Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
On politics...
"I could never live permanently in the South again. I loved it when I was a kid, but outside the cities, it's so red you can't see straight." -Maris
"Something about trees makes people Republican." -X
"Something about trees makes people Republican." -X
Saturday, November 3, 2012
On the song...
The way I remember coming into my voice is very different than my families perception.
In my memory, I always sang along to Buddy Holly records on the living room turntable.
Chuck Berry.
Pete Seeger.
Leslie Gore.
My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble.
According to my mother, I never once sang in front of the family.
Ever.
You shy little thing.
I remember long truck drives with my father.
I would softly sing along to the radio country he always played, or "negro spiritual" cassettes.
Hallelujah bang my chains.
He'd correct me on how I pronounced my As, formed my oohs.
That ain't right. That ain't right.
I sucked at piano lessons.
Maybe that's harsh.
I just didn't like having to move my hands that fast.
One time I played Canon in D at a recital, really slow.
Just didn't feel like speeding up.
In seventh grade when I switched schools, I joined choir because there was a cute boy.
I sang every song to him.
He never noticed.
My choir teacher asked me to audition for the small group.
My father had perfect pitch.
I don't.
But I have had mean teachers who forced me to keep belting while I threw up into a bucket.
I could never look them in the eye.
I was afraid of all of them.
In my mind, they were all my mean Aunt who slapped me when nobody was looking.
Get me a lemonade.
Sweeter. Stronger.
You'll never get to heaven if you never reach a high C.
Thank you.
Everybody needs to fear somebody.
The most romantic song I ever wrote was composed the morning after I let a stranger choke me and screw me without a condom.
We never saw each other again.
I took a public bus from the East Village back to Brooklyn, stumbled into my bathroom with my keyboard and hand held audio recorder at 11 a.m., cracked open a Bud Light and wrote and recorded this in one take:
Prom Night on the Moon (take 2)
This is how I remember it anyway.
In my memory, I always sang along to Buddy Holly records on the living room turntable.
Chuck Berry.
Pete Seeger.
Leslie Gore.
My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble.
According to my mother, I never once sang in front of the family.
Ever.
You shy little thing.
I remember long truck drives with my father.
I would softly sing along to the radio country he always played, or "negro spiritual" cassettes.
Hallelujah bang my chains.
He'd correct me on how I pronounced my As, formed my oohs.
That ain't right. That ain't right.
I sucked at piano lessons.
Maybe that's harsh.
I just didn't like having to move my hands that fast.
One time I played Canon in D at a recital, really slow.
Just didn't feel like speeding up.
In seventh grade when I switched schools, I joined choir because there was a cute boy.
I sang every song to him.
He never noticed.
My choir teacher asked me to audition for the small group.
My father had perfect pitch.
I don't.
But I have had mean teachers who forced me to keep belting while I threw up into a bucket.
I could never look them in the eye.
I was afraid of all of them.
In my mind, they were all my mean Aunt who slapped me when nobody was looking.
Get me a lemonade.
Sweeter. Stronger.
You'll never get to heaven if you never reach a high C.
Thank you.
Everybody needs to fear somebody.
The most romantic song I ever wrote was composed the morning after I let a stranger choke me and screw me without a condom.
We never saw each other again.
I took a public bus from the East Village back to Brooklyn, stumbled into my bathroom with my keyboard and hand held audio recorder at 11 a.m., cracked open a Bud Light and wrote and recorded this in one take:
Prom Night on the Moon (take 2)
This is how I remember it anyway.
Monday, October 29, 2012
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