My St Patrick's Day Included:
-a bagpipe moshpit
-obligatory green shamrock facepaint
-The 12 Toasts of Ireland, a rousing carol composed late in the evening/early in the morning, consisting of 12 verses. Unfortunately I can only remember the last: "-aand Irish Sea Shantyssss!"
In retrospect it would have been much better if March 17th did not fall on a Wednesday this year.
It is the homestretch of midterms and recital prep before spring break, and I am so glad. I don't really have time to write this right now, but I can't look at ANOVA tables anymore, so here we are. I've been working on my statistics projects all week, and the "F" statistic (the variance distribution of the ratio of treatment error over mean square error) has taken on a new meaning for me. I'm heading back to Kentucky over spring break, and I am relieved. Nothing sounds better to me right now than accidentally cleaning my paint brush in Earl Grey, falling asleep under the old oak with a novel in my lap, pickin till it's time for breakfast, and dancing blisters into the bottoms my feet.
Even with the mid-semester press, my friends are making sure I get out of the library and live when I can. I've never been more grateful for their encouragement than I was yesterday. The evening began at the ever-classy Quick and Delicious (a town diner that is exactly as charming as it sounds) with a "plate o taters," and ended in a red dress and low dip to the crooning of Nina Simone. This morning I fell asleep grinning after a night of shuffling/twirling/dipping/spinning/laughing at the blues and swing dances. My calves ache, I literally danced through the bottom of my stockings, and it felt great! I'm going to count both of these as marks of a successful night.
(Obies take note, there's more dancing to come: tonight (Saturday) at 8:30 Wilder Main for swing dancing, then from midnight to 2 at the Cat for blues )
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Dancing About Architecture, and Recipes
"Talking about Jazz is like dancing about architecture."
-Thelonius Monk
I'm going to try anyways.
Mingus said something interesting about soloing, and how it's like a conversation. He said 'you don't walk into a room and say "AHHHHHH!" You say "hello."'
Hello.
What do you say after that?
Three things scare the hell out of me right now. No, four. Well...ok anyways, some things scare me, and one of them is taking an improvised solo in front of people who know something about music. Until now I never considered it a disadvantage that nearly everyone at Oberlin knows "something" about music. Put another way, the house that I usually jam in is home to jazz majors. They have studied, played, and transcribed just about everybody, including Mingus. While friendly, they are extremely intimidating.
Look, Ma, I'm jumping in the pool with no floaties! I think I'll dog paddle for awhile. But there's big kids in here!
(Mom wouldn't say it exactly this way but the meaning would be the same: "Man up" or alternately "quitcherbitchin!")
OTHER NEWS:
I've been thinking recently about how intertwined everything really is, and how the things I do outside of music are not really outside of music at all. I'm not sure anything I do is really is. That got me thinking about how I might consciously bring my world to the practice room, the jam, the stage.
For instance, I've recently taken up yoga. Beyond the obvious strength and concentration benefits, yoga is all about using your breath constructively, and so is music. You have to breathe into and out of phrases, and with the motion of your body (especially with an instrument as physical as bass). Doris, my hot Austrian yoga instructor, often implores us to use breath to sink deeper into poses, to stretch longer, to hold firmer. Mr Sperl has given me similar advice, though he wasn't wearing a sports bra or balancing on his fingers/doing splits at the time.
How does your daily life inform your music?
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Keep co-op healthy snacks:
Sweet potato spread:
Boil sweet potatoes until they are soft. When cool pull the skins off. Cut into cubes, spice with salt/pepper, curry, cinnamon, and whatever else you want. Add maple syrup. Puree in a food processor. Serve with bread/eat an entire bowl for breakfast before class.
Roasted Chickpeas:
soak and cook the dried chickpeas, or use canned. Toss with olive oil, salt, cumin, allspice, maybe cardamom, marjoram and/or whatever else you want. Roast in oven on baking sheet at 4:50 for about 25-30 minutes until crunchy and delicious.
Cooperation:
Combine strong opinions, loose alliances, and sugar. Set aside. In another container combine logic, precedent, and common sense. Mix thoroughly. Slowly add the second group of ingredients to the first, stirring after each addition. Taste periodically and adjust ingredients accordingly. Put on heat until solid.
-----------------------------------
Earlier today I looked at my clock and it said 11:11. 11:11 is special to me, because when I was a kid I used to make wishes at 11:11, about everything from ghosts to boys to hoping mom wouldn't find out who broke whatever I'd just broken. I'm not a kid anymore, and the magical status of my worldview is in flux, but today, just because, I made a wish anyways. Later I realized that since I set my clock five minutes fast, 11:11 wasn't actually 11:11 at all, and I had wasted my wish. Another day this realization wouldn't have been worth writing about, it might even have been kind of funny, but not today. Today all I could think was that even when I know I'm fooling myself, I'm still fooled. That's when I decided it's silly to make wishes.
-Thelonius Monk
I'm going to try anyways.
Mingus said something interesting about soloing, and how it's like a conversation. He said 'you don't walk into a room and say "AHHHHHH!" You say "hello."'
Hello.
What do you say after that?
Three things scare the hell out of me right now. No, four. Well...ok anyways, some things scare me, and one of them is taking an improvised solo in front of people who know something about music. Until now I never considered it a disadvantage that nearly everyone at Oberlin knows "something" about music. Put another way, the house that I usually jam in is home to jazz majors. They have studied, played, and transcribed just about everybody, including Mingus. While friendly, they are extremely intimidating.
Look, Ma, I'm jumping in the pool with no floaties! I think I'll dog paddle for awhile. But there's big kids in here!
(Mom wouldn't say it exactly this way but the meaning would be the same: "Man up" or alternately "quitcherbitchin!")
OTHER NEWS:
I've been thinking recently about how intertwined everything really is, and how the things I do outside of music are not really outside of music at all. I'm not sure anything I do is really is. That got me thinking about how I might consciously bring my world to the practice room, the jam, the stage.
For instance, I've recently taken up yoga. Beyond the obvious strength and concentration benefits, yoga is all about using your breath constructively, and so is music. You have to breathe into and out of phrases, and with the motion of your body (especially with an instrument as physical as bass). Doris, my hot Austrian yoga instructor, often implores us to use breath to sink deeper into poses, to stretch longer, to hold firmer. Mr Sperl has given me similar advice, though he wasn't wearing a sports bra or balancing on his fingers/doing splits at the time.
How does your daily life inform your music?
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Keep co-op healthy snacks:
Sweet potato spread:
Boil sweet potatoes until they are soft. When cool pull the skins off. Cut into cubes, spice with salt/pepper, curry, cinnamon, and whatever else you want. Add maple syrup. Puree in a food processor. Serve with bread/eat an entire bowl for breakfast before class.
Roasted Chickpeas:
soak and cook the dried chickpeas, or use canned. Toss with olive oil, salt, cumin, allspice, maybe cardamom, marjoram and/or whatever else you want. Roast in oven on baking sheet at 4:50 for about 25-30 minutes until crunchy and delicious.
