I'll see your apathy, and raise you: purpose

"Whenever I want a quiet night to myself, I book a gig in Nashville."

~David Olney

The above words couldn't be more true, sadly.  I played a show last night at a fairly legendary local dive, The Springwater, and no one came.  Wait - my future mother-in-law and one of my best buds came, but that was it, and since one of them also played the show, he doesn't really count as an audience member per se.  You may be asking yourself, "Why?"... It's because I live in Nashville, Tennessee.

See, in Nashville, everyone is involved with music.  It's no longer the country and bluegrass town that it once was, as it has grown to have presences in every genre by now.  But, there still is a large population of writers working for commercial country cuts, as well as artists just dying to get that one big shot.  Along with them, you have your side men, producers, engineers, sound guys, managers, tour managers, publishers, song-pluggers, executives, venue owners, promoters, publicists, stylists... And, oh: regular old musicians, like me.  Guess who makes the least amount of money?  That's right, us.  Last night was a perfect example of how that works.  I played a show, for which there was a cover, so right there, you know the club made at least a little something.  The sound guy got a flat rate.  The artist who played first was solo, so while he didn't get paid anything for his performance, he also had no overhead other than the gas he used getting there.  The band who played after me were a proper band, so they probably didn't make anything either, but same deal with the overhead.  Me?  I paid my side men, got paid nothing myself, and left in the red.  For what?  I ask myself this every day of my life.

My music isn't sweet.  My music isn't passive and pleasant.  My music doesn't fit a pre-cast mold of palatable, sellable easiness.  My apologies.  I've never been able to find a comfortable seat on that train.  Am I trying to "make it"?  Well, that depends on how you define making it.  Yes, my goal is to be able to not have to work outside of my music in order to pay the many bills I have.  I don't have aspirations of being a huge icon that can't do her own grocery shopping, no.  I can't fathom having a musical director for my band, nor a manager telling me what I have to wear to suit my image. I know who I am, what I look like and how I sound.  I know how I like my rhythm section to sound, and how I don't like a lead guitarist to sound (ever).  In most other cities, these things would be seen as positive aspects.  Around here, I'm a disease.

Half the people I encounter here are so deeply entrenched in their own weird brand of self-pity/self-defeat, they don't even see me standing in front of them.  The rest of the people just assume I'm something else: a girl with long, dirty blonde hair who must be a folk singer.  Wrong.  I've sung a folk tune or two, but it ain't my bag.  I actually sing like I've spent equal amounts of time vocalizing on 'Cameage' by Descendents and 'Can You Stand The Rain?' by New Edition, because I have.  I play bad, dissonant guitar with strings that always ring.  I wish I could be in a band with Paul Westerberg, Chris Stein and Bill Stevenson.  I really do.  But, Nashville wouldn't know any of that because it doesn't care.  Nashville wants to complain about major label gigs with this and that artist.  Nashville wants to hate on anything that threatens its mighty sense of entitlement.  God forbid T-Bone Burnett kidnaps one of Nashville's own to make a record that sounds nothing like what they make in this town.  Scandal!  Nashville's still talkin' about the good old days with Johnny Cash and that whole crew.  Who knows if the next great musical mind is among us... No one's paying attention to anyone else unless everyone else is.  That's the key.

I make music because it saves my life to do so.  It's a coping mechanism, just like any other.  Some people smoke cigarettes; I write songs.  I'm a survivor of all kinds of dark things, some in my past, and some in my present.  The music has seen me through, and given a voice to the feelings that would have otherwise been too heavy to carry around.  The honest work of other artists gave me hope as a kid and young adult, and I pray that mine does the same for others, to some small extent.  Last night, I was reminded of the power that music can have.  I got off stage after performing to the other bands and aforementioned future mother-in-law, and had a feeling of relief mixed with discouragement.  The show had gone well enough musically, but I was saddened by the bad turn-out.  I wasn't two feet off the riser when a woman approached me asking for the lyrics to one of my songs I had just played.  I didn't have them readily available, but told her that all of my lyrics could be found on my website.  Something about her demeanor made me ask more.  I had her clarify which song she connected with.  She said it was the second to last one in my set, which had been 'Northern Star'.  She then volunteered the information that the lyrics had made her think of her brother, and that they had made her cry.  I shared with her that the song had been written about my younger brother, and also makes me cry from time to time.  She then told me that her brother had just passed away.

That is why I get up there.

It's not easy to do any of this, and the older you get, the harder it gets.  But, I have something to say, and a voice to say it with.  If one person hears me and gains something from what I'm sharing, then my job is done.  I wish my peers were there to be a part of that experience, but they're not.  I wish that the support that I show to my friends was reciprocated, but it's not. It's still my job to tell my truths and hope that they connect with the stray hearts out there.

And Nashville, y'all may have had outlaws, but you very obviously never had punk rock.  Your loss.

Thanks for listening,
buick audra

"I looked up one day and saw that it was up to me.  You can only be a victim if you admit defeat."

~Descendents, 'Coolidge'