I'm staying home tonight.
It's New Year's Eve and I want to make sure I'm paying attention at the exact moment that the year changes over. I take this sort of thing seriously, ask any of my friends. I'm the girl who, on the night before her own birthday, lights candles and says little wishes aloud for a good year of growth and learning. So, you can just imagine how I get when it's a brand new year for all of us. Forget about it, full-on arson.
I was just away from home for a full week, in Boston and then New York. Good lord, it was an action-packed week. My sweetheart and I went to spend the holiday with my side of the family in New England. My ten thousand year old hand-me-down minivan chose that particular road trip to retire from duty for good. There we were, stranded on the side of the road outside Kingsport, TN with nothing but a AAA card and a waning morale. Five hours in. We ended up renting one of those straight-to-rental cars that bit the PT Cruiser's rhymes: the Chevy HHR. Nothing short of limited visibility and an awkward amount of room for your crap. Whatever. We crammed the contents of the abandoned van into said vehicle and continued North.
Here's the good news:
1. We now got better gas mileage and had one of those "AUX" hook-ups for the old i-pod. My former ride would maybe play a CD if the weather was between 65 and 82 degrees. Otherwise, you could kiss it's Honda ass. Truth.
2. Both of us arrived to Boston (albeit a full day late) with all of our limbs and a percentage of our wits, however dwindling.
3. Rental cars are always nicer and cleaner than any car I ever seem to own, so that was a plus.
Once in Boston, we had a really nice holiday at my brother's house with his tiny legion of pets. He has two Staffies that just had eight puppies a couple of weeks ago... So, literally Christmas and puppies. Not too shabby. My brother rules, and we hadn't spent this season together in three years, for a collection of reasons, so I'm grateful that we were able to do so this year. Boston, in typical form, went ahead and had a blizzard while we were there, which limited our mobility quite a bit, but, hey. If you've see it once, you're good. The raddest thing I have to report from that chapter of the trip, is the show that I played with my pals and brother. Holy crap, was that great. Back in my days of plotting murders and wearing warpaint, I was in a band called 33 Slade. We all converged at this funky little restaurant/venue called ZuZu in Cambridge, on December 27th, and had a complete and total success story.
My brother Bo, who is my all-time favorite drummer, has been writing music for the past few years. I've heard it in bits and pieces, here and there... But, man, he has gotten GOOD. His project is called Fortune Teller, and features a Classical style guitar player, an electric lead guitarist, an electric bassist and a drummer. Bo sings. At this particular show, Jerry Roe played drums, and was pretty amazing, if I might put my thirty-three cents in. The songs are smart, musical, interesting, and full of twists that you don't expect. Bo's voice is beautiful and honest, and leaves you wanting more. I got to sing harmonies on a couple of songs, which made me a very happy big sister.
I played next, and did a couple songs alone, and then was joined by my family for a handful of songs. Bo played drums, Levi Fuller played bass, Jerry Roe and Dave Walsh took turns on electric guitar, and harmonies were sung by Seth Bodie and my mom, Catherine Huebsch. What a treat. I usually play alone, so to have all of that wonderful energy around me while I sang was a real gift.
Levi played after me, and did a super cool job, with all of his magical pedals and tricks. He's a great songwriter, and presents his song with exactly the right amount of sentiment and technical know-how. I'm a fan, and I'm not just saying that because he's my oldest friend. For real. We all jumped up with him for two of his songs, like you probably figured we might. Bo played drums, Jerry played bass (he's pretty multi-talented, eh?), and I sang along. I also sang on the most recent record, which I will now plug right here: Colossal by Levi Fuller... http://www.levifuller.com/ I highly recommend it; it's excellent.
The mind reels that the evening held even more, but, it did. At the very end, after we all showed our stuff as individual songwriters and singers, Levi, Bo and I got up and played three songs as our old band, and it ROCKED. What a fun, face-melting time. It really made me think about how much I loved to play like that, and need to again very soon. While I am super happy writing and producing my solo stuff, there really is nothing like being part of a proper band of peers. Not to mention, the three of us have that crazy chemistry that made it feel like we'd just played together last week, instead of seven years ago. I know all too well how rare that is, having joined forces with all kinds of folks since those days. Magic is magic. In conclusion, the night was pretty epic. Thanks to everyone who played, helped out, and attended the show. You contributed to one of my favorite nights of being a music-maker so far.