Cooperation:
Combine strong opinions, loose alliances, and sugar. Set aside. In another container combine logic, precedent, and common sense. Mix thoroughly. Slowly add the second group of ingredients to the first, stirring after each addition. Taste periodically and adjust ingredients accordingly. Put on heat until solid.
-----------------------------------
Earlier today I looked at my clock and it said 11:11. 11:11 is special to me, because when I was a kid I used to make wishes at 11:11, about everything from ghosts to boys to hoping mom wouldn't find out who broke whatever I'd just broken. I'm not a kid anymore, and the magical status of my worldview is in flux, but today, just because, I made a wish anyways. Later I realized that since I set my clock five minutes fast, 11:11 wasn't actually 11:11 at all, and I had wasted my wish. Another day this realization wouldn't have been worth writing about, it might even have been kind of funny, but not today. Today all I could think was that even when I know I'm fooling myself, I'm still fooled. That's when I decided it's silly to make wishes.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Throw Down Your Heart
(Picture By David Roswell, OC '13)
Coffee and sleep are the same right?
Well no, not really. I discovered that when I stumbled into what I thought was my morning class today.
I had my glasses off, because when I come in to heated buildings out of the cold (aside: it is STILL snowing) they fog up and I can't see anyways. Squinty eyed and slump-backed I feel for the door knob to the classroom and settle my glasses on my nose on as I walk to my usual seat. That's when I noticed the class was a lot smaller, and we had a different teacher today. I give my friend Adam a nod and weary smile and slip my purse off my shoulder-
-wait, Adam isn't in this class with me.
Not only did I go to the completely wrong class, I went at the wrong time. Which is why I am writing to you, because I now have thirty minutes before my actual class. Brilliant. (I would have had an hour, except when I realized what I'd done I went straight to the coffee shop for another hit.)
Trial and error. I Tried going dancing after the concert last night, and crawling into bed at 2 AM too tired to even preload the espresso machine. This was an Error. I found out exactly how much of an error it was in my 9 AM class this morning, as my pen slid off a page of notes I had no recollection or comprehension of. Appropriately for my little experiment, the class was research methods. In this case I don't think I need repeated trials to draw a strong conclusion.
Anyway this extra time does give me the chance to share something incredible with you.
The concert last night! You would have loved it so much! Bela Fleck and the Africa project came to Finney Chapel, and I think it's safe to say that nothing quite like this has ever shaken those ancient rafters before. The concert opened with the man himself calmly walking across the stage towards a suddenly hushed and expectant crowd. After greeting the eager crowd ("Hi, how y'all doin?") he selected a banjo from a rack of 5 and perched himself on a stool in the center of the giant stage. When the first notes of his high lyrical melody line reached my ears I had to check to verify that he was really playing. He was incredibly still as this music poured from him, only his fingers fluttering across the strings, hitting harmonics and picking out double stops, sliding and caressing. He was the embodiment of what my orchestra director in high school called "controlled power." His improvisational style was quintessentially Bela, but with undertones of compound rhythms and surprising harmonic elements that foreshadowed the acoustic journey that would follow. When the last notes of his solo faded away, there was a second of stillness before the audience erupted into raucous applause. The applause went on so long that he had to interrupt just to introduce the next musicians, Anania Ngoliga and John Kitime from Tanzania.
Did you know thumb harp can be sexy? It can also be humorous, despondent, pouty, joyful, and full of sorrow. I didn't know either, but now I do. Anania Ngoliga added his soulful baritone, and occasionally his playful falsetto and mad-sounding cackle (complete with hen clucks, imitating the voice of an old girlfriend) to virtuosity on an instrument I did not even know you could attain virtuosity on.
I came into this concert thinking it was going to be like nothing I'd ever heard before. In a lot of ways I was right. When the band from Mali began playing, led by the regal Bassekou Kouate and his captivating wife Amy Sacko, I couldn't even figure out what meter they were playing in for awhile, and still don't know how to pronounce the instruments they were playing. Some things were very familiar however. The improvisational conversations between Kouate (on a small gourd and bone/stick instrument that would have had the lead role of a trumpet in jazz or a mandolin in grass) and Fleck were reminiscent of two jazz greats talking back and stirring each other to greater heights. The vocal technique reminded me of the high and tense harmonies of some of the old bluegrass legends. At some points they were almost yodelling, pitching high and flipping falsetto across the thump of the bass. Then Anania would break through the texture with a low and powerful moan from somewhere deep inside. Though the scale was unfamiliar to me, there was definitely something of the blues in the way Amy Sacko talked to the crowd with her powerfully soulful vocal solos.
It was Bassekou Kouate who gave me my favorite moment of the whole concert, at the climax of one of his improvised solos. He was winding high, with Bela in perfect complimentary sync laying ascending chromatic notes in his rests. A strange mix of surging triplets against duples drove the sound forward, and as Kouate reached the top he rolled his head back across his shoulders in what looked like complete ecstasy. He stretched the rhythm and held on to just a few notes, suspended, as the rest of the band oscillated back and forth through chords beneath him, and from my seat in the balcony I felt the lift, tension, and opening up of his line as a physical sensation in my body.
I think it's worth noting that Kouate's gesture at that moment, when he rolled his head across his shoulders, was extremely familiar to me. The last time I saw it, however, I was in a bar in Kentucky, wearing cowboy boots, and I'm pretty sure someone responded by shouting "yeehaw." I'm smiling right now thinking about it. Just goes to show you everything really is connected.
That wasn't the only jaw dropping moment of the night. To open the second set Bela came out and played an entire piece of sliding double stops on his open strings, by rapidly retuning his banjo as the notes sounded. And of course there was Amy Sacko. If anyone knows how to throw down their heart for music, it is this woman. She sang her heart out in the second set, and the energy she commanded sizzled through the air to fill Finney chapel to the brim. When she finished, Bela commented "I don't know what she was singing about, but she really meant it."
There was a powerful driver behind the Malinese band, Ngoni Ba. I'm gonna try and tell you about his instrument, but I don't really know what I'm talking about. One man in the back of the band had what looked like a giant gourd, sawed in half lying on a table. Throughout the night he would alternately scrape his fingertips, rap his knuckles, slap his palms, or slam his fist into the gourd in a combination of rhythms that I could feel in my heart but had no hope of understanding. As the solos surged and pulled over top of this framework (another element that reminded me of bluegrass), he kept completely steady and cool, with forceful movements that seemed to come from his whole body. The poly rhythms of some of the songs in the second set became so infectious that I could not possibly keep my seat any longer. My neighbor and I looked at each other, and in one of those rare moments of perfect understanding between strangers, we stood and practically ran to the aisle where we danced the rest of the show. Later our fast and excited voices would find names and words, our hands would clasp in formal greeting, and we would do all those things that strangers do in our culture. But for the moment mouths were for grinning and our arms for dancing.
