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.

My status

The world of social networking: It's bizzare. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I've reconnected with old schoolmates through Facebook that I would have otherwise never found. But the thing is that we still don't actually see each other. We navigate a virtual world as if it's real.

It's not.

Yesterday, I got sent a dish from a "potluck dinner" with all the appropriate "fixins'" to go alongside. It was hilarious, but -- dang it -- I didn't actually get to eat anything. And pigs-in-a-blanket just aren't the same unless you can smell and touch their greasy goodness.





A real potluck, of course, requires the preparation of real food by real people who come to your real house to have face-to-face real live conversation. Is it possible we will forget how to sit down and just talk to one another, even if it is across undercooked casseroles covered in cheese?

In the emerging neo-music industry, networking sites are now what we live and die by. The race is to build an audience, to get the word out and get people hooked on your music, I've been told. So here I am, updating MySpace, Facebook, Sonicbids, LinkedIn and http://www.brittneal.com/, not to mention this blog. And Lord knows how many more dozens of networks I could be part of.

These sites -- strangely enough -- are now where my entire existence is laid out for all to review. My background, my next gigs, my newest music, my current musings.

And, as I've come to realize, my love life.

Yep, this is a blog entry about romance. To announce that --should you check Facebook -- you will find my "relationship status" no longer marked "single." I am taking the plunge. Taking myself off the (love) market. And posting it online for all to see.

Believe me, this cyber statement feels significant and has been followed by a significant amount of commenting both online and offline. But Nick is a wonderful and amazing guy, and I am one lucky gal, so as significant or insignificant as it may be, I'm happy to announce. (Soon the announcements in the NY Times will surely include changes in status on Facebook don't you think?)

P.S. You Facebook users out there, don't lie. I know the "profile" box is the first thing you look at.

The corporate life

I've just returned from Amsterdam where I was basking in all my corporate glory. Most of you probably know that I have the still essential day job. I got this job soon after I moved to New York and it accidentally turned in to a career. I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't have the experience. Just goes to show that the right place at the right time really does have something to do with where you end up in life.

I work for a company in the broadcasting industry and I worked my way up quickly because - funny enough - it turns out I'm actually good at what I do! (This was amazing to many seeing as the words "corporate" and "business" came up next to never around the family dinner table.)

Naturally, I don't always love it, but then again mashed potatoes are just about the only thing in this world that I always love (anything instant is automatically excluded, of course). But fate would have me end up landing a job in a young company that was growing, and hard work is something that a good Southern girl will never shy away from.

So here I am spending weeks abroad at trade shows around the world and this has included a week in Amsterdam for the last three years. It's called the IBC and is an extravaganza of suits and people who at the least know how to pretend that they're very smart. I've slowly been learning how to get along in this world, as can be seen in this clip of me acting like I know a thing or two ...

http://blog.broadcastengineering.com/ibc/2008/09/15/political-packets-from-the-parties/

Yes, I sound like a complete dork, but this is my job.

But the absolute best part about these events and this new world that I spend my days in ... there's never a line for the ladies' room.

Hanna hiccup

Lesson learned. Mother Nature and the little hurricanes she creates take into account no man, woman or the best-laid plans for a musical tour by an aspiring artist from New York trying to play a few gigs down South.

O.K., so you can see where this is going. But I'm going to tell you the story anyway. Erik Boyd (bass) and David Patterson (guitar) showed up at my apartment Tuesday (September 2) morning, equipment in tow, and we piled everything on the ground, looked at the back of the car and realized this might take a little effort. So we combined our three left brains and all spontaneously applauded when it was all in, even though we were a grand total of four people observing including my roommate Athana.

And off we headed, burning ridiculously expensive gas as we steered south, stopping to munch on mediocre New Jersey rest-stop cuisine. We had just crossed the Virginia border when I got the call from Jeanine Rhodes, one my friends in South Carolina - real estate broker and southern lady extraordinaire - who had helped me immensely in orchestrating the details of the down-home tour. Based on the projected path of Hurricane Hanna, Edisto Island had scheduled a voluntary evacuation for the following day -- Wednesday, the day of the (supposed) first show. To top it off, a mandatory evacuation was scheduled for Thursday.

