I’ve been feeling awfully boring lately.
It’s because it has been such a busy summer. After driving to Oregon and back for the weekend last week I came home and collapsed. The mono will have its way with me once again – does it never end? So I’m back to lying on the couch, watching movies, waiting, waiting, waiting to feel better.
If you think it’s boring and tedious reading my constant complaining about how boring and tedious mono is, I can only say that (1) I’m telling the truth, and (2) if I say it often enough perhaps people will believe me. I’ve become aware that some people think I’m faking it or something, meaning I’m not available to do whatever it is they want me to do, therefore, I am faking.
I am not faking. I am tired, exhausted, worn out, worn down, alternately pissed off and depressed, and feeling like my life has been in limbo for almost a year now.
OK, earlier this summer I did quite a lot for a few weeks. That’s why I feel so crappy now. It felt so good to be living an almost normal life again, but I was wrong to think I could do that.
Oh, and last night I fell down in the hot tub, injuring my…HEEL??? Who, besides Achilles, injures their heel?
Well, never mind, it’s much better tonight and it, like the mono, like the gimpy knee, will respond to bed rest, ice, elevation, and ibuprofen.
So I’m off to bed with a not bad book and the joy of knowing I’ll be going to sleep soon. Good old sleep, weaving up the ravel’d sleeve of care, as well as my knee, my heel, and my immune system, and dare I hope? My mood.
Mumph and grumph. Better times a-comin’. Good night.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Adventures of a Sexagenarian Singer Songwriter
It has been an exhausting few weeks here for yours truly. Summer is by itself exhausting. The only season that comes even close for luring one out of one’s house and into society for pleasure, activity, and enervation would be the Christmas holidays, a season which is shorter in duration.
The fine weather has been calling me (and you) to more than ordinary exertions. There are beaches to walk, picnics to attend, trails to hike, pools and other bodies of water in which to swim, mosquitoes to slap – in short, the fun never stops.
For me the fun has taken the form of songs to be sung to appreciative audiences. I have performed twice this summer.
To be a performer you have to have the willingness to get up in public and make a fool of yourself, and not everyone has that willingness. I call it “being vaccinated with a hambone.” Many talented, clever people would rather be dead in a ditch than have to get up on a stage to speak or sing or dance or act. To the rest of us the interaction with an audience is the breath of life.
I’ve been inhaling deeply lately. I won’t lie to you. I love performing. It’s a pain in the butt to be a performer, though. You have to work when others are playing; you have to leave your perfectly lovely home and wonderful family to go to work; you have to put out a lot of time, effort, and money before you get anything back; and everyone thinks you’re not working, you’re playing.
Women, Women & Song did a set at the Strawberry Festival to a large and enthusiastic crowd of old friends and a few new admirers. It was heady stuff. To get up and sing the favorite old songs was comfortable, and wonderful – and took us four weeks of rehearsal to pull off. I had made up a few CDs of our first album, “I Won’t Wait to Be Happy,” which sold out immediately.
The next week I played solo for the Vashon Saturday Farmer’s Market. Not so many turned out for this gig – I am not so legendary and loved solo as the trio is, but a lot of people did turn out. This time I had to sing two sets solo instead of one set with the trio, and it was hard work for the old sexagenarian. I had made more copies of “I Won’t Wait to Be Happy,” and also of the second album, “The Key of ‘R.’” My cousin Nancy and I spent most of one day and part of another doing what Nancy calls, “Arts and Crafts 101,” burning CDs, designing covers, printing covers and labels, cutting paper to size and folding it, and sticking labels on discs.
It is easier in some ways to be a singer-songwriter than it was when I was younger. I am not so distracted by worldly things, such as, for example, men, as I was years ago. My concerns these days are more spiritual and more prosaic – singing and writing are the only work I can do. I don’t have the stamina for gainful employment of the five days a week sort. The irony is not lost on me that it has taken illness to force me to fall back on the work I do well.
I won’t make a lot of money – perhaps not any in the long run. So why do it? Well, because it’s a calling, and because it is important for people to sing their truth, and to hear other people sing their truth. It’s easy to forget this when you go out to sing and people walk by trying to avoid eye contact. It’s easy to think, who cares? Why the hell am I doing this?
You always have to remember that this is a calling, a vocation, and you’d better enjoy what you do for the sake of doing it. If your art isn’t your joy, there is no point to being any kind of artist.
So this is what it is to be a sixty-year-old songwriter. After decades of striving for self-improvement, of seeking to become transformed through work and prayer and meditation and study into the best version of the person I was born to be, after all that, I find at last that I am left with no alternative but to be myself. I have arrived here partly through my strength and endeavor, but what has really kicked me through the door has been weakness -- the failure of my body to keep going as if I have not aged. I am forced, at long last, to be myself.
Life is full of these odd surprises.