What a night!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Entomology and the Workout Mix
An hour and approximately 18 minutes and 23 seconds ago I stepped outside and glared at the sky, a dull gray featureless shroud incessantly spitting cold wet misery. I squinted my eyes shut and grumbled my way across the parking lot, pulling the hood of my dirty white coat close around my face to try and take the bite out of the wind. I passed several other Eskimos on my way, also bundled up tight. Their backs were just as hunched, their faces as scrunched as my own, but I felt no kinship with them. We played tug-of-war with Ohio, each of us trying to hold our warmth close into ourselves against forces that would suck it away. Why did I leave my room? When will this snow stop? Karmi says it's going to snow all week. What am I doing?
Five minutes ago I stepped out a different door, into a different snowfall, a different Ohio. I saw the snow catching in the lamplight as I crunched my boot into the sidewalk, and I had to take off my headphones. I stopped to listen to the muffled stillness of heavy snowfall, the odd way that snow sounds are simultaneously dampened and amplified, and the crunch of my boots into the soft white. Flakes clumped together and swirled gently down through the yellow glow, a few of them drifting to rest on my upturned cheeks, and I let them linger until they melted on my skin. I sucked a lungfull of brisk air into my nose and let it bite before blowing a misty cloud around my face. I paused under that tree at the corner of North Quad, the one with the twisted branches, and admired every sparkling twig. For the first time since it started snowing this Friday, I looked at the clean softness of Oberlin in February and smiled. Though I'll still never be a Northern girl at heart, for now, Ohio, you are beautiful.
What is the source of this dramatic difference in perspective? I went to the gym. Why does an hour of sweating, rock music, and moderate pain make you feel so fantastic? I do not know. But I like it.
Other Questions:
-Why are my "Angry" and "Workout" playlists interchangeable?
-What should my new Workout Mix be?
-How can I get a cardio workout in my room every time I need to go outside?
-WHEN WILL IT STOP SNOWING?
So obviously I am back at school. I should have known when Daniel and I drove through a literal blizzard getting here that it would be a shock to my sensitive southern system. Still took me by surprise.
Enough about the weather.
A lot has happened in my life recently, and some of it is awesome. I moved into Keep co-op. That's one of the awesome things. Oberlin co-ops are student run cooperative houses, where everyone in the house has a house job (like cleaning showers or stocking toilet paper), and people take turns cooking and cleaning up the kitchen. Because all decisions are made by consensus, people living here feel real ownership and pride in the quality of the house and take care of it (and each other). I love the community here, it is very supportive, and the energy is palpable. Right now I am missing a jam session in the lounge to write to you (that's ok though, because there will be another one tomorrow. And probably the night after that, and the night after that...). All the food so far has been vegan and delicious. I've had at least ten vegan orange ginger spice cookies in the last two days. My room mate, Karmi, is awesome, she wants to be an entomologist (study bugs, yeah I looked it up) and bee keeper. She brought an art book with her that is full of beautiful drawings of shells and jellyfish, and when I came in to meet her she was listening to one of my favorite albums. We sang in harmony before we knew each others names, I think that's a good sign. Our room is very welcoming, and stocked with tea and chocolate (hint hint visit me).
In other news, I recently turned 21, or "twenty-fun" as Helena likes to say. I have celebrated this about five times, with another party planned this weekend (The Feve, Saturday night for you Obies, everyone is invited).
Highlights of Turning Twenty Fun
-playing a bright green aluminum upright bass with a string band
-getting tipsy enough to be the only ones dancing in the bar and not care
-inviting the bartender to "surprise me"
-toasting to things like "seventh chords" and "indulgent aunts"
-being at a show where yelling "yeehaw" is completely appropriate
So that whole class thing, which goes along with the whole Ohio thing, means I have to go do homework. Then hopefully I can get some of that sleep stuff, which I hear is pretty great.
I hope you are doing so much better than well and fine and ok. Hugs all around. Write me a comment.
XOXO
Erin
Five minutes ago I stepped out a different door, into a different snowfall, a different Ohio. I saw the snow catching in the lamplight as I crunched my boot into the sidewalk, and I had to take off my headphones. I stopped to listen to the muffled stillness of heavy snowfall, the odd way that snow sounds are simultaneously dampened and amplified, and the crunch of my boots into the soft white. Flakes clumped together and swirled gently down through the yellow glow, a few of them drifting to rest on my upturned cheeks, and I let them linger until they melted on my skin. I sucked a lungfull of brisk air into my nose and let it bite before blowing a misty cloud around my face. I paused under that tree at the corner of North Quad, the one with the twisted branches, and admired every sparkling twig. For the first time since it started snowing this Friday, I looked at the clean softness of Oberlin in February and smiled. Though I'll still never be a Northern girl at heart, for now, Ohio, you are beautiful.
What is the source of this dramatic difference in perspective? I went to the gym. Why does an hour of sweating, rock music, and moderate pain make you feel so fantastic? I do not know. But I like it.
Other Questions:
-Why are my "Angry" and "Workout" playlists interchangeable?
-What should my new Workout Mix be?
-How can I get a cardio workout in my room every time I need to go outside?
-WHEN WILL IT STOP SNOWING?
So obviously I am back at school. I should have known when Daniel and I drove through a literal blizzard getting here that it would be a shock to my sensitive southern system. Still took me by surprise.
Enough about the weather.
A lot has happened in my life recently, and some of it is awesome. I moved into Keep co-op. That's one of the awesome things. Oberlin co-ops are student run cooperative houses, where everyone in the house has a house job (like cleaning showers or stocking toilet paper), and people take turns cooking and cleaning up the kitchen. Because all decisions are made by consensus, people living here feel real ownership and pride in the quality of the house and take care of it (and each other). I love the community here, it is very supportive, and the energy is palpable. Right now I am missing a jam session in the lounge to write to you (that's ok though, because there will be another one tomorrow. And probably the night after that, and the night after that...). All the food so far has been vegan and delicious. I've had at least ten vegan orange ginger spice cookies in the last two days. My room mate, Karmi, is awesome, she wants to be an entomologist (study bugs, yeah I looked it up) and bee keeper. She brought an art book with her that is full of beautiful drawings of shells and jellyfish, and when I came in to meet her she was listening to one of my favorite albums. We sang in harmony before we knew each others names, I think that's a good sign. Our room is very welcoming, and stocked with tea and chocolate (hint hint visit me).
In other news, I recently turned 21, or "twenty-fun" as Helena likes to say. I have celebrated this about five times, with another party planned this weekend (The Feve, Saturday night for you Obies, everyone is invited).
Highlights of Turning Twenty Fun
-playing a bright green aluminum upright bass with a string band
-getting tipsy enough to be the only ones dancing in the bar and not care
-inviting the bartender to "surprise me"
-toasting to things like "seventh chords" and "indulgent aunts"
-being at a show where yelling "yeehaw" is completely appropriate
So that whole class thing, which goes along with the whole Ohio thing, means I have to go do homework. Then hopefully I can get some of that sleep stuff, which I hear is pretty great.
I hope you are doing so much better than well and fine and ok. Hugs all around. Write me a comment.