Sadly, that was our last night in B-Town. I had to haul ass to New York the next day (and by "haul ass", I mean drive for six hours in gross snow and sludge and stop fifty times for coffee and bathroom breaks), to play a solo show at Rockwood Music Hall. We literally pulled into town about 35 minutes before I had to be on stage, which had me feeling pretty frantic, I'm not going to lie to you. I'm a stickler for punctuality, and being late for my own show seems impossibly lame. To my shock and awe, New York had actually either:
A. Had more snow fall than Boston, or
B. Done a much worse job of clearing the snow than Boston.
It was mayhem. Driving and parking alike, forget it. But, we got to the show, and I played my songs which always glues me back together, somehow. I had some friends and strangers in attendance and it was lovely to see them all. Thank you to my pals who braved the mountains of snow to hear me sing.
Special thanks to Chad for not only showing up, but wearing his Singer shirt and at least three Swarovski crystal accessories. Positively Divine.
The final frontier of the road trip involved going to Madison Square Garden to see the greatest living performer on Earth: Prince. That's right, I said it. Any disputes can be sent to: Kiss My Butt, Nashville, TN. The man rules all, and still manages to elicit sentimentalism, envy, worship, laughter, tears and booty-shaking from me, with almost every song he plays. I got tickets for my mom and bro for Christmas, so the four of us went together. A great time was had by all, for sure. After that, our brains were officially fried, and we headed back towards Nashville, where we are now, gratefully mellowing out for the weekend.
So, tomorrow is the start of a brand new year. It has big shoes to fill, as this year has been pretty major for me, all around.
I don't know if I've ever really said this aloud to y'all, but I won my first two Grammys this year. Yes I did.
I finished an album that took me three years to make, which will be out on February 22nd. And, I did it without the help of my long-time collaborator, Mario Quintero, which was huge. Moving right along.
I started to work with new people, which I loved and can't wait to do more of.
I got engaged to a wonderful man, which is so lovely and happy-making.
I played shows with some of my favorite people in the world, which will happen in spades next year.
I took some risks, and acted out of bravery more than fear, which is the daily struggle for me.
If I can be accountable to you, and to myself here, I aim to be better, going forward. A better friend, partner, daughter, sister, musician... Better.
We all have our reasons to hold still in life, and they are often valid.
Sometimes being still is safer than flailing around, which is the only kind of movement some of us know.
However, movement is growth, and I'm all for it.
So, tonight, when I sprinkle the fairy dust and ask Freddie Mercury and Divine to guide me gracefully through the next year, I will also ask for the strength to outgrow old patterns, cultivate news ones, and call just call Rick Rubin already,
once and for all.
May you all soar to the heights you dream of.
I'm cheering for you.
Happy New Year.
xoxo, bu
P.S. Here are song lists and photo links:
(Both of my dresses are made from tablecloths and handkerchiefs.)
12.27 (as Buick Audra)
rainbow road
the worst of me
simply said
true story
brilliant mistakes
strong as you think
younger all the time
12.27 (as 33 Slade)
mourning Rush
in lieu of the assembly
shit for friends
http://www.flickr.com/photos/buickaudra/sets/72157625591375703/
12.28
rainbow road
the worst of me
between ocean and sea
brilliant mistakes
true story
brand new lie
younger all the time
http://www.flickr.com/photos/buickaudra/sets/72157625716906232/
Friday, December 31, 2010
Sunday, December 26, 2010
the Boston Blues
I'm writing this from a house in Somerville, MA.
I came up for the holiday and a couple of shows, and have run into some road blocks, both literal and figurative. This place has a way of hurdling me into some grey area in The Past, like almost no other place can.
I'm from Miami originally, but spent a solid dozen years in the Boston area, between the ages of sixteen and twenty-eight. At first, the town provided an interesting new contrast to where I had come from, and I enjoyed all that it had to offer. Where Miami seemed rather isolated in it's geographically extreme placement, Boston was in-the-middle and on-the-way to all sorts of other stuff. Being a life-long music fan and consumer, the Northeast gave me a whole host of options as far as seeing live bands went. As soon as I got out of high school, I jumped right into the scene and participated in it for a long ol' time. As the years went on, some of the cultural realities about this place started to really wear me down, and I eventually left. My path then took me to Brooklyn, and ultimately Nashville, where I currently reside. Yet, here I am.
