The Back Pew

Me, Nurse, 500 words

2010-07-21T22:38:00.000-04:00

I haven't been able to quite get ahead of the rabbit since the tour. Much to say about the tour, speaking of which, but the thoughts will have to stay in my head a bit longer while I keep chasing that rabbit...

In the meantime, I just submitted my application for nursing school (proper). Had to write a personal statement. It's a 500 word synopsis of my journey over the last couple years. Thought I might as well share.

At 29 years old, I stood in a glass-walled corporate boardroom on the 45^th floor of a skyscraper, staring at the expanse of lower Manhattan stretched out before me. It was surreal – not only the view, but also the situation I found myself in. In a few short years I had worked my way up to an executive position and was living the charmed life that accompanied it. Yet, as I surveyed what was around me and assessed what my life meant at that moment, I knew I was not where I needed to be.

It all seemed too perfect to give up. On paper everything was right. But years of stubbornness couldn’t shake the gut feeling that it was, in fact, all wrong. Eventually I realized the literal ivory tower I was standing in didn’t have meaning for me. The corporate goals and rules of success didn’t motivate me, much less bring me joy. Through the guidance of good friends, research and soul searching, I realized the key component I was missing: I want to help people.

Part of it was ingrained in my upbringing. My grandmother was a bush nurse in East Africa most of her life. It was commonplace for her to be serving in war zones and the wake of natural disasters when I was a kid. Giving of yourself for the sake of humanity was an unspoken standard that was established.

Nursing never occurred to me as a profession when I was younger. I can admit now I was much more concerned with conquering mountains and breaking down barriers. My focus was to blaze my own path. I wanted to distinguish myself from family traditions or anything traditional for that matter. I wanted to be different.

I realize now, a big part of that same spark that is inside my grandmother is also inside me. As I continue to sift through my experiences over the years, evaluating what has worked and what has not, the one fact that remains is that I want to make a difference in people’s lives. That is what makes me tick. Applied to the real world, for me, this means I want to have a tangible skill – something I can contribute to humanity that’s practical.

After following what is without a doubt a winding, yet interesting and adventurous path, it has turned out to be a giant circle leading me right back to the beginning. I admire and respect my grandmother so very much for the work that she has done. And the more I learn about and get involved in the healthcare industry, the more amazing men and women I meet who are just like her.

Both my aunt and my cousin followed her path. They are both incredibly happy with their career choice, along with numerous other friends and colleagues I continue to meet who are kind enough to give me a window of access into their professional lives and calling.

I want to work for and with people I admire. In my experience, it is an excellent litmus test to determine where your skills and potential truly fit. I’m excited and humbled at the prospect of joining their ranks and becoming a nurse.

I wrote this???

2010-06-09T22:26:00.002-04:00

As the preparations for the summer tour swing into full gear, there is much to do!

I decided a few weeks ago that I was going to use this opportunity (a full band tour) to get my charts in order. For those of you who don’t know the term, a chart is, very simply, a written out version of a song. The problem is, when I wrote all of my tunes, they were already in my head to begin with, so if I already knew them all by heart… why go through the painstaking work of writing them down?

Unfortunately, this was the logic that prevailed until just a few weeks ago. (I can hear Ann Ruckert - den mother of aspiring musicians everywhere - groaning from here!) But lately I suddenly felt inspired and motivated. Or rather, I just didn’t want to be embarrassed when I have to present my set list to the rest of the band. See, this will be my first time playing with two of the band members and, you know, I don’t want to come across as a complete hack.

Just to clarify, we’re not talking about simply penciling in words on a page here. We’re talking note for note, tempo, ‘is that a quarter or an eighth rest in the 12^th bar, and why is there an extra measure on the second ending?’… it’s brutal. But in order for real musicians to realistically be able to play with you, it has to exist. If not, I say, “a-one, a-two, a-three…” and expect them to read my mind. (Or stare at me blankly. I don’t recommend this approach. Tends to create awkward silence on stage, which is frowned upon overall.)

Alas, I set off to re-familiarize myself with the notation software I have. (Sorry Ann, I really just can’t do the hand-written thing. I’m left handed. The ink smudges. And I make way too many mistakes.) I’ll admit - it was extremely slow going at first. The first few made me wonder whether I was really up for the challenge. But then the funniest thing happened –

When you are creating a chart you have to stop, observe and analyze every little detail of a song, and as I went through my songs centimeter by bloody centimeter, I had an epiphany: I really like my songs!