XOXO
Erin
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Sushi as Road Fare
Day 3 or 4. Sorry, I know this is all over the place
I'm here in Sara's house in Austin, TX, and I feel like I'm back at Oberlin, plugging away in the Robertson practice rooms. Upstairs trumpet blasts from Miki and Mr. Sasaki's rooms compete for dominance over the delicate strains of Sara's violin. She's splitting time between Stravinsky and Skaggs (Ricky, that is). I think if I wasn't myself occupying (kinda practicing in) the piano room Mrs. Sasaki would be at it as well. I half expect a tour of prospies to peer through the door as the tour guide brags about practice rooms and steinways and something called "internal climate control." It's a nice feeling, being enveloped in so much music, I always wondered what it would be like to grow in a house full of musicians. The overlapping strains are surprisingly comforting. Occasionally dissonant, mostly welcoming, like Austin itself.
I asked someone in the Houston airport yesterday where in Austin I could go to hear good live music on a week night. Apparently that question is akin to "where is there air" in Austin. The young man could only stare at me in disbelief, but my neighbor, who'd been listening, helpfully piped up: everywhere!
They were right.
We pulled all the stops--
(SIDE NOTE: Did you know the phrase "pulling all the stops" comes from pipe organs, because you have to pull the stops out to get the bigger pipes to resonate? Well now you do.)
--performing for Austin crowds. Because live music is such a regular part of their diet we had to bring every ounce of energy left over from travel to the stage. Getting such a cool (carefully avoiding the term jaded, oops I just said it) audience to clap, sing, and yell with us was a challenge, but Helena loves a challenge. By the end of our first show, she got the whole house on their feet, and even if they didn't sing or dance I like to think they were tapping the toes of their hearts.
The other challenge was choosing where to go on our night off. 6th street is lined with clubs and music. We would have spent weeks, and all the budget, partaking there if the itinerary let us. The Sasakis sent us on our way with hugs, best wishes, and homemade vegetarian (thank you!) sushi complete with chopsticks (Mrs. Sasaki, like Sara, thinks of everything).
Numbers:
-States: 4
-Hours in the car: 17
-Trucks who honked at us: 13
-Number of times we heard Lady Gaga on the radio: TOO MANY
-"260: How many miles Helena drove while y'all bitches were sleeping" (Helena told me to include that)
---------------------------------------------
I'm gettin tired. Maybe more about Austin to come? Is anybody reading this?
I'm here in Sara's house in Austin, TX, and I feel like I'm back at Oberlin, plugging away in the Robertson practice rooms. Upstairs trumpet blasts from Miki and Mr. Sasaki's rooms compete for dominance over the delicate strains of Sara's violin. She's splitting time between Stravinsky and Skaggs (Ricky, that is). I think if I wasn't myself occupying (kinda practicing in) the piano room Mrs. Sasaki would be at it as well. I half expect a tour of prospies to peer through the door as the tour guide brags about practice rooms and steinways and something called "internal climate control." It's a nice feeling, being enveloped in so much music, I always wondered what it would be like to grow in a house full of musicians. The overlapping strains are surprisingly comforting. Occasionally dissonant, mostly welcoming, like Austin itself.
I asked someone in the Houston airport yesterday where in Austin I could go to hear good live music on a week night. Apparently that question is akin to "where is there air" in Austin. The young man could only stare at me in disbelief, but my neighbor, who'd been listening, helpfully piped up: everywhere!
They were right.
We pulled all the stops--
(SIDE NOTE: Did you know the phrase "pulling all the stops" comes from pipe organs, because you have to pull the stops out to get the bigger pipes to resonate? Well now you do.)
--performing for Austin crowds. Because live music is such a regular part of their diet we had to bring every ounce of energy left over from travel to the stage. Getting such a cool (carefully avoiding the term jaded, oops I just said it) audience to clap, sing, and yell with us was a challenge, but Helena loves a challenge. By the end of our first show, she got the whole house on their feet, and even if they didn't sing or dance I like to think they were tapping the toes of their hearts.
The other challenge was choosing where to go on our night off. 6th street is lined with clubs and music. We would have spent weeks, and all the budget, partaking there if the itinerary let us. The Sasakis sent us on our way with hugs, best wishes, and homemade vegetarian (thank you!) sushi complete with chopsticks (Mrs. Sasaki, like Sara, thinks of everything).
Numbers:
-States: 4
-Hours in the car: 17
-Trucks who honked at us: 13
-Number of times we heard Lady Gaga on the radio: TOO MANY
-"260: How many miles Helena drove while y'all bitches were sleeping" (Helena told me to include that)
---------------------------------------------
I'm gettin tired. Maybe more about Austin to come? Is anybody reading this?
The thing about Leezard
(Day Question Mark. When we drove from Dallas to Nashville.)
Helena had the cruise control set high as we flew through the barren purple landscape that is Fate, Texas at six AM.
Somewhere in that line there is a metaphor. I can't decide what it means that we had the cruise control on while driving through Fate. Was she meant to set the cruise control, or did she choose it? Cruise control isn't that hard to get out of either, you just have to tap the break right? That's got to mean something. Does the fact that is was beautiful change anything? What about the cruise control being on 80 or so? Fate zipped by, for sure. Somewhere in there I'm sure there's a lesson about destiny, love, and long journeys, something deep and central. Right?
Hell if I know, I'm just the bass player. Today we saw the sunrise in Texas and the sunset in Tennessee. From the soreness in my abs I'm guessing we spent most of the time between laughing. That and belting out bad pop music with whatever radio stations we could pick up along the way. I would be snobby about the music, except that all three of us knew most of the words. The wonderfully awful "shorty's like a melody in my head that I can't get out" is a melody in my head that I can't get out, right now as I write this. About two cups of coffee and three bawdy jokes into the drive we remembered what we forgot: the ipod adapter. It could have been worse, we could have forgotten Sara's bag of shoes.
Dallas was one of my favorite stops on the tour, mostly because of Mama T. I now know where Helena gets her nurturing side, as well as her prowess in the kitchen. The Thompsons not only warmly welcomed seven hungry (and slightly smelly from the road) college students, all their instruments and nightly jam sessions, and the impressive amount of luggage we spread through every room, into her house; Patricia Thompson also cooked us some of the most delicious southern food I've ever had the pleasure of eating. I am hungry again just thinking about her grits and biscuits. Then there was the high school teen-movie-like sleepover that took place on her floor. From the amount of giggling, inside jokes, and bro love that went on in that room after midnight, you'd swear we were all high in the sky on something illegal. We were just high on Carlos' wonderful/terrible puns really. And Helena's innuendos. And Danny's resemblance to Hunter S. Thompson. And Alex's leezard boots (he's got "good taste, for a yankee" apparently).
From sleeping in that room I learned that:
-One of the gentlemen on our tour, who shall go unnamed, talks in his sleep, occasionally has nightmares about a giant evil butterfly named Mama Coochin, and will never live it down.
-Phantom tickling becomes much more effective after 3 am.
-Helena is the only one of us who isn't ticklish. She is also one of the most merciless ticklers. I believe this is unfair.
-I would rather sleep on Mama T's living room floor with these dorks than in any luxury suite in the world.