We went to see The Fighter last night. For those of you who haven't see it, it's a film about a guy from Lowell, MA, whose alcoholic/drug-addicted family keep him in a set of life patterns that prevent his own success and growth, until he finally makes a decision to take care of his own needs and let the rest of them just figure their shit out. The main character is portrayed by Mark Wahlburg, a Boston area native, who had no problem at all playing the part.
The role of his crack-smoking brother is played by Christian Bale, whose commitment to the performance is so terrifying that he'll probably win all manner of statues for it. A crackhead. From Lowell. Sadly, that's not so rare 'round these parts. This state is positively littered with lives that have been affected by addiction. Not only do I know this from my own proximity to it, but my best friend is something of a specialist on the subject, being a long-time needle exchange director in the area. While the disease is all over the world, of course, it seems to have a specifically oppressive presence in Massachusetts. There are the addicts, the families and loved ones, the angry, the hurt, the disappointed, the limited, the limiting, and the ones in denial. It goes on, and I'm among them today, as I have been before. I wish I weren't the kind of person who noticed this sort of thing, but I am, and have always been. It makes me sad, and colors the way I feel in a place.
Part of what freaks me out about this town, is the potential it has always brimmed with, yet never realizes, by my personal standards. You can't throw a stone without hitting an educational institution in Boston and it's surrounding cities. People come here from all over the world to study everything from the arts to the sciences to the business and finance. You name it, they've got a school for it here. Yet, upon graduating from such specialized centers for education, many many people end up just kind of "hanging out" in Boston for what ends up being the rest of their lives. Jobs at bars are procured, and the years begin to slip by. I can walk into several places in Cambridge today and see people that I knew fifteen years ago, who were working right there back then. They might be a brilliant musician, artist or great thinker. Doesn't matter. In Boston, they're a bartender and maybe in some local band. It boggles the mind. I've never understood it, and have spent a good deal of time thinking about whether or not the rampant addiction is related. I may never know. It's none of my business, I suppose. I don't live here anymore. On purpose.
Tomorrow night, I'll get on stage with a couple of people that I haven't played live with in almost seven years. I am very excited about the chance to do so, as I love them as much as I could ever love anyone. They are my old band mates from the 33 Slade chapter of my life, Boey Bertold and Levi Fuller. Levi and I are in town for Christmas, and Bo still lives here. It seemed silly to let the opportunity to play together pass by, as it's pretty rare. We'll be playing solo sets (and joining one another, on and off), and then actually attempting to play some of the songs we wrote and performed as a band, a whole lifetime ago. I've been practicing on my own for it over the past couple of weeks, playing along with select songs from our two albums. What a trip.
I was a different girl back then. I was deeply entrenched in all of the chaos of my twenties, as well as the dull haze of depression that steams off of the Boston streets. I was endlessly pissed off about a long list of things, none of which appeared to have any remedy or solution within sight. Sigh. It's wild to sing those words now. Not that they're bad... I was actually surprised by how much I appreciate them, in hindsight. It's just that they're so heavy. I've never been known for my light, witty writing, and may never be, but I've come a long way in recent years. I've put away the distorted, analog delay pedal Sound of Doom and replaced it with glockenspiel, toy piano and the occasional ukulele. The changes in my music directly reflect the changes in my life. I live in a great little house, with a great little cat, and have limited-to-no contact with folks who may be smoking crack and/or shooting heroin... And you know what? Fine, that's what. There are people with thicker skins and suits of emotional armor that are better equipped to take on the dark blue realities of addiction, harm reduction and general insanity than I am. I am ever-grateful for their work and contribution to humanity, because I'll tell you what: it ain't me, babe.
So, tomorrow night, I'll sing my songs, listen to theirs, and take two shallow steps back down Memory Lane before running back the other direction. I'm so glad we made that music back then. It shows me who I was, and who I don't have to be, in present day. I'm proud of that girl for speaking her truth when that was probably all she knew how to do, but her truths don't have to be my truths anymore. We have the records to let her exist within, so that I can move on and leave her here, in Boston.
