Where do we go?

Of all the ridiculous, impetuous, hot-headed things I've done - and rest assured, friends, I have done a LOT of them - most of them I have regretted nearly immediately. I've gone and done it again, and it has taken me weeks to feel like perhaps I should have thought things through a teensy, tiny bit better.

I quit the band.

I quit my own band, the one I sweated and bled over. The band that practically saved my life. The band that was directly responsible for my current relationship. The band that was the reason I made friends with Eve Hell and Memphis Evil, the reason I shook Geoff Firebaugh's hand and had beers with Deke Dickerson, the reason I saw Wanda Jackson perform from backstage. The band that finally allowed me to be the woman I have always fancied myself to be.

When we first started the Sugar Shakers, I talked seriously with a Musician (like one who does it exclusively for money) and he said: bands are like families. It's all very dysfunctional, and there are expectations that never get met, and drama is unavoidable. I laughed him off, because seriously. I wasn't touring 200 dates a year, I was playing for my friends in the bars where I drink on the weekends. I should have paid better attention.

Here's what I loved: falling into the pocket, playing like breathing, knowing how's it's gonna go before it happens. I loved being clapped for, being told I was gorgeous or amazing, being asked again and again to do it some more. I loved being in the constant company of artists and musicians. I loved the insufferably geeky feeling of passing bits of music trivia back and forth. I loved the way the second whiskey went down, the ice slowly melting in my glass on top of my amp, sipping from it while bantering with the pretty girls in the audience. I loved cabling up and tearing down, jenga-ing all the gear into a vehicle, transforming into Stella.

Here's what I hated: taking sides. Not moving forward. Feeling like it was a chore for other band members. Playing who's got the biggest tiara. Being told to just be a princess. I hated those things more than I loved the other stuff for about six months, and I finally just gave up.

I miss it a whole damn parking lot. Ukulele isn't the same thing as slap bass, and I don't really write punk songs, as much as I like to think I do. I love rockabilly music, and I love to play my doghouse. I hope I can find a way to do the things I love without it devolving again into sniping and stressing out. It's only rock and roll.

Louis, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship.

There is not, as you may know, a Denny's in Juneau. I find this a travesty of epic proportions, because I really needed one the other night. It probably seems strange to you, dear reader, that I might require a purveyor of sub-class breakfast platters and burned, bitter, weak urn coffee, but there is always a specific set of circumstances that necessitates such a thing. In this case, a quirk of scheduling had us leaving Juneau a scant twelve and a half hours after we arrived, lipstick and upright bass in tow. We were promised to play for a going away/birthday party for the Condom Lady, and it was exciting. What it meant in reality was that we could look forward to two hours of sleep at most. There were whispers of an afterparty (hey, if you're gonna live like a rock star, then fucking do it) but it never materialized. I would have preferred to not try to sleep at all, but that wasn't in the cards, because there was not really a place to stay awake. You know, like a Denny's.

I have never had breakfast at Denny's at breakfast time, unless you count 4:30 a.m. from the wrong side of day. I have spent plenty of time with my ass planted in a booth, drinking $0.99 coffee and making inside jokes with the closest friends I've ever known, but it has always been in those dark hours that most folks over the age of 26 or so completely eschew. There is a certain camaraderie that can only develop in the haze resulting from sleep deprivation and too much cheap caffeine on top of too much cheap booze. Things develop a humor that isn't present in the cold light of day. Why were we so insistent that we refer to C. and O.'s cats as the loincloths? How many rounds of sugar packet hockey did we play in Spokane? That guy in the scarf, did I really give him K.'s number in the vain and misplaced hope he'd call her, even though her area code was two time zones away?

It wasn't to be. After the wrapping of cables and the hauling of the Beast and her accoutrements, I regretfully smooched a few lovely cheeks and said goodbye to a new friend that I really had hoped to get to know better - you have to respect a man who schools his friends in the fine art of Murray's heavyweight - and let them disappear into the fog wrapping this town like a noir film. Stella disappeared as well, folded back into a square of satin and a handful of bobby pins, and left just me mournfully in her place. I would have given a lot for low diner lights and a pile of unidentifiable fried bits with extra salt, slightly hysterical laughter and companionably close shoulders rubbing once and again as I forged another memory without context. I would have given a lot for the chance to let a new comrade or three into my heart.

I guess this is the price of being in the limelight. People fade into and out of the shadows, and the only evidence is a blurry photograph of you smiling at one another like soulmates, if only for that impossibly small heartbeat.