You may be scratching your head right now saying, ‘Ummm, yeah. I hope so doofus. You wrote them, remember?’ But here’s the thing. I wrote all of these songs at least two years ago minimum. I’ve played them over and over again, gig after gig, to the point where they lose their umph. At least for me. I really don’t know how the superstars do it, playing their megahits night after night for years on end. In their head, I’m pretty sure they’re making mental notes about when to pick up the dry cleaning.

In my ears, at least, my original songs had gotten a little stale and I was really much more motivated to play covers in public. But it turns out, I remember now not only how much work I put into these songs, but the more I listen and study, the more I actually think they’re good. Who knew?!?

No plans for a worldwide arena tour anytime soon, but I think I’m ready to start playing these songs again with the energy and excitement they deserve.

More details to come, but you can check out the tour dates here:

http://brittneal.com/summer-tour-2010

Top 8 Things I Adore

2010-05-23T16:00:00.001-04:00

Enough with the navel gazing. All quasi-inspirational gleams of lint have been uncovered and it’s time to quit ruminating on the emotional challenges and upheaval, and just get on with it!

So, in the spirit of gettin’ on, I decided to make a list of 8 things I adore. These are listed in no particular order, and I reserve the right to extend, edit and apologize as needed. (And, yes, it’s 8. I feel the need to rebel against round numbers today.)

1. Shoulder Rub – I could expound on the tension and physiological trends of my body, but let’s just suffice it to say, the way to this girl’s heart is through her shoulders. I melt, and worship all skilled massage therapists.

2. Cuppa Joe – Potentially pure addiction, but my friends know there needs to be some coffee readily accessible when I come to visit. Add a newspaper and some time to kick back and I’m one happy camper.

3. Impromptu Picnic – This is a new addition, but we went to a local park a few weekends ago armed with fresh seafood from across the river, and I realized as I sat sprawled out, stuffing my face and enjoying the sunshine and kids playing, it couldn’t really get any better.

4. My Family – This isn’t your average group of doctors, lawyers and Indian Chiefs here. My family is one of a kind – intellectuals, theologians, doctors, general servants and savers of mankind. They set the bar pretty damn high, but I love ‘em for it.

5. Southern Gospel Music – It follows on from the family somewhat. Being a big part of my childhood, there’s a real gut nostalgia feeling. But it’s also incredible harmony and emotion you just can’t replace (if you can get past all the blood and dying).

6. Rain – There’s just something about it. I've always loved it, ever since I was a kid. Whether I’m walking in it, splashing through it or enjoying it from the dry side of a window. Magical, peaceful, a beautiful moment for reflection.

7. Mashed Potatoes – Favorite food of all time, hands down. Whether I’m sick, hungry, or just in the mood for some home cooking, nothing compares with a serving of good homemade mashed potatoes. (Be forewarned - don’t you dare try and serve me anything that came out of a box. It just gets my hopes up and I can’t handle the disappointment.)

8. The Airport – I love to travel. But I also love that feeling when you arrive at the airport: the bustle, the sounds and faces of the world, all wandering through the halls together excited to be going somewhere. And when you arrive, that feeling of walking out of those sliding doors to greet a brand new destination. Thrilling!

Ah, makes me smile just thinking of these things... much better.

Just an average kind of gal

2010-05-12T15:42:00.000-04:00

Do you ever have those moments when you realize just how squarely you reside in the land of mediocrity, and feel… disappointed?

I have a hard time listening to my own album. I cringe because I hear and focus on everything that could be better about it. It doesn’t match my vision of singer/songwriter creative genius unlike the world has ever seen. It’s just ‘okay’.

See, in kindergarten they told me I could be an astronaut or the next president if I wanted, and the problem is, I believed them. Maybe it’s the eternal optimist in me, or the bootstraps can-do attitude. (Don’t get any crazy ideas here – pigs will fly around the time I start voting Republican.) But I do believe in the human spirit. And apparently that translates into ridiculously high standards for myself. I should be able to do it all and be the best at everything! (Putting your thoughts in writing is the best way to realize your own ridiculous-ness, as proven time and time again in this blog.)

And then it hits me right between my ordinary eyes on my strikingly normal forehead, that I’m just average. Should I be okay with this?

Insert ad to buy my album: It’s great… really!

www.brittneal.com

I think part of the issue is that I truthfully know I can do better. And there’s really no excuse for not reaching your potential. It’s like trying to hold in a cough in church – you’re just annoying everybody with those dainty little unproductive grunts that are just as loud in a giant, silent sanctuary. Just get on with it and go whole hog!

