Being an unknown rock star in the twenty-first century is a very complicated business.
On one hand, it's very exciting. I feel like I'm finally beginning to get my act together a little bit.
I'm trying to overcome my fear of performing alone.
This picture is blurry, but my name IS on that sign
In the past month or so, I've done three shows by myself.
1. I played a 20 minute set as part of a singer-songwriter showcase at a local pub. It was a competition and the audience could vote for their favorite act every time they bought a drink. A bunch of my friends from ye olde artist's community showed up and put their alcoholism to good use. I had a blast playing my set and ended up getting second place in the competition. Also, some random blonde chick that I didn't know yelled "LAUREN, YOU'RE HOT!!!" when my set was over. I don't swing that way, but it was still flattering and made me feel very rock 'n' roll.
2. I don't know if this counts as a show, but a couple of friends set me up with a local bike shop that needed music to promote First Friday happenings. I set my keyboard up under a little tent outside the shop and sang into a microphone that was clamped onto a large bike rack (I really need to invest in a real microphone stand). The owner of the bike shop was hilarious and kept drunkenly requesting random cover songs that I didn't know how to play (really, who goes up to a keyboard player and requests "Whip It" by Devo???). I finally busted out a rough cover of "Blitzkrieg Bop" by The Ramones, just to shut him up. When I was finished, the entire population of the tattoo parlor next door cheered and some people came outside to put money in my tip jar. I butchered a few more punk rock songs and then went back to playing originals (contrary to popular belief that night, those originals were not just souped-up Journey songs). It was funner than I expected it to be and there was free beer. I made enough money in tips to buy some French fries afterwards. Rock 'n' roll.
3. The prize for winning the songwriter show was a paid show at the same venue. I was really excited about this and had high expectations. So I was a nervous wreck when it came time to actually perform. I had told so many people about the show and thought I would see a lot of my friends there. Naturally, I was disappointed when only four people came to see me. The bar was full of people who were there to see the girl I was opening for and everyone talked through my whole set. I felt like the awkward background music no one was really paying attention to. I played a song called "Deja Vu" twice as an inside joke with myself. No one noticed. I couldn't wait for my set to be over and ended it a little early, handing the stage over to a fake redhead with non-prescription glasses (so lame).
After the third show, I remembered how depressing playing shows alone can be. I've had terrible luck trying to find musicians to be in my back-up band, but decided to try yet again. I really wish I could just clone myself and form a band with all the clones, but I don't have access to that sort of technology. If anyone knows how to do that, let me know.
Maybe I'm narcissistic, but I really wish this scenario could actually exist.
As it stands right now, I have a guy who's hypothetically going to play drums for me. He's the guy I knew in high school who I recently reconnected with on Craigslist because he writes rock operas (life is so weird). I also had a some cute kid with a Flock Of Seagulls haircut who was very excited about playing guitar for me, but he's been really bad with communication. I finally heard from him yesterday when he informed me over text messaging that he had a new band.
His new band is with Tweaked Out Elvis Costello, of all people. I am so confused as to why he thinks this is a good idea. Also, I try not to take things like this personally, but I don't really enjoy being ditched for that twerp who can't stay sober long enough to even know what notes he's playing.
Ah well. I hope they have fun getting high and throwing cake at radiators together. I am now accepting applications for new guitar players.
The search for a band is so frustrating.
In the meantime, I finally got some CDs printed!
Yay!
I am so excited about how they came out. I've currently got some for sale up on Bandcamp. If any of you are interested, they're only $6 (yes, that includes shipping!). I don't mean to turn this into a commercial, but I should mention that each album comes with a handwritten thank-you note from the band (a.k.a: me). You know you want one. :)
thewantads.bandcamp.com
It's also up for name-your-price/free download still if you don't want to pay $6. Honestly, I just want people to hear this music and enjoy it. I would love to be able to live off of this music thing because I hate having normal jobs, but it's not really about the money. It makes my day every time someone tells me they're listening to my songs. I write songs and record them because I love doing it, but I also want people to enjoy them.
Anyway, blah blah blah. Hi, I'm Lauren and I'm going to go on a rant about my philosophy on music. I'm going to stop and wrap this up before it becomes something really long that no one will want to read.
I've never been good with break-ups. It's hard to admit that you aren't happy with the way a relationship is going and that you would be better off without it. I never want to hurt anyone's feelings or cause a conflict. Which is why I'm currently in an awkward position. I know I need to end things, but I have been putting it off because I don't even really know how to end things.
Let me back up a little bit.
I am involved with low-budget production of a rock opera about Norse mythology.
It's not really working out.
Allow me to recapitulate...
It all started a couple of months ago when a stumbled upon an intriguing Craigslist ad: "Wanted: Musical Director For An Original Rock Musical." Naturally, I had to click on it. I read through the ad and realized that I met all of the major requirements (meaning I can read music, play piano, and I love rock musicals), so I replied on a whim.
It wasn't long before I got a response from a guy who's name was strangely familiar. I couldn't place where I had heard his name before, so I just went ahead and read his email without giving it a second thought. He told me that he had composed a rock opera and was looking to produce it in town within a few months. There was a link to some of the music from the rock opera, so I clicked on it to see what it sounded like. I landed on a page with a couple of weird recordings and a picture of the composer.
I gasped. This guy was definitely someone I went to high school with.
...And middle school.
