And then...the sun shines through the clouds...

And just for those of you that might have thought I was complaining.

I proffer Example A. Please refer to the chart to your left.

I had a cancellation from a "Nationally-Known Club" too late to fill with another booking from a Nationally Known Club leaving me gigless on a weekend night, which is where I make my living (do these Nationally Known Clubs even CARE that this is how we make our living? or do they think by the sheer choosing of this kind of thing as our living we are batshit crazy and deserve to go penniless on a Friday just from sheer lunacy?).

I send an email out to my dear Fanlist, expecting nothing. A fan that's a fan because a fan, who was a woman just showing up at a gig one night who became a fan, then a super fan then dragged her own friend who became a super fan, who then proselytized to all of her friends which eventually led to someone, basically a stranger, emailing, bravely, to say "hey, I can do this. You have an open night. Let me try to host a House Concert" and only 4 days later, Voila, a House Concert with amazingly cool people who listen and respond and talk back and we are all exchanging this great energy and its vastly different from last night's apathy and my faith is renewed not just in people but in music as a builder.

And as the last guest left, saying, "I never knew these kinds of things existed. Call me converted" I realized how happy I am in a stranger's home who is now no stranger but a friend.

Don't tell me a song can't change the world. One basement at a time.

On the Underside of Silver Linings

...and there will be nights where there is no profundity to be discovered, no poetry to cull from the absurd. There will be a night of straight ahead "this sucks". I lost money. I can't do this anymore or else I'll have to go back to having a day job and I won't do it I won't do it I won't do it...

And so -- after the night in the awesome club of very few people and the post-show drive of insecure inner-ramblings only to discover a greater truth and meaning in the Awkward -- and so -- after that night, comes the next night. Which, if this were a Tale or a Movie starring that newly popular and ubiquitous wide-eyed blonde 20 something who looks like the daughter of the high forheaded blonde from that late beloved but truly annoying show "30 Something" -- and not the true tale (or, in my case, probably a movie starring Snark Queens Janeane Garafalo or Lily Taylor as me) of the night that followed, if this were that Fairytale night, I'd end up at Town Hall in NYC or The Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, backed by a band that included Buddy Miller on guitar, Emmylou and Patty Griffin on backup vocals and it would have been sold out and filmed for a PBS Special or for Austin City Limits.

But this is the real tale. Where it was just not worth the drive. And if you know me, I have never said that. I've thought it. But never said it. Not an appropriate venue for me. Of the crowd (and there was a crowd but they were either loudly talking, seemingly used to background musicians, or they were outside scoping each other out), 2 guys were listening very kindly. Which was nice. But there was a crowd that included the booker. Who was barely listening. I'm sure tons of folks love playing this place and god bless them. It doesn't make the place a bad place. Its just inappropriate for me and what I do. There's no lining here that's silver. Its just the wrong piece of fabric.

And, as my therapist says, learning boundaries isn't just about our personal relationships, its about our work and our definition of ourselves.

However: I didn't need an $11 gig to teach me a boundary. I knew the boundary. I just ignored it.

So I'm sorry hacky-sack-trustafarian-rockclimbing-hemp-wearing-proust-reading-not-quite-a-mountain-town-student-hippies. I know you love your hang. Have at it. I think I'll head to Decatur. But thank you to the nice man who sat there at the empty table and bought me a beer and bought my CD. And thank you to the man who sat at the bar listening. And thank you to the blonde guy who came in late and sat next to the man at the bar and loudly said, "Hey, she's really good" in a way that was clear he was surprised, and he seemed to like my yodel.

See, now, in the end, this night doesn't really bug me. I'm back at the motel happily watching reruns of "The Housewives of New York City" because crap like that makes me really happy about my own life. But I think I wanted to write this because someone needs to stand up against this and for -- not me, but the girl or the guy who's playing tomorrow night. You might not like their music and that's cool. But if there's live music in a room and there's a tip jar, how about a few bucks for them? And hey, owner, how about setting an example?

Shhhhhhhhhhh

Or just get a jukebox. And fill it with Jack Johnson.

Embracing the Awkward

I'm solo on a tour that was not supposed to be solo, that was supposed to be a duo show, a show that we'd wrapped our guitars and voices around and were just getting the groove of it all when --at the last minute, unexpectedly (and totally understandably)--the duo tour was not to be and rather than cancel and leave holes in schedules the decision was made to soldier on solo. Which is fine. I do this all the time. Most days, rather nights, of my life. And its not like I don't have files of set lists, lists of songs, songs in groupings, lyrics and charts and new ideas for sets, all on a file on my desktop here on my Mac. Its not like its the first time at this rodeo...

