My old friend Edisto

I had the chance to spend last week in South Carolina.  It was a lovely little getaway with an old friend. 

Ahhh, SC, I oft struggle with my affinity for thee.  While I’m embarrassed of your norms and find it difficult to tolerate your politics - Appalachian trail adventures are just the tip of the iceberg, let me tell you - oh, how I love that warm salty air that sticks to your skin like an involuntary perfume the moment you cross the border into the Lowcountry, leaving a sweaty sheen and sparkle in your (now burning) eye. 

I miss the weather.  That’s a fact.  I don’t miss the stinking cockroaches.  Also a fact.

But what else is it that makes me long for that strange little place called Edisto Beach, SC?  It is truly a fascinating destination when you take a moment to stand back and look objectively.  And by fascinating, I mean Rocky Horror Picture Show fascinating… that moment when you’re not sure whether to gasp, laugh or just stand agape.  Beyond the distracting idyllic scenery is one of the most unique communities I've ever had the pleasure of meeting.  

My intention, however, is not to get sidetracked with stories of all the various and sundry characters that call Edisto home... like the drug lord restaurateur or boat captain with his own ‘commune‘ of women, or maybe the Episcopal organist who tends bar at the local watering hole.  I digress.  It’s so very tempting.   You really can’t make this stuff up.

If I’m completely honest, I think part of me misses being a big fish in a small pond.  I’ve never really thought of myself as a small town girl, but I have been raised in those types of places, so it's part of my patchwork.  I love New York City for many many reasons, but I found it to be one of the loneliest places I’ve ever lived.  That sounds like an oxymoron when you’re surrounded by 8 million of your closest friends, but my sense of community was severely lacking. 

By default, small towns like Edisto, on the other hand, place your choice of comrades in the dozens, so inevitably you all kind of end up hanging out together.  (This can be quite annoying when it becomes abundantly clear how quickly everyone knows that you went to the doctor or had a fight with your boyfriend or picked your nose…)  But it’s a blessing when it leads to a weekly jam session with earlier referenced cast of characters at said watering hole.  An assortment of folks from all walks of life who stumble together because they just want to play some music.  

Whalin’ at Whaleys – our self-appointed title for the event – didn’t seem like a big deal at the time.  It was winter, the tourists were long gone and we didn’t have anything better to do.  I wasn’t the ringleader.  In fact, I didn’t have much experience playing outside of church prior to this.   And it drew me in like a drug.  I couldn’t get enough.  

True community, true musicians, and a true desire to do nothing but share and play great music.  No pretense, no politics – just pure unadulterated joy.  I think I’ve spent most of my music career since then trying to recreate that magic. 

Props to Pops

I had the chance to sing at my Dad’s church last Sunday.  It’s the first time I’ve done that in a while.  Logistically it just wasn’t possible much when I was in New York, but it's a fantastic place to perform.

That sounds very heathen of me saying ‘perform’.  Thankfully my missionary grandmother - who would be on the fast track to sainthood had she gone the Catholic route - doesn’t read my blog, because for some reason in the Christian music world you’re supposed to give all glory to God, be a pure vessel with no ego or thought to how you sound.  Kind of like professional athletes.  (That’s a funny mental picture, Bill Gaither and Lebron James.  If you don't know Bill Gaither, look him up.  An icon in the world I come from.)

In any case I think it’s a bunch of hooey to pretend like you don’t care how you sound.  Of course you want to sound good, even if you want to spread a message in the process.  And if you don't sound good, people are preoccupied with when you're going to stop inflicting pain on their ears.

So, at the risk of being a heathen, I can tell you that outside of church I have yet to find that devoutly captive audience of 100+ people.  At least not yet.  Maybe that day will come.  But usually I’m competing with drinks, conversation, or the couple making out at the bar.

Playing in church always has the nostalgic feeling of a homecoming because that’s where I started, that’s what I know and it’s a scenario that plays to my strengths.  After all, knowing your audience can go a long way.  And when you grow up amongst them in the pews, you learn what flies and what doesn't.  The imposing glare of little purple-haired old ladies who have been given the authority to inflict pain and embarrassment on you as needed will teach one this quite quickly, I can tell you from experience.  Don't let those wigs or dentures fool you!

Admittedly, I’m also lucky because I’m playing in my Dad’s church, which means I am THE preacher’s daughter.  Actually now that I think about it, maybe that’s why everybody’s so nice and complimentary - uh oh...

Alas, it puts me in an ideal situation because, not only am I the home team favorite, but the tradition is that Dad and I actually work together to tailor a song (or two) with his sermon.  Often this means I learn a tune for the occasion but there’s give and take both ways.  I’ve written songs that he’s tailored a sermon around too.  The end result is that my music performance is truly integrated into the service - hence the rapt attention - placing added significance and attention to the meaning of the songs.  This is a feat challenging to accomplish outside of this setting, let me tell you. And when it happens, for the performer, it is such a splendid occassion.

But here’s where I have to give props to pops.  For promotional and PR purposes, it’s convenient to refer to myself as the preacher’s kid and he, the Southern Baptist preacher.  And I must shamefully admit, I let people conjure up their own images of what that means.  It’s fun, imaginative and makes a good back story.  But my father is far from the typical Southern Baptist minister.  He has let me be me, despite all the mistakes I’ve made along the way, and laid a foundation for me to live on both sides of the proverbial heathen / secular fence.  This is where I could easily digress into church lingo that I have to be reminded not everyone understands.  But let’s just say there’s no Footloose drama going on here.

The stereotypes frustrate me, especially as I get older.  Either I'm a Pollyanna Christian who must have conservative values and right-wing politics, or I'm a Liberal Heathen who by necessity must discount the entire institution, its people and all it stands for.  I'm tired of running away from one stereotype or the other.  I live them both and I don't fit entirely in either one.   

I’ve been allowed and encouraged by my parents to live my life.  And I’m sure my father has caught some grief for that over the years.  (And I’m leaving Mom out of this for now because in truth she deserves a blog post all to herself, but she gets equal credit here.)  Reality is, the foundation I was taught was one of open-mindedness, acceptance and love - in a Christian environment no less!  Why does that seem like such an oxymoron these days??

I was taught to live my life with integrity.  I was taught  that there is not a pre-determined path of where that is supposed to lead me.  I never realized how difficult it was for them to carve out this undetermined path and let me out of 'the box'.  But looking back, boy, am I damn appreciative of that!