We were in the high school marching band together. And symphonic band. And middle school jazz band. And advanced high school jazz band. We were in the rhythm section together - he played drums, I played piano. We practically sat next to each other in jazz band but never actually talked to each other. He was an awkward redhead who didn't talk and frankly, I didn't really talk either. So naturally, we were not friends simply because we couldn't figure out how to manage a simple conversation.
Plus, he was always making out with that second-chair clarinet chick during lunch. It was gross. It offended me. They needed to get a room.
Anyway, here he was, that awkward redhead from high school, resurfacing in my email inbox six years later with what he described as "an epic rock opera of awesomeness."
I stared at the email and tried to figure out what to do. I've really come a long way since I was a socially inept teenager and running into people that knew me in high school is generally a drag. Maybe I should just delete his email and pretend it never happened? After all, he was pretty weird back in the day, wasn't he? I thought about it and realized I didn't actually know him. Besides, the whole thing was oddly sychronistic. Maybe I should meet him for coffee and see what's up?
And so I scheduled a coffee date with him. As I drove there, I couldn't help but wonder if he would remember me from high school or not. How was I even supposed to handle that? What if he didn't remember me at all? Was I supposed to bring it up? Was I supposed to act like I was meeting him for the first time?
A text message reading "Btw wearing a pea coat and have red hair" came through on my phone as I was looking for a place to park. I laughed. He did not know who I was. I buttoned up my big green coat, sent him a text that said "Haha, me too!" and walked towards the coffee shop.
I saw him immediately when I entered the coffee shop. He was sitting at a table in the middle of the room and was indeed wearing a pea coat. He pointed at me and said, "It's YOU."
I pointed at him and said, "It's YOU." This was awkward.
He continued to point and said "It's YOU" once again. This time I pointed at myself and said, "It's ME!" We laughed, made some clunky smalltalk, and I excused myself to go order a cup of coffee. When I returned with my drink, we had to go through the whole "Soooo, what have you been up to since high school?" conversation, which was strange because (as I established earlier) we didn't really talk in high school. Still, we had to compare notes on our post-high school experiences as well as gossip about a whole bunch of irrelevant people from marching band that I honestly forgot even existed. It was definitely the most I had ever talked to this guy.
Just when I was beginning to regret meeting him for coffee, the conversation switched to a more relevant topic: his epic rock opera. Over the next hour and a half, I learned the following things:
- The rock opera was his original composition and has never been performed before.
- The story is based on Norse mythology. Yes, Loki and Thor and vikings and all of that crap cool stuff.
- All of the lyrics/words were written by a guy he met online who may or may not live in France and speak English as a second language.
- The script has severed heads in it.
- The music is not "Broadway rock." The music will "blow your f@#$ing mind."
He babbled on about how he was inspired by "Tommy" and "Jesus Christ Superstar," excitedly explaining that the music was written for a large ensemble of electric guitars and string instruments. He said he planned to produce it in a couple of months and he needed someone to act as musical director. Could that someone be me?
It sounded like a wacky project, but who doesn't love a good viking? It sounded like fun. Besides, I've got my own rock opera cooking in the back of my brain files (can't forget about good old Goat Man) and working on a project like this could give me a little insight into how it's done. And I definitely needed an excuse to leave my parents' house and meet new people...
So I said I would do it. I climbed on board the viking rock opera train as the fearless musical director. And it was strange, but I was excited.
Well, I was excited until my inbox began filling up with pages upon pages of complicated sheet music...
"I have a full time job now," my old friend from high school says, grinning proudly. "We've got to get you one of those!"
I die inside a little bit. I drove all the way out to Timbuktu to see him and he goes all parental on me? Not cool.
"I'm working on it..." I say. "I'm also hoping the music plan will work out..." Even though I'm talking to someone who is technically one of my best friends, I feel like I want to crawl under the table.
"But aren't you running out of money?" he says, raising an eyebrow.
Later in the conversation he's asking me how I could afford a guitar. I wanted to just stand up and say, "Look, I came over here to eat junk food, catch up with what's been going on in your life, tell you funny stories about my commune, and geek out over obscure disco songs with you. I did not come over for a financial audit and evaluation!"
Instead, I found myself trying to justify my purchase by telling him about the great deal I got and about how I earned money from doing this or that. And as I heard the words come out of my mouth, I was saddened by the fact that I live in a world where I have to constantly discuss my financial status with people who really have no right to ask. I don't go around asking people where their money is coming from, so why do people think it's appropriate to grill me on such matters? Just because I'm not working 9-5 somewhere doesn't mean I'm an illegitimate member of society.
Overall, it was good to see my old friend from high school today, if for no other reason than to quench my growing nostalgia for the good old days that aren't really that old and weren't really that good. We listened to music that no one else cares about and laughed at inside jokes that no one else would understand. I'll admit that it is really nice to still talk to someone who knew me back when I was just an awkward, geeky teenager.
I'll also admit that it was nice to go back to my place, play guitar with The Fonz and The Poet, and hear the words "Of course you have a full time job, Lauren - it just isn't paying very well right now."
I need to get that tattooed on my arm or something...
Most of you probably don't know this, but I used to truly believe I could not sing.
I would try to sing, but my voice didn't sound like the voices I heard on the radio. I think somewhere around the time of middle school someone verbally confirmed the fact that I could not sing. And that was that. It was all okay because I was good at playing the piano. I didn't have to be good at singing too.