Insert funny analogy: You know I’ve been trying to get back on the exercise fitness bandwagon of late. And between my fair skin and my lack of training, and an unfortunate closeness of my capillaries to the skin, within 5 minutes of jogging, I tend to look like I’m dying. Like Santa Claus, but in distress. It’s embarrassing, but I can’t let that prevent me from ever exercising again. And I don’t.

So even though the old adage has proven itself more true every day – ‘the more you know, the more you realize you don’t know’ – and I feel like a smaller more insignificant spec on this earth with each passing day, I have to get over myself and keep trying. Live my life, as average is at may be.

And I have to quit being so negative. You know there’s a fancy psychological name for this. (There’s also a fancy psychological name for students of abnormal psychology such as myself who self-diagnose based on the myriad of symptoms they have to read and digest.) It’s called cognitive restructuring, and it has to do with the fact that the messages we ‘tell’ ourselves are, it turns out, incredibly important.

Therefore I, the uncertified doctor with zero credentials, prescribe a tall dose of restructuring my cognitive. I’m not ready to become a cranky old biddy just yet.

I think I can, I think I can… chugga-chugga chugga-chugga choo choo!

Me & My Gold Star

2010-04-17T08:41:00.000-04:00

My name is Britt and I'm a people-pleaser. Yes, admission is the first step. It's downright silly when I stop to think about it. And quite aggravating when I ponder how much it drives my instincts. It can be a lovely quality for those around me, I'm sure, but not necessarily something I aspire to in myself.

I had to make a tough decision about my work this week. Thankfully I had someone around willing to gently point out the fact that I was being an idiot. Because I knew firmly in my gut the decision I should make. Yet my instinct was to not let someone down. Of course, this someone is a service industry employer who doesn't know me from Eve. So why do I feel loyal to someone I haven't even started working for yet?? Go figure! I mean, my parents definitely brought me up to be polite and considerate of other's feelings, but it's not like they said, "Though shalt pucker up whilst facing the derriere." And my brother definitely didn't inherit the trait, so I can't blame parental conditioning.

Being a student again, I've noticed, has brought this bad habit back full force. I'm 30 years old for chrisssakes. Yet, you'd think my next meal depended on me getting an A. Teacher's pet. It's disgusting, really. I got 98 / 100 on my last psychology exam. My professor was kind enough to verbally commend me on my performance. And so the addiction is triggered - I need another gold star - this time a little bigger and shinier! So rather than be complacent or satisfied that I'm doing well in the class, what do I do? Work harder to make sure I get 100 / 100 the next time. I wouldn't want to let the prof down, you know? (And I did. 100/100. No heavenly angels started descending in song, I assure you.)

I'd like to say I have some kind of uncanny drive. And I do consider myself driven and ambitious. But reality is you can't please everybody. It's just not gonna happen. So the priority has to be you. What do you need? What do you want? What are YOU trying to accomplish? (The pangs of guilt are creeping up my toes just writing such selfishness!) Truthfully, I'm afraid those aren't the questions I'm usually asking my 'driven' self. Instead, I'm often being driven by a desire to make everybody happy.

Not the healthiest approach. You do have to look out for yourself. And objectively, I recognize that. Especially in the creative / music world, one is required to regularly perch one's self out on a limb - we're talking precarious, unstable, hanging over the power lines twigs here - every time you perform or promote. Not everybody is going to love you. Anyone in their right mind knows that is reasonable. So you have to get over it. Do what feels right to you - what speaks to you. And quit trying to please everybody. Ultimately, people-pleasing just waters you down as a person, when what makes you stand out, or even - God forbid - 'sell' is uniqueness.

Doesn't have to be a bad thing... right? You're happy about this... right?

I've really been enjoying this blog lately - different specific outlets and context, but the struggles are the same. It's been so encouraging to know I'm not alone in the trenches. Check it out: Birth of a Play(wright)

My old friend Edisto

2010-03-21T13:44:00.000-04:00

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

2010-03-06T08:50:00.002-05:00

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!

An Elevator Meditation

2010-02-21T18:11:00.006-05:00

I spent an hour - or at least it sure felt like an hour, it was probably more like 30 minutes - stuck in an elevator this morning. I was taking our darling dog, Bonnie, out for her morning constitution as I always do. I have morning duty and she knows it. She’ll lick me out of bed and then do a dance for me until I cave.

