talk sing why

It's Hot Here

2011-07-07T10:13:00.000-07:00

Very hot. And the photo is misleading. I am not, in fact, married to a drunken sailor. He is actually just plum worn out from a hard day's work at manual labor in the hotter-than-hell heat of the South. And our neighbors tell us that the heat is nothing compared to their native Georgia. They also tell us that their accent is mild compared to other Georgians, but considering that I've never payed a visit to the motherland, this claim has yet to be confirmed. So here we are, in Nashville Tn, living next to an aspiring country singer/songwriter and his day-job working girlfriend. And when I say next to, I really mean it. In fact, we are so close, and the walls so thin, that I can actually hear said singer emptying his bladder in the toilet when I am lying in bed. A far cry from the farm life we had back in our native Tehachapi, California. But the trees are green and the thunderstorms powerful, and I am enjoying the change in weather.

So now I find myself at a hip coffee shop called The Frothy Monkey-I'm still not sure why the monkey is frothy. Is it rabid? If that is the case, I don't think this would be the most appealing place to get a cup of joe. But apparently the patrons aren't turned off by this possibility, as this place is busy night and day. And not just with ordinary people, either. These people are the beautiful, important people. I have no idea WHO they are, but I have no doubt that they really are someone. And if they aren't someone yet, they sure as hell will be. Singers? Writers? Designers? The elitist 12 South district (where I am currently Frothy Monkeying) is quite appealing, despite its self-conscious bourgeois overtones. I swear that, even if the three hagard-looking, cigarette-smoking guys at the corner table aren't some sort of post-punk grunge band, they really ought to be. I'd believe it. Even if they didn't play any instruments.

So one of the most amazing things about Nashville, besides the awesome greenness of the land and the roaring, pouring skies, is the fireflies. At night, they blink on and off on our lawns, like tiny lighthouses flashing light one instant, and the next disappearing again. Fireflies are definitely one thing the South has on the West. I don't think I'll ever fail to catch my breath when I walk outside at night and into the blinking chorus of lightning bugs. One other thing the South has on the West is an endless supply of tall-tales, rehearsed and ready to perform for the next passer-by. A full description of some of the tales next time...

J. Tillman

2011-05-19T12:04:00.000-07:00

So my original title for this post was "J. Tillman makes me want to have babies and live in the country," but I didn't want anybody to think that it was the person of J. Tillman who put these desires in my heart. No, just his music. And it makes me want to do these things in a very general sense, in an almost indiscernible sense. This is the way with good music. Or at least with music that I find myself drawn irresistibly to; not once, but time and again. It is not the execution, the lyrics, the voice, or the instrumentation, but a coming together of these essential elements that creates an overwhelming mood, an atmosphere, a feeling that gently overpowers me with a very primal desire. One that is buried beneath mounds of busyness, noise, distraction, the rushing of time. And then J. Tillman begins to sing and I am aware of this very real desire to put on a long dress, grab the chubby hand of my child, and go collect eggs from my chickens and vegetables from my garden. This way of life that has been almost completely obliterated in our culture is remembered, celebrated, called to existence in Tillman's songs. His music has the same affect on me as does Iron & Wine, and even Gillian Welch. It calls me back to the Ozarks, where something in my unconscious self longs for the life of my ancestors. The struggle, the joy, the simplicity and hardship. This real life, the real living of toiling with one's hands for one's own food and survival. The very same spirit captured by Steinbeck in Grapes of Wrath or East of Eden. Well done, J. Very simply put, your music moves me.