Now, for those of you not familiar with life in hurricane territory, this is when the police literally go door to door to tell you that you must leave or else you forsake all protection and rescue services provided by the government. There is no siren that goes off and a basement or cellar to hide in. They just tell you to take what you want, get off (the island), and cross your fingers that what you left will be there when you return. It's hit and miss, but if you're unlucky enough to be exactly where these named darlings come ashore, you're pretty much screwed.

I decided to go ahead and stay in Virginia for the night as planned and give Hanna a few more hours to change her mind about the direction she was going. The next morning, nothing had changed. Schools were announcing closings to prepare to be shelters, the local town hall was paying to have important documents moved inland and tourists were being told to get out of Dodge.

So I made the call. We didn't go. This was a gut-wrenching choice, but the only logical one. These storms are no joke.

Therefore, the grand conclusion of the story is that we had some great rehearsal time in Virginia (much to the delight of my mother in Williamsburg) as we waited. But it's pretty much accurate to say that the sheer force of nature decided the time was not right for my first Southern tour.

But have no fear.

We WILL reschedule.

Just not during hurricane season.

Currently looking at dates in February 2009.

Of CDs and cotillions

Wow. The CD-release party, my big night at the Bitter End, is over and done. I'm still savoring all the good vibes I got that night. But I have to tell you: I was a mess.

Luck would have it that I'd wake up with strep throat two days before. And since Andre Fratto convinced me in my time of need that garlic cures all ills (and any ills known to man, for that matter), I reeked to high heaven.

Some advice: Do not subscribe to the medical beliefs of your Italian-roots-proud producer.

Some reflections: The night felt kind of like prom or cotillion, minus the pastel chiffon dress. (And thank God for that. I don't work well with frills.)

It was my short moment in the spotlight, something I'd been preparing for, working toward and dreaming about for months.

And what a night it turned out to be.

There was a full house. A full house! As a start-up musician, that is the biggest luxury you can ask for. A club packed with people there to hear me.

The energy inside the walls of the Bitter End was intense and focused. It was a party and a performance, but the love and support for me (and my career, and my hopes and goals and dreams) was heady and thick. Had you stuck out your tongue, you could have almost lapped it up.

I also had a fantastic band, a group of folks that can make anybody want to get up and shout. David Patterson, Erik Boyd, Greg Norwood and Andre all did an awesome job. And I had the help of some fellow singer-songwriters on vocal back-up: Regi Ransdell, Cynthia Lin and Galia Arad. It was such a treat to play with such a stage-full of talent.

To top it off there were party favors -- "Britt's Grits" -- for everybody to take home. (Thanks, old friend Carey.) If you happen to be one in the crowd who took one of those little burlap sacks home, you better report back and tell me how you cooked them up. Where I come from, grits ain't just trinkets. They's good eatin'!

All in all, the night was a huge success and the perfect way to celebrate the release of my very first album. I went home happy and smiling.

To check out more photos, click here:

Cd Release

Family

My family is about as crazy as Southern characters can come. But I can't help it. I sure am proud.

Tonight is the big CD release, and though I didn't twist their arms to be here, they're all headed into town. There'll be my mom (Danner), my dad (Tony) and my brother (J.D.). Then there'll be Auntie Lee and Uncle Geoffrey, Liz and Vernie (Geoff's sisters), Aunt Nina (my mother's younger sister), Uncle Craig, and cousins Rachel and Elle. I hear that a couple from my parent's church will be here, too.

Wonder if it would have been cheaper if they'd rented a bus?

Anyway, meet the whole clan tonight at 7:30 p.m. at The Bitter End. I'll be the one at the piano, and they'll be the folks in the audience hooting extra loud.

Join us afterward at The Half Pint for the post-show party.

I hear somebody's bringing grits. In burlap sacks. If this concept confuses you, just show up and find out.

Ethnomusico - what?

I never aspired to be a rock star. I always loved music, and I played in the church growing up. But I wasn't a star.

I got a note from a college buddy the other day, saying, "I didn't know you were going to be a musician. When did this happen? What the hell?"

Yep, it's true. You're got a late bloomer on your hands.

The short version: When I went off to college, I picked Wake Forest, a good old Baptist school. I got a bachelor's degree in the completely safe and totally respectable field of political science. Then I graduated, and I was in love -- not with politics, but with a fella. So I worked for a while, then followed him. All the way to Australia.