The fine weather has been calling me (and you) to more than ordinary exertions. There are beaches to walk, picnics to attend, trails to hike, pools and other bodies of water in which to swim, mosquitoes to slap – in short, the fun never stops.
For me the fun has taken the form of songs to be sung to appreciative audiences. I have performed twice this summer.
To be a performer you have to have the willingness to get up in public and make a fool of yourself, and not everyone has that willingness. I call it “being vaccinated with a hambone.” Many talented, clever people would rather be dead in a ditch than have to get up on a stage to speak or sing or dance or act. To the rest of us the interaction with an audience is the breath of life.
I’ve been inhaling deeply lately. I won’t lie to you. I love performing. It’s a pain in the butt to be a performer, though. You have to work when others are playing; you have to leave your perfectly lovely home and wonderful family to go to work; you have to put out a lot of time, effort, and money before you get anything back; and everyone thinks you’re not working, you’re playing.
Women, Women & Song did a set at the Strawberry Festival to a large and enthusiastic crowd of old friends and a few new admirers. It was heady stuff. To get up and sing the favorite old songs was comfortable, and wonderful – and took us four weeks of rehearsal to pull off. I had made up a few CDs of our first album, “I Won’t Wait to Be Happy,” which sold out immediately.
The next week I played solo for the Vashon Saturday Farmer’s Market. Not so many turned out for this gig – I am not so legendary and loved solo as the trio is, but a lot of people did turn out. This time I had to sing two sets solo instead of one set with the trio, and it was hard work for the old sexagenarian. I had made more copies of “I Won’t Wait to Be Happy,” and also of the second album, “The Key of ‘R.’” My cousin Nancy and I spent most of one day and part of another doing what Nancy calls, “Arts and Crafts 101,” burning CDs, designing covers, printing covers and labels, cutting paper to size and folding it, and sticking labels on discs.
It is easier in some ways to be a singer-songwriter than it was when I was younger. I am not so distracted by worldly things, such as, for example, men, as I was years ago. My concerns these days are more spiritual and more prosaic – singing and writing are the only work I can do. I don’t have the stamina for gainful employment of the five days a week sort. The irony is not lost on me that it has taken illness to force me to fall back on the work I do well.
I won’t make a lot of money – perhaps not any in the long run. So why do it? Well, because it’s a calling, and because it is important for people to sing their truth, and to hear other people sing their truth. It’s easy to forget this when you go out to sing and people walk by trying to avoid eye contact. It’s easy to think, who cares? Why the hell am I doing this?
You always have to remember that this is a calling, a vocation, and you’d better enjoy what you do for the sake of doing it. If your art isn’t your joy, there is no point to being any kind of artist.
So this is what it is to be a sixty-year-old songwriter. After decades of striving for self-improvement, of seeking to become transformed through work and prayer and meditation and study into the best version of the person I was born to be, after all that, I find at last that I am left with no alternative but to be myself. I have arrived here partly through my strength and endeavor, but what has really kicked me through the door has been weakness -- the failure of my body to keep going as if I have not aged. I am forced, at long last, to be myself.
Life is full of these odd surprises.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Concerts, Haircuts & so forth
Dear Hearts and Gentle People,
Below find the latest smart aleck essay, which is in fact a rerun from about five years ago. I was too busy rehearsing last week to come up with something new before deadline, so did the desperate thing and looked up an old one to send in. I apologize for the repeat, but hope you enjoy it.
The Women, Women & Song set at the Vashon Island Strawberry Festival last weekend (July 12) was a whopping success. We got into the groove and sang a clutch of clever songs as fast as we could, because we only had 40 minutes, and had to leave out one or two anyway. The crowd went wild, bless their hearts. It was a great experience, and worth the effort it took for the three of us to put it together after all these years.
We sold all of our CDs on hand on the spot. I've made some more, though, of both "I Won't Wait to Be Happy," our first album, and "The Key of 'R,'" our second album. I will have those for sale when I sing tomorrw at the Vashon Farmer's Market (11 a.m. to 1 p.m.). If you think you might be interested in getting some CDs, by all means email me at: mary.litchfieldtuel@gmail.com, and put "CDs" in the subject line so I'll know it's not spam.
I'm planning to make a few CDs of songs we never released -- more of that anon.
Any money garnered from these sales will be charitably distributed to the three of us.
Yesterday there was a meeting at Congressman Jim McDermott's office in Seattle to discuss starting impeachment proceedings against various members of the current administration. I wanted to go, the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. Linda Boyd, who was in the meeting, told me to call McDermott's office and she'd put me on the speaker phone, so I did, and she did, and I sang, "Impeach the SOBs" for the assembled group (about 18 people, Linda Boyd emailed me later. She said the song "brought a smile to the face" of McDermott's aide). I report this as the first time I have literally phoned a song in.
I have more to say, but hey, you've got a life and probably want to get on with it. More later.
blessings, love, peace, grace & hope to you all
Mary
Island Survival Guide, Part 1: the Haircut
As the world teeters on the brink of nuclear war, climate meltdown, and the extinction of the human race, my thoughts turn to issues of survival. Specifically, how will we get our hair cut?