Of course, I secretly wished I could sing. But I knew that I could not. I wrote songs with the idea that someone else would sing them. I went to college, teamed up with someone who played guitar, and made him be the lead singer in our little band. We called ourselves "Good Quail Hunting," which was funny until everyone forgot about the Dick Cheney incident.
Eventually, we booked a show in a coffee shop near campus. This wasn't a big deal - except it was. I had never really performed outside of a band concert or piano recital (there were a couple of hellish talent shows in there but I would prefer not to think about them). We spent hours practicing and perfecting our set list, which consisted mostly of awkward cover songs (I think we even opened with Coldplay and transitioned into "Birdhouse In Your Soul" by They Might Be Giants...yikes). I handed my bandmate a couple original songs in hopes that he would sing them.
I don't remember if he was getting the phrasing wrong or couldn't hit the notes or what, but I do know that I landed into the position of singing these songs.
"But I can't sing," I remember saying.
"You're not that bad. It's sort of like talking but try to do it on key," my bandmate said. His lame words of encouragement somehow worked. The night of the show came, the coffee shop filled up with kids from our dorms, and next thing I knew I was singing.
I don't want to give you the impression that I opened my mouth and was suddenly Mariah Carey. I was quiet, flustered, and so nervous that I felt the need to face the wall. I was embarrassed, so naturally my neck got really red and splotchy. So not rock and roll.
Unfortunately, a clip from that night is still kicking around the Internet. If I had any common sense, I would delete it. But I'll put it up here so you guys can cringe along with me.
Yes, I know - my voice has dropped about two octaves since that performance five years ago. I'm not really sure what's up with that. When people ask me about it, I usually just tell them I went through puberty. It's a really good way to weird people out.
But I digress. The point is that I got over myself and sang. It was strange and nerve-wracking, but people clapped and gave me compliments after the show.
Five years later, I am my own lead singer. I still have moments of feeling self-conscious about my voice, but I know that I am capable of getting on a stage and belting it out. When I was 19, I had no idea I would someday have the nerve to do that.
Why do I bring all of this up now?
Because I recently overcame another psychological block. This one has to do with that six-stringed beast known as the guitar.
When I was four years old, my dad gave me an acoustic guitar for Christmas in hopes that I would grow up learning to play it and become some awesome folk singer chick. And I had lots of fun laying it on it's side and getting picks stuck in it. But every time I tried to learn how to actually play the thing, I would get frustrated because it was difficult and hurt my fingers.
So I accepted the fact that I was not meant to play guitar and embraced the piano. It all made sense throughout college, when "Good Quail Hunting" evolved into "Original Sound Trash" and there was always somebody there to add guitar sounds to my keyboard melodies. When the band officially broke up in February, I found myself on a mission to find other guitar players. Whenever a new acquaintance even just briefly mentioned owning a guitar, I would go into interview mode until I knew whether or not I wanted to initiate a jam session.*
I felt musically naked without a guitar player.** The sound I've always envisioned for my songs is bigger than just a girl with a keyboard. As many of you know, I've been working with a few different guitarists on getting some recordings done. And though the songs are turning out (mostly) how I wanted them, the process has been an absolute nightmare.
I wrote a little bit about this in an earlier post. One guy has strung me along for months. Another one is just no good at sending emails. And the other guy has a history of being really creepy towards women (of course, I didn't find out about this until I was halfway through the recording process with him...yikes***).
There was a point where a weird little light bulb went off in my head. "I should just learn how to play the damn guitar so I don't have to deal with this crap," I thought.
A couple days later, I had retrieved my guitar from my parents' house and was learning the chords to an ancient punk song with The Poet. Keep in mind that this guitar is about 20 years old at this point. I've dubbed it Old Crusty. It goes out of tune every five minutes. I still managed to figure out how to play "Whole Wide World" by Wreckless Eric on it.
I have to admit, I felt bad ass.
I even borrowed The Poet's guitar (which is significantly less ancient and actually has a strap) and paraded around town with it in the name of my new music video.
Keepin it classy in front of this sketchy building
Naturally, this is a promo for my upcoming laundromat tour of 2012
I got some really good footage too, though I'm still a little bitter about that thing that happened at the laundromat that day.
Laundromat security was not a fan of #occupymusicvideo
But let's not get too political.
It quickly became apparent that if I was really going to learn to play the guitar, I needed one that would stay in tune. I also needed one that I was excited to play - maybe even one worthy of a name cooler than "Old Crusty."
So I went to pawn shops. I haunted music stores in Southeast Portland. I pretended that I knew more than the two chords involved in that Wreckless Eric song and I tested out fun electric guitars, trying very hard to ignore the dudes there that actually knew how to play. There was a hot pink guitar that caught my eye, but I decided to wait. Logically, I knew I shouldn't be buying a guitar when there's rent to pay, but that didn't stop me from doing my research.
I kept a close eye on Craigslist. Lots of cheap, Walmart-style black and white guitars that were probably Christmas presents for bratty teenage boys at some point in time. Lots of expensive, fancy guitars that people are now trying to trade for cash because the economy is terrible. I was about to abandon my Craigslist efforts when I saw it.
My guitar.
Yay
I emailed back and forth with the guy about pricing, then stared at the numbers in my bank account until I could justify making this investment. The price was right, so I came to the conclusion that buying a functional guitar was a very practical career move and was possibly more important than buying food. I conned The Poet into coming along with me (didn't take much conning - he's been a very enthusiastic supporter of my guitar hunt) and we rode off into the night to look at this guitar.