The justification for me to go was that I got a fellowship at Australian National University to get a master's degree in ethnomusicology (a field just as obscure and random as it sounds).

But blah, blah, blah, fast-forward through the academia and romance (which ended). I realized only later that the whole expedition was about trying to justify my desire to be around music with enough distance to keep me categorized in people's minds as still on the Track to Succeed.

A degree in music, and being able to parse the social and political implications ofAustralian Aborigines' songs, is all well and good. To an honors-student kind of kid, it's the sort of thing you feel expected to do.

But here's what I found out: In terms of the real world and making a real difference there, ethnomusicological theory doesn't make it much further than the dinner table. I believe in the power of music, and more than anything I support Indigenous rights. But philosophizing about it doesn't change a thing.

People will play their music -- and along the way, use it to transform their communities and their lives -- whether we talk about it or not.

So, I knew. It was time to drop my tape recorder. And notebook. And observer's pen. It was time for me to do music.

And as soon as I got home to South Carolina, that's exactly what I did.

Freddie Jackson

One of the things about New York that takes some getting used to is just how much talent is here. I'm not talking about starring-in-your-school-play-and-your-mama-thinks-you're-wonderful talent, but jaw-dropping, awe-inspiring talent. It's a beautiful thing, but also a lesson in swallowing your pride. And forcing yourself to find confidence in an intimidating world.

I got my chance to grit my teeth and stare intimidation in the face within the first six months I was here, with a moment of weak-kneed glory at the Sugar Bar. You might know the place -- it's that bar on the Upper West Side run by R & B legends Ashford and Simpson. (Now that's a whole 'nother lesson in learning your place and your genre. But hey, I blame naivety.)

Sugar Bar hosts a famous open mic with a back-up band of top-tier talent, a luxury for New York songwriters accustomed to slugging through dungeon after dungeon in search of a beer bottle to vibrate with their vocals and give a halfway fuller sound.

The Sugar Bar house band is no joke.

The story goes like this ... I was in the very packed bar, watching Ashford and Simpson wander around (and sing backup) for a pretty impressive lineup of regulars. I'd made a point of making it to the open mic in the name of getting to know the New York music scene, and I'd put my name down on the want-to-sing roster. I watched the minutes tick by, and my hands get sweaty. Any second, I knew, my name could be called.

But nope: Suddenly, somebody made an announcement. Mr. Freddie Jackson, the voice said, was in the house. (Freddie Jackson? Remember him? And those parachute pants that seemed like a good idea back in the '80s?) The voice invited Freddie up to sing a song or two. So he hopped up on stage, said something about his upcoming album, then (smooth as silk, of course) breezed through a couple tunes.

Freddie Jackson is all pro, and it was obvious. He worked the crowd. He loved the crowd. And the crowd loved him. When he sat back down, he left them wanting nothing but more.

So. You can guess who got called up next, right?

When I finally came to and realized that the sound I heard was my own name ringing in my ears, I found myself standing at the back of the room, still dazed at the fact that Freddie Jackson had just passed by four tables in front of me. I think the next thing I did -- and I'm still not sure about this -- was start to almost choke.

Me? I thought. They wanted me?

I understand that I had a lesson to learn, but really. I had to follow Freddie Jackson? What a cruel, cruel world.

I won't bore you with details of my actual performance. It was, by any stretch of the imagination, less than stellar. I was petrified. But I started and ended with the band, and I got through it.

When I walked away, I knew more than ever that the music industry requires nerves of steel. I reckon it was as good a time as any to learn.

Preacher's kid, part two

I know, I know, I know, I know. Dear ones, I've been told I came off as a bit irreverent in that last post. So before my parents have a heart attack, let me get to the moral of this little train of thought.

Here you go: The beauty of being a preacher's kid is that you get to see the cloak of saintliness come off.

What I mean by that is that after you log enough hours in the church sanctuary running around in shorts and a T-shirt and not your Sunday best, the place becomes more human. Still holy, sure, but holy in a way different than most people think about it. Holiness becomes less about pomp and circumstance and following rules, and more about the shine you see off the people in your community that you know and love.

See, you realize early on that you don't have a preacher. You have a father (in my case, a wonderful father). A father who just happens to stand in the pulpit on a weekly basis. Go home and let him light into you for those curse words you said on the school bus and you'll see -- he's just as human as the next guy.

