The Rising of the Bread

"Well just a regular Martha Stewart you are," was Boyfriend's comment (in a fabulous Brooklyn accent) when he got up Sunday morning to find me with bread dough rising in the fridge.  And he particularly enjoyed the fact that I was happy as a clam about it even if I did get up before 7am on a weekend to revel in a cloud of flour in the kitchen.  Now, granted, Martha Stewart I am not because the bread didn't rise and despite my efforts to instill edible miracle grow on it, came out of the oven as a much harder and slightly browner brick of dough than it was going in.  But I still ate a couple of bites to prove that it was edible before chucking the rest.

I had a blast this weekend cooking up a storm.  There was risotto, quiche and meatloaf.  Yummy.  I surprise myself at how domestic I can be sometimes.  But I've realized cooking is very therapeutic and rather than paying to sit on some one's couch I get to eat the results!  One day I'm sure my waistline won't be as forgiving, but for now I'm going to enjoy every bite.  And it's fun to share.  I love making other people smile... sometimes to a fault.  I can't decide if most creative types are people-pleasers or not.  

I'd be very curious to know because there's a great deal of risk in exposing a part of yourself in something like a song you've written, yet the goal is for people to appreciate it.  Do I have to be the rebel who believes in my creative genius and doesn't give a hoot about other's opinions?  I hope not, because to a certain extent I definitely care.  Actually, I care to a really large extent.   Because if you're not enjoying it, what's the point?   Plus, I don't want to be one of those creative types holed up like a hermit squirreling away at my next epic with unwashed hair and funny glasses on the brink of a psychotic state.  The trick for me is not letting a fear of failure paralyze me from creating something new that is inevitably less than perfect.  

But in all it's imperfection, music has a way of bringing out emotions, sparking memories.  There are certain songs that will always bring a tear to my eye.  How does that happen?? It's really a mystery that the combination of words and a melody can have such a powerful effect.  But as long as it does, the people-pleaser in me will keep striving to make people smile, maybe even bring a tear to their eye with songs that soothe and make each day just a little brighter.  Kind of like waking up to the smell and taste of my bread will next Sunday morning if I can just get the damn stuff to rise...

The Home Sweet Home Tour (with one Yankee in tow)

My first tour... even though I was heading 'home', this was my first experience of a week on the road playing night after night to a different audience in a different town.  I'm happy to report we were warmly received everywhere we went and had a string of great shows!

Here's a slideshow you can use to get a visual taste of the variety of places we visited:

I sold a lot of CDs, made some new fans and reconnected with old... but some of the more amusing anecdotes of course came during the day to day grind, particularly my darling Andre Fratto, who played bass on this trip while also serving as album producer in residence and on display. 

Dear Andre hasn't spent much time in the South, unlike the rest of us guarding our precious 5 cubic feet of space in the minivan.  In fact, he confidently told all that he had lived in Mexico for 2 years when asked about previous visits to 'the South'!  All of you who have lived below the Mason Dixon I'm sure are rolling your eyes right now, just as we did. 

So you can imagine our amusement as Andre marched into each filling station convenience store we stopped at to request a New York Times - and was not only disappointed but surprised when he was met with a blank stare (or even mildly angry reproach).  

On a separate occasion I would have paid money to have my camera handy when we arrived at Whaleys, my old stomping ground where I cut my musical teeth on Edisto Beach, SC.  Part of the beauty of the Whaleys experience is that it actually used to be a filling station and while it has now converted fully to a restaurant and bar (star rating system doesn't really apply), when I first started playing there I used to stare directly at a cooler of milk gallons for sale across the room while sitting at my keyboard.  Classic. 

Anyway, the story goes: we walk in and I see Van, the owner, and give him a hug to say hi and discuss the setup.  Andre then approaches in search of directions to the bathroom.  Without hesitating to think about it, I gave him truthful instructions and respond, 'Outside'.

Now the crowd that gathers at Whaleys is a truly friendly bunch, but I forget that all of the steel toe boots and grizzly beards might be a little intimidating to someone who's been deprived of a New York Times for days on end... So when I saw Andre's expression in response to the thought of wandering into the dark bushes out back to relieve himself I had to laugh out loud!

I think Whaleys actually turned out to be one of Andre's favorite gigs once he discovered there were still doors on the restroom.  

I, myself, thoroughly enjoyed being back in the South - got some good food, played some good music and saw lots of smiling friendly faces.  What else could you ask for??