It's snowing outside, and I have to go to band practice in the next room. If I'm not back in three hours, call the police... The Nashville police.
Thanks for listening.
xoxo, bu
I came up for the holiday and a couple of shows, and have run into some road blocks, both literal and figurative. This place has a way of hurdling me into some grey area in The Past, like almost no other place can.
I'm from Miami originally, but spent a solid dozen years in the Boston area, between the ages of sixteen and twenty-eight. At first, the town provided an interesting new contrast to where I had come from, and I enjoyed all that it had to offer. Where Miami seemed rather isolated in it's geographically extreme placement, Boston was in-the-middle and on-the-way to all sorts of other stuff. Being a life-long music fan and consumer, the Northeast gave me a whole host of options as far as seeing live bands went. As soon as I got out of high school, I jumped right into the scene and participated in it for a long ol' time. As the years went on, some of the cultural realities about this place started to really wear me down, and I eventually left. My path then took me to Brooklyn, and ultimately Nashville, where I currently reside. Yet, here I am.
We went to see The Fighter last night. For those of you who haven't see it, it's a film about a guy from Lowell, MA, whose alcoholic/drug-addicted family keep him in a set of life patterns that prevent his own success and growth, until he finally makes a decision to take care of his own needs and let the rest of them just figure their shit out. The main character is portrayed by Mark Wahlburg, a Boston area native, who had no problem at all playing the part.
The role of his crack-smoking brother is played by Christian Bale, whose commitment to the performance is so terrifying that he'll probably win all manner of statues for it. A crackhead. From Lowell. Sadly, that's not so rare 'round these parts. This state is positively littered with lives that have been affected by addiction. Not only do I know this from my own proximity to it, but my best friend is something of a specialist on the subject, being a long-time needle exchange director in the area. While the disease is all over the world, of course, it seems to have a specifically oppressive presence in Massachusetts. There are the addicts, the families and loved ones, the angry, the hurt, the disappointed, the limited, the limiting, and the ones in denial. It goes on, and I'm among them today, as I have been before. I wish I weren't the kind of person who noticed this sort of thing, but I am, and have always been. It makes me sad, and colors the way I feel in a place.
Part of what freaks me out about this town, is the potential it has always brimmed with, yet never realizes, by my personal standards. You can't throw a stone without hitting an educational institution in Boston and it's surrounding cities. People come here from all over the world to study everything from the arts to the sciences to the business and finance. You name it, they've got a school for it here. Yet, upon graduating from such specialized centers for education, many many people end up just kind of "hanging out" in Boston for what ends up being the rest of their lives. Jobs at bars are procured, and the years begin to slip by. I can walk into several places in Cambridge today and see people that I knew fifteen years ago, who were working right there back then. They might be a brilliant musician, artist or great thinker. Doesn't matter. In Boston, they're a bartender and maybe in some local band. It boggles the mind. I've never understood it, and have spent a good deal of time thinking about whether or not the rampant addiction is related. I may never know. It's none of my business, I suppose. I don't live here anymore. On purpose.
Tomorrow night, I'll get on stage with a couple of people that I haven't played live with in almost seven years. I am very excited about the chance to do so, as I love them as much as I could ever love anyone. They are my old band mates from the 33 Slade chapter of my life, Boey Bertold and Levi Fuller. Levi and I are in town for Christmas, and Bo still lives here. It seemed silly to let the opportunity to play together pass by, as it's pretty rare. We'll be playing solo sets (and joining one another, on and off), and then actually attempting to play some of the songs we wrote and performed as a band, a whole lifetime ago. I've been practicing on my own for it over the past couple of weeks, playing along with select songs from our two albums. What a trip.