The place was a little bit hard to find, but when we finally found it and knocked on the door, a black guy with dreadlocks answered. He was wearing a Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, which I noted as significant because it was Jimi Hendrix's birthday. The whole interaction was normal enough - he told me the history of the guitar, I tried it out, The Poet assured me that it was indeed a bad ass guitar, the guy offered to throw in a lot of accessories, I announced I would take the guitar.
"I hope to see you play that live someday," Dreadlocks Guy said as he showed us the door.
The door closed and I felt excited, musically liberated, and a little bit rebellious.
You better believe I played Wreckless Eric until my fingers were sore.
Photo taken while jamming out to Wreckless Eric with other beginning guitar players
And then I learned another chord so I could play "Blitzkrieg Bop" by The Ramones.
And then I learned another chord so I could play "Sorrow" by David Bowie.
Soon, I was noodling around and coming up with my own little songs. And when my neighbors saw me in the kitchen later, they commented that I was sounding good. This blew me away. I was sure everyone in the building was sick of my guitar playing, or at least Wreckless Eric. They were probably just being polite - except that no one here is that polite.
I know that everyone and their dog plays the guitar and that in reality it's probably not very hard. I also know that I'm still at a very basic, embarrassingly elementary level on this instrument. But I still feel accomplished. I feel as though I can and will learn to play this thing. I'm not expecting to become some sort of guitar goddess, but I do feel as though I can get to the point where I can play my own songs if I keep practicing everyday.
Mostly I'm just determined to make this rock and roll dream happen. And I want to be done getting hung up on ideas like "I can't sing" or "I can't play guitar."
And with that, I shall end this extremely wordy post.
Except I think that I should mention that I named my guitar Jimi.
And now that I think about it, I can't think of any white girls that play black guitars...
*shrugs*
Peace and love! Until next time, amigos.**** <3
* I usually did not want to initiate a jam session - way too many guitar players in Portland are into experimental noise rock. **I was also just mad that my stupid band had to break up, but that's irrelevant. ***Don't worry, Mom, I had a body guard. ****I promise I won't be so long-winded next time!
I found my cat mug. I know that some of you were worried.
It was laying in the communal sink first thing yesterday morning. I gave it a very thorough scrubbing and made preparations to kill the fatted calf in celebration. I tried to ask it what happened, but it remained silent and refused to tell me of it's misadventures. Silly cat mug.
I'm just glad it made it home safely.
In other news, I almost cried last night when my studio guy blew me off yet again. The story this morning is that he fell asleep and forgot that we had a meeting planned. I guess it's understandable and I plan on forgiving him, but I've had a rough time working with musicians lately and last night's incident didn't help my frustration.
It didn't help to discover that Amanda Palmer played a ninja gig in town last night. It was free and I missed it because I was busy waiting around not checking Twitter. I actually didn't find out about the show until this morning and it made me want to crawl back into my bed.
I love music, but I'm beginning to think there's something wrong with musicians. I know, I know, I am a musician and there's probably something wrong with me too. And I really don't mean to offend anyone, so take everything I say with a serious grain of salt. But it seems to me that all musicians have that one obnoxious trait that you just have to deal with if you plan on working with them.
Take the guy that stood me up last night, for example. He's a great musician and I'm pretty sure he's genuinely a nice person. I think we're actually sort of good friends. He's got a great ear and loves to pretend he's George Martin throughout the recording process (meaning that sometimes perfectly manicured symphonies show up in my tracks).
So what's the catch? He's flaky! And maybe it's just karma getting me back for my own ongoing state of mild flakiness, but he takes the flaky thing to a whole new level. This is not your average "I'm a couple days past the deadline" kind of flaky. This is the "I went to Kansas for a month and forgot to tell you" kind of flaky. This is the "It will be done on Tuesday... no, Saturday... no, next Tuesday... no, next Saturday..." kind of flaky.
There was a point where didn't hear from him for weeks and I decided that I should just start throwing songs at other people. After all, the halls are full of creative-types here. Surely someone could help me out.
So I examined the list of local suspects and came up with the following options:
1. Pretentious Art School Hipsters That Wear Matching Ponchos And Ride A Vespa. The Good: They have a really expensive microphone and will record for cheap. The Bad: Their skills seem mediocre at best and they really like editing nature sounds into the background of tracks. Also, they think they are the hottest thing to ever set foot in Portland. Probably has something to do with the matching ponchos.
2. Guy Who Was Supposedly Kicked Out Of Portugal. The Man For Being An Alcoholic. The Good: He's experienced. The Bad: Um, he's an alcoholic.
3. Sensitive Singer-Songwriter Guy With Schizophrenic Tendencies. The Good: He's very efficient, talented, etc. The Bad: He appears to have a very significant mental illness.
4. Guy Who Appears To Be In His Own Solar System And Probably Has Some Form Of Asperger's Syndrome. The Good: Charges ridiculously low prices and is secretly a sound-mixing genius. The Bad: Conversation is difficult. Also, he's a bit unpredictable.
I chose Option 4, mostly because The Poet had a hunch about it and I've learned by now that he's right about things. For example, if he tells you not to go to Texas with your friend and her cousin, you better stay home because it's all a front for a drug smuggling operation. Anyway, he kept saying "Why don't you try Option 4? I think you should just give Option 4 a try..." At first I was too busy trying to make plans with The Pretentious Art School Hipsters to give it much thought, but that wasn't going in the direction I wanted it to go and I thought "Well, I've got nothing to lose..."