There are a number of professional cosmetologists here on the island, many of whom have cut my hair at one time or another the last 30 years, and I think they are all great. If you can afford it, have a professional cut your hair. They are trained, they know what they are doing, and they can see the back of your head. Those things are worth every cent of the money you pay them, plus the tip. If you don’t like the results, you can complain, or switch stylists, and you know that what you don’t like is not your fault.
When I was employed full time, I got my hair cut regularly, but about a year ago I decided to pursue that college degree I never completed. I left my job, and started taking classes. Suddenly the professional haircut seemed like a big expense.
My father-in-law has a description for my hair: “Explosion in a Brillo™ factory.” For a while after I left my job, I allowed my follicle universe to expand, and the formerly disciplined curls began to spread out and wave joyously in the breeze. At the end of the college spring quarter, I went to the Cosmetology Department at the college and got a $5 haircut from one of the students. It was a good haircut, and I tipped the young Vietnamese woman who did the job generously. Including the tip it was still the cheapest hair cut I’d had in years.
Time passed, hair grew. I used to cut my hair myself at one time, but when you trim your own hair and then go to a professional, the professional tends to scold you for cutting it yourself, and sometimes they say a few harsh words about how hard it will be to fix the mess you’ve made.
I have a dear friend, whom I will call “Becky,” who cuts her own hair, and has curly hair also. This fall I had a bright idea: we could cut each other’s hair for free. So I suggested this to her and she was game.
Rick and I went over to “Becky and Roy’s” for dinner, and after dinner Becky cut my hair and then I cut hers.
Here’s what I learned from swapping haircuts with a friend.
First of all, be certain that the friendship is solid. Giving a person what they consider a bad haircut can be more divisive than having differing opinions about, say, Hillary Clinton, or George W. Bush. Becky and I both worried about whether our relationship would stand this test (it did).
Second, the wine we had with dinner – I still don’t know if that was a good idea. When Becky was cutting my hair, it seemed like a good idea, because I was relaxed and didn’t give a whoop what she was doing. When I was cutting her hair, it seemed like a bad idea, because it didn’t seem like drinking was the proper preparation for cutting someone’s hair. So if you’re considering this haircut option, ask yourself: How sober do I want to be when I pick up the scissors? It’s a question worth pondering.
Third, if either of you have teenage children, you probably should not allow them to watch the haircut process. They tend to provide running commentary as you work. I’m not mentioning any “names” here.
Finally, keep in mind two old clichés: (1) you get what you pay for, and (2) the difference between a bad haircut and a good one is about two weeks.
My swap haircut was fine, but it grew out, and strangely enough I couldn’t get Becky to commit to another round. You can’t figure some people. So this morning I went into the bathroom with a pair of scissors and trimmed my own hair. What the heck. We’re all going to die anyway, and I don’t need a great haircut to be dead. Although I did spend about ten minutes working on my dead mother’s hair at the mortuary, trying to get it to look the way she liked it. But that’s another story.
Below find the latest smart aleck essay, which is in fact a rerun from about five years ago. I was too busy rehearsing last week to come up with something new before deadline, so did the desperate thing and looked up an old one to send in. I apologize for the repeat, but hope you enjoy it.
The Women, Women & Song set at the Vashon Island Strawberry Festival last weekend (July 12) was a whopping success. We got into the groove and sang a clutch of clever songs as fast as we could, because we only had 40 minutes, and had to leave out one or two anyway. The crowd went wild, bless their hearts. It was a great experience, and worth the effort it took for the three of us to put it together after all these years.
We sold all of our CDs on hand on the spot. I've made some more, though, of both "I Won't Wait to Be Happy," our first album, and "The Key of 'R,'" our second album. I will have those for sale when I sing tomorrw at the Vashon Farmer's Market (11 a.m. to 1 p.m.). If you think you might be interested in getting some CDs, by all means email me at: mary.litchfieldtuel@gmail.com, and put "CDs" in the subject line so I'll know it's not spam.
I'm planning to make a few CDs of songs we never released -- more of that anon.
Any money garnered from these sales will be charitably distributed to the three of us.
Yesterday there was a meeting at Congressman Jim McDermott's office in Seattle to discuss starting impeachment proceedings against various members of the current administration. I wanted to go, the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak. Linda Boyd, who was in the meeting, told me to call McDermott's office and she'd put me on the speaker phone, so I did, and she did, and I sang, "Impeach the SOBs" for the assembled group (about 18 people, Linda Boyd emailed me later. She said the song "brought a smile to the face" of McDermott's aide). I report this as the first time I have literally phoned a song in.
