How Did I Get HERE???

The past month has been really weird.  Actually, the past few months have been really weird.  Scratch that - everything that has happened since I graduated from college has been really weird.  Yes, I know that was two years ago.

Now that I think about it, college was probably really weird too, in it's own way.

If you spend your whole life living through situations that are "pretty weird," does that make it normal?

I digress.  I've been trying very hard lately to get my act together.  Too hard.  In fact, I briefly got so caught up in the thought that I need to make money that I acquired a full time job as a traveling mop saleswoman. 

This mop will change the way you clean your house.  It will clean your house from top to bottom and I know you want one.  You want one over there.  And I can see that you want one, too.  AND IT'S ONLY $29.99!

...Doesn't everybody go through a phase where they want to be Billy Mays???

I told you that things have been weird.

The good part of this story is that the job was so depressing, strange, and soul-crushing that I came to my senses and quit.  I told my awkward, Sarah Palin-esque boss that selling mops on commission was not my thing and got the heck out of that department store. 

Sarah Palin The Mop Boss looked slightly surprised when I did this.  I guess most people don't quit on the third day of training. 


I added "Enthusiastic Mop Salesperson" to the list of stupid jobs I've had and tried not to think about how long that list is these days. 

It's all either really funny or really discouraging, depending on what sort of mood I'm in.  And now that it's a new month and there's a new round of bills to pay, I'm back to cruising the "gigs" section on Craigslist.  Ugh.  I'm really ready for someone to just pay me to just be a rock and roll diva.  That would solve so many problems. 

Something cool happened yesterday, though...  

An online magazine out of LA published my article!  It's my first time being published in something that isn't a personal blog, so I'm really excited.  If they like the traffic/feedback I get, I might get to be a weekly columnist in their "Life After College" section. 

The article I wrote was about a particularly crappy job I found on Craigslist.  If you want to check it out (and I would love it if you did), the link is here:  http://www.lafamily.com/life-after-college/it-seemed-good-idea-time  It's complete with the standard quirky-Lauren video.  Click "like," leave comments... you know what to do.  :)

I think this just turned into a commercial.  It wasn't supposed to. 

There's probably a Billy Mays joke to be made right here but I'm having a hard time constructing it.  So I will just leave you with an existential picture of me in the woods. 

Story of my life...

Peace and love, amigos.

My Complicated Relationship With Rock & Roll Vikings, Part One: The Beginning

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...


To Be Continued...

This One Is Long But At Least It Has Pictures

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!