A Not So Balanced Act

Well I had a bit of an epiphany this morning, and it was all connected to my blog ... kinda. So here's to profundity on a Saturday morning! (The advantages of a genetic alarm clock: productive mornings despite yourself or the activities of the night before).

So, it's the new year, right? Resolutions and all that jazz. Not really into it. But I admit, loitering in the back of my head with Mr. Quit Smoking For Good and Ms. Lose That 10 Pounds, is a nagging thought "I should write on my blog more." Alas, this morning I'm pondering the topic of today's self-imposed mandatory writing session and I decide BALANCE should be the subject.

I constantly struggle with who and what receives the devotion of my time. Short attention span may be the culprit. Regardless I seem to always have a lot of balls in the air and I'm always lamenting the fact that none of them gets my full attention. But I've come to grips with that. Or so I thought.

In my head this morning, I'm preparing a written speech of sorts about the importance of trying to keep a balance in life. The kind of thing you expect to hear at graduation ceremonies and other events involving folding chairs and paper fans. For me the balancing act is usually between pursuing music and holding down a full-time day job. (Do you know about my crazy career situation? Where I stumbled into one accidentally? That's a whole blog unto itself.)

See, last night I had dinner with a long-time friend who has set up camp on the far left side of the philosophical fence, shall we say. And we ended up discussing the stimulus package and the economy, the elections, society at large ... all those grand subjects, as usual. In our friendly debate, I found myself sounding very moderate in response, very "realistic," very boring. The words came out of my mouth as I thought them, but then they travelled to my ears and I digested them again thinking, "what a stooge you've become."

This morning, me and my stooge-y self sat down to write a (most likely boring) blog about balance. But as I logged on to Blogger, I noticed a post at the bottom of the page from a blog that I follow about a young musician who's managed to make a living at it. I've been meaning to read this, so I took a moment and clicked and started scrolling down the page ... reading and remembering all the aspirations I seem to be slowly edging away from.

The girl he interviews talks about how she has managed to make a living at music and there's some super helpful info in there about booking and tours, but then she says,

"It's important not to have a backup plan. If you want to be touring, you should not have a job. Make it work. Any time you have a backup plan, you can always fall back on it."

This has been said to me before by my mentor, Ann Ruckert, and struck me again with equal weight, i.e., a ton of bricks. My backup plan has become my life in which I struggle to squeeze in my dreams. And consequently I'm never satisfied. Does that mean I've strayed or I'm just growing up?

I'm not sure of the answer, but I think it's time to re-evaluate. I've worked hard and I've made progress, but I still grapple with the bigger picture. I'm a vice president of a company, and I'm good at what I do, but not necessarily proud. In the world I grew up in, and the circle of friends I maintain, that title doesn't carry any clout. Instead, they want to know if I'm happy and if I'm making the world a better place.

I've bucked that trend the last few years and charted a new course in the world of business, partly because "success" has been handed to me on a silver platter to a certain extent, but my heart's not in it. As logical as balance sounds coming out of my mouth, I don't think I like what it represents when I hear it being said.

Blondes have more fun

That’s bull. I’ve been a blonde the large majority of my life, but decided over Thanksgiving that I was tired of it. And it had nothing to do with, and no consideration for, the amount of fun I happened to be having. I’m here to testify -- now that I'm a bit redder --that I’m still having a great time.

Sometimes in life you just need to shake things up a bit, and hair color is a nice, safe place to make some adjustments. Plus, as they say, image is not everything.

(Considering the drama that ensued in my household of extended family, however, over me changing my hair color, you’d think it was next to world peace on the levels of profound-ness. In other words: Grandma was not a happy camper.)

But back to that part about "image is not everything": That idea IS bull. Complete bull. We live in a world where image is critical and often far superior to actual content and substance. I could go on to whine about it, but we might as well move on and do our best to have the two go hand-in-hand. Reality is that we will continue to elect attractive presidents, and have pop stars with abs far more chiseled (and exposed) than mine.

I happen to like who we recently elected and know quite a few musicians with superior muscle tone. That’s life. Just play your music.

But all this reminds me of the obligatory photo shoot I had to do in order to put out my first album. People need and want to know what you look like if you’re a performer, and if you’re an unknown you're told you have to make a splash with your image. I wasn’t real comfortable with the whole situation at first, but have grown to embrace it.