I have more to say, but hey, you've got a life and probably want to get on with it. More later.
blessings, love, peace, grace & hope to you all
Mary
Island Survival Guide, Part 1: the Haircut
As the world teeters on the brink of nuclear war, climate meltdown, and the extinction of the human race, my thoughts turn to issues of survival. Specifically, how will we get our hair cut?
There are a number of professional cosmetologists here on the island, many of whom have cut my hair at one time or another the last 30 years, and I think they are all great. If you can afford it, have a professional cut your hair. They are trained, they know what they are doing, and they can see the back of your head. Those things are worth every cent of the money you pay them, plus the tip. If you don’t like the results, you can complain, or switch stylists, and you know that what you don’t like is not your fault.
When I was employed full time, I got my hair cut regularly, but about a year ago I decided to pursue that college degree I never completed. I left my job, and started taking classes. Suddenly the professional haircut seemed like a big expense.
My father-in-law has a description for my hair: “Explosion in a Brillo™ factory.” For a while after I left my job, I allowed my follicle universe to expand, and the formerly disciplined curls began to spread out and wave joyously in the breeze. At the end of the college spring quarter, I went to the Cosmetology Department at the college and got a $5 haircut from one of the students. It was a good haircut, and I tipped the young Vietnamese woman who did the job generously. Including the tip it was still the cheapest hair cut I’d had in years.
Time passed, hair grew. I used to cut my hair myself at one time, but when you trim your own hair and then go to a professional, the professional tends to scold you for cutting it yourself, and sometimes they say a few harsh words about how hard it will be to fix the mess you’ve made.
I have a dear friend, whom I will call “Becky,” who cuts her own hair, and has curly hair also. This fall I had a bright idea: we could cut each other’s hair for free. So I suggested this to her and she was game.
Rick and I went over to “Becky and Roy’s” for dinner, and after dinner Becky cut my hair and then I cut hers.
Here’s what I learned from swapping haircuts with a friend.
First of all, be certain that the friendship is solid. Giving a person what they consider a bad haircut can be more divisive than having differing opinions about, say, Hillary Clinton, or George W. Bush. Becky and I both worried about whether our relationship would stand this test (it did).
Second, the wine we had with dinner – I still don’t know if that was a good idea. When Becky was cutting my hair, it seemed like a good idea, because I was relaxed and didn’t give a whoop what she was doing. When I was cutting her hair, it seemed like a bad idea, because it didn’t seem like drinking was the proper preparation for cutting someone’s hair. So if you’re considering this haircut option, ask yourself: How sober do I want to be when I pick up the scissors? It’s a question worth pondering.
Third, if either of you have teenage children, you probably should not allow them to watch the haircut process. They tend to provide running commentary as you work. I’m not mentioning any “names” here.
Finally, keep in mind two old clichés: (1) you get what you pay for, and (2) the difference between a bad haircut and a good one is about two weeks.
My swap haircut was fine, but it grew out, and strangely enough I couldn’t get Becky to commit to another round. You can’t figure some people. So this morning I went into the bathroom with a pair of scissors and trimmed my own hair. What the heck. We’re all going to die anyway, and I don’t need a great haircut to be dead. Although I did spend about ten minutes working on my dead mother’s hair at the mortuary, trying to get it to look the way she liked it. But that’s another story.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Mules & Singing My Heart
My email to Terry Hershey after reading his piece, “Rested Mules:”*
Dear Terry,
Just read - all the way to the end, because I didn't have TIME before - the piece which said so much about mules.
I suppose it's just god-incidence that I have been thinking about mules so much lately. I'd like to have one, but that's a dream - no place to keep a mule here at Casa Tuel, no pasture, and besides, not enough money to support a mule in style. But I have this idea that I could find a mule strong enough to carry me. I'm large, you know, and heavy.
When I was growing up on the farm, I had a donkey that I rode, and taught tricks: lie down, sit, shake. He taught himself the trick of going under a low apple tree branch when he was tired of me riding him. Later I had a horse but the horse was not so much fun as the donkey.
Well, anyway - I don't know if you read my column in the Loop, so I'll give you the background - last September I was feeling poorly and went to the doctor and discovered that I had bronchitis (which I expected), AND sinusitis AND pneumonia AND mononucleosis (none of which I expected). And I've been recovering ever since. Spent so much of the winter on the couch, knitting. Kept trying to get up and do things - and realized that no, this was not my time for doing things. I felt frustrated that it took so long to get better.
Somehow the last couple of weeks I've been getting this perspective: I'm still not fit enough to go out and get a job or anything serious like that, but I feel better than I had felt in about four years. Leading up to the mono I thought I must have heart disease - I got tired out so easily; I couldn't do the house work anymore.
Now, suddenly, the picture is coming into focus: my heart is, strangely enough when you consider my family history, not in bad shape. Two angiograms confirmed that. I'm starting to think that maybe I was just...tired?
I was raising a grandchild and being a newspaper editor (which meant also reporting and photography) and doing the rest of life - the house, the shopping, household book keeping, writing my column, singing in the church choir - I expected all that of myself. When people asked me to do something I invariably said, "Sure!" And I was in my late 50s.