---------------------------------------------------
I'll let you in on a secret: I'm writing this from my Dad's upstairs office in Kentucky, ten days after I'm pretending to write it, and two days after my girls left. I wouldn't tell you that, except I wanted to tell you this: the rain is hitting the skylight and I'm listening to 'skip, hop, and wobble' and except for the fact that this cupcake is stale and I'm kinda lonely, things are pretty great. This is the first time I've really heard skip hop wobble all the way through, and I like it a lot. Hymn of ordinary motion is pretty glorious. Just to let you know.
Helena had the cruise control set high as we flew through the barren purple landscape that is Fate, Texas at six AM.
Somewhere in that line there is a metaphor. I can't decide what it means that we had the cruise control on while driving through Fate. Was she meant to set the cruise control, or did she choose it? Cruise control isn't that hard to get out of either, you just have to tap the break right? That's got to mean something. Does the fact that is was beautiful change anything? What about the cruise control being on 80 or so? Fate zipped by, for sure. Somewhere in there I'm sure there's a lesson about destiny, love, and long journeys, something deep and central. Right?
Hell if I know, I'm just the bass player. Today we saw the sunrise in Texas and the sunset in Tennessee. From the soreness in my abs I'm guessing we spent most of the time between laughing. That and belting out bad pop music with whatever radio stations we could pick up along the way. I would be snobby about the music, except that all three of us knew most of the words. The wonderfully awful "shorty's like a melody in my head that I can't get out" is a melody in my head that I can't get out, right now as I write this. About two cups of coffee and three bawdy jokes into the drive we remembered what we forgot: the ipod adapter. It could have been worse, we could have forgotten Sara's bag of shoes.
Dallas was one of my favorite stops on the tour, mostly because of Mama T. I now know where Helena gets her nurturing side, as well as her prowess in the kitchen. The Thompsons not only warmly welcomed seven hungry (and slightly smelly from the road) college students, all their instruments and nightly jam sessions, and the impressive amount of luggage we spread through every room, into her house; Patricia Thompson also cooked us some of the most delicious southern food I've ever had the pleasure of eating. I am hungry again just thinking about her grits and biscuits. Then there was the high school teen-movie-like sleepover that took place on her floor. From the amount of giggling, inside jokes, and bro love that went on in that room after midnight, you'd swear we were all high in the sky on something illegal. We were just high on Carlos' wonderful/terrible puns really. And Helena's innuendos. And Danny's resemblance to Hunter S. Thompson. And Alex's leezard boots (he's got "good taste, for a yankee" apparently).
From sleeping in that room I learned that:
-One of the gentlemen on our tour, who shall go unnamed, talks in his sleep, occasionally has nightmares about a giant evil butterfly named Mama Coochin, and will never live it down.
-Phantom tickling becomes much more effective after 3 am.
-Helena is the only one of us who isn't ticklish. She is also one of the most merciless ticklers. I believe this is unfair.
-I would rather sleep on Mama T's living room floor with these dorks than in any luxury suite in the world.
---------------------------------------------------
I'll let you in on a secret: I'm writing this from my Dad's upstairs office in Kentucky, ten days after I'm pretending to write it, and two days after my girls left. I wouldn't tell you that, except I wanted to tell you this: the rain is hitting the skylight and I'm listening to 'skip, hop, and wobble' and except for the fact that this cupcake is stale and I'm kinda lonely, things are pretty great. This is the first time I've really heard skip hop wobble all the way through, and I like it a lot. Hymn of ordinary motion is pretty glorious. Just to let you know.
Riley misses you.
It's Friday afternoon in Kentucky, and I have the stereo turned up full blast to drown out the silence. The house is dull and lifeless now that Helena and Sara have gone back to Texas. My dog, Riley, and I are in perfect agreement on how to feel about this newly empty house. He wandered around all morning sniffing hopefully for his playmates. Eventually he gave up and lumbered over to lay his snout in my lap, with a disgruntled doggy sigh. I can only scratch his ears in agreement. I miss the soft soulful blues of Alex's Martin in the morning, the stomp of Sara's red pumps as she whips off another fiddle tune, the full bodied laughter and shuffle of dancing feet in the kitchen. The house seems to sag on itself with the sudden removal of Helena's strong presence. The only signs that six extra warm bodies recently filled this house are the guitar picks on the piano, and the Blue Moon in the fridge. Well, that and Helena's hair that I just cleaned out of the sink.
I just realized that I sound like a teenager that's just been dumped. I can't help it though, I miss them! It gets even more pathetic; I've been walking around with Helena's pick in my pocket all day. Every now and then I pull it out and rub it absent mindedly. It's worn away at the point from hard strumming, and you can't really read the inscription any more.
Ok, emo fest is over.
So everybody is gone and the question remains: what the hell do I do with the rest of my month?
.
.
.
What the ---- I will do with the rest of my month:
-make lists
-call Sara and Helena on the road, reminisce about tour, sing Cowboy Take Me Away on phone
-drink last Blue Moon at exactly 7:00 pm EST, while they drink other two I put in car kit
-test new recipes
-transcribe bass/banjo and bass/mando duets.
-listen to great records
-get paint on my clothes (and maybe on some canvases too)
-go: to shows, dancing, to my grandma's house to see her orchid which is blooming
-pick and grin
-turn 21. flirt with bartenders. order a white Russian in a bad fake accent while wearing Daniel's faux fur hat.
-reacquaint self with real world. (Hello real world. You suck.)
-wear Sara's cardigan over the clingy clubbing shirt I usually can't wear in public. Miss my Belles some more.
Note: if you are in Louisville, and these sound like things you would like to participate in, you should call me.
I just realized that I sound like a teenager that's just been dumped. I can't help it though, I miss them! It gets even more pathetic; I've been walking around with Helena's pick in my pocket all day. Every now and then I pull it out and rub it absent mindedly. It's worn away at the point from hard strumming, and you can't really read the inscription any more.
Ok, emo fest is over.
So everybody is gone and the question remains: what the hell do I do with the rest of my month?
.
.
.
What the ---- I will do with the rest of my month:
-make lists
-call Sara and Helena on the road, reminisce about tour, sing Cowboy Take Me Away on phone
-drink last Blue Moon at exactly 7:00 pm EST, while they drink other two I put in car kit
-test new recipes
-transcribe bass/banjo and bass/mando duets.
-listen to great records
-get paint on my clothes (and maybe on some canvases too)
-go: to shows, dancing, to my grandma's house to see her orchid which is blooming
-pick and grin
-turn 21. flirt with bartenders. order a white Russian in a bad fake accent while wearing Daniel's faux fur hat.
-reacquaint self with real world. (Hello real world. You suck.)
-wear Sara's cardigan over the clingy clubbing shirt I usually can't wear in public. Miss my Belles some more.
Note: if you are in Louisville, and these sound like things you would like to participate in, you should call me.
The Right Amount of Give: Meditations on Gluten
I have a very dear pet that I've never told you about. This pet can almost always make me feel better. It goes to school with me in the fall, and comes back to Kentucky in summer. Unlike Riley, it smells great. Also unlike Riley, it only needs to be fed once a week, though it grows faster than any puppy or little boy.
I am talking, of course, about my sourdough starter.
(WARNING: This post may contain snobby bread jargon. Readers cautioned.)
