Next in line was Boston. I don't have the energy to get into what I think about that scene up there, but I'll wrap it up with: it ain't for me.
I flirted with L.A. in the early 2000's, and found it to be an odd fit for my needs at the time, but beautiful just the same. Any place that has a beach and boardwalk within driving distance of your home is alright by me.
I spent one dreary year in the bowels of Providence, Rhode Island, the memories of which feel like Purgatory. It's like an even darker, more corrupt version of Boston (which is really saying something, as Boston is where dreams and direction go to die), with the added hilarity of the Italian mafia's presence.
I slid down the coast from there to good ol' New York City, and that place changed my life, as I think it does everyone's who spends a good minute there. You're either going to learn to fend for yourself or not, while living in the Big Apple, and whichever is true ultimately determines how well you do there. I loved it for my four year term. These days, when I return to work or visit it feels like frantic filth, but that's because I changed.
I changed because I moved to Nashville, Tennessee: birthplace to the Grand Ole Opry, lots of songs about whiskey, trains, pain and rain... And a very specific group of people who call this place home. There are the folks that are from here, like my fiance and many of his pals, and there are the transplants like myself. People come here from all over the world to be part of the musical history that is Nashville's legacy, and I'm guilty of being one of them. About six months into living here I realized that I would, in fact, never be part of this town's story, and have been just hanging out ever since, being the weirdo I've always been. I've never had whiskey, and am not terribly fond of those who over-do that purple-making punch. I don't ride trains, nor care about the rain, and my pain isn't very special, far as I can tell. The closest I get to being Country is having written a few songs about loving someone who's doing hard time in jail, on acoustic guitar. Come to think of it, that makes me pretty damn Country, but whatever... Nashville don't care, and I don't care right back. This planet is only one section of the greater universe of music that I love and belong to.
I grew up in the post-hardcore glory years of Jawbox, Fugazi and Lungfish. I skateboarded to a soundtrack of Descendents, Bad Brains and the Red Hot Chili Peppers (before they realized they were from California). I know every single vocal part on New Edtion's 'Can You Stand The Rain', as well as those of the cover by Boyz II Men. I can name all of the musicians and engineers on Rickie Lee Jones' eponymous first album, and tell you where they appear on her later records. There will never be enough to satiate my interest in the magic of music. Never. There is crazy magic here in Music City, but it comes with some other stuff.
Nashville's a great place to live if you want to own a house for not much money, and have the space to create your art within that house. And I do. It's a great place to live if you enjoy well-crafted songs that may potentially feature a dobro and/or mandolin. And I really do. It's a great place to live if you're interested in promoting yourself, drinking too much and trying to write hit songs for other people. And I'm not. So, we're two for three. Not too bad. I do love my home, and I have some wonderful friends both within and outside of the music world... And I dig some of those hit songs ('Fast Cars and Freedom' saves my life every time I hear it, true story). There are rad people here, and there are some total freaks, as is true of anywhere. The freaks here are a bit more unassuming than they are in say, New York. No one is nude in a cowboy hat in the middle of an intersection, nor playing the vibraphone in a neon gorilla costume on the train platform (and we're all the more inferior for that). In Nashville, there are social freakitudes that creep under your skin in otherwise seemingly normal interactions. I'm privy to these behaviors on an almost daily basis when I'm in town, and they never cease to amaze.
For those of you who don't know it, "Bless your heart" is a stab. It's the Southern, sugary way of implying that someone is crazy, pathetic or just generally confusing. In the Northeast, it translates to, "You're so cute." Both of these tend to roll of the tongues of women, and are pretty much one in the same. Where I'm from, we don't have a version of this insult, so it took me a while to really break down this vernacular. In short: beware of being either cute or blessed.
On to the Strange Behavior in Southern Males... Call me a radical feminist, call me what you want, but what is it with men that can only talk about other men? Friends, I'm telling you that down here, it's completely normal for a man to walk up to a woman he knows and ask her about her husband, fiance, brother... The list goes on and on. Now, this in and of itself doesn't sound so bad, but it is when it's the first question asked to said woman. Believe me, I love my future husband a great deal, and am very proud of all that he does... But how about asking a sister how she is first? How is her life so insignificant that it doesn't warrant even the most basic of polite questions? I don't care if her partner is Prince himself; she still matters.
This brings me back to the cultural observations about the places I've lived. Miami has a strong Latin presence, to say the least, and those cultures tend to be matriarchal. (Yes, I'm speaking in generalities, but I have a point.) In the circles that I grew up in and around, you always asked about a person's mother first. It's just what's goes on in a Colombian/Cuban/Puerto Rican (etc) household. Now, from what I see of Nashville, I'm led to believe that the women are secondary, particularly in the world of Serious Musicians. But has it always been this way? I have a really hard time believing that anyone ever walked up to Mother Maybelle and asked her how Ezra was, before asking her how she was on that day. That sounds outright ridiculous, now doesn't it? But, just as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, I'll go into some densely populated part of town this week, and the first thing out of some man's mouth will be, "How's Jerry?"
Jerry's fine, y'all.
I have an album out right now, a dream up my sleeve and something else in the oven. I cut my own bangs and painted my toenails purple last night. I'm writing two books at the same time, as well as three essays. I'm producing my brother's album and demo-ing my own songs for people who are interested in them. I think I finally figured out which settings sound best on my amp for switching back and forth between the clean and overdrive channels. I have a new storm door and a hole in my foot from stepping on a nail the day I got it. You didn't ask, but that's how I am.
I know better than to think there's anything that can be done about it, but it still drives me nuts. You're all part of some mystery Man Community and I'm just here, taking it all in, doing my thing to keep the beat. But, let it be said: One of these days I may just crack and lapse into what I know from my background. If you get to lead with questions that have nothing to do with me, then I get to answer with,
"No se.... Porque mi nombre es Buick Audra."
And that'll be my my way of letting you know: I'm from out of town.
Hasta luego muchachos,
buick audra
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