In any case, I’m pretty sure God was laughing at me today. So here’s a lesson in Karma. (I realize some of you may think I’m mixing and matching my religions like the old bartender from Boondock Saints mixes his metaphors at this point... “You know what they say, people in glass houses sink ships”... but they’re interchangeable in my world since they’re all ultimately pointing us towards the same trail of breadcrumbs.)

You can see the bartender in the first 60 sec of this clip. If you're me, you'll skip the fight.

So why is God laughing at me? Well, we still have 2+ feet of snow on the ground here in DC after getting dumped on the last few weeks. Personally I don’t think it’s all going to melt until April, and frankly, I’m tired of it. So I rebel in my own small ways. I’m tired of having to get all layered up with my socks and my boots every morning to go outside. Therefore today I reverted back to my raggedy old tennis shoes - untied - without socks. And like a triggered reaction, where does Bonnie insist on doing her business this AM? In 3 feet of snow!!

Now I’ve already established that I’m not a huge fan of the snow, so you can imagine how cheerful I am about having it in my shoes - my sock-less feet completely submerged. Needless to say I wasn’t feeling my Pollyanna Zen.

So maybe I was a little snappy with our sweet-as-can-be dog... maybe I could have shown a little more patience or graciousness for the fact that she has to wait on my lazy butt to be taken outside and go #2. And maybe someone ‘upstairs’ decided I needed a little time to think about this, like a kid in elementary school sent to the corner to ‘think about what you’ve done’ while you stare mindlessly at the artistic and never before noticed cracks in the wall just above the window.

This is how I felt as I noticed for the first time just how disgusting the carpet in our building’s elevator truly is. It’s, like, beyond casino carpet. It’s casino carpet that was torn up in the 70’s, left outside for about 20 years, and then reinstalled in our cheap-ass Arlington apartment building. And the smell - don’t even get me started. Usually your time in an elevator is brief, so its like a passing glance to your nose. But as soon as you realize those doors aren’t going to open in the next 30 seconds, it’s a full on assault to the senses.

I noticed all of this because when we got in the elevator to return to the apartment, the doors closed, it lurched, and then nothing. We were stuck.

So after hitting numerous buttons and jumping up and down a few times, I stopped to ponder. I apologized to the dog for my sins and transgressions and then began to replay my life in slow motion. (I was trying to drag it out because I was faced with the prospect of possibly needing to make it last all day. The emergency-call-button guy said he was still trying to find a mechanic. After all, it is Sunday morning. Wouldn’t want to disturb his morning coffee, would we?!?)

I begin to meditate. Then the conversation goes something like this:

‘Dear God, I know I haven’t really been going to church lately... and I’ve been given a plentitude of opportunities to take stock of my life. I promise to start doing it in a more intentional and reverent way if you’ll promise to let me do it in a slightly more pleasant environment.’

God just laughs and lets me sweat it out a little longer, getting pleasure from the fact, I’m sure, that I gave up my technologically advanced ways and have no smart phone (or any phone for that matter) to even tell the outside world about my saga while I’m in the midst of it. Instead, I continued to ponder the error of my ways in silence. At least I got to spend some quality time with the dog, whom I promise to be more patient with from now on and forever more. Amen.

A story without love is not worth telling...

2010-02-19T15:19:00.007-05:00

I bought a piece of artwork with this message. I’m not one to normally buy ‘real art’, but it spoke loudly to me. In fact, shouted to me from the computer, 'Hey idiot, listen up! This applies to you.' It’s by Hugh MacLeod, a cartoonist and blogger I’ve been following ever since I read his book Ignore Everybody. For anyone working in a creative realm, I highly recommend you give it a read. And for those who have experienced the trauma of ‘pick up and move to a big city to follow your art’, particularly the big apple, you will find it hilarious.

Following the calling of your art can be a dark and lonely path. Playing to an audience of three can be a shockingly disheartening experience. While the random old man at the bar was indeed a new 'fan', he was more likely an alcoholic willing to sit through my set. And it’s hard to keep the game face on when he’s surrounded by empty bar stools. (I will be forever grateful to my dear Galia Arad, a fellow musician, who was not only in attendance that night, but signed my email list bobdylanwentthroughthis@f!*#it.com. You need all the levity you can muster on nights like those.)

But what was I doing in that lonely Lower East Side dive to begin with? It wasn’t for cheap drinks, that’s for sure. Is it just what an artist is supposed to go through? Maybe so, maybe not. Some people are luckier than others in that regard. But the point is that I sure as hell wasn’t having fun. And if you can’t have fun playing to nobody, then you may not have fun playing to a full room either. Because reality is things can always go wrong, and often do. Nothing is ever perfect.