Messy Hair...Decaf Coffeed

2011-05-10T07:44:00.000-07:00

At the cafe I used to work at in SLO...Sally Loo's Wholesome Cafe, to be exact. New faces behind the counter, new faces in the seats (although a lot of the same faces, too), and a complete new look to the building, thanks to the semi-recent retrofit. Alexi Murdoch over the speakers. It's 7:50 in the morning, and this is the only thing I know to do with myself at this time in the morning. I dropped Jordan off at work at 7, headed to Sally Loo's, got a decaf coffee, went to the bathroom...and caught a first glimpse of my hair in the mirror. And it was wild. I don't own a brush, and for some reason, it's never seemed like a problem until now. (Actually, I do own a brush, but it's in a box somewhere in my old room at my parent's house, along with all of my other belongings, save a week's worth of clothing, some books, and my running shoes). But today, it's definitely a problem. And it leaves me with a dilemma-do I put it in a ponytail? Do I pretend like I'm so confident that I don't actually have to brush my hair to be seen in public? Or do I just forget about it all together, and try not to catch my reflection again today, while my hand reaches up self-consciously, smoothing the mess? Considering the most important thing I can think of to talk about today is hair, I may as well save my words. But one more word on hair before I go back to obsessing over my own. Did you know that there is a treatment called a Brazilian Blowout that all of the 500 salons in San Luis Obispo county are offering for the very special price of 300 dollars? Now if you are like me, then the words "Brazilian Blowout" conjure up an image of a high heel clad woman yielding a round brush in one hand and a hair blow dryer in the other, yanking and pulling until she's accomplished a very fluffy, wild, somehow exotic-looking coif. I'm not really sure what would be Brazilian about that, except maybe the tinge of exoticism. But no, that is not at all what a Brazilian Blowout is, I was informed yesterday. It is actually a very expensive, time consuming (the victim must spend an hour and a half in a salon seat, in a room full of gushing women), and not guaranteed effective unless you buy the trendy, not to mention costly, acai products (maybe this is where the Brazilian twist comes in?) to apply to the Brazilian Blownout hair afterward, and then voila! you have soft, repaired hair for up to 6 weeks, at which point you must start the whole process over again, after filling your penny bank with 300 more one dollar bills. Welcome to California, where we take our beauty very seriously .

I'm on a roll

2011-04-21T09:00:00.001-07:00

I've decided I'm just going to keep writing while I have the time and something to say. Heaven knows it might be another year before I actually post anything again. So my husband is working landscape construction, and I don't have a job, so I've been reading, writing, seeing friends, exercising (kind of), and waiting for him to get off of work. But what I haven't been doing much of lately is playing or writing music. This marriage thing has been tricky for that. I am a solitary writer, who needs space and time alone with a journal and a guitar. And also a lot of time in my head. And marriage isn't very conducive to any of those things, to be perfectly honest. So I'm trying to figure out what my writing process should look like now. Now that I live with a man whom I love and want to take care of. And I don't want to spend a lot of time in my head, allowing melancholy to overtake me and ruin my day, as well as his. It wasn't so bad when my moodiness affected me-it's a whole different thing when it begins to affect the person you love the most. So all of this makes me think of Virginia Woolf, because she faced a similar dilemma, and wrote an essay about it, called "A Room of One's Own." Is that supposed to be in quotations? Or do I underline it? Or italicize it? I always forget. I know that's a bit ridiculous, considering the fact that I was an English major, but some things just won't stick. For one reason or another. I'm not sure why. Anyway, I'm going to re-read that essay now that I can identify with Virginia a bit more. Except for the lesbianism and suicidal thoughts of course.

"All I could do was to offer you an opinion upon one minor point — a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction; and that, as you will see, leaves the great problem of the true nature of woman and the true nature of fiction unsolved. I have shirked the duty of coming to a conclusion upon these two questions — women and fiction remain, so far as I am concerned, unsolved problems." -Virginia Woolf

Too true, Virginia, too true. Although I do wish you could have solved the problem, because it would put me in a much less puzzling situation right now. I don't know how this all plays out, but I know there must be some solution. Music will come...it always does. There are just other things presently pre-occupying my mind right now. Not to mention, we live in a studio, so money and my own room are completely out of the question. Which is really all fine and well, because I don't want to walk in Woolf's footsteps anyway. I want to walk in Jesus'. And he said:

''If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it."