If your dad's the preacher, your phone is the one folks call whenever things go wrong. It rings for births and baptisms and weddings, yes, but also deaths and divorces and addiction. Get woken up enough in the middle of the night for that kind of stuff and you begin to see that nobody's perfect. You see folks at their very best and their very worse, and you see grown-ups forget pretense and get real.

You see people lean on each other in a way that -- I think -- defines true community.

All this is something I try to point to in "Always Be Home." What I'm hoping to say there is that -- despite all the bullshit and politics that surrounds it -- the church still offers something valuable. And worthwhile. And, unfortunately, altogether rare.

Sometimes you have to shove aside all the institutional rigamarole to get to it, but trust me. It's there.

Preacher's kid, part one

I've heard that some of you are wondering what all this bit about me being a preacher's kid is about.

I guess I'd better explain.

I was about a year old when my father, then an engineer, decided he was called to preach. My family moved from Virginia to Kentucky so he could go to seminary. Life after that was always in transition as Dad got recruited from church to church to church.

My transformation -- from kid to preacher's kid -- was too early on to remember. But, rest assured, it was mysterious. P.K.s (what we call ourselves) are the flesh and blood of men of God, after all. So somehow, to my observers, I became a saint.

Church folks assumed I had a photographic memory of each and every Bible verse (um, no). It was as if my brother J.D. and I had unknowingly been tapped by a magic wand that made us have no desire to sin (clearly, not he case). Each and every Sunday my halo was on display, and I sure as hell had to work hard to keep off the tarnish.

If angel wings have their benefits, they were these: Spending enough time on church grounds to conduct plenty of mischief in the graveyard out back. Special weekday permission to finger the keys on the big organ. Knowing during Communion that you'd get to drink whatever grape juice was left over. (Grape juice, you ask? Yep, teetotaling Southern Baptists seem to think Mr. Welch has been around since Biblical times.)

The thing about being a preacher's kid is that the expections to perform -- and perform well -- are mind-blowing. It's excellent training ground for a career in the music business, actually. I couldn't help but be tapped to get up to sing and play, especially on the Sundays other musicians couldn't be there. I developed a stage smile so angelic that St. Peter himself would have thought I did no wrong.

Life as a preacher's kid is like growing up in a zoo, or maybe a scenic wildlife preserve. You're always on display. Your whole life becomes a staged environment.

To be continued in Part 2.

Southern girl in the big city

It's been two-and-a-half years since I drove that 18-foot moving truck into Manhattan, barreling over the George Washington Bridge like I owned the road -- and leaving permanent grip marks in the steering wheel.

I knew I was a big fish from a small pond moving to a much, much larger pond, but in truth, I had absolutely no idea how big that new pond would be. I was thinking I'd be like one of those fatty goldfish. In fact, I was a tadpole. Because New York City is about as different from Edisto Beach, S.C., as you can get.

A few weeks after settling in, I decided it was time to get my music chops greased back up and let Manhattan know who had come to town. I had played as a regular at Edisto's famed "Whalin' at Whaley's," after all. So I started looking around for open mics and realized all of them wanted me to play original music. (You mean a cover version of "Brown Eyed Girl" is not the standard by which all musicianship is measured?)

To make a long story short, I wrote a song and dragged my two roommates with me to a tiny dive in the East Village. It took a shot of tequila, but I convinced myself to play that one song to a small crowd that had gathered around the bar. Then I made my way straight for the door, because throwing up is never a classy act, no matter which part of the country you're in.

I'll leave out the disgusting part, but let me just tell you that the nerves and the adrenalin were unreal.

At the same time, I felt like I'd conquered the world.

Afterwards, Athana, J.D. and I went out to some great Italian hole-in-the-wall (checkered tablecloths and all) and celebrated. We called home to South Carolina (well, really, we called Whaley's, since we knew that's where everyone would be) and my old bar crowd toasted my big-city success. Even through the phone I could hear the cheers.

Now I look back and think ... All that, for one song in front of 12 people in some dark, neon-lit, now-closed dive. I had no concept of just how large the mountain was that I stood next to and had started to (blindly) climb.

I don't regret taking those first steps, naively as I planted them. But now it's spring of 2008 and I've just finished my first album. I still have a long way to go. But it's important to pause and remind myself of just how far I've come.