An Elevator Meditation

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Not So Balanced Act

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blondes have more fun

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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