So I rounded up a buddy (there was no way I was going into that room alone) and handed my newest song to this guy.
The conversation went something like this:
Me: So, here's my song. Him: Cool. *loads it onto the computer* So didja have a lovely day today? Me: Yeah, it wasn't raining. How was your day? Him: *spaced out look* *smile* Great! I was picking up candy wrappers downtown! I found some real cool ones! Me: Okay...
He also informed me that though he plays guitar, he considers his main instrument to be the gourd flute.
This is not going to work, I thought to myself. I'm going to have to make things work with those hipsters.
It was at that moment that the project finished loading into Logic and he began flying around on his computer like he was controlling the Star Trek Enterprise.
And less than a week later, he handed me three tracks that actually sound pretty good. Consider my mind blown.
Don't judge a book by it's cover, boys and girls.
Will figure out how to upload said tracks and share them with you soon.
In the mean time, I've got more tracks to finish, a flaky musician to track down, and a couple of music videos to shoot.
Oh yeah, and somewhere in there I need to figure out grocery shopping.
I also need to fix my sink, which is a big, rusty, clogged-up, uncooperative mess. I brush my teeth in the shower these days...
I think it's the Soul Asylum connection I have going on right now.
While I was doing my laundry today, The Chef made me this T-shirt:
When The Chef lived in Minneapolis in the 80's, he made the same T-shirt for the drummer of Soul Asylum. The drummer wore the shirt on the cover of this album:
The logo is larger but it's still the same design made by the same person. I can't help but feel cool.
As a side note, Soul Asylum's "Misery" was my favorite song when I was seven years old. I feel like that probably says something about me but I'm not sure what.
In other news, I was downstairs working with The Studio Musician until a little bit ago. I can't wait to show you guys what we've been cooking up. Right now, it's just at the tedious phase of him mixing it and me telling him to tweak different instruments.
Me: "Can you put a little more guitar on the chorus?"
The Studio Musician: "Yeah...I have nine guitar tracks layered there...which one do you like best?"
Me: "Oh wow, that's intense. Uh..."
The Studio Musician: "Yeah, don't even look at the computer screen...no one likes to see how the sausage gets made."
It's going to be some great sausage when it's all done.
Anyway, that's all for now. Another lame post. I'll be back on my blogging game soon.
I've finally started getting a professionally mixed demo together. It took me a long time to get going on it because I was a bit overwhelmed by the prospect of going solo. Fortunately, I was able to connect with a musician that lives downstairs. I'll call this guy The Studio Musician.
This is a guy that rarely comes out of his room. I didn't really know about him until The Poet met him on the smoker's corner one day and suggested I collaborate with him. I was nervous at first because he is primarily a jazz musician, but he's actually perfect for the job. He's got a whole recording studio set up in his apartment and he plays multiple instruments. He's got a big burly beard, wears the same hat everyday, and has an adorable pet cat. He also has a "Clerks" poster hanging in his studio. "Clerks" was a movie that I used to quote a lot with my old band, so it seemed a good omen of sorts.
A couple weeks ago, I gave him a rough track of one of my songs. He created guitar and bass parts for it and is working on drums. I was amazed when I heard it. It sounded like a real song by a real band! A pretty bad ass song too, if I do say so myself. It starts out with piano, organ, and acoustic guitar, but then the chorus rolls around and the electric kicks in. Just thinking about it makes me grin.
I spent a couple of hours recording vocals in this guy's studio yesterday. Once I got over feeling self-conscious about my voice, it was a blast. "That was good, but don't be afraid grow a pair and belt it out," he said after several takes. It was at that point that I began to imagine I was David Bowie. I sang while making dramatic hand gestures behind the makeshift wall of sound-proofing blankets. I let myself get lost in the music that was coming through my headphones. I closed my eyes and visualized myself onstage as Ziggy Stardust.
I finished singing and The Studio Musician gave me a big thumbs up from behind his computer. "That was it! That was the take! Rock on!" he exclaimed. Then his next door neighbor's smoke alarm went off and a dog began barking simultaneously. The timing on that was uncanny. If that had happened while I was singing, the take would have been ruined.
When I left the studio, I couldn't help but feel like a rock star. I had my song stuck in my head for the rest of the day. Specifically the chorus: "Is this just another night? Or have you finally lost your mind?"
Sometimes I feel like I really am losing my mind in this place. Fortunately, I have a good method of reminding myself that I'm at least semi-sane. It involves a pile of notebooks Mr. Merry Christmas Forever has sitting in a trunk outside of his door. But that's a story I'll save for tomorrow...
Ack. I've been really out of touch with the blogosphere for over a week now. Please forgive me. A lot has been going on and it might take a couple of posts to get everyone up to speed.
I realize I left everything off while I was still in San Diego. I was only there for three days, but it was best weekend I've had in awhile. Not to mention it gave me an inside look at the music industry. Naturally, it was all a little intimidating. But it was also really inspiring. I did nothing but watch live music for three days. At the end of those three days, I knew more than ever that I was meant to be a musician.
On the last night, I pretended to be more outgoing than I actually am and I gave my demo CD to a couple of producers. I don't know if anything will come from it, but it felt good to go out on a limb and do it. I also trespassed backstage and ran into Vanessa Carlton eating a piece of cake. One of the more bad ass moments of my life, for sure.