Now, after all these months of being sick, of being FORCED to rest, the picture is clearing up. I can't do all of everything, can I? I've rested for about ten months now, and I'm starting to feel better, starting to be able to do a few things, and am taking time to rest intentionally instead of going flat out until I keel over, which I see now has always been my pattern.
I'm starting to sing again. Singing and songwriting was my first career - paid little, but meant so much, to me and to other people, and now I'm back to my first holy call.
Daunting to pick it up at age 60. I don't expect to make a lot of money, or if I'll even be able to support this "career," but I'm feeling called to do it again - in a slow, intermittent, as-I-can fashion. Can't push myself too far or too hard. It is interesting to me that after years of running around like a chicken with its head cut off, life, God, is bringing me back to my first calling - singing and songwriting - and that I feel affirmation everywhere for the importance of human hearts singing to one another and singing together. I keep remembering that if one song touches one person and makes them laugh and gives them courage to keep going or even to hope, then I have "done" enough "doing" to make my life worthwhile in the "doing" category. I know that God loves me because I am, but it feeds my soul to know that my work feeds other souls. Know what I mean?
Your sabbath pieces have been with me through these long months of illness and recovery, and have meant so much, and I thank you. They have made me laugh and given me courage to keep going and to hope - and have reminded me that I will "go" and "hope" in better harmony (harmony is important to a singer) with my spirit if I rest and recover. Amazing to me how long it takes for this lesson to sink in, how every time it comes around it sinks, oh, maybe another sixteenth of an inch into my heart and brain. Well, whatever it takes.
So that's my story as of this morning.
*Dear Readers: I am on an emailing list from Terry Hershey. Once a week he sends out “Sabbath Moments.” The latest one, “Rested Mules,” struck a lot of chords with me, and I wrote an email to Terry with my story, which is what I've published here. To read the “Rested Mules” piece which kicked this off, go to Terry’s web page at: http://www.terryhershey.com/ and click on “Rested Mules.”
For further inspiration regarding the importance of singing, see the movie, “Amandla,” a documentary about the music that was part of the overthrow of apartheid in South Africa.
I charge you today to sing your heart.
Dear Terry,
Just read - all the way to the end, because I didn't have TIME before - the piece which said so much about mules.
I suppose it's just god-incidence that I have been thinking about mules so much lately. I'd like to have one, but that's a dream - no place to keep a mule here at Casa Tuel, no pasture, and besides, not enough money to support a mule in style. But I have this idea that I could find a mule strong enough to carry me. I'm large, you know, and heavy.
When I was growing up on the farm, I had a donkey that I rode, and taught tricks: lie down, sit, shake. He taught himself the trick of going under a low apple tree branch when he was tired of me riding him. Later I had a horse but the horse was not so much fun as the donkey.
Well, anyway - I don't know if you read my column in the Loop, so I'll give you the background - last September I was feeling poorly and went to the doctor and discovered that I had bronchitis (which I expected), AND sinusitis AND pneumonia AND mononucleosis (none of which I expected). And I've been recovering ever since. Spent so much of the winter on the couch, knitting. Kept trying to get up and do things - and realized that no, this was not my time for doing things. I felt frustrated that it took so long to get better.
Somehow the last couple of weeks I've been getting this perspective: I'm still not fit enough to go out and get a job or anything serious like that, but I feel better than I had felt in about four years. Leading up to the mono I thought I must have heart disease - I got tired out so easily; I couldn't do the house work anymore.
Now, suddenly, the picture is coming into focus: my heart is, strangely enough when you consider my family history, not in bad shape. Two angiograms confirmed that. I'm starting to think that maybe I was just...tired?
I was raising a grandchild and being a newspaper editor (which meant also reporting and photography) and doing the rest of life - the house, the shopping, household book keeping, writing my column, singing in the church choir - I expected all that of myself. When people asked me to do something I invariably said, "Sure!" And I was in my late 50s.
Now, after all these months of being sick, of being FORCED to rest, the picture is clearing up. I can't do all of everything, can I? I've rested for about ten months now, and I'm starting to feel better, starting to be able to do a few things, and am taking time to rest intentionally instead of going flat out until I keel over, which I see now has always been my pattern.
I'm starting to sing again. Singing and songwriting was my first career - paid little, but meant so much, to me and to other people, and now I'm back to my first holy call.
Daunting to pick it up at age 60. I don't expect to make a lot of money, or if I'll even be able to support this "career," but I'm feeling called to do it again - in a slow, intermittent, as-I-can fashion. Can't push myself too far or too hard. It is interesting to me that after years of running around like a chicken with its head cut off, life, God, is bringing me back to my first calling - singing and songwriting - and that I feel affirmation everywhere for the importance of human hearts singing to one another and singing together. I keep remembering that if one song touches one person and makes them laugh and gives them courage to keep going or even to hope, then I have "done" enough "doing" to make my life worthwhile in the "doing" category. I know that God loves me because I am, but it feeds my soul to know that my work feeds other souls. Know what I mean?
