Before The World Ends...

According to The Mayan calender, the world is going to end this Friday.  Now, I don't believe it actually will, but just in case The Mayans were right, I figured I should update this blog.

I don't have any grand life updates or excuses for you this time.  Instead, I have a video I recently made.  I had a lot of fun putting this together and I would love it if you took three minutes to watch it.  And if you like it, feel free to share it on whatever social networks you use these days. 

 

What do YOU want to do before the world ends?

Breathe

I recently collaborated with The Poet on a song called "Breathe." He handed me the lyrics one night last spring and I did my best to bring them to life musically. I'm very pleased with the results.

Actually, it's become one of my favorite songs in my repertoire.

Though I feel like my voice is lower than normal in this song. I had a sore throat when I recorded it. And it was late. And I was grumpy. And I was trying to be the female David Bowie but instead ended up sounding more like Annie Lennox. I actually fully intended to redo the vocals, but people were like "No, chicks with deep voices are sexy!" So I kept it like it was.

Anyway, I'm rambling here. I feel very Lennon and McCartney with this whole music collaboration thing. Except I think that I would be McCartney in this scenario, and I'm totally a Lennon. Or maybe I just strive to be a Lennon but in reality am a McCartney?

I DIGRESS.

Last fall, I filmed this video around my old neighborhood. I figure that all artists have to have a low budget music video that screams "I'M BROKE AND LIVE IN THE GHETTO," so this is mine.

Enjoy. :)

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!

A Bad Night To Be A Hipster

Last spring, I had the privilege of seeing Kimya Dawson in concert.  If her name doesn't ring a bell, you might know her as the quirky hippy lady that does the music for "Juno."  Anyway, I might be romanticizing things, but that concert was a catalyst for all sorts of life changes.  Meaning I returned my business suit, started a blog called "TRASH ROCK TOUR" (which would later be known as "lauren vs. reality"), and decided to pursue my dreams.

That's a very simplified explanation, of course.  I can't blame Kimya for my entire journey down this bohemian rabbit hole, but she definitely played a part in my detachment from "balloon world."  So when I found out she was going to be in town playing at Backspace again last night, I called Ryan (a.k.a: Kimya's #1 Fanboy) and we bought tickets.  Anticipating another magical evening of inspiring folk music, we jumped on a MAX train after band practice.

The trip downtown took a little longer than we anticipated and the MAX was full of awkward characters (i.e:  a wannabe gangsta with a speech impediment, a woman who was going to pop out of her itty bitty tank top at any second, etc.).  When we finally got to Backspace, it was almost time for the show to start and there was a line of Kimya fans stretched out down the sidewalk.

Reluctantly, we got in line.  There were more boys in line than there were last time.  There were also more heterosexual couples.  Last spring, it was a bit of a lesbian festival. 

Anyway, as we got closer to the door, we noticed a few things:
1)  A sign that said completely different information than what was on the site we bought tickets from, including the start time of the show and the fact that Kimya Dawson was the opening act for a folk punk band.
2)  Kimya was already onstage playing "The Beer" (one of her best songs and we missed it!)
3)  We had missed half of Kimya's set!

I think it was at this point that I said something melodramatic along the lines of, "Ryan, if we don't get inside in time and miss all of Kimya's set, I might just cry!  I might just cry right here on the sidewalk!"

Fortunately, we made it inside before there was any crying on the sidewalk.  But the room was packed and there wasn't really a good place for us to sit/stand.  We settled on a spot near the bar.  People kept pushing to get past us and I could see the top of Kimya's poofy hair at best.

But the music was still wonderful, despite all of the disappointments.  "Loose Lips" still made me grin and "Walk Like Thunder" still gave me goosebumps.  I love how raw and honest her songs are.  I think I've said this before, but it's the kind of music that reminds me why I insist on playing the piano instead of getting a "real" job.

Her set was over way too soon.  I went to go order a drink to cope with my post-Kimya depression.  I quickly discovered that they were out of PBR.

It was a bad night to be a hipster.