I think it's time for a few blurry pictures from my adventures at The Sunset Sessions:
Augustana! (I was right in the front)
Black Dub - my new favorite
Meeting Mike Mills
Blurry photographic evidence of my Mike Mills moment
I've never really listened to k.d. lang, but her set was one of the best all weekend. I feel slightly embarrassed about saying that, but it's true.
k.d. lang owning it on stage. Her cover of "Hallelujah" was awesome.
The strange yet super talented Sia (wearing the poncho from hell).
Iron and Wine's first words on stage: "Are you guys ready to get really f@#$ing mellow?" He must know that I listen to his music when I need help falling asleep...
Vanessa Carlton! Weirdly enough, she was the one person there that I was too star struck around to talk to. I think I was just thrown off by how short she is in real life.
This field was next to the resort we stayed at. Yes, those are plastic horses. California is really, really weird.
The weekend was all very exciting and quite surreal. We left California on a Sunday. It's a two hour flight from San Diego to Portland and we were supposed to be back in the morning, but my mom and I let the airline bump us as many times as possible in exchange for flight vouchers. We spent the day sitting around various airports and it was well worth it. The only problem was that we had both gotten about three hours of sleep the night before and accidentally had our new complimentary wine bottle openers in our carry-ons. That made for some fun times in security...
TSA Officer: Excuse me ladies, you're going to need to step over here...let me look in those bags... My Mom: Please don't squish those R.E.M. posters on top! Me: Yeah, be careful! TSA Officer: (rifling through the bag) What? My Mom: Those posters! They are signed by Mike Mills! Me: Don't squish them! TSA Officer: R.E.M. was in town???
I think the most disturbing part of that whole security transaction was the fact that they only caught the bottle opener in my mom's bag and let me go through with mine. They also missed out on two bottles of water. By the way, the bottle opener was totally made of metal and had a little pop-out knife on the side. Potentially, we could have gotten on the plane with two hydrogen bombs and a very sharp object.
That didn't really do anything to improve my opinion of flying. But now I'm set to fly anywhere Southwest flies. I haven't decided where I want to go yet but I have a few ideas.
Anyway, I think that concludes this installment of "lauren vs. reality." Tune in next time to potentially read about the following things:
- A new music project - The possibility of getting a new cat - Adventures with The Fonz (trashy gay night club edition!) - Things that Urgent Care doctors shouldn't be allowed to say to their patients - Why my apartment now has a carbon monoxide detector plugged into the wall - The ongoing argument about the exact location of Funkytown.
The plane ride here was special. It was only two hours long, but it was long enough to throw up three times and get stuck next to a Jehovah's Witness who was attempting to evangelize. There was also a large gyspy woman covering her armpits in smelly perfume and an entire high school soft ball team near my seat. Not to mention another girl named Lauren who was also puking a lot.
So that all made for a fun plane ride. But I made it to California in one piece and have been having a blast.
Not to mention I got to sit right up front while Augustana did their set. I met them afterwards and took some blurry photographs while hugging the cute bass player. I then proceeded to go into awkward fan girl mode at the garden party that proceeded. "Hi, you're that Augustana boy! I think I was totally a dork when I met you earlier...hi, I'm Lauren! You rock!"
I'm ridiculous.
Last night I also had the priveledge of hearing a band called Black Dub. I didn't expect to like them very much but they blew me away. They might just be my new favorite.
There was also a band called Frentik that made me grin like a little kid. The lead singer was this bad ass redhead chick in a sparkly dress. She jumped around and sang about how stupid boys are. It was a performance that inspired me.
Anyway, I think it's almost lunch time. I better go see what's on the buffet table. There's a lot of good music lined up for today. I recently discovered that R.E.M.'s Mike Mills is here. Holy crap. It's not like I listened to "Automatic For The People" everyday when I was 16 or anything.
(Please note the intended sarcasm - I totally listened to "Automatic For The People" everyday when I was 16.)
I dial a number on my cell phone and listen to the phone ring for awhile. Finally, Tweaked Out Elvis Costello picks up. "Hey," he says, answering the phone in the most nonchalant, hipster way possible.
"Hey, yo, I knocked on your door and I was gonna be all like 'TRICK OR TREAT,' but you weren't there," I say.
"Yeah, I can hear that you're saying words but I can't really hear what they are."
"You at a wild party or something?"
"I'm in the restaurant downstairs. And I am drinking alcohol. YES."
"Cool, I'm about to head down there, I'll probably run into you."
"I'm sure you're probably saying something relevant but I can't hear you at all because there are so many people making noise."
"Okay bye."
I look at myself in the mirror, decide that if anyone asks what I am I'll just tell them I am a hipster, and head downstairs.
"LAUREN!" The Obnoxious Hipster spots me from across the room. He's dressed as Sherlock Holmes and is throwing back beers with the guy that's probably a gay porn star. I awkwardly greet them and then drift over to the corner where The Poet and Tweaked Out Elvis Costello are standing.
The Poet is wearing a red shirt, a suit jacket, and red shoes. "I am a Soviet supporter," he informs me. "I AM A COMMUNIST!" I can't really tell if Tweaked Out Elvis Costello is wearing a Halloween costume or not. He's wearing a hat and a tie and a vest. I asked him about it and it turns out it's just how he dresses.
Tweaked Out Elvis Costello hands me a drink and informs me that he's going to go smoke a joint on the sidewalk. The Poet joins him and I am left to fend for myself in a room full of Halloween Hipsters. I end up talking to a singer/songwriter guy that I've been saying the words "Hey, we should jam" to for about a month. Except it takes me ten minutes to realize who he is, because he's wearing a really elaborate costume. Fortunately, The Theater Lover shows up (dressed as a dead ballerina, naturally) and says his name before I completely embarrass myself.