A few thoughts on celebrity

So my current favorite thing to do in the whole world right now is this: Find an awesome song (the Buddy Holly version of Ready Teddy tonight; the Dusty 45's Bumblebee is running a close second. The new live version), strap on my purple acoustic bass, and jump around pretending I'm actually playing along instead of barely hanging onto the root chords. I like to shake really hard while I'm doing it, although in real life this makes it impossible to play. If I can manage to hang onto the harmony at the same time, so much the better. It wasn't until about an hour ago that I realized that this is not a common behavior. I mean, not the bass-playing even, so much, but the sheer abandon. I am a talker-to-myself, a singer-along, a take-a-bow-after-a-shower air guitarist type. I do it all the time, and I just figured that everybody was that way. HUH-UH. Nope. As a matter of fact, the part where I use music as my own personal pharmacy to bring me up or calm me down, or make me feel sexy or put me to sleep - did you know there are people who don't do that? It baffles me.

Which brings me to my real point. I am in a conundrum concerning the band. I want more all the time. More stage time, more space, more adulation, more applause. I want more eyes on me. Being on stage is the biggest high I know right now. And I take for granted that everybody feels that way. But the thing is, I had a talk the other day with a near and dear and she mentioned that when we were on the stage, the light seemed blindingly bright, that it was almost disorienting. I was stunned; she hated it!I live to find my light. How do I split the difference between what I want - gigging out every weekend or at least once a month, a bigger store of knowledge concerning this whole inclusive thing, the equipment and the history and the heart behind it - and what everyone else wants? How do I keep being a performer in a sea of musicians?

Anyhow, peeps, more cheering and raving. I adore it.



And for good luck, a gratuitous picture of my kids, who while one day sing my back-up.

Where do I begin? New York, the first 2 days

Anyone who just sang, "To tell a story of a love that once was true..." gets a cookie.

But I meant, to tell the story of my trip to New York City. So much happened in such a short amount of time!

The first thing that happened is we climbed in a cab, and he was already on the road when he asked where we were going. There was disgruntled muttering when we told him Brooklyn. The directions we had were kinda circuitous, and it took us a long time in rush hour traffic to reach the general area where our bed and breakfast was located. After circling the block for several minutes, and arguing over whether or not there were streets behind us, we called Val and she told us where to have him let us off. I was on the phone with her when we saw her. She and Shelley had come to greet us at our place, Awesome Bed and Breakfast and we were really happy to see them. We went to dinner with them in a lovely garden that served Italian food, and then Shelley decline our invite to participate in Kuntry Karaoke at Hank's Rootin' Tootin' Saloon. The lead singer/MC/dude in charge insisted on calling us the Sugar Mamas and seemed sorta put out when we sang Jackson and didn't invite him to sing along. Ham. Cute, but a ham. Then Princess Japonski swallowed her fear to take to the stage for her rendition of Coal Miner's Daughter. I had never heard her sing before, and she was great!

I didn't sleep at all the first night - our room was really hot, and I can't settle down the first night in a new place - so I was already cranky on Tuesday morning when we woke and started moving. I was meeting a friend from high school in the Financial District for lunch, so if we wanted coffee and breakfast, we had to move. Luckily, V. knows how to handle my moods and she deftly loaded me onto a subway and then into Chelsea, where she took us to a little French place that made terrific crepes and nuclearly hot cappuccino.I felt a little better, but after I got on the subway by myself to proceed to my appointed place of meeting, I realized that I'd had one more drink the night before than I'd thought I had. This set the tone for the rest of the week. Eighteen hours in the city, and I was living like a rock star.

I almost didn't recognize D. when I saw her. I was looking for a shy, long haired girl in ripped blue jeans with a Walkman lodged firmly in her ear. The woman who hugged me was confident and pretty and easy with herself in way I hadn't seen before and that I quite liked. We found a really crappy cafeteria to eat lunch in - I had just had the better part of a croissant and the remains of last night's beer and whiskey were arguing with it, so I didn't order anything to eat - and sat down to talk. We reminisced a little, and talked about our kids and our lives now. There was a time when we had lost touch, and I worried about her, because she faced some stiff odds, but seeing her made me realize my fears were for nothing. She always had the strength of character and the drive to make her own way in the world. We left the place and I made her go shoe shopping with me. She laughed because I kept picking out things that were impractical and silly, like a pair of Lulu Guinness wedge heels in bubblegum pink, printed with pictures of candy. Then we bought slushies (for me) and iced coffee (for her, 'cause she's a grown-up) and sat in the shade of a little park to talk a bit more. She made me a beautiful hat - she stalked this blog to find out about me - and I gave her a circular needle holder. We walked back to the train and said goodbye. I hope we keep in touch.