Your sabbath pieces have been with me through these long months of illness and recovery, and have meant so much, and I thank you. They have made me laugh and given me courage to keep going and to hope - and have reminded me that I will "go" and "hope" in better harmony (harmony is important to a singer) with my spirit if I rest and recover. Amazing to me how long it takes for this lesson to sink in, how every time it comes around it sinks, oh, maybe another sixteenth of an inch into my heart and brain. Well, whatever it takes.
So that's my story as of this morning.
*Dear Readers: I am on an emailing list from Terry Hershey. Once a week he sends out “Sabbath Moments.” The latest one, “Rested Mules,” struck a lot of chords with me, and I wrote an email to Terry with my story, which is what I've published here. To read the “Rested Mules” piece which kicked this off, go to Terry’s web page at: http://www.terryhershey.com/ and click on “Rested Mules.”
For further inspiration regarding the importance of singing, see the movie, “Amandla,” a documentary about the music that was part of the overthrow of apartheid in South Africa.
I charge you today to sing your heart.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Rehearsing the Past, Singing the Present
Women, Women & Song got together for a rehearsal today.
This simple declarative sentence may not mean much to you, so I’ll fill you in on the background.
Women, Women & Song was a trio consisting of Libbie Anthony, Velvet Neifert, and yours truly. We played and sang our way through the 1980s, disbanding in 1991. We were described as “tender, corny, and hilarious,” among other things. We had a lot of fun, and when the fun ran out, we disbanded. That was in 1991.
We’ve had a few reunion appearances, and recently were asked to come together, one more time, to play a set at the Strawberry Festival this year. After thinking about it a few days, we all said yes.
We had to think about it because, darn it, we aren’t as young as we used to be. We don’t remember all those songs anymore, although we seem to remember the ones we sang most often, like “Island Life,” and “I Won’t Wait to Be Happy,” and “What’s for Dinner.”
We have doubts about our voices now. We can feel and hear a difference, even if other people can’t. My voice, for example, sometimes cracks like a teenage boy’s. I don’t have as much air as I used to. In a trade-off, I can sing lower notes than I used to.
There are other changes: we all wear glasses now. Velvet’s hair is an elegant white, and mine is “more salt than pepper.” Libbie is a blonde, though a few months ago she had black hair with white highlights.
Velvet is the center of her large extended family, and has kept singing, in groups and as a solo, over the years.
Libbie is a legendary director of island musicals, using her gift for bringing people together to work for a common goal, and giving a generation of island children their first taste of “the theatah, the dahnse.”*
Me, I write this column for the local alternative newspaper, have the joy of my own extended family, and occasionally pick up my guitar and sing.
One of the first things we did when we sat down together was compare the arthritis lumps on our fingers. Whoopee.
Then we worked out a rehearsal schedule. Velvet lives off-island now, although not far off-island, but plans must be coordinated.
Then we talked about which songs we wanted to sing.
Then, the moment of truth: we sang a song. We started with “I Won’t Wait to Be Happy,” probably because we always started with that, and after a couple of false starts and a little throat-clearing we made it through pretty well.
Then we sang about ten more songs, and most of them came together well, especially as we warmed up. It was sweet to hear the old harmonies again, once we remembered them. Remembering all the words was harder. Fortunately, I have many of my originals in hard copy.
The hardest thing for me was figuring out the chords to use for “The Key of ‘R.’” This is one of Libbie’s songs which has been picked up and passed around the folk music world. Libbie does not play guitar anymore, so she and I sat and sounded out chords that would fit into the “key of R-flat-minor-seventh-diminished, with a dominant ninth” progression. We think we got it, but now my thumb hurts. Stay tuned for further thoughts on this. (Further thoughts: after a second rehearsal, my thumb really hurt. Libbie has suggested we do it a cappella. Or perhaps I'll dig out my mother's mandolin, which is what I used to play when we sang it. This is still in process.)
We have a few more rehearsals, and then, on Saturday, July 12, at 1:45 in the afternoon, we’ll get up on the Ober Park stage and we’ll do it again, like we used to, only older, and wiser. We invite our old friends to come out and join us, and we’ll all sing together about “Island Life,” and “The Way of Sex,” and a few other things. You won’t want to miss that.
*”The theatah, the dahnse,” is a Betty MacDonald phrase, but I forget from which book.
This simple declarative sentence may not mean much to you, so I’ll fill you in on the background.
Women, Women & Song was a trio consisting of Libbie Anthony, Velvet Neifert, and yours truly. We played and sang our way through the 1980s, disbanding in 1991. We were described as “tender, corny, and hilarious,” among other things. We had a lot of fun, and when the fun ran out, we disbanded. That was in 1991.