The Poet returns alone. "Did you lose Tweaked Out Elvis Costello?" I ask.
He laughs. "Oh, he's still out there. He gets really into smoking that shit."
"Yeah I know," I say. "He seems like he's on another planet sometimes."
The Poet smirks. "Tonight, I think he's in another galaxy."
Tweaked Out Elvis Costello finally returns, bringing the distinct aroma of pot along with him. I look at him and wonder why I haven't seen him or heard from him at all in the past week. Then I realize that I probably don't really want to know.
Singer/Songwriter Guy says something about how it would be cool to bring instruments down and play them on the stage at the back of the restaurant. Next thing we know, Tweaked Out Elvis Costello is hauling equipment into the room. A keyboard gets set up. A microphone. A drum machine. I offer to go get my keytar so we can have a legit jam session but no one is really interested.
Tweaked Out Elvis Costello takes the stage and plays his crazy music for a good twenty minutes. There are retro church pews facing the stage and at this point lots of people are sitting on them and listening. There's a big screen right behind the stage and trailers for b-rated horror films are playing on loop without sound. I am sitting next to a bald man dressed as the gnome from the Travelocity commercials. The Poet sits behind me. "Do you have any idea what this kid is playing?" he asks.
"I think it's something he wrote," I say. "Or maybe it's Gershwin. Sometimes he plays things he writes and then they turn into Gershwin and then they turn back into originals."
"Wow," says The Poet. "Things are happening on other galaxies."
Finally, Tweaked Out Elvis Costello stops playing. He announces that he's not really sure what he's been playing for the past ten minutes and takes a seat on a church pew. It was at that point that approximately three people simultaneously asked me to play a song.
I am not a solo performer. I've always wanted to try it, but the thought terrifies me. I've never really gotten up and played songs I've written without having Ryan there to hide behind. But on this night, for some reason or another, I jumped onto that stage and I belted out a song about the end of the world.
When I finished the song, I looked up and realized that more people had come over to listen. I was going to go sit back down, but someone yelled "PLAY ANOTHER SONG!" So I played a song about zombies (in honor of Halloween).
They yelled for another. I asked if they wanted something campy and stupid or something not as campy and less stupid. They yelled for campy and stupid, so I played this one:
About halfway through, I began feeling like a complete retard. But people laughed. I played one more song after that and then offered the stage to Singer/Songwriter Guy.
"That was such a rock star performance!" proclaimed The Poet as I sat down. The Gnome gave me the thumbs up. I had somehow managed to tap into that rock and roll version of myself up there and I had done it completely solo. I was strangely proud of myself, not to mention a little shocked that I was able to do that so naturally.
When Singer/Songwriter Guy was done entrancing everyone with his poetic lyrics (oh man, I felt a little dumb sandwiching my quirky Amanda Palmer-meets-They Might Be Giants indie rock crap between him and Intergalactic Gershwin...), Tweaked Out Elvis Costello got back onstage. I went to go get some apple cider.
The owner of the restaurant met me by the cider and gave me a huge high five. "Lauren, that was awesome!" he exclaimed. Like most people, he was probably a little surprised I had that in me. I'm 87% sure that I'm going to be working in his restaurant when it finally opens to the public. And weirdly enough, I think my little impromptu performance just solidified my chances of being officially hired.
After Tweaked Out Elvis Costello ran out of steam again, a guy in an ugly sweater butchered something that sounded like rag time. Then someone yelled for me again, so I went up and played an instrumental medley of some of my "Goat Man" stuff followed by a weird song about icebergs. Then I noticed the restaurant was closing, so we packed up the equipment and called it a night.
The Gnome approached me and told me about how much he loved my song about giardia. "I had giardia once," he said. "It was terrible. It was like there was a blender in my stomach!"
"Oh man, that's bad," I say. "I thought I had giardia once. It ended up just being some other, more obscure parasite, but that's what inspired the song."
"Ew, yeah, those parasites are rough. They weren't ever really sure if I actually had giardia or not, but they had to prescribe me like, chlorine to make it finally go away."
Maybe next time I do a short set, I'll have a little more class and choose not to play a catchy song about explosive diarrhea.
But overall, I felt fairly on top of the world at the end of the night. I watched Tweaked Out Elvis Costello and The Poet smoke a cigarette on the curb for a little bit, but eventually got bored with that and went back to my room. I had a text on my phone from my friend Cyndi and I texted her back telling her I had just played an impromptu solo set. She replied with the following text:
"good things are wild & free. essentially, you rock. we can do all things through christ/god/jesus (buddha. the prophet. allah. lady gaga. lykke li. alcohol) who gives us strength. i'm proud of you!"
It was a text that made me grin.
And with that, I should probably go to bed. Happy Halloween, amigos. Over and out.
Lately I've been wondering what it was like when John, Paul, and George met Ringo for the first time. I always imagined there was immediate chemistry there. Maybe they took one look at him and said "Blimey, you've got a cool name and there is no one on the planet that looks quite like you do. Let's get that Pete fellow out of here, we want you in the band." Maybe the clouds parted for a moment and a blinding ray of light shone down upon Liverpool. Maybe a majestic voice from above said, "John and Paul, my children, I have sent you a drummer. Go forth and rock."