I first attempted sourdough bread because Eugene, who is from San Francisco, needed a little bit of home to come to him. I read everything I could about yeast and flour and the ideal conditions (not a dorm room, turns out) before I was brave enough to take that First Step.
The first step to making sourdough is very complicated:
1.) put some flour in a jar
2.) add some warm water
3.) let sit.
Even that proved a challenge. I had to throw out four trials because they started to mold and stink. The putrid smell of my first failed attempts filled my tiny dorm room and made it hard to hide the surprise from Eugene. ("Hmm, not sure what that smell is, guess I need to do laundry today..." "Why don't we meet at your room?") Finally, I found success with White Lily bread flour, patience, and luck. It was like that country song about how every failed relationship that broke his heart lead to finding the perfect woman, do you know that song? That's how I felt about my starter. When I finally had a one that grew, smelled right, and wasn't green, I felt such an intense satisfaction that the I was completely hooked on the project. This was MY starter, and damnit I was gonna keep it and feed it, and we would make beautiful warm loaves together and live happily ever after.
(Later Eugene would offer to keep the starter in his fridge, as I was moving to a co-op. I politely declined. Or I might have said "hell no.")
Today I need to make some bread. I've already taken my starter out of the fridge and given it with some extra food. It is happily puffing and bubbling into a springy spongy batter. I carefully set aside a bit of this sponge to go back in its jar for later. To the rest: flour flour flour (and some Other Stuff). I work it in the only way that is satisfying, with my hands. When it can ball up without being too sticky, it's time for my favorite part: kneading the ---- out of it. The way I see it, if at the end of this process there is not flour all over myself and this table, I have failed.
I don't appreciate failure.
My favorite kneading technique is the half turn palm push. I like it because I can put all of my body weight, all my frustrations and frazzled energy, directly into the dough, and still keep it balled up completely under my hands. Sometimes the dough pops, which is pretty satisfying. I know this loaf is going to fluffy and soft.
F--- these things which I am frustrated with, which I will now transfer to this innocent loaf:
-the rigidity of con requirements (I had a better phrase for that, instead I pound my phrase into the dough. Take that! The table hits the wall with a thunk)
-uninspired job-track orchestra players
-all the math I have to learn next semester
-complicated relationships
-drama
-job resumes and recommendations
-going through the motions
This dough did not stand a chance. I roll my palm forward decisively. I slam the dough down with confidence. I punch it down again with a brash whoop of triumph. With assurance and bravado I sling flour across the table and roll pound chop until the dough is soft and pliable with just the right amount of give. My fingers know when the dough is done before I do. There's a moment, as you're working the dough, when the consistency changes from tough and resistant to perfectly pliant and cooperative. I pinch a piece and demonstrate yet another therapeutic thing about bread making: the predictability. I know that if I stretch this piece of dough out thin enough to see light through it, and it doesn't break, it is ready to rise. Every time. It stretches-it's ready. Professor Darling says its got something to do with stretching chains of gluten molecules, something like that. I like to think that if you just massage the dough long enough it is coaxed into stretchy supple submission.
There are a few things that could make this more perfect, of course. For one, Danny Kaye could be alive in my kitchen, wearing Grammy's green apron and doing impressions of my least favorite professors. While I'm dreaming, Chris Thile can come over and put those nimble fingers to good use kneading the knots out of my shoulders, crooning mountain ballads in my ears.
Almost perfect.
--MANY HOURS LATER--
So guess who forgot that there was dough rising, and let it quadruple in size? Guess who was looking for things to do three hours ago (coincidentally exactly when the bread should have gone in the oven) and now would like nothing better than to sleep? Guess who shot up in bed and dashed to the kitchen in horror?
Yeah, that would be me.
Oops.
So I forgot about the bread. I think I just wanted to knead it anyways, I'm not really hungry. Still, if I kneaded it I want to bake it, damnit! I'm going to try anyways. This could have several consequences:
-I do not get enough sleep tonight.
-The bread is too sour OR
-the bread takes on a new concentrated sour flavor unlike any loaf I've ever made, and this becomes my new recipe. (hopefully this one)
-Mama stumbles into the kitchen for water, sees me still awake, and makes fun of me for forgetting the bread.
-I fall asleep at the kitchen table and burn the house down.
I'm trying to avoid that last one by writing to you.
APPROXIMATELY THIRTY SEVEN MINUTES TWENTY SECONDS LATER
it is ready. I knocked on the bottom: perfectly hollow. Pressed on the crust: perfectly firm, bubbly yet smooth (it will be chewy). I can tell, the way it popped open and spread out like a lily that it's going to be soft and fluffy inside. It smells like heaven. I wish I could share it with you. No one is even awake to appreciate it right now.
Why am I still awake?
Goodnight.
-----------------------------------------------
Simple Pleasures:
-Billy Joel's 'The Stranger' on vinyl
-black coffee
-blooming orchids
-bread making
I am talking, of course, about my sourdough starter.
(WARNING: This post may contain snobby bread jargon. Readers cautioned.)
I first attempted sourdough bread because Eugene, who is from San Francisco, needed a little bit of home to come to him. I read everything I could about yeast and flour and the ideal conditions (not a dorm room, turns out) before I was brave enough to take that First Step.
The first step to making sourdough is very complicated:
1.) put some flour in a jar
2.) add some warm water
3.) let sit.
Even that proved a challenge. I had to throw out four trials because they started to mold and stink. The putrid smell of my first failed attempts filled my tiny dorm room and made it hard to hide the surprise from Eugene. ("Hmm, not sure what that smell is, guess I need to do laundry today..." "Why don't we meet at your room?") Finally, I found success with White Lily bread flour, patience, and luck. It was like that country song about how every failed relationship that broke his heart lead to finding the perfect woman, do you know that song? That's how I felt about my starter. When I finally had a one that grew, smelled right, and wasn't green, I felt such an intense satisfaction that the I was completely hooked on the project. This was MY starter, and damnit I was gonna keep it and feed it, and we would make beautiful warm loaves together and live happily ever after.
(Later Eugene would offer to keep the starter in his fridge, as I was moving to a co-op. I politely declined. Or I might have said "hell no.")
Today I need to make some bread. I've already taken my starter out of the fridge and given it with some extra food. It is happily puffing and bubbling into a springy spongy batter. I carefully set aside a bit of this sponge to go back in its jar for later. To the rest: flour flour flour (and some Other Stuff). I work it in the only way that is satisfying, with my hands. When it can ball up without being too sticky, it's time for my favorite part: kneading the ---- out of it. The way I see it, if at the end of this process there is not flour all over myself and this table, I have failed.
I don't appreciate failure.
My favorite kneading technique is the half turn palm push. I like it because I can put all of my body weight, all my frustrations and frazzled energy, directly into the dough, and still keep it balled up completely under my hands. Sometimes the dough pops, which is pretty satisfying. I know this loaf is going to fluffy and soft.