I was a different girl back then. I was deeply entrenched in all of the chaos of my twenties, as well as the dull haze of depression that steams off of the Boston streets. I was endlessly pissed off about a long list of things, none of which appeared to have any remedy or solution within sight. Sigh. It's wild to sing those words now. Not that they're bad... I was actually surprised by how much I appreciate them, in hindsight. It's just that they're so heavy. I've never been known for my light, witty writing, and may never be, but I've come a long way in recent years. I've put away the distorted, analog delay pedal Sound of Doom and replaced it with glockenspiel, toy piano and the occasional ukulele. The changes in my music directly reflect the changes in my life. I live in a great little house, with a great little cat, and have limited-to-no contact with folks who may be smoking crack and/or shooting heroin... And you know what? Fine, that's what. There are people with thicker skins and suits of emotional armor that are better equipped to take on the dark blue realities of addiction, harm reduction and general insanity than I am. I am ever-grateful for their work and contribution to humanity, because I'll tell you what: it ain't me, babe.
So, tomorrow night, I'll sing my songs, listen to theirs, and take two shallow steps back down Memory Lane before running back the other direction. I'm so glad we made that music back then. It shows me who I was, and who I don't have to be, in present day. I'm proud of that girl for speaking her truth when that was probably all she knew how to do, but her truths don't have to be my truths anymore. We have the records to let her exist within, so that I can move on and leave her here, in Boston.
It's snowing outside, and I have to go to band practice in the next room. If I'm not back in three hours, call the police... The Nashville police.
Thanks for listening.
xoxo, bu
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
giant steps
I knew an art teacher when I was sixteen, named Mr. Mulford.
He wasn't really my art teacher, but most of my friends took his classes, so I spent a lot of unaccounted-for time in his room during my Junior year. He was already an older man by the time I met him, somewhere in his sixties, and had an air of knowing about him, like he came from way outside of the world we knew him within. He had pieces in art books that also contained the work of notable artists, like Rauschenberg and Johns. This was very impressive to the likes of us Art Room teens, who had the bare minimum of disdain for our immediate surroundings and soaked up every bit of Different we could get our grubby, acrylic paint-stained hands on.
Mulford took a special interest in me, and was constantly slipping me brochures to art colleges, like Massachusetts College of Art, or Rhode Island School of Design, when my friends weren't looking. I would laugh and take them, and they'd live at the bottom of my bag for the next six months. I didn't understand it. I was a musician. I came from a long line of musicians, and there was nothing more to say about it. Art was a whole other planet, which I admired from afar. He'd call me up to the front of his classroom, with a big, angry voice that was heavily soaked in humor, by saying, "Lady Miss Buick, GIANT STEPS". And he would ask about whether or not I'd looked at the pamphlets about art school.
I didn't go to college right away. I took two years off after high school, to figure it all out. I lived with my brother, and we started a band called 33 Slade with our pal Levi. I started school when I was twenty, at Massachusetts College of Art (aka "Mass Art"). He was right, I did have it in me. How he saw it, I'll never really know. For as musical as I've always been, the visually creative part of me is just as present. If I hadn't gone to art school, I would have become a very different person. Today, I make concept albums, with strong themes in both the music and the accompanying visuals. I'm asked about my work all the time, especially now, with the release of Family Album so close, and I know how to speak about my work... Because I went to art school.
In the immediate reality, I am spending this week working on all of my current projects. The layout for Family Album is in it's final stages of tweaks and microscopic adjustments. I can't wait for you all to see it. My friend Ric Simenson has taken such care with it, you would think that it was his own family in the photos. Absolutely beautiful. We have one more tiny thing to add to the front cover, and some dull things like bar codes and label logos for the back yet, but, we're close.
The website is in formative stages, and I have been hustling to provide all of the relevant content to the very talented woman who is building it. That is no joke, website building. Yikes. It's all I can to do keep up.
Lastly, covered in polka-dots and gum drops: The Video. I just spent a week in New York, and had the great pleasure of meeting up with the Gang of Awesome that I'm working with on that venture. They had some great ideas, I threw my notes in, and we made a plan. We're shooting in Nashville the last weekend in February, at a bunch of locations that are near and dear to my heart. I'm trying to round up as much of The Family as I can, as it's their album. I was just the vehicle. We need to raise some very real money for the project, and will be doing so through the website kickstarter.com, as well as some shows and other creative outlets. I will post it all here as soon as we get the pitch video for the website made. It's in process as I write this, thanks to Jennifer Moore at ByrdBarlage.
So here it is, where the wheels meet the road.