And yet, tonight, honestly, it felt like the first time at the rodeo and the bull kicked my ass. My clown ass. My unpadded, big shoed clown ass in the afternoon show.

This isn't a bad thing. This is not a complaint. Its just rare to have done something for a long time and then have a moment where you feel like its your first time out there, naked and unknowing and uncertain and flying on hope and faith alone. Rare.

I had a weakly attended show. I'm not too proud to admit that. I have had great luck in my life. I've played to thousands. Tonight, I played to about 6 people. It started out as 2. A couple who came in and paid the door price, got their beers and sat charmingly in the center part of the 2nd row. And I began. Introduced myself and got their names, because hell, who wants to pretend in that case. It was them and me and Joe on sound and the owner and the bartender. So at this point, I look at my carefully crafted set list and think through my well-thought out banter and say ---

Fuck it

-- I ask the couple how they got here and they say they listened to me online and liked my lyrics. So I said, "Cool. Thanks for coming. I really appreciate it. Do you mind if I throw out the 'show' and just play songs that make me happy?" And as I went through the songs that make me happy, a few more people dribbled in. The thing is, I was playing a guitar I rarely play with a sound I'm unused to. I was singing through a new microphone. I felt exposed. As if I was up there naked with no makeup. Warts and all. Nothing sounded clean. Nothing was easy. Nothing was polished. I kept thinking of what Neilson says to me -- in a gesture where he circles his gut with his hand -- which is to signify, give them truth. Fuck the sheen. If you don't believe it they won't. And I kept trying to push away the fear of the naked, and just thought to myself, 'I love this. I love singing even if my voice feels faraway. At least I'm not behind a cubicle.'

And I got through and I sold CDs and I played for 90 minutes and played some new songs and served the old ones and I don't think it was that bad and I don't even think the owner was that miffed at the lack of big turnout, considering this was not to be the show.

But driving away I thought of how uncomfortable I felt up there. Awkward. And I remembered something Pema Chodron said in one of her lectures about leaning into the awkward. Not running away from what's uncomfortable but staying with it and allowing it to teach you something. And so I stayed there until a clear memory of my closet from Williamsport came to me and I remembered the contents: a pair of Keds, flip flops, hiking boots, a pink satin "Pink Ladies" jacket my Mom sewed the cast of "Grease", 2 debut gowns from my cousin's debut in Argentina that I wore for District Choir. And the mural on my wall. And the shag yellow carpet. And then at midnight I woke my mother up calling her because I just wanted to hear her voice and hearing her voice made me miss her and my Dad, really miss them, and when I hung up I realized I was crying a bit. And I went through the cycle of insecurity: Do I suck? Do I need to take time off to learn guitar? To improve guitar? Write better songs? Write funny songs? Learn a different instrument? Am I wasting my time... all the insidious questions that like to peer inside our little brains when we allow a bit of space for doubt. And then I righted myself and thought:

You had an off night. It happens.

And kept driving alone with my scary book on CD talking to me until I started getting sleepy near Flat Rock and got a highway motel to sleep for a few hours.

So what did I learn? I did learn that I would like to improve my playing and learn some new covers. I learned I can perform solo, but that I don't always want to. I learned I sometimes miss the band I was ok with leaving behind. I miss the friendships and the laughter. I learned that some towns won't have throngs come out for folk music on a 98 degree summer weeknight.

And I learned when to stop. When to stop leaning into the uncomfortable, just give into the sad, and then shake it off, and stop to sleep.

Go With The Flow

Poor Sisyphus. Condemned by Zeus to push the damned rock up the mountain over and over again, only to have it roll back on him over and over again. Like the mouse with the cheese thing. The definition of insanity. When is persistence blind insanity? When do we give up the fight? How do we know when the fight is out of our hands and ceases being a Great Cause or Great Passion and starts being, well, crazy. When do we reach the limit of Enough is Enough and we leave the rock at the bottom of the mountain and just walk away?

