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.