We’ve had a few reunion appearances, and recently were asked to come together, one more time, to play a set at the Strawberry Festival this year. After thinking about it a few days, we all said yes.
We had to think about it because, darn it, we aren’t as young as we used to be. We don’t remember all those songs anymore, although we seem to remember the ones we sang most often, like “Island Life,” and “I Won’t Wait to Be Happy,” and “What’s for Dinner.”
We have doubts about our voices now. We can feel and hear a difference, even if other people can’t. My voice, for example, sometimes cracks like a teenage boy’s. I don’t have as much air as I used to. In a trade-off, I can sing lower notes than I used to.
There are other changes: we all wear glasses now. Velvet’s hair is an elegant white, and mine is “more salt than pepper.” Libbie is a blonde, though a few months ago she had black hair with white highlights.
Velvet is the center of her large extended family, and has kept singing, in groups and as a solo, over the years.
Libbie is a legendary director of island musicals, using her gift for bringing people together to work for a common goal, and giving a generation of island children their first taste of “the theatah, the dahnse.”*
Me, I write this column for the local alternative newspaper, have the joy of my own extended family, and occasionally pick up my guitar and sing.
One of the first things we did when we sat down together was compare the arthritis lumps on our fingers. Whoopee.
Then we worked out a rehearsal schedule. Velvet lives off-island now, although not far off-island, but plans must be coordinated.
Then we talked about which songs we wanted to sing.
Then, the moment of truth: we sang a song. We started with “I Won’t Wait to Be Happy,” probably because we always started with that, and after a couple of false starts and a little throat-clearing we made it through pretty well.
Then we sang about ten more songs, and most of them came together well, especially as we warmed up. It was sweet to hear the old harmonies again, once we remembered them. Remembering all the words was harder. Fortunately, I have many of my originals in hard copy.
The hardest thing for me was figuring out the chords to use for “The Key of ‘R.’” This is one of Libbie’s songs which has been picked up and passed around the folk music world. Libbie does not play guitar anymore, so she and I sat and sounded out chords that would fit into the “key of R-flat-minor-seventh-diminished, with a dominant ninth” progression. We think we got it, but now my thumb hurts. Stay tuned for further thoughts on this. (Further thoughts: after a second rehearsal, my thumb really hurt. Libbie has suggested we do it a cappella. Or perhaps I'll dig out my mother's mandolin, which is what I used to play when we sang it. This is still in process.)
We have a few more rehearsals, and then, on Saturday, July 12, at 1:45 in the afternoon, we’ll get up on the Ober Park stage and we’ll do it again, like we used to, only older, and wiser. We invite our old friends to come out and join us, and we’ll all sing together about “Island Life,” and “The Way of Sex,” and a few other things. You won’t want to miss that.
*”The theatah, the dahnse,” is a Betty MacDonald phrase, but I forget from which book.
Monday, June 23, 2008
George Carlin Moves On
Lenny Bruce died, so God gave us George Carlin. Now he’s gone, too. I read it on the internet last night – George Carlin, dead at age 71 from heart failure.
I didn’t know George Carlin, but I lived in Los Angeles from 1969 to 1971, when his star was on the rise.
He had worked as a conventional stand up comic for a few years, doing well at it, which is unusual enough, but then something happened. His partner in the 1960s, John Burns, says they saw Lenny Bruce perform, and that opened George’s eyes. He started doing a different kind of comedy.
I first saw him at the Ice House in Pasadena, just before he started dressing like a hippie. The buzz about him was that he had been successful, and had given it up to try something different. That got attention, and astonishment, and respect, in Los Angeles, where everyone was trying to make it in show biz, and nobody much cared how.
He was still wearing a suit and had short hair when I saw him, and he got his thumb caught in the microphone holder. Or maybe he didn’t; maybe he was doing a schtick with the mic stand. I don’t know. I just remember he was really funny.
Then he showed up as the hippy-dippy weatherman on Laugh-In. “Forecast for tonight: dark.” And so on. I think that’s when he started getting well-known nationally.
Towards the end of 1970 and beginning of 1971, I was playing open mics and occasional weekend gigs at a former A&W stand on the Venice Beach known as The Other Side. The thing about doing open mics in L.A. is, you don’t know WHO might show up – mostly beginners trying to find their legs, like me, but sometimes someone successful who needs to try out new material on a live audience. Carlin lived in Venice at the time, and he discovered The Other Side, and decided it was a conveniently out of the way venue where he could try things out, both to work up new material and to keep his stage chops with a small audience. So open mic night audiences sometimes, surprise! got to see George Carlin, live and in person, working at the performing end of the former root beer stand.
I was in awe of him – he was famous, for goodness’ sake. I hoped I’d get to talk to him and know him, but that was not part of why he was there. He was there for his own purposes, and boy, when he was done, he came off stage, exited through the kitchen, and disappeared into the night before anyone could stop him. I could understand his need to maintain space and not have to expend his energy being famous, so even though I appeared on the same stage he did a few times, I never got to know him, or even talk to him.