-Jesus, Matthew 16:24&25

Quite counter-cultural and counter-intuitive. Doesn't sound much like insisting on my own money and my own space. There must be another way to be a creative writer and a creative person other that this model of self-serving artist we've seen. There must be another way to pour out your life, deny yourself, follow Jesus, serve your husband, and still create. I am on a journey to discover how. But I don't even want to make discovering the goal. Just following Jesus and knowing Him, and then letting all else be added to me and poured out from me.

By the way...

2011-04-21T08:33:00.000-07:00

We're staying with my in-laws, who have an incredibly good attitude about allowing my husband and I to crash in their office, eat their food, etc...

So they also have a TV, which seems pretty straight-forward, considering that we live in a culture where the amount of TV's per household usually surpass the amount of humans living in said household. BUT, my husband and I don't have a TV, and only watch movies occasionally on a laptop. We prop it up with some books on our coffee table, move it as close to the couch as possible, and sit very quietly to hear what the characters are saying. No joke. So TV is a bit of a novelty to us. So last night, my in-law's favorite program was on. And yes, they do call it a program. What is it programming us to do? That's what I want to know. We sit in front of a TV and watch programs. Programs. Anyway, apparently American Idol is still on the air. Which I honestly wasn't aware of. Okay, that's not entirely true. The other day in the teacher's lounge at the middle school I've been subbing at, I heard some middle-aged people (I won't say women, because there was a man who seemed pretty interested in the conversation as well) talking about so-and-so from American Idol and I thought, "wow, that show is still on TV and there must be people who still watch it." So last night I became aware that not only are people still watching the "program" but 50-some-million-odd people actually pick up their phones or get on their computers to vote for their idol. And yes, it appears that the producers have dropped the American and are just going with Idol. Which is even more frightening. So now we have a program called Idol that nearly 50-something million Americans are devoting at least an hour and a half of time during their weeks to. Heaven help us all.

Re-Visiting

2011-04-21T08:18:00.001-07:00

A little ridiculous how long it's been since I've written here. I'm back on the Central Coast. But now I'm married. And I keep running into people that I haven't seen in...hmmm...maybe 7 or 8 months. And I tell them I'm married and they don't believe me. And I don't blame them. They didn't even know I was dating anyone. It was pretty quick. Actually, by most people's standards, insanely quick. Got back in touch in early June, engaged in September, and married in November. Moving to Nashville in June. All in a year. Back on the coast for summer to make some money. So you see, it IS quite a shock to those who haven't seen me in months. But to those who have known me for the past 5 years, it can't be too shocking. You see, I've loved my husband ever since we dated 5 years ago when I was just a 19-year-old surf shop girl and he was a 20-year-old sometimes Cuesta student who mostly surfed and played music. It's a really epic story. Maybe I'll tell it here sometime. It begins with a chance meeting in a surf shop and a flight to Phoenix two days later. But for now, some words I wrote at the Kiwanas Club park in Arroyo Grande a few days ago.

Something here strikes a sympathetic chord

In a place that I can't identify

Deeper than heart, stronger than mind

The spirit or the soul, the place where the breath of life

Was breathed into me

The same breath moves here

In the flow of the water, the strength of the trees

The hop and the soar of balancing birds

The peaceful movement, the maker's imprint

Too strong to be masked by the footprint of man

The stuff I'm made of sings the same symphony

Reverberating in this place

The harmony of the reaching trees

Come in, she said, I'll give ya' shelter from the storm...