That's when the real New York adventure began. I managed to put myself on the right train, heading the wrong direction. For some reason, even though I realize the north gets bigger street thing, I still got turned about completely. I did realize my mistake, and got on the right train going to right way to meet up with H. and A. in Union Square. Hmmm. I got off at the right place, checked my address and turned the way I thought I should go. It was a fairly nice day, warm but not hot, not too humid, and I was enjoying the walk, frankly. After many blocks, I thought to myself, this can't possibly be right! I stopped and asked someone on the street If I was going the right direction. "Sure, just keep going. You'll run into it eventually," she said. I am not certain if she was deliberately misleading me, or if she misunderstood what I was asking, but I found myself a few minutes later at the Beth Israel Orthopedics Department. Dammit! I wanted the magazine department of Barnes and Noble, not knee surgery. Crap. I turned myself around, walked back to 14th street and started hoofing it back the way I came. It took me a while. I was seriously late now, with no way of getting in touch with my peeps. I finally stopped at a coffee stand on the street and asked directions. I was still five blocks from my destination, but headed in the right direction. I kept going. I was in the bookstore, on the escalator to the 3rd floor, when my phone rang. It was A., wanting to know where I was. I was hungry (remember my slight hangover?), hot, and incredibly annoyed at this point. I restrained my urge to yell really loudly, and agreed to meet them at the Sephora next door. H. offered to buy me a slice of pie, and we headed for pizza. The food and air conditioning did me real good.

It was time to go in to Williamsburg because of my tattoo appointment. H.hailed a cab, but he laughed at us when we said Brooklyn, so off to the train again. No delays, no foul-ups. We arrived in the part of town that looks like the places I am accustomed to hanging out in. The train stop was close to the tattoo parlor, so we took a few minutes exploring while we made our way down the street. A. stopped for juice and H. and I went into a little shop next door with pin-up cowgirls on the windows. All of their clothes, including sale clothes, were 20% off, so H. tried on this dress. It was a little tight in the waist, so I tried it on. It fit, and I bought it. I need to practice in it, but I think it will make a decent dress for shows.

Finally it was time for my appointment. Hold Fast Tattoos is, simply put, marvelous. The girl at the counter was nice and brought us Coke in glass bottles, and Bailey, the artist who did my ink, was professional, meticulous, and clean. The space was beautiful, and I was enamored of all the classic flash on the walls. He spent a long time sketching my design and bringing it to me to make sure I liked it, and then he scrubbed me down and started. It hurt a little, but less than I feared. It was fascinating. V., who was more nervous than I, held her breath a little, I think, but then H. came back and they got to chatting. I think they actually stopped watching the process while they were laughing about the three breasted mermaid flash on the wall behind them, and H. complained that I wasn't being dramatic enough. Bailey was done with all of it in about 20 minutes. I adore it. It is so delicate and small - it's better than I thought.

Then V. took us to am awesome barbeque place. We let H. order for us all, and she did. She ordered pounds of meat. We are hearty ladies, but we really couldn't do the platter justice. We washed it down with more beer. Then the "chefs" sitting next to us asked A. her opinion of the food. She immediately explained she was a vegetarian, so they turned their attentions to us. We escaped when S. joined us, all the way from Harlem. We left in search of more drinks (!) and went to a little bar where we thought there might be live music. There was - a hippie with a shaker egg and a guitar who called himself "Summer of Love" and played a song entitled "Love is the Mantra." V. ran into a friend who promised better music later in the evening, but we were tired and I wanted to take a shower, so V. helped us onto a bus and we went back to our little room in the B and B. and fell asleep.

The Sugar Shakers are delicious!

You'll notice that I went an unusual amount of time before posting again. This is because my bass came. I know you all are thinking, don't you have two already? Yes, I did, and now I have three. The biggest difference is, the new one is a stand-up. Yes, a stand-up. It's glossy black with hot pink nylon strings, and it still surprises me that I own it. I am learning how to slap, and it's going pretty well. So well, in fact, that I played a gig with it on Saturday night.



We really need a better band photographer.

I couldn't believe how fun it was. I played so hard that the thumb on my slapping hand went numb during Cocaine Blues and I could barely get through the last song. It was great, even if I was injured. I am going to work on building my stamina so I can get through longer than thirty minutes of playing.

We are considering a few themes for our shows. One would be a prom theme, complete with streamers. One might be pirates, because as everyone know, there is nothing I love better than pirates. I am voting for a rumble theme, complete with chains and switchblade combs, but I will probably get vetoed on that one. Any great ideas out there?

Stella in action

It's just a tease. Here's how the boots look next to cooler shoes. Obviously I need to step it up a notch or two. Or maybe they'll look way hotter next to an upright.