I'm operating from a series of lists that are all part of a larger list, and though it makes me lose my breath and get on my knees once in a while, I really am amazed and grateful. I've been busy for 25 years... But, right now, I'm busy with my own art, and trying to match the pace of the gifted and generous folks who seem to believe in it as much as I do. When it seems bigger than me, or too fast to run alongside, I hear Mulford saying, "GIANT STEPS", and I get it together. He was right back then, and he's right today. I don't know everything about who I am and what I will do. It's unfolding as I go, and I get to learn along the way. It's a wonderful thing.
Thanks for listening.
xo, bu
He wasn't really my art teacher, but most of my friends took his classes, so I spent a lot of unaccounted-for time in his room during my Junior year. He was already an older man by the time I met him, somewhere in his sixties, and had an air of knowing about him, like he came from way outside of the world we knew him within. He had pieces in art books that also contained the work of notable artists, like Rauschenberg and Johns. This was very impressive to the likes of us Art Room teens, who had the bare minimum of disdain for our immediate surroundings and soaked up every bit of Different we could get our grubby, acrylic paint-stained hands on.
Mulford took a special interest in me, and was constantly slipping me brochures to art colleges, like Massachusetts College of Art, or Rhode Island School of Design, when my friends weren't looking. I would laugh and take them, and they'd live at the bottom of my bag for the next six months. I didn't understand it. I was a musician. I came from a long line of musicians, and there was nothing more to say about it. Art was a whole other planet, which I admired from afar. He'd call me up to the front of his classroom, with a big, angry voice that was heavily soaked in humor, by saying, "Lady Miss Buick, GIANT STEPS". And he would ask about whether or not I'd looked at the pamphlets about art school.
I didn't go to college right away. I took two years off after high school, to figure it all out. I lived with my brother, and we started a band called 33 Slade with our pal Levi. I started school when I was twenty, at Massachusetts College of Art (aka "Mass Art"). He was right, I did have it in me. How he saw it, I'll never really know. For as musical as I've always been, the visually creative part of me is just as present. If I hadn't gone to art school, I would have become a very different person. Today, I make concept albums, with strong themes in both the music and the accompanying visuals. I'm asked about my work all the time, especially now, with the release of Family Album so close, and I know how to speak about my work... Because I went to art school.
In the immediate reality, I am spending this week working on all of my current projects. The layout for Family Album is in it's final stages of tweaks and microscopic adjustments. I can't wait for you all to see it. My friend Ric Simenson has taken such care with it, you would think that it was his own family in the photos. Absolutely beautiful. We have one more tiny thing to add to the front cover, and some dull things like bar codes and label logos for the back yet, but, we're close.
The website is in formative stages, and I have been hustling to provide all of the relevant content to the very talented woman who is building it. That is no joke, website building. Yikes. It's all I can to do keep up.
Lastly, covered in polka-dots and gum drops: The Video. I just spent a week in New York, and had the great pleasure of meeting up with the Gang of Awesome that I'm working with on that venture. They had some great ideas, I threw my notes in, and we made a plan. We're shooting in Nashville the last weekend in February, at a bunch of locations that are near and dear to my heart. I'm trying to round up as much of The Family as I can, as it's their album. I was just the vehicle. We need to raise some very real money for the project, and will be doing so through the website kickstarter.com, as well as some shows and other creative outlets. I will post it all here as soon as we get the pitch video for the website made. It's in process as I write this, thanks to Jennifer Moore at ByrdBarlage.
So here it is, where the wheels meet the road.
I'm operating from a series of lists that are all part of a larger list, and though it makes me lose my breath and get on my knees once in a while, I really am amazed and grateful. I've been busy for 25 years... But, right now, I'm busy with my own art, and trying to match the pace of the gifted and generous folks who seem to believe in it as much as I do. When it seems bigger than me, or too fast to run alongside, I hear Mulford saying, "GIANT STEPS", and I get it together. He was right back then, and he's right today. I don't know everything about who I am and what I will do. It's unfolding as I go, and I get to learn along the way. It's a wonderful thing.
Thanks for listening.
xo, bu
Saturday, December 4, 2010
when you can't go back, go forward
When I was a kid, I made a list of favorites.
