Monday, October 24, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Friday, January 4, 2008
KD Rouse--10/06-5/07
October 05, 2006
My band, The Sams, has a show on Saturday night at the Garage with a band called Swigtooth. We think we do, but we’re not sure. The Garage is another premier spot in the Winston-Salem music scene---very fun to play.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Every once in awhile I get busy trying to make some headway in the outside world by sending off a spate of entries to whatever I can find.Unfortunately, it always bites me in the derriere, because a few months later I'll get a flurry of rejection letters.I thought I might be recognized as a talented songwriter by the NC Songwriter's Cooperative. I am a North Carolinian, after all, and don't I write a great song?But oh, no. I didn't even get an honorable mention.So much for my geographical ties.I have determined that I won't enter any more contests even if it's a songwriting contest for my own neighborhood.I just can't do it anymore.Maybe I should start buying lottery tickets. I think I have a better chance of winning than in any songwriting contest.Either my songs are not as marketable as people tell me or I continue to piss in the wrong pots.Frankly, I am shaken.My songwriter's journey has been amazing, but sometimes I wish my songs had just let me be.It's like a game of chicken--When do you swerve KD? When?There is still time to invent a new life for myself.Do I swerve?Society has plenty of room for practical people.Could I be an accountant? Or a nurse? Or work in a mortuary, crooning my little tunes to a captive audience? Should I be the order taker sitting in the window at Bojangles? Or clean for all the finest ladies in town?If I wait too long to swerve, I'll be too old for options. I'll be a constant burden to my children in my old age.If I swerve too soon, I will never see the fruits of my vast creative garden, not to mention that I think it will break my spirit. It seems like my life to this point would be rendered ridiculous if I swerve.OK. OK. I know what I have to do.I DON'T have to swerve but I DO have to get a day job.And it doesn't have to be bad.I'll work in a kitchen somewhere in one of our town's artistic hubs while I keep inching forward.If I'm serious about my artistic career I'm going to have to do what it takes and then some.I think my dream is entirely possible even still, but No More Contests, KD!Contests are money- wasting morale-busters.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
We, The Sams, are going to play a set tonight at the Garage after all. I'm really glad. I feel pent up and ready. 10? 11? Not sure, but we're playing.This is the tentative set:eagle has landed intro/ loaded gundirty boysnotchdylan went electricgoodnight elvismy townragebirdgood girlssilver moon heart of the citytiny bits can’t stop loving you
I hope it's crowded. I am really looking forward to it.
November 12, 2006
"Maybe we need another chic in the band," I said last night, as I slump on Sam's sofa doing what I always do after a show: analyzing, comparing and despairing.
It is so much better when I record and can listen back to what we did, but I forgot to hit play on my trusty Sony tape recorder before I left the green room.
We, The Sams, Jammed for Josh at the Garage last night, and it was very fun. The house was packed, the crowd, responsive. I met some cool new people, and saw some old friends. I shouldn't be sitting there bumming myself out with analysis, but I do.
When I'm on stage is when I smell the roses.
Then it's back to my relentless busy-ness, quaffed only slightly by 3 or so Budweisers, and all the things that went right with the show.
Doug and Sam snort. I don't think I've ever used the word "chic" before for one thing, and we'd go 3-piece before we would go more than 4. We have our hands full with the likes of us. I know that.
"The other bands had dancers," I say. "We didn't have dancers."
"That's because we are not a dance band," says Doug patiently, explaining how we'd have to keep our beat virtually the same in every song to have dancers. The way we switch off in moods and tempos discourages the dance.
Sam and Doug assure me I am enough chic for this band.
I tell them how I tried to remember to be friendly, and I smiled, and talked to people even.
Only three people mentioned that I intimidated them.
"Is that a joke or what?" I say, laughing.
Who could be intimidated by me?
Sam and Doug agree that I can be intimidating to outsiders.
This really cheers me up.
After all, they know me warts and all, and must know my intimidation factor is a crazy illusion. However, they are nodding and serious as they tell me it's true.
To me it shows the magic of the stage, and the power of stepping out with conviction. Little Kathy Rouse, suspected at times of being an idiot savant, with the power to intimidate?!
My! How that amuses me.
I didn't sell even one Gypsy Nurse CD. I gave away three and traded another. We gave the Josh that we jammed for a Sams t-shirt. That's the kind of salesperson I am.
Nada.
I'm subscribing to the theory that if I keep doing what I do the finance part will fall into place. Someday, not too long from now I hope, we are going to have a tour bus, and travel around this U.S. of A. and play, play, play.