2010-05-13T15:19:00.000-07:00

What is is about the turbulent ocean that puts my heart at rest? Not to walk beside it or jog beside it, but to sit in front of it, captivated by the expanse. And the men who brave it-who enter in and ride her waves, harnessing the ocean's energy and the wind's energy for sport. But they are not in control-I think they understand that. They do not have a bit and bridle in the ocean's mouth. They do not ride her as if she were a mare, broken by their will. No, they recognize her dominance, her power and control. They ride, they fly, but they also risk. Because she is still unpredictable. The reigns are not in their hands, no, they are not even in the ocean's hands. They are in the hands of the One who commands the ocean herself. The One whom we see evidence of but cannot see.

Coty Hogue

2010-05-08T13:56:00.000-07:00

I walk into the cafe half an hour late with a camera and notebook in hand. There are a few

regulars littered about, a bearded wanderer in the corner, and the smell of espresso, thick and wonderful, which has become synonymous with the smell of home to me. Coty Hogue and her band are set up in the corner, Coty wielding a guitar, Aaron on the 12-string, and Kat on fiddle. I sit down with no expectations, except for a vague anticipation of disappointment, as Coty has been compared to Emmylou Harris, whose boots are, as we all know, very difficult to

fill.

I am first struck by Coty's wafting melodies surrounded by subtle, precise harmonies offered by the other two. Coty's voice is like rolling green hills bathed in sunlight; easy and effortless.

I relax in my chair, knowing that I won't have to strain for her. Kat offers beautiful support on the fiddle, never competing, but simply coming alongside to dance with Coty's sweet alto, then stepping graciously aside as Coty waltzes on. Kat's fiddle extends from her body like an appendage she was born with, feeling the music inside of herself and expressing it with her bow. The room is by no means full, but the acoustic instruments and voices fill the room, and the audience is captivated.

Aaron plays the 12-string with ease, offering harmonies and taking on the lead vocals for a few songs. Coty entreats him to jump on the piano in the corner which, by the way, is missing a few keys and is not entirely in tune. But Aaron's experience and musicianship shows itself immediately as he improvises piano

parts for a few of Coty's cover tunes. The wanderer in the corner, who claims to be from Washington state as well, begins to ask questions between songs. "You know, Pearl Jam is from Washington. Do you happen to be related to any of them?" and then, later, a question aimed at Aaron, "Did you date that blonde that went to the laundromat? You know, the one with the green truck with the shell on it?"

And Aaron smiles slyly, "I don't know. I've dated a few blondes."

Eventually the time between songs gets shorter as the stranger's

questions get longer and less cohesive. Coty switches to banjo,

covers "Jolene," and the band takes a short break.

Between sets, I chat with Aaron, who tells me that the three musicians drove ten hours earlier in the day from Ashland, Oregon in his sedan to get to San Luis for the show. The native Washington-ites are glad to be in California, where the week's been sunny and spring is holding true to her promises. The band plays mostly covers, but a few are Coty's originals, and one is written by Aaron. Coty tells me after the show that she is writing, but often allows her perfectionist nature to get the best of her. I suspect she'll have more time to write when she's finished with her master's in Appalachian traditional music from a university in North Carolina. The three, Coty Hogue, Aaron Guest, and Kat Vula, all met while studying music at Western in Bellingham, Washington. Kat and Aaron are full-time musicians, giving lessons and playing with multiple bands. Coty is devoted to music, and when she sings cover tunes, she interprets them as if they are her own. Her passion for traditional music is apparent in her song choice, and when asked if she'd like to be a big star, she responds, "A mix between Emmylou Harris and Bonnie Raitt is my goal." Well, Coty, I think you're on your way.

After the break, the band plays an instrumental tune that feels like three ribbons moving in the wind, all different colors complimenting one another, bending and twisting side by side. The night ends with Coty and Aaron singing their version of "Jackson," which I think would

have made Johnny Cash and June Carter-Cash proud. The band plays together comfortably, their instruments conversing like old friends, catching up and getting excited, then winding down and sitting contentedly in silence. When the set is over, everyone is satisfied. The night is warm, the audience is left with Coty's strong, confident voice resonating in their heads, and the band is on its way to another show, that is, after a day

at the beach tomorrow.