When I arrived at the photo shoot I was immediately put at ease by the highly recommended photographer who turned out to be a rockabilly-loving, beer-drinking, Nascar-watching kinda guy. He was fantastic, and good at what he does. I was thrilled with how the photos turned out and proud to paste them on the album cover.

But the amateur photos my darling, tag-along friend Carey also took at the shoot are comical and very telling. All it takes is looking at something from a different angle and the story changes entirely. I couldn’t help but chuckle at being framed between a pothole and a Dumpster for my moment of glamour … fitting, I think. Diamond in the rough, anyone?

Ann, my music mentor, doesn’t like my new hair color. She says blondes have more fun. Granted she’s a blonde herself, so maybe I shouldn’t expect any different, but it didn’t bother me a bit because I’m having a blast. And I kind of like being a reddish brunette for a change.

From Bali with love

It's turned cold in New York. Frigid by my standards, and without warning, but it is the end of November after all.

However, I’ve managed to escape the onslaught of nose-tingling cold for a week in paradise. I'm in Bali for a work conference. And while getting to Indonesia is quite a haul, I can testify that visiting this slice of paradise is worth the trip.

It is tropical candyland in every sense -- palm fronds, the humid ocean breeze, endless expanses of sparkling beaches. It oozes the beauty of island living everywhere you turn. Granted, I'm a bit partial to this temperature range, and I am stationed in a luxurious resort, but yesterday (on my day off) I had the chance to wander a bit on the island and even outside the resorts. The villages and beaches are magical. It's a landscape dotted with rice fields and waterfalls. Even the simplest house mirrors the temples with carvings full of expression and colorful architecture.

In need of a brief respite from "stimulating" conversations on satellite spectrum and digital-broadcasting standards, I've spent several hours at the veranda bar here at the hotel with the ocean in sight and a comfortable chair for reading and pondering the great questions of life. While here, I'e been struck by the choice of music being piped through the speakers. It's very Western, of course, and has a distinctly acoustic and "beachy" style. (You know, the sound that has made quite a living for Jack Johnson and the like.)

I love this sound. The mood of it suits the surroundings, but it also suits me. I'm drawn to this style even when I'm in the midst of the hustle and bustle of New York City. Yet, I note to myself that I always hesitate to play this style of music because it seems too sparse and not busy enough to suit the surroundings of a big-city night life.

This may sound silly, or it may sound true, but as a performer you do have to be conscious of your surroundings and play to your audience ... to a certain extent. I'm beginning to realize as I continue the stumble down this road of self-discovery that what makes honestly good music is being true to your own style and sound, regardless of expectations.

Note to self. ("Yes, self, duly noted.")

Now, back to that fruity cocktail.

From Mayberry to Monaco

A few weekends ago I had the chance to go see some of my nearest and dearest friends back home. We decided to meet up in Mount Airy, North Carolina.

For those of you well-versed in the world of Southern culture, you will immediately say to yourselves, "Ah, the hometown of the one-and-only Andy Griffith of the classic television sitcom 'The Andy Griffith Show!' The town on which Mayberry was based!'" For those of you now clueless (most likely, my neighbors up here in the land of Yankees), don't worry. It's just time to baptize yourselves in the waters of wholesome T.V. and revel in the everlasting joy of knowing how Ron Howard got his start.

(The answer: He played Opie, Andy's fishin'-pole-luggin', tow-headed son.)



It was good to be back in the homeland. It felt like an ambassadorial mission due to the fact that my Brooklyn boyfriend had come along. The first item of the day was to teach him that what he drives is not a truck; the second, a lesson (which we ate) on grits, biscuits and country ham.

The rest of the day was filled with music. We started off by paying a visit to the live airing of WPAQ 740 A.M.'s Saturday-morning radio show. In this world of Clear Channel and radio sounds sent via satellite, the "Merry-Go-Round" is a rare find. Over the half-century it's been around, a whole host of regional and national music legends (including Tommy Jarrell, the Carter Family, Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs, and Bill and Charlie Monroe) have gathered before its microphones. The morning we went, a local family was playing Southern Gospel with heart, gusto and good, solid belief in the Lord.

Just outside the show was more music. A street band of sorts was playing true mountain music -- good, old, pure bluegrass. The talent was real and raw and not necessarily something you would expect from four men who looked like life had beat them heartily on the journey. With burning cigarettes wedged into the space between the strings and the tuning pegs, their high harmonies soared with that lonesome hillbilly drawl. (Question: Does anybody know where I can get a John Deere cap in Brooklyn? Because all these guys sported them in style.)

