Me & My Gold Star

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Props to Pops

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...