************************************************************

I got to Kerrville with, what I thought were allergies, but was most likely a low grade virus. My voice was cracking, flaking out on me, and Fun was all around me. Stinky dusty Texas hippie fun. Fun I used to revel in. Late late nights around a bottle of something red or smoky, swapping songs in the dim light of dawn, harmonizing on cowboy songs under a hummingbird tent in the meadow. I couldn't do it this time. Didn't feel well enough to rage. And so I planned to only be there for a few days, 2 nights of camping in the shade of a parked rusted school bus and the gig and the hotel and then flying away to another gig far far away. Only a short landing would I have there. But that night, the rain and the wind came, the lightening tore a hole in the sky and the tents went flying in the swirl and everything was soaking wet and I ran for the shelter of a real roof and a long sleep and, instead of dipping into the scene, I floated above it, too sick to fly, too sick to land, just hovered quietly, caretaking my voice. Good thing, too, because what wasn't there showed up just on time, like a gift, and I was able to sing for my set on Friday night, later than I'd thought I'd go on, but just in time. Nothing goes as planned it seems. The next day after short farewells to the ranch, I hopped a plane to Boston, spent a full day pushing a personal rock up the hill to no avail, only to have it fall back on top of me until I put on the meditation app on my I Phone (how modern-zen we are) and let the rock go for a while. Got in later than I'd hoped, couldn't sleep, watched Juno and cried and just wanted Home, tired of the rock, tired of the mountain, feeling like I lost the reason I was pushing and pulling anyway.

Woke up too early to a rainy cloudy sky in Boston--the storms again. Put on the happy face and prayed for sun, both in and out. And although the sky poured, the sun came out inside the tents. My noon set for the WUMB MusicFest I'd brought along the wonderful Adam Michael Rothberg, an incredible musician and just a joy to be onstage with, and the dark of the day lifted in the musical cloud we created for ourselves. Tents, again, were collapsing and people were running for their cars, I was soaking wet again. Tornado warnings, pelting rain--the storms had followed me. And I thought I'd left that rock in seat 24D on the flight from Baltimore to Boston. I hadn't, but I chose to ignore it a bit for a few hours while playing songs and listening to others. Dala, Les Sampou, Winterbloom, Cliff Eberhart...

Woke this morning in a purple bed to sunny skies, thinking maybe today would prove easy...maybe. I'd purchased a bus ticket online, proud of my frugality. $28.00. Arrived on time at the Framingham, MA PeterPan bus terminal only to be told that since I didn't print out the ticket, I'd be charged an extra $5.00 for the printing. Disgruntled, but not ready to argue, I was about to pay that when the gruff woman behind the plexiglass informed me that this did not guarantee a seat, as I hadn't called her that morning to reserve one. What? I'd paid for a ticket online. I had the proof. Not enough she said. You also must call to reserve. This information was not on the website, I argued. She shrugged, as if I was the 10,000th person to have told her this over the course of her esteemed career, and she waved me away. Dismissed me. I asked to see her supervisor and she shrugged. "Its only me." I said, "This is bullshit", losing my cool a bit, and she then stood up, completely affronted at my use of profanity and said, "Now you've had it. You will not get a seat at all." And there I stood with my proof of American Express purchase. The bus came, I asked the driver about this and he said, "No call. No seat. Not my problem." [A common thing, this "not my problem"]. Nothing to do. This rock was not going to budge and I HAD to get to NYC by 3pm for a radio interview. So my generous friend raced me to the Boston Amtrak station and I had to buy a train ticket for $125, and I still had paid that $28 for the bus (non-refundable, by the way) ticket. It wasn't even about putting the rock down and walking away, I just had to deal with the rock, somehow, or just carry it. Like the too heavy bags I schlep around the country, along with the guitar on my back.

A man asked me "is that a guitar?" and the usual conversation followed that I find myself in like a deja vu. The business man, in white starched shirt and tie, who owns a Martin D-28, who plays a bit of guitar on the weekends, maybe he played in a bar band in college, knows James Taylor songs, maybe he even writes a bit. The business man's eyes light up, he holds a styrofoam coffee, Wall Street Journal tucked in his armpit, his briefcase balanced between his feet. We talk of Richard Thompson and Shawn Colvin or The Faces or whomever he's listening to and I recommend a few new voices and he types my name into his Blackberry to find my CDs online and offers to help me with my heavy bags. I decline, saying 'This is basically what I do for a living, carry this load.'

In travel, in touring, in life, storms follow. I get wet. Soaking wet some days. A perpetually angry Jamaican woman reigning over her tiny Peter Pan Bus kingdom in a Boston suburb does her best to undo my calm. I lose money. I spend more money. But here I am in a train with a plug for my computer and Patty Griffin on loop in my ears and the ocean is off to my left speeding by and I'm not driving and I'm dry and the sky is blue. So goes it. The load is safely above me and I'll have to carry it later, but for now I've got a few hours without it. Its enough.