The memories were flowing, nostalgia was high, and it was definitely time to eat again. We strolled past Floyd's Barber Shop and Opie's Candy Store and made our way to Snappy's Lunch Cafe -- home of the world's greatest fried pork-chop sandwich. It comes served on a delicate bed of waxed paper and is topped with chili and coleslaw (who knows what else is hiding under there).

We passed on a Civil War re-enactment going on just outside of town and opted instead for a corn maze (you got that right, a labryinth cut through a cornfield) followed by a contest of apple-slinging (a complex sport involving a very large slingshot built into a fence and a barrel placed with precise measurement way far away). Apple-slinging is where my darling proved himself worthy of his Southern companions. He landed the only apple in the barrel, thus winning baby Cora the chance to choose herself a pumpkin. (The one she chose was half her size.)

This weekend was full of so much revelry and fun that I could hardly stand myself. I was on cloud nine. We topped it off with a visit to my Grandma's house and one last meal of fried Southern goodness before making our way back North.

********

Just a few days later it was time to fly out for a week-long work trip to a trade show in Monaco. Yes, Monaco. As in Monte-Carlo, Princess-Grace, James-Bond Monaco. I don’t need to tell you it's a spectacular setting. Cliffs rising out of the sparkling Mediterranean, unparalleled wealth, and a whole country jam-packed onto a strip of land literally just a few city blocks long. It's mind-boggling just to try to count the number of Ferraris and Porsches rolling casually down the street.

With talk like this, you probably see why I spend a great deal of time trying to make folks understand that my days of work travel are pretty mundane. That's right: It's all day, everyday, spent inside a conference center manning a booth to tout the benefit of fiber optics in video transmission solutions for broadcasters. Not exactly James Bond material.

But the good thing about being a human being is that you always must eat. So my colleagues and I did, on food and wine that was both fabulous and expensive. (The only thing Monaco offers for free is a late-night dip in the Mediterranean.)

When it comes right down to it, I’d be just as happy with a sandwich from Snappy’s.

The real deal

Sometimes I feel like I have split personality disorder, trying to divide my time between the world of my daytime job (young professionals) and my nighttime gigs (the New York music scene). This gap is always made ridiculously apparent on the last Monday of the month, the night the Songwriters Circle meets at the Red Lion.

The Songwriters Circle is put on by my mentor, Ann Ruckert, along with the Songwriters Guild, 13 Stories Records and the Johnny Mercer Foundation. And it is one of the premier musicians' events in the city. I've been going for quite some time -- for about a year, not playing at all -- and then I got asked to do one song as a "guest performer" every now and then. Recently, I've had the chance to sit on stage and be part of a round. Progress is being made.

This is a huge honor for me, and an incredible opportunity to hear and be heard by some of the industry's greats. Just this past week I was on stage and Phoebe Snow was in the audience. If you don't know her, look her up. You won't regret it.

Phoebe Snow is one of those people who makes you realize what it really takes. She gets on stage to sing a tune and when she opens her mouth, heads literally turn. Without realizing it you sit up in your chair and the hairs on your arms stand on end. It's a soul stirring experience. When she stops you instinctively stand and applaud, not out of politeness or obligation, but to show her how moved you are. She's beautiful, powerful and funky -- all in one breath. She has something incredibly special that sets her apart from the rest. I felt lucky to have had the opportunity just to listen.

Which brings me back to myself, the underling, on stage in my suit -- yes, blazer and pants -- because I come to the Circle straight from work. Which means I have to fight to be funky. It's hard to feel the music like Phoebe Snow does when you just commuted in from Manhattan corporate.

By day, it's all about detachment and reasoning. By night, I've got to make the switch to open up to feeling. To put all I've got into the next note.

Recently I've made a push to really work on this, to let go of professional demeanor come 6 o'clock, and occasionally I have a glimmer of success. One of the times this happens best is whenever I'm playing a song written by my good friend Todd Bird. It's called "A Part of You Loves Me," a beautiful tune, and it's one that lets me lose myself ... you can hear it by clicking here.

This is a live recording from the Songwriters Circle, but I'm hoping to do a professional one soon. And hopefully it will help remind me to quit being so concerned about whether or not my pants are starched.