Owww.

I just went week without rehearsing with the band. I spent a few days screwing around on my purple acoustic/electric that until very recently was the love of my life. How fickle can I be? I am borrowing an upright to practice on at A.'s house, and so I have been sort of stiffing my guitars. The consequence, though, is that I went a week without playing the Beast, and now I have blisters on all three of my plucking fingers. It should only be two plucking fingers, or at least that's what it is when I play the bass guitar, but to get better slap, I am scooping the strings with half my hand. Ten minutes into practice, I was breathing hard, dripping with sweat, and sort of trembly in the tricep area., not to mention ominously stinging in the pads of my fingers. Even though I put bandaids over two fingers (I forgot the stupid medical tape AGAIN), I still have a couple decent sized blisters. And it hurts now that I 'm not absorbed in playing. Whatever. I'm tough.

I am so enamored of my new computer that I have not started work on the band bag I was intending. Or the laptop case I desperately need, for that matter. I have been really remiss about working on sewing projects. I finished a bunch before the Seattle trip, including the mythical brown eyelet dress, and have not touched the machine since. I need to get in the craft room and 1) clean and organize and 2) force myself to make something. It'll make me feel better. It always does.


Edit: I fixed the brown eyelet dress link, because even though the only one who cares is the one it was intended for, maybe someone will stumble on this and not be bored.

I'm Back!

That doesn't mean so much yet, as of course I don't have any photos or videos or other interesting bits of ephemera to excite you on this machine yet. But I will say that I will try to keep you up to date about goings-on more faithfully now.

For those of you who don't know, the Sugar Shakers had a great first run, although the sound was all messed up. Did I mention all of this already? Oh well. We know now that one of our goals is to get our own equipment, or at least borrow from people who give a crap about what we sound like. And of course we loooked fabulous, altho our marvelous keyboard player Dolce Anita stole the show with leather pants, bouffed out hair and a jean jacket. And lipstick, which she professed dislike for until wearing. I vowed never to wear cowboy boots onstage again with women who were wearing 3 inch heels, because I looked a little stumpy - pardon my insecurity. And Shotsie Glass, also known as the delightful Ms. Budd, has promised to seriously step up the eye makeup. All that aside, we were by far the best thing to hit the Monthly Grind stage since Sox Therapy had its very limited run in the spring of 2002. We're only getting better! Soon to come, a double bill with the Glorious Youth Parade on Memorial Dy Weekend, and the Homeskillet Festival, which we will be playing fresh from our New York adventure. Add to this the possibility of the Princess Japonski Tribute Fest while she's here on her world tour, and we've got a really rockin' summer lined up.

Shotsie is out of town this week, tho, so maybe that means I'll get some sewing done rather than messing about playing music. I want to make a bag to cart all my shit around in, cables and tuners and so forth. Stay tuned! maybe i'll have pictures soon.

I have lapsed, I know it.

I always mean to add a little smidgen of something to this blog, because I don't want to leave my readers wanting (ha!), and I know I also promised to keep all of you up to date on the status of the band.

Well, I don't mind telling you that the band is going SWIMMINGLY, thanks very much. As a matter of fact, that is a good part of the reason why I haven't been blogging - all the time I usually spend typing mindlessly on the computer is spent practicing my bass instead. I fell like I'm really getting somewhere with it.

And remember when I was whining about wanting that pretty purple acoustic? Well, I went ahead and took the plunge, and I've been playing it. I like it a lot, even tho it's harder to play by a long shot than my tiny Daisy Rock, because it's manufactured for grown ups and not 13 year old girls, which apparently I am. The acoustic is still too small for the Fender flatwound strings I accidentally bought in a long. This is distressing because the strings were a little on the pricey side, and I was very interested in hearing the difference in sound. Apparently, the flatwounds give you a warmer, more "upright" sound when they're on an electric bass. Since we're playing straight-up rockabilly and punkabilly type stuff, I thought the upright sound would be most apropos. Eventually, I would like to play an actual stand-up bass, but I will bide my time as far as that is concerned.

If anyone happens to be here in town on April 21st, come to the Monthly Grind. It'll be our premiere performance, and I think we're gonna rock the house. Otherwise, we know we're in this for the long haul, and there will be other performances, but the real question is when. I think that I would love to lean toward a more dance-y sound, and H. wants us to go a little more hard-core, so there's bound to be something good that comes of this.

And at some point, I am going to work up the nerve to finish both the Rosalind Russell-y wool dress I have (in fuschia wool flannel) and the black western shirt with leopard accents. I'll post pix when I get around to it.