A story without love is not worth telling.

This is very much my mantra these days and something I have to remind myself of constantly. (Hence the need for it to be hanging just above my keyboard. Sometimes subtle just doesn’t work for me.) I don’t know if this is an uncommon struggle, but I had gotten so caught up in the entrepreneurial side of trying to make music, I had managed to slowly but surely squeeze the joy right out of it. And then you have the rude awakening of waking up one day and wondering what the hell you’re doing. Or at least, I did.

Because if the love part of the equation is absent, you can’t hide from it. It shows in your music and it shows in people’s reaction to your music. Part of my struggle is that I’m never completely satisfied - there is always room to improve. But then I stop and listen to the music that I absolutely adore, and it’s not the raw skill that speaks to me. It’s the fact that you can hear the love in the story, in the voice, in the music. There’s no substitute for passion. Maybe it was the soundtrack to a passionate moment, who knows. But I guarantee it was the emotion that got to you.

So here’s to slowing down a bit and paying attention. To not making life any more complicated than it needs to be. If we LOVE what we do, and instill it in our art, in our actions, in our goals, then it will be heard. And I truly believe that is what people actually want to hear.

Stop and think about it. What’s your favorite song? Why? Feel free to comment and let me know.

Learn more about me and my music at http://www.brittneal.com

Just me, myself and a whole lot of snow

2010-02-10T15:35:00.006-05:00

I sit down to write today as Mother Nature blows off a little steam outside. (I have now witnessed the definition of blizzard conditions - not a goal I ever aspired to, believe me.) But as the storm rages outside the window, just within, my life is as calm as it has ever been. In fact, despite all the snow-induced cancellations, my day-to-day activities haven’t really been drastically altered because I don’t wander too far these days. I will refrain from passing judgement on this - as that is one of my new mantras - and there are oh, so many feminist jokes I know my brother would love to insert here just to get a rise out of me - but reality is the upheaval created by my change of career, change of city and change of living arrangements has all been followed by an intense and enduring calm.

And while I am thankful, I do feel a bit like a stranger in a strange land - that land being myself, undistracted and undisturbed. To be perfectly honest, I’m not quite sure what to do with me. In having the luxury of time to very simply live and reflect, I’ve been waiting for my profound purpose to hit me upside the head. Something abrupt, you know, to get my attention. I thought the power of the universe would have more of a ‘straight between the eyes’ approach, but amazingly the quiet just continues.

Being the busybody that I am, I’ve had some difficulty settling in to this type of routine and believe you me I’ve attempted to distract myself with the mundane duties of suburban life. (If I could gain status in society by number of visits to Target, I would be golden!) But I needed it. Desperately. (The quiet that is, not the latest slotted plastic spatula.) The clutter and noise had seeped from the streets of Manhattan into my head and was wreaking havoc. Now, you city folk, don’t get me wrong - I will always love New York City and may even change my tune at some point. However, I used to think and argue out loud that ‘life’ was keeping me from my music. I was just too busy paying rent, ya know?

Well, I took that line of defense away - I’ll do anything to win an argument, even with myself - and it turns out I was wrong. Life is nothing but choices and I think I knew that all along. Turns out I’ve been the one keeping myself from my music. And we could do some significant psycho-analysis here to determine why, but I’ll spare you. We can instead sum it up to say that the clutter is gone. And now, ye followers of the blogosphere who put up with my philosophizing despite an inexcusable gap since my last rambling, I put that hat back on, pick up the hypothetical suitcase, and set back out on the journey with one less excuse to hide behind. The constant remains - the music cannot, must not, be denied.

The Rising of the Bread

2009-03-23T22:22:00.008-04:00

"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)

2009-02-18T20:00:00.005-05:00

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

2009-01-31T11:55:00.006-05:00

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

2008-12-22T17:49:00.017-05:00

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

2008-11-25T03:18:00.008-05:00

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

2008-10-30T01:54:00.017-04:00

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

2008-10-01T22:53:00.020-04:00

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

2008-10-01T22:29:00.018-04:00

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

2008-09-24T21:49:00.010-04:00

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

2008-09-07T10:36:00.013-04:00

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

2008-08-31T13:04:00.014-04:00

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

2008-08-07T06:45:00.002-04:00

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?

2008-07-25T07:24:00.001-04:00

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

2008-07-07T23:56:00.000-04:00

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

2008-06-20T20:29:00.002-04:00

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

2008-06-10T22:10:00.004-04:00

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

2008-05-15T22:39:00.000-04:00

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.