November 13, 2006
"Oh my God!!!" I cry from Sam's bathroom after the gig."What's the matter?" says Sam with alarm."Did I look deformed on stage?" I ask. Sam and Doug say no, but are curious why I ask."My Bra!" I cry. "It was practically around my neck! It looks like I had 4 boobs!""See," says Sam, laughing. "I told you we don't need another chic in the band!"
November 28, 2006
If I go to the doctor, I will owe one more person money, and not know how I'm going to pay it back. But I'm sinking, and I know it. I don't want to leave my house. I can't stop crying. I don't wish for a long life. I think please God! (If you exist) Please take me! Take me! I can't keep doing this.There is only potential worth in my creations, no matter how many "hits" I've written, no matter what emotions I've translated to paint.I feel like a loser.A joke.I just can't seem to do right.And then I am disgusted. I hate all my whining and complaining. Shut up! Shut up! I cry. No one ever promised you happiness! You live in America with the right to pursue happiness. That's all. It makes you happy to write, and to paint. Remember?Depression is insidious though. It's not about not being grateful. It will pull you under in shades of gray until the dying of the light, and you won't quite realize just how bad it's getting until you are crawling in the pitch black.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
I continue to flounder. I'm giving up my apartment where I've lived for 7+ years and moving in with my son's girlfriend's mother. She is floundering too. I am very sad to go. I don't think I can go back to my new job, no matter how many anti-depressants I have in my system, but I have one more day to figure if I can make myself.I can't help but think of all the people who have it so much worse than I do. I hate my desperation, but knowing it could be so much worse, I try to feel lucky, lucky, lucky. I feel grateful using the roll of toilet paper that my daughter's friend dropped outside my door. I feel grateful for the 6th cup of tea I've managed to squeeze of my teabag, and grateful for my imagination which makes my 7th cup still seem like tea. At least you have hot water! I cry. Quit feeling sorry for yourself.But I don't. I wonder what cursed star I was born under as I gaze at the cold, winter sky.If I knew for sure that our lives were purposeful, I might endure this latest chapter of my life with less distress. I search for the reasons I am knocked to my knees yet again, feeling like I can't win for losing. Still! Again! No matter how diligently I've worked at each phase of my life, it does not translate to even a guarantee of toilet paper, tea bags or a palatable dinner.
So this is my life as an artist. Ha!I hope change comes soon.
December 30, 2006
It is December, 2006. I am leaving this place, 1131 West End Blvd. Apt C, where my children last lived with me, where I buried my dog, where I had my first studio, where I wrote and painted for the past 7 years, where I lived around the corner from Sam. I am not moving far but it is the end of an era.Sam and I cried like babies.
"It's only three miles," Sam said later, "But it's a long three miles."
January, 2007
We played a show as a duo, Sam and I, at Ziggy's Saturday night. We forgot to remind our band(!!) and they couldn't make it. (ouch--not a well oiled machine are we) I do have many plans for 2007, much of it involves following through on opportunities. We've got the pieces to the puzzle, I think. Now I just have to remember what they are long enough to piece them together.
February, 2007
"I like the music, but I'm gonna say what I always say. KD's vocals aren't high enough in the mix," says JC. We are sitting in Sam's living room, and Sam has just played our latest recording for him."I need a mini-trampoline!" I say in reply, wringing my hands.Sam and JC look surprised, and the room seems suddenly quiet.I know I've done it again--made one of my leaps.Sam says, "Okaaay," slowly and with patience, as he gives JC a little sideways glance. "Why do you need a mini-trampoline?""Because my vocals aren't high enough in the mix," I say.
I see I need to elaborate.
"I can't sing loud enough," I say, "So I need more lung power. So I need to start working out. So I need a mini-trampoline so I can run on it, so I can get in better shape, so I can sing better, so I can be higher in the mix.""Your vocals are great," said JC after a moment. "They just need to turn you up."
I don't talk much. It's hard explaining why you went to China to get to New York.
March, 2007
Smash House!It's a place I go when I am ready to jump out of my skin with angst.I smash dishes and shove TV's out the 3rd story window. I knock out walls with a sledge hammer and make firewood out of the chairs with my chainsaw.I sing my ditty: Smash House!It cheers me up every time.
Smash vividly and there is no mess to clean. I use the 'Squish Test' when people puzzle me and I can't figure out from whence they come.
The Squish Test: Grab your enigma and squeeze. Squeeze as hard as you can and then some, until you see what comes out. If it's dust and ashes, the promises are empty. If it is an oily goo, you should probably run.
'About Face!'
This is the name of the game when you have to change your direction.
I worked hard to get my college degree. I did well in school. But when I actually tried to teach: About Face!
I waited tables, a job much more suitable to Gypsy jugglers.
