I think about on these drives. I could worry about this or that that I want and can't have but time will just keep moving on, regardless what my plan is. So its good to stop at the end of the racing night to clink glasses with a stranger and listen to their real story, the one where worlds can collide and we realize the less-than-six degrees of separation we all have to each other.