F--- these things which I am frustrated with, which I will now transfer to this innocent loaf:
-the rigidity of con requirements (I had a better phrase for that, instead I pound my phrase into the dough. Take that! The table hits the wall with a thunk)
-uninspired job-track orchestra players
-all the math I have to learn next semester
-complicated relationships
-drama
-job resumes and recommendations
-going through the motions
This dough did not stand a chance. I roll my palm forward decisively. I slam the dough down with confidence. I punch it down again with a brash whoop of triumph. With assurance and bravado I sling flour across the table and roll pound chop until the dough is soft and pliable with just the right amount of give. My fingers know when the dough is done before I do. There's a moment, as you're working the dough, when the consistency changes from tough and resistant to perfectly pliant and cooperative. I pinch a piece and demonstrate yet another therapeutic thing about bread making: the predictability. I know that if I stretch this piece of dough out thin enough to see light through it, and it doesn't break, it is ready to rise. Every time. It stretches-it's ready. Professor Darling says its got something to do with stretching chains of gluten molecules, something like that. I like to think that if you just massage the dough long enough it is coaxed into stretchy supple submission.
There are a few things that could make this more perfect, of course. For one, Danny Kaye could be alive in my kitchen, wearing Grammy's green apron and doing impressions of my least favorite professors. While I'm dreaming, Chris Thile can come over and put those nimble fingers to good use kneading the knots out of my shoulders, crooning mountain ballads in my ears.
Almost perfect.
--MANY HOURS LATER--
So guess who forgot that there was dough rising, and let it quadruple in size? Guess who was looking for things to do three hours ago (coincidentally exactly when the bread should have gone in the oven) and now would like nothing better than to sleep? Guess who shot up in bed and dashed to the kitchen in horror?
Yeah, that would be me.
Oops.
So I forgot about the bread. I think I just wanted to knead it anyways, I'm not really hungry. Still, if I kneaded it I want to bake it, damnit! I'm going to try anyways. This could have several consequences:
-I do not get enough sleep tonight.
-The bread is too sour OR
-the bread takes on a new concentrated sour flavor unlike any loaf I've ever made, and this becomes my new recipe. (hopefully this one)
-Mama stumbles into the kitchen for water, sees me still awake, and makes fun of me for forgetting the bread.
-I fall asleep at the kitchen table and burn the house down.
I'm trying to avoid that last one by writing to you.
APPROXIMATELY THIRTY SEVEN MINUTES TWENTY SECONDS LATER
it is ready. I knocked on the bottom: perfectly hollow. Pressed on the crust: perfectly firm, bubbly yet smooth (it will be chewy). I can tell, the way it popped open and spread out like a lily that it's going to be soft and fluffy inside. It smells like heaven. I wish I could share it with you. No one is even awake to appreciate it right now.
Why am I still awake?
Goodnight.
-----------------------------------------------
Simple Pleasures:
-Billy Joel's 'The Stranger' on vinyl
-black coffee
-blooming orchids
-bread making
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
And they're off!
DAY ONE: Airports, Minivans, and Texans, Oh my!
Every time I fly I think about how similar taking off in an airplane is to a great first kiss. First off, it seems like you have to wait forever for it to finally happen. When you start to move you become hyper aware of every nerve in your body. You gather momentum, close your eyes, and no matter how long you've been thinking about it the moment of lift off still takes you by surprise. All the sudden your stomach floats up and you're weightless. You might chance a peek out the little side window and see the world you knew falling away. If you're flying at night, like I was just a few hours ago, you can see the cars and buildings become little pinpricks of light sparkling out of the black as you soar higher. Then when if feels like you'll just float away forever or pop like a bubble, you're back in your body. You're bones flow into the seat and you release the breath you didn't realize you were holding. Finally you settle in, and you're coasting thousands of miles above "g'mornin" and "y'all come back now, y'hear!" You're flying towards someplace new and exciting, maybe a little bit scary, and it's fantastic! Takeoffs are often my favorite part of the journey.
For me, landing is much less like kissing and much more like concentrating on not throwing up on the large man next to me as a baby squeals two rows up because she doesn't like the pressure change. Two bumps and a lurch later I'm grounded, and a soft tired sounding voice crackles on to the intercom. "Welcome to Houston."
Honestly, considering the bumpy landing I just had I'm not too upset that my flight from Houston to Austin is delayed another hour. Now I have time to write to you, and to calm the coffee-salad slush churning in my stomach. It's 9:37 (10:37 where you are, and 7:37 for you), and I am on my way to Adventure, my first ever tour! The Black River Belles take on the southeast this January: Austin, Dallas, Nashville, Columbia, and Louisville. We've decided the tour motto is "kickin ass, takin names." (I kinda thought it should be "love, booze, and other important things" but that didn't have the same ring to it. "Tour" makes this sound a lot more professional than what I think the reality is going to be. Our "bus" is an old minivan, (decorated with window art by yours truly), out hotel the couches, floors, and recliners or our generous friends (and in a pinch the floor of the minivan). We do have roadies though, or at least we have some friends crazy enough to road trip across the country with us. That would be Rue, Danny, Carlos, and Alex.
Oh, I haven't introduced the band! Ok, I'm going to say it just the way Helena always does on stage:
"Allright well, for y'all that weren't here before, we are the Black River Belles, and we're gonna play some music you you tonight (sometimes she says "songs about love, murder, and whiskey" or just "porch songs"). Over here to my right we've got the illustrious Ms. Sara Sasaki on fiddle, from Austin, Texas. Well, clap! (people clap. You can't not listen to Helena). Good. And holding up the low end, Miss Erin Lobb from Louisville Kentucky. (She usually draws out the Lou in Louisville and asks me if she said it right. She never does, but I tell her she did anyway). I'm Helena Thompson, and I hope y'all have as much fun as we're about to. This next one is about murder with a whiskey bottle/spooning/working on a railroad/love in the kitchen."
If my plane ever takes off I will get to see Sara soon. I anticipate an inappropriate amount of giggling and hugging, and I can't wait. What Helena didn't tell you about Sara is that in addition to being a kickass fiddle player, she is also a prolific organizer. She makes the calls, the deals, and the exacting itinerary, and if necessary she makes the Face (the no-nonsense, this is what we agreed to and that's how it's gonna be Face). She is 5 people concentrated into a 5' person (5'1 she'll be quick to tell you. She describes herself as "fun size"). Her knack for details is as exacting as her ear for pitch (she was born with perfect pitch), and though she swears she owns six pairs of jeans, I can't recall ever seeing her in anything but brilliantly colored minidresses.
Flight 1533, that's me! We're boarding now, hopefully they put me next to someone interesting. See you in Austin.
---------------------------------------
Spell check thinks "kickass" is not a word. This is incorrect.
Every time I fly I think about how similar taking off in an airplane is to a great first kiss. First off, it seems like you have to wait forever for it to finally happen. When you start to move you become hyper aware of every nerve in your body. You gather momentum, close your eyes, and no matter how long you've been thinking about it the moment of lift off still takes you by surprise. All the sudden your stomach floats up and you're weightless. You might chance a peek out the little side window and see the world you knew falling away. If you're flying at night, like I was just a few hours ago, you can see the cars and buildings become little pinpricks of light sparkling out of the black as you soar higher. Then when if feels like you'll just float away forever or pop like a bubble, you're back in your body. You're bones flow into the seat and you release the breath you didn't realize you were holding. Finally you settle in, and you're coasting thousands of miles above "g'mornin" and "y'all come back now, y'hear!" You're flying towards someplace new and exciting, maybe a little bit scary, and it's fantastic! Takeoffs are often my favorite part of the journey.