Or maybe Ringo simply replied to a desperate want-ad he stumbled upon one night when he couldn't sleep. Maybe he went to an early performance of The Beatles, was intrigued by their music, and awkwardly left his phone number with a very drunk John Lennon. Maybe Paul McCartney flippantly promised to call him sometime in the next week. Maybe George Harrison was standing there silently, unsure of how to act when not onstage.
I've been playing in the same band for so long that, until recently, I've forgotten all about the strange process of trying to connect with other musicians. Musicians are a weird breed. We're emotional, competitive, creatively-driven creatures who often lack standard social skills and have an affinity for irresponsibility. We crave the limelight but often don't know what to do when it shines on us. Honk if you agree.
And since bands are made up of musicians, they're pretty weird things too. The relationship between bandmates is sometimes almost a cross between a dysfunctional family (minus the obligatory holiday get-togethers) and a really involved romantic relationship (minus the romance).
Anyway, I was recently cruising the musician want-ads on Craigslist (my favorite thing to do when I can't sleep) and I stumbled upon a pretty cool indie dance-rock band that needed a keyboardist. I listened to them on myspace, fell in love with their sound, and sent them an email. I emailed back and forth with them a little and ended up going out to see them perform last night.
Now, I know some of you are going to read this and think I've gone mad. "What about Original Sound Trash?!" you will ask. "What about Ryan and trash rock and making an OST album and all of that?!"
Rock bands are not exclusive creatures. Our friend Jack White shows us that it is possibly to be involved in as many as three bands at a time. Of course, it helps that the man's guitar skills are just plain sexy. But he is somehow able to musically multi-task and pour his talent into three bands.
(I'm not trying to compare myself to Jack White here - I know he's a one-of-a-kind rock sensation. But I'm just pointing out that the multiple-band thing can be done.)
And though Jack is fantastic in The Dead Weather and The Raconteurs, The White Stripes seems to be his musical child. If I do end up joining another band, Original Sound Trash will still be my number one. I'm just at a point in my life where I want to make all kinds of music with all kinds of people. You know, try on the starving-musician lifestyle for size and see if it fits.
Original Sound Trash began so organically that I barely know how the whole auditioning thing works. Four years ago, I started college and was determined to play music with other people. I spent all of orientation weekend targeting boys that looked like musicians. Ryan was the only guy I talked to that didn't get all weird and think I was trying to hit on him. Instead, we just talked about our love for Simon and Garfunkel and exchanged myspace urls. We snuck into the on-campus practice rooms to jam a few days later and the rest is history. Or something like that.
Once I tried out for a Shakespearean metal band (mostly just because I was bored and wanted to shake everyone up), but other than that it's been awhile since I've tried to dive into any new music projects. So last night, I put on my indie rock attire (doesn't really matter what you wear as long as glasses with big, black, Woody Allen-style frames are involved), took some pills for a headache that had been around since Tuesday, and headed downtown in hopes of making a good impression on this new band. Took Steve along with me and got there early enough to scope out a group of people that looked like the band.
"I think that's them," I whisper to Steve. "What?" he says. It's loud in the room and I am whispering. "Be right back," I reply, and strut off to the bathroom. Once in the sanctuary of the ladies room, I pull out my iPhone with the intention of looking at a picture of the band online. I discover that my battery has died. I fix my hair, take a moment to read some of the fantastic bathroom graffiti, and return to the table Steve is sitting at. I ask to borrow his iPhone and use it to pull up the band's myspace page. I scroll through pictures and look at the group of people in front of me. Just as I suspected - it's them.
"Go talk to them!" Steve says. "I will in a minute," I say. I'm bad at approaching groups of people I don't know. Remember how I said musicians don't always have the best social skills? I'm really no exception. "Want a beer?" offers Steve. "It might make this easier." I shake my head and remind him that I took stuff to kill a migraine before the show. He agrees that alcohol probably wouldn't be a good idea for me but goes to get a beer for himself, strategically leaving me alone to talk to the band.
I wait until they look like they aren't totally involved in a conversation and approach them. "Hey...are you guys (name of band)?" They nod. I then introduce myself as the girl who's been emailing them about playing keyboards. Fortunately, one of them remembered who I was and greeted me enthusiastically. He wore tight pants and reminded me of a less-cute Michael Cera. His phone rang in the middle of our conversation and he answered it, walking away from the table and leaving me to interview the bassist. I was not trying to interview him but he was not that talkative so I nervously launched a game of 20 questions. Michael Cera came back to the table. I wished them both a good show and went to find Steve at the bar.
And it was a good show. The music they made was catchy, danceable, and over-all something I would love to be a part of (the same could not be said about the Shakespearean metal band I tried out for once upon a time). I gave Michael Cera my phone number before I left and we agreed that we would all get together and jam sometime next week.
They weren't like "OMG WE LOVE YOU, GET PETE BEST OUT OF HERE AND BE OUR RINGO," though I didn't really expect them to be. I'm not going to get my hopes up too high, just going to see what happens.
And this just happened: Michael Cera texted me, thanking me for coming out to the show and saying he'll be in touch soon about getting together. And after a long debate about whether or not to use a text smiley face at the end of the reply or not, I texted him back saying the show was great, blah blah blah.
What will happen? Will Lauren the Keytar Master and Avoider of 9 to 5 jobs add another band into her life? Or will this simply become another amusing anecdote, residing in the same category as the Shakespearean metal band?