It may look frivolous to the outside world, but I think the 'About Face' is crucial for survival.
March, 2006
I am bolstered up by kind strangers and friends.If you are drowning, people will help you if you let them.I will succeed as I learn to open my heart.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Much water has passed under the bridge while I was internet-less.Opening for Sister Hazel at Ziggy's recently was a redefining event in my performance life. Sam and I were beset by technical difficulties during our set that left me humiliated and shaken. Sam was much more stoic, but he did describe the experience as ‘mortifying.’Sam and Sister Hazel's manager tried to comfort me while I sobbed in the Green Room. “Everyone has a bad gig sometimes,” they said, but I was pretty much inconsolable. I stuffed my faux fur leopard skin cowboy hat in my gig bag so maybe no one would recognize me, and ran up and out as fast as I could go, parting the crowd with the nose of my guitar case until I got to the car where I cried some more. Ziggy's was more packed than I'd ever seen it even having opened for the likes of Eric Johnson and Southern Culture on the Skids with Sam there.The crowd looks like rows of teeth, rows and rows of teeth.
First, we can’t get any sound from Sam’s acoustic, and we didn’t bring a back-up guitar. I had a battery in my gig bag, but Sam’s Taylor was resistant to give up the old battery. As Sam wrangled with it, I was getting more and more nervous. The time for our set was dwindling. I decided to start without him, and immediately had sound troubles of my own.
Sam finally bounded out on stage to rescue me with a new battery in place, but still no sound came out of his guitar. The crowd loved him anyway, his straw cowboy hat with the Samurai sash perched atop his wild silver gray poof, playing his guitar up high into the mike while I try to keep my composure. My mike is feeding back and my guitar starts to squeal.The crowd is a tidal wave of teeth, roaring with expectation and beer. Young blonde girls fill the front row. 'Sister Hazel! Sister Hazel!' they chant.After 4 or 5 songs I give up.Anyway, I am still shaken from the experience. I haven't felt very inclined to go back on stage. Why do I want to do this? I ask Sam.”Because you love it?” he says.Do I? I ask, truly wondering.
Sure, I have loved the stage at times in the past, but now I'm not so sure.
That last show might have done it for me.So now I'm a little confused. What is it that I want exactly?I've learned to be careful in such matters.'Getting what you want' can bite you where it hurts.
Later Sam shows me a video of our show. “See?” he says. “It wasn’t that bad.”
I wish I could have seen the humor in it at the time.
Instead I called for a band break.
I just wanted to paint and try to figure if performance was even for me.
“I just don’t feel musical right now,” I said to Sam, standing in his living room.
I was surprised how well he took it when we decided to postpone our next band practice for 3 weeks, possibly a month.
I thought he took it well, but then on May 5th, 2007, Sam put a bullet through his head.
Sam is dead.
Hip and Broke---Before Sam's Demise
Based on more than a year of entries from her blog, ‘Hip and Broke: A Songwriter’s Journey’ is a candid look into the life of unknown songwriter KD Rouse. In short, often humorous essays, KD shares tales on a variety of entertaining subjects about her band, The Sams, the obstacles she faces as an artist, and her roller coaster ride relationship with band-mate, guitarist Sam Moss. Also included are song lyrics to KD original songs, photos, and even tips on ‘How to Be Prolific.’ Playfully calling herself a “strange, but diligent woman of many faces,” KD welcomes you into her tumultuous soul with ‘Hip and Broke.’
c.2006 by Katherine Dashiell Rouse
All stories, songs & graphics by KD Rouse
Photos by KD Rouse, Sam Moss, Romulus Ray, & Friends
Contact me at Kdrouse@gmail.com
Hip and Broke CONTENTS
Roller Derby Queen/ Me Sam and Dreaming Big/ Not All Glam/Songwriter’s Heaven or Hell/ Famine or Feast/ Songs Fly Free/I’m Not in Your Boot Camp!/ The Stuff Dues Are Made Of/My Town/ To Do or Not To Do Covers/ Telecaster Spankings/ My Biggest Surprise/ Where’s Sam?/ Painting in the Bamboo Forest/This is Called Crazy/ This is Guitar Girl/ Here to There/ Dylan Went Electric/ Blondie/ Electro Magnetic Radiation Recorders/ Climbing A Glass Mountain/ Hello Vicar!/ Flying in Formation/ Flowers and a Watermelon/ The Birds Love It Too/Black Sheep/ Telescopes and Microscopes/Devil’s Work/ Famous But Nobody Knows It Yet/Friends/Recording on the Cheap/ Ready? Action!/ Vaulting Freedom/A Guitar Will Learn Ya