On top of that, I kept losing Ryan because he took off in the direction of Kimya whenever he spotted her poofy hair.  The number of times he attempted to ambush her like an awkward fanboy was downright comical.  

Ryan in fanboy mode while I'm busy being an angry hipster

The punk-ish band took the stage and they weren't bad.  They were called "Defiance Ohio" and reminded me of Flogging Molly (but less edgy and not quite as wonderful...yes, I went through that celtic punk phase in high school along with the rest of the universe...don't judge...).  The music was fun to dance to but I probably won't run out and buy all of their albums.

Just watch, Defiance Ohio will become the next big thing and then this blog post will be right up there with the journal entry from the summer of 2004 in which I describe skipping band camp to go see They Might Be Giants at a music festival with my dad.  And I quote, "A band from Seattle called 'Death Cab For Cute' played before them.  We hung around for some of that so we could get prime spots for TMBG.  The place was packed so we didn't actually get to see Death Cab, but they sounded pretty good.  Finally, they ended and all these pierced punk rockers came pouring out.  All the nerdy, intellectual TMBG fans piled in!"  I then go on to describe how "beautiful" and "freak'n awesome" the TMBG show was.  Oh Teenage Lauren, you are so funny without even trying.  I think if I could relive that moment in time, I would put more effort into watching Death Cab.  I would also put more effort into removing the word "freak'n" from my vocabulary.

But I digress.  Back to things that are relevant.

I left to go to the bathroom in the middle of Defiance Ohio's set.  There are only two bathrooms at Backspace and they are both oners, so I found myself waiting in line for awhile.  The line was right by the Internet cafe part of Backspace.  It was also by an arcade-style game called "House Of The Dead 4."  Some guy in tight pants and a band t-shirt got in line behind me.  He wasn't completely gorgeous or anything, but he wasn't bad looking.  He starts talking to me and the conversation goes like this:

Guy:  I can't believe that people are back here on computers when there is a punk show going on!  What's up with that?
Me:  I know!  They really should be out there dancing.
Guy:  Yeah, for real!
*awkward silence*
Me:  Though are you sure you wouldn't rather be back here playing House Of The Dead 4?
Guy:  *laughs*  It's tempting, but I'm more of a House Of The Dead 2 type of person.
Me:  Personally I'm all about House Of The Dead 3.
Guy:  Rock on.
Me:  Yeah, House Of The Dead 3 is where it's at.
*awkward silence*
Me:  I'm kidding.
Guy:  What?
Me:  I'm kidding about House Of The Dead 3.  I'm not actually into it.
Guy:  Haha, yeah, you totally fooled me.
Me:  Yeah, I know.  Oh look, the bathroom is open!
*end of conversation*

Ugh.  When will I learn that trying to charm strangers with my neverending wit is usually a bad idea? 

The concert ended and we were able to successfully hunt down Kimya (I don't think Ryan was going to leave the venue until he was able to meet her).  We told her how much we loved her and snagged this wonderfully awkward photograph:

This is a happy picture.

I thought about taking a picture with her as well, but she didn't seem that into it and I didn't want to be too annoying.

So we left Backspace and ventured into the rain.  The trip home took longer than it should have because we lost track of where we were and we rode the wrong MAX to the wrong stop.

But that didn't stop us from dancing all the way home.

So last night ended on a high note.  I have always wanted to dance in an empty train car and now I can cross that off of my bucket list.

And that's all I've got for today.  Hope everyone is having a great Sunday!  Peace.

This Post Has Nothing To Do With Bacon, But I Really Want Bacon...

So the show was a success. I think. I had a blast and people seemed to enjoy themselves, so I think that means it was a success.

There weren't a ton of people there, but that's okay. The two "groupies" that are always at trash rock shows were there. Ryan was there. A few of my neighbors from the third floor of the commune came (The Poet had organized a carpool). There were some hipsters from the second floor there. And then there were a couple of strangers. It was the perfect sized crowd - not big enough to be completely intimidating but not small enough to be totally awkward.