Favorite bands, singers, dancers, painters, characters, writers, directors, etc. I've been steadily adding to The List my whole life, and have never really edited it. Everything and everyone on The List is untouchable, exempt from flaw, failure and disappointment. It has recently been brought to my attention that this is unreasonable as well as sightly insane.
I went to see a band the other night. I have been into these guys since their first record, which was released about two hundred years ago (to great critical acclaim, of course). They pioneered a certain axe-murdering sound that hasn't been properly executed by anyone else since. Like all good things, the project came to an end some years back, and that was that. We all moved on. A bunch of time passed, and now they're out on the road again, doing their part to spread the Good Word of Rock all across the land. I thought, "Great! What's a hundred years between rock-outs?" It's a hundred years, that's what.
I, like so many other misfits, ran right out and bought two tickets to The Past, with a big grin on my face. I put on my best dark eyeliner and stood in line. I waited and I waited... And out came some grown-ass men, who showed every minute of the century that had gone by. Don't get me wrong, the sound was incredible. If you closed your eyes (which you couldn't, really, for fear that you might be stabbed to death by person with a tattooed face), you could almost pretend it was the Bad Ol' Days. However, when you really got present (and, I got super present, friends), it was a special kind of awful.
There were unlimited sarcasms and resentments oozing off of the stage.
There were mismatched intentions among the players.
There were temper tantrums and childish antics.
Apparently, being able to have financial and creative mobility as a result of one giant moment of success in your career is an immeasurable burden. I wouldn't know, but that's the word on the street.
I felt aged by the end of the night. My expectations caught up with me, and there I was, in an ocean of misdirected angst and anger, bummed out.
I know that this sounds like a total drag, and it is, on some levels. But, it was an educational moment for me. People grow up. Bands get bad. And that's ok. It also made me take a second to promise myself that if I ever do reach that point of notoriety where my lyrics make a dent in the collective psyche of my audience, I will be careful with that. And, I will be grateful. While we don't know what goes on behind closed doors in other people's lives that might make them seem so unfriendly... I can sure as hell keep track of what goes on behind mine.
This is Buick Audra, reporting from Real Life, Today.
xoxo
Favorite bands, singers, dancers, painters, characters, writers, directors, etc. I've been steadily adding to The List my whole life, and have never really edited it. Everything and everyone on The List is untouchable, exempt from flaw, failure and disappointment. It has recently been brought to my attention that this is unreasonable as well as sightly insane.
I went to see a band the other night. I have been into these guys since their first record, which was released about two hundred years ago (to great critical acclaim, of course). They pioneered a certain axe-murdering sound that hasn't been properly executed by anyone else since. Like all good things, the project came to an end some years back, and that was that. We all moved on. A bunch of time passed, and now they're out on the road again, doing their part to spread the Good Word of Rock all across the land. I thought, "Great! What's a hundred years between rock-outs?" It's a hundred years, that's what.
I, like so many other misfits, ran right out and bought two tickets to The Past, with a big grin on my face. I put on my best dark eyeliner and stood in line. I waited and I waited... And out came some grown-ass men, who showed every minute of the century that had gone by. Don't get me wrong, the sound was incredible. If you closed your eyes (which you couldn't, really, for fear that you might be stabbed to death by person with a tattooed face), you could almost pretend it was the Bad Ol' Days. However, when you really got present (and, I got super present, friends), it was a special kind of awful.
There were unlimited sarcasms and resentments oozing off of the stage.
There were mismatched intentions among the players.
There were temper tantrums and childish antics.
Apparently, being able to have financial and creative mobility as a result of one giant moment of success in your career is an immeasurable burden. I wouldn't know, but that's the word on the street.
I felt aged by the end of the night. My expectations caught up with me, and there I was, in an ocean of misdirected angst and anger, bummed out.
I know that this sounds like a total drag, and it is, on some levels. But, it was an educational moment for me. People grow up. Bands get bad. And that's ok. It also made me take a second to promise myself that if I ever do reach that point of notoriety where my lyrics make a dent in the collective psyche of my audience, I will be careful with that. And, I will be grateful. While we don't know what goes on behind closed doors in other people's lives that might make them seem so unfriendly... I can sure as hell keep track of what goes on behind mine.
This is Buick Audra, reporting from Real Life, Today.
xoxo
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