For me, landing is much less like kissing and much more like concentrating on not throwing up on the large man next to me as a baby squeals two rows up because she doesn't like the pressure change. Two bumps and a lurch later I'm grounded, and a soft tired sounding voice crackles on to the intercom. "Welcome to Houston."
Honestly, considering the bumpy landing I just had I'm not too upset that my flight from Houston to Austin is delayed another hour. Now I have time to write to you, and to calm the coffee-salad slush churning in my stomach. It's 9:37 (10:37 where you are, and 7:37 for you), and I am on my way to Adventure, my first ever tour! The Black River Belles take on the southeast this January: Austin, Dallas, Nashville, Columbia, and Louisville. We've decided the tour motto is "kickin ass, takin names." (I kinda thought it should be "love, booze, and other important things" but that didn't have the same ring to it. "Tour" makes this sound a lot more professional than what I think the reality is going to be. Our "bus" is an old minivan, (decorated with window art by yours truly), out hotel the couches, floors, and recliners or our generous friends (and in a pinch the floor of the minivan). We do have roadies though, or at least we have some friends crazy enough to road trip across the country with us. That would be Rue, Danny, Carlos, and Alex.
Oh, I haven't introduced the band! Ok, I'm going to say it just the way Helena always does on stage:
"Allright well, for y'all that weren't here before, we are the Black River Belles, and we're gonna play some music you you tonight (sometimes she says "songs about love, murder, and whiskey" or just "porch songs"). Over here to my right we've got the illustrious Ms. Sara Sasaki on fiddle, from Austin, Texas. Well, clap! (people clap. You can't not listen to Helena). Good. And holding up the low end, Miss Erin Lobb from Louisville Kentucky. (She usually draws out the Lou in Louisville and asks me if she said it right. She never does, but I tell her she did anyway). I'm Helena Thompson, and I hope y'all have as much fun as we're about to. This next one is about murder with a whiskey bottle/spooning/working on a railroad/love in the kitchen."
If my plane ever takes off I will get to see Sara soon. I anticipate an inappropriate amount of giggling and hugging, and I can't wait. What Helena didn't tell you about Sara is that in addition to being a kickass fiddle player, she is also a prolific organizer. She makes the calls, the deals, and the exacting itinerary, and if necessary she makes the Face (the no-nonsense, this is what we agreed to and that's how it's gonna be Face). She is 5 people concentrated into a 5' person (5'1 she'll be quick to tell you. She describes herself as "fun size"). Her knack for details is as exacting as her ear for pitch (she was born with perfect pitch), and though she swears she owns six pairs of jeans, I can't recall ever seeing her in anything but brilliantly colored minidresses.
Flight 1533, that's me! We're boarding now, hopefully they put me next to someone interesting. See you in Austin.
---------------------------------------
Spell check thinks "kickass" is not a word. This is incorrect.
Monday, January 18, 2010
An Organizing Mood
It is a mark of how many cities, couches, and air mattresses I've graced in the last two weeks that as I rose out of sleep this morning I literally had no idea where I was. Without opening my eyes, I took account of my surroundings. I wasn't sinking into a partially inflated air mattress or smelling Mama Ts heavenly southern cooking, and no one was mumbling about giant butterflies, so not Dallas. I didn't hear anyone practicing-no trumpet arpeggios or Bach sonata's from down the hall, so not Sara's house in Austin. I felt like I was in a bed, but Helena's leg wasn't slung over me, in fact I couldn't feel any person-sized warmth on either side, so probably not Nashville. By the time I had run through all the possible permutations of beds and cities, I was awake enough to force my eyelids apart. I was greeted by the bright turquoise walls of my own room in Louisville. Daisyduck, bright yellow with her pink flower hat, stared back at me from approximately where I had expected the person shaped warmth to emanate from. I smiled at her, and at the walls, and the plants on the window sill that my mom has been keeping alive, and for that matter I smiled at my mom, even though if the sun slanting through my windows was any indication she had gone to work hours ago. I was home.
It's been two weeks and five cities since Sara, Helena, and I started on this mad adventure. In all the ways that I'm measuring, the Black River Belles first tour has been a resounding success. No, we haven't made a lot (any?) of money, BUT we've gotten 13 semi trucks to honk at us, Sara has worn all but one of her 23 of her dresses once, we have started a jam session in every city we've visited, we sweet talked our way into the best bluegrass show I've ever seen in my life, Helena has shocked at least 150 people, and the whale joke has been told 7 times. Oh, and we painted a flaming fiddle, crossed bass and guitar necks, a cowgirl in polka dots, and the tour motto (kickin' a**, takin' names) on the old minivan. That sounds like victory to me.
"I was in an organizing mood" says Sara, about how we decided to spend the month of January road tripping and performing across the Southeastern United States. Her "organizing mood" got us gigs in Austin, TX, Dallas, TX, Nashville, TN, Columbia, TN, and my hometown Louisville, KY (and an itinerary that includes details such as "get dressed"). As Helena would say "thank the baby Lord Jeezus!" for Sara's organizing moods. I've had the time of my life, making music, jokes, and "dank" food with some of my favorite people in the whole world.
---------------------------
I haven't had my computer, so I haven't been able to update you in real time. I kept an old fashioned pen and paper journal though, so I'm gonna type up some of those entries here in the next couple days. Pretend like we're time traveling.
Also: I miss you.
It's been two weeks and five cities since Sara, Helena, and I started on this mad adventure. In all the ways that I'm measuring, the Black River Belles first tour has been a resounding success. No, we haven't made a lot (any?) of money, BUT we've gotten 13 semi trucks to honk at us, Sara has worn all but one of her 23 of her dresses once, we have started a jam session in every city we've visited, we sweet talked our way into the best bluegrass show I've ever seen in my life, Helena has shocked at least 150 people, and the whale joke has been told 7 times. Oh, and we painted a flaming fiddle, crossed bass and guitar necks, a cowgirl in polka dots, and the tour motto (kickin' a**, takin' names) on the old minivan. That sounds like victory to me.
"I was in an organizing mood" says Sara, about how we decided to spend the month of January road tripping and performing across the Southeastern United States. Her "organizing mood" got us gigs in Austin, TX, Dallas, TX, Nashville, TN, Columbia, TN, and my hometown Louisville, KY (and an itinerary that includes details such as "get dressed"). As Helena would say "thank the baby Lord Jeezus!" for Sara's organizing moods. I've had the time of my life, making music, jokes, and "dank" food with some of my favorite people in the whole world.
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I haven't had my computer, so I haven't been able to update you in real time. I kept an old fashioned pen and paper journal though, so I'm gonna type up some of those entries here in the next couple days. Pretend like we're time traveling.
Also: I miss you.
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