Of course, having people I know and love there didn't stop me from being an intense ball of nerves. I kept fiddling with my iPhone and discovering new comments popping up on my last post. Made me grin and feel loved by the blogosphere. So, thanks for that, amigos. :)

I continued to be a nervous wreck until the moment I got onstage. Actually, I think I was a nervous wreck until about the third song. Then I turned my brain off and slipped into my rock and roll persona. I honestly don't remember a whole lot of the show after that third song. It's a strange phenomenon that happens when I perform - Regular Lauren (the one that is typing this right now) goes away and is replaced with Rock Star Lauren. When I watch footage of Rock Star Lauren, I feel like I'm watching footage of an entirely different person.

Speaking of footage from the show, a couple of you have expressed interest in possibly seeing some. You might regret that. Sheri sat in the front row and grabbed some videos for me on my digital camera. I will post a few on here for your amusement/entertainment. Watch them at your own risk. And keep in mind - this is the first time I've ever really done this by myself.

This is a song I wrote when I was about 19 or so:

This is a song that had never really left my notebook until last night:

This is a song from the rock opera I'm writing. It goes into a song I wrote a couple weeks ago when I couldn't sleep. I thought it was probably the worst song I played but people were telling me it was their favorite.

Last but not least, this is a song I dedicated to all my friends from the commune that were in the audience. It's a song written directly to the hot water in the building we live in (it doesn't always work like it should...).

Anyway, enough with the videos. I think that's enough proof that I really did follow through on doing a solo show.

And you know what? I kinda can't wait to do another one. I really want to, actually. I would love to get into the groove of doing that twice a week like some of my musician friends.

The "after party" was a little bit intense. When I got back home, I discovered The Chef was celebrating his 60th birthday in the kitchen by drinking any and all alcohol he could get his hands on. People of all ages were awake and celebrating with him. When I came in, they were really excited about the fact that I made it through my first solo show.

I found myself hanging out in the kitchen for a really, really long time. Cake and casual conversation slowly evolved into vodka and story time. There was a point where all of us should have gone to bed, but everyone's story was just way too interesting and none of us have traditional employment. So we didn't go to bed. We went around in a circle and talked about our various life experiences. We talked about crappy jobs we've had. We talked about why we feel the need to make art and how it's so easy to feel misunderstood. We talked about love and heartbreak and those who have temporarily destroyed us in the past. We laughed. We cringed. We relived things that once made us cry and realized that they aren't worth crying about anymore.

We all went to bed when the sun was about to come up. I woke up a few short hours later in a zombie-like daze. Though I was groggy and had a headache, I couldn't help but feel content about where my life is at right now. Excited, even. I think I'm finally being that person I want to be.

On a completely unrelated note, I am sitting in the kitchen typing this right now. It's almost midnight and The Chef just wandered in with a slab of raw bacon in his hand. "I just really want bacon!" he whispers to me. "So I'm going to make bacon!"

And now he's frying a single strip of bacon on the stove. I absolutely love living here.

I should really go to bed. Especially before the smell of bacon makes it over to where I'm sitting...

Too late. Now I want bacon. Crap.

Ah well. I shall go to bed baconless. Goodnight, amigos. Sorry if this post has been less coherent than usual. I plan on actually sleeping tonight, so I should be back to my normal level of coherency tomorrow.

Peace.

Confessions of a Pack Rat

So today I continued to pack and surf for jobs today.  I found a pretty good job on Craigslist that pays $15 an hour.  But when I clicked on it and read the description I discovered that it was for the job of "Cremation Assistant" at a local crematorium.  "Must be energetic, hard-working, and comfortable lifting bodies of the deceased."  Hmmm, I think I'll pass on that one.

Packing is just as fun as job hunting.  My room is a disaster, so it's a cleaning mission as well.  At one point I got tired of it and decided to make a documentary.  Watch it at your own risk. 

Okay, so I exaggerate a little bit for entertainment purposes.  But it's still not a pretty sight.  

Aaaand now that you're all going to click "unfollow" and report me to TLC to be featured on that show about hoarders...

Looks like it's bed time for Lauren!  Goodnight, gang.  :)