Funny thing, all these people saying that I will "fit"
in Nashville, when I don't really see it. I don't hear true country in my voice
or my writing. I just hear this mix of all that's in my head, from Dolly to
Joni to The Replacements and Steve Earle and me trying to imitate Jonathan Byrd
at times or me trying to do my best Townes or Leonard or me trying to do my
best imitation of the Amy Speace that's somewhere in there that is the best of
the best of me. I remember my early days of this muse, the UrbanMuse,
with Rachel Sage and Jenny Bruce and Amy Fairchild and Jo Davidson and Jennifer
Marks and Sarah Lentz and Karen Jacobsen. I had pretty much just started off on
this solo path, sitting in my Hudson Street apartment on the 4th floor,
fingering out melodies on my guitar, doing shows I probably shouldn't have been
booked at looking back with these scrappy songs and my scrappy style. Amy
Fairchild was the cool chick on the morning bus into Manhattan and she saw me
with my guitar one morning. I think I was at something called "The Panty
Party" (don't ask...a silly thing, I was fully clothed and felt like an
ass) and we recognized each other from the bus. She invited me to a salon
gathering of women songwriters. This was way back. I had met Rachel Sage
through my drummer Jagoda, but the other women I'd only heard of through things
like Indiegrrl and listings on Pierre Jelenc's NYC "Gigometer".
Intimidating, all of them. But we found our rhythm and it was a pretty powerful
year for all of us, learning from each other in our rare meetings and rarer
shows. I did feel like the baby of the gang. Felt like they each had found
their voice and I was still barely scratching the surface. I remember one
college show when Jo Davidson said something to me like "Oh. I finally get
you." And I think it was because I was (can't believe I'm about to admit
this) wearing overalls and pretty much not caring too much about
"style" and I was singing these meandering story songs. I think she
finally got that I was a folkie. Or country/folkie. Something like that. While
the other women were pretty much pop/rock writers. I was definitely not that. I
felt a bit like an outsider in the NYC scene. An outsider in the Boston scene,
when I started playing there. Definitely an outsider in the Nashville scene
when I started wandering south. At one point, hanging out in Texas, I felt like
I fit mostly there: in Austin. But Austin is far from my family and too far
from the mountains, so I never really thought of it as an option (until last
month, hanging in Wimberly with Judy and Ray Wylie Hubbard...now that's a
place I could dig my boots into).
In any event, I'm fine not really fitting. I used to worry too
much about it. Damn, did I waste loads of hours from the ages of 12-30 worrying
about fitting in. Somewhere lately I decided that query was about as useful as
knowing if Brad and Angelina are having problems. Or watching the evening news.
Useless time fillers. Thank you to all of you who have written that you hear that
I'll fit in Nashville. I appreciate that. I'm not sure I get it, but I'll
accept it. I think I'll fit fine in East Nashville. And I think its an
interesting place to figure some shit out. At the very least, it will be a good
adventure and I'm always up for adventure.
Last night I was hanging out on the Lower East Side on Ludlow
Street. I got here to NYC in 1991. I remember hanging out at Max Fish and the
Pink Pony back then when Ludlow Street was mostly a wasteland and certainly
there was nothing on Rivington except for The Hat, the worst Mexican food, but
open late and was always packed. I did "Shakespeare In The Parking
Lot" for 2 years with a little off off theater company called Expanded
Arts (wonder whatever happened to the Artistic Director Jennifer, who cast me
for the National Shakespeare Company's national tour of 'Much Ado' and 'Richard
III' and then invited me into the Expanded Arts family, which I loved...). We
rehearsed down on Ludlow, past Delancey. We drank late into the wee hours mostly
at Motor City. Did someone really stand on one of the tables there and publicly
(drunkenly) proclaim his love for me right before I got married? Or was that a
dream I had? Did Vinnie and I really close down that bar night after night
after night? Did we run lines over pints in the afternoon, Ben the bartender an
actor as well? Its still there. I parked my Jersey-plated van there last night
on that street, now chock-full of hip clubs and expensive restaurants and chic
boutiques noted in glossy, fancy-smelling magazines. I was there to hang and
swap songs with my favorite crew--Abbie and Anthony and AJ and Pete and
Phil...the NYC folk contingent, who I usually see at festivals, late night
campfires, conferences, or Jack Hardy's Monday night hang. We did a "show"
of sorts at Googie's Lounge, above The Living Room, Abbie's "Slide
Sessions" turned into an urban campfire. Then we drank too-expensive wines
and Peroni's at a joint down the block, trying to have meaningful conversations
over the din of Thursday night shouting. I realized last night that might be my
last real hang night on the LES while I can still claim a bed of my own nearby
to crawl into.
Or maybe not. Maybe there's no place to fit in and that's the
point. Maybe each place is just a fitting in for a time, to grow into the shoes
or the guitar or the stage or the job or the relationship. And maybe you just
outgrow it and leave and find someplace else that feels like a suit that's a
few sizes too big and you sit in that suit until your skin expands, your heart
expands, into it, until that suit fits comfy like a cashmere glove. I'm not
sure any suits gonna fit me for good. I might just keep growing out of these
things every few years. Who knows. Maybe Paris will fit better next year. Or
The Appalachian Trail for a 6 month trial fitting. Or maybe I'll finally give
Brooklyn another shot.
In any event, I would love to impart this to Lexie, my 9 year
old niece, who is about to enter that stage of caring about fitting in. That
someday you will look back and be not only glad you were awkward and standing
on the outside sometimes, but you will be grateful for it. I'm certainly
glad that in my worst year of not fitting in (7th grade), my mother encouraged
me to sit at the piano with her and sing at the top of my lungs "I Made It
Through The Rain" by Barry Mannilow and believe me, I'm admitting that
with gusto now, as uncool as it was, my mother was brilliant and Barry was just
the perfect thing for that scared 13 year old.
In fact, excuse me while I go put on some "Mandy"....
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