I did get to hear that new material. None of which I remember. So passes away the glory of the world.
He had an unconventional point of view, and that’s why people loved him. He was honest, which annoyed the hell out of people. He is, in his own words, “a footnote to history,” because of Supreme Court rulings on obscene language which were the result of litigation about his piece, “The seven words you can’t say on the radio.” He had bookings until the end of this year, at least, and if you google him on the internet you’ll find offers to buy tickets for his performances. Oops. I guess it takes a while to update these things. He’d probably get a good riff out of that.
So long, George – you made us laugh, and think. I really like that in a person. Thank you.
I didn’t know George Carlin, but I lived in Los Angeles from 1969 to 1971, when his star was on the rise.
He had worked as a conventional stand up comic for a few years, doing well at it, which is unusual enough, but then something happened. His partner in the 1960s, John Burns, says they saw Lenny Bruce perform, and that opened George’s eyes. He started doing a different kind of comedy.
I first saw him at the Ice House in Pasadena, just before he started dressing like a hippie. The buzz about him was that he had been successful, and had given it up to try something different. That got attention, and astonishment, and respect, in Los Angeles, where everyone was trying to make it in show biz, and nobody much cared how.
He was still wearing a suit and had short hair when I saw him, and he got his thumb caught in the microphone holder. Or maybe he didn’t; maybe he was doing a schtick with the mic stand. I don’t know. I just remember he was really funny.
Then he showed up as the hippy-dippy weatherman on Laugh-In. “Forecast for tonight: dark.” And so on. I think that’s when he started getting well-known nationally.
Towards the end of 1970 and beginning of 1971, I was playing open mics and occasional weekend gigs at a former A&W stand on the Venice Beach known as The Other Side. The thing about doing open mics in L.A. is, you don’t know WHO might show up – mostly beginners trying to find their legs, like me, but sometimes someone successful who needs to try out new material on a live audience. Carlin lived in Venice at the time, and he discovered The Other Side, and decided it was a conveniently out of the way venue where he could try things out, both to work up new material and to keep his stage chops with a small audience. So open mic night audiences sometimes, surprise! got to see George Carlin, live and in person, working at the performing end of the former root beer stand.
I was in awe of him – he was famous, for goodness’ sake. I hoped I’d get to talk to him and know him, but that was not part of why he was there. He was there for his own purposes, and boy, when he was done, he came off stage, exited through the kitchen, and disappeared into the night before anyone could stop him. I could understand his need to maintain space and not have to expend his energy being famous, so even though I appeared on the same stage he did a few times, I never got to know him, or even talk to him.
I did get to hear that new material. None of which I remember. So passes away the glory of the world.
He had an unconventional point of view, and that’s why people loved him. He was honest, which annoyed the hell out of people. He is, in his own words, “a footnote to history,” because of Supreme Court rulings on obscene language which were the result of litigation about his piece, “The seven words you can’t say on the radio.” He had bookings until the end of this year, at least, and if you google him on the internet you’ll find offers to buy tickets for his performances. Oops. I guess it takes a while to update these things. He’d probably get a good riff out of that.
So long, George – you made us laugh, and think. I really like that in a person. Thank you.
Friday, June 20, 2008
So I'm reading this book...
So I’m reading this book about Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and Carly Simon, these great songwriters who wrote so many of the songs of my generation, and as I get near the end I am blown away to realize that they too are struggling with getting older and feeling past being relevant, and they're constantly re-inventing themselves, working for causes, mentoring people.
I think about my own call and intention to “do it again,” “Pick up that guitar and sing,” and the more I think about it the more mad it seems, which makes doing it seem necessary – like the less rational it seems, the more important it is that I do it.
Meanwhile, here I sit, Mary with the mononucleosis, and a cold, and not enough energy to drive to town for groceries, which would just use gas, anyway, so no big loss – I stocked up last week and we’re fine – and I wonder if I’ll ever actually be able to get up and do it again, sing, write songs, live a life with a broader meaning than the mom, wife, grandma, friend, etc., that I am – those things are enough for most people, but here I am, still trying to write, to make sense, to make people laugh, and think.
Could be worse.
I think about my own call and intention to “do it again,” “Pick up that guitar and sing,” and the more I think about it the more mad it seems, which makes doing it seem necessary – like the less rational it seems, the more important it is that I do it.
Meanwhile, here I sit, Mary with the mononucleosis, and a cold, and not enough energy to drive to town for groceries, which would just use gas, anyway, so no big loss – I stocked up last week and we’re fine – and I wonder if I’ll ever actually be able to get up and do it again, sing, write songs, live a life with a broader meaning than the mom, wife, grandma, friend, etc., that I am – those things are enough for most people, but here I am, still trying to write, to make sense, to make people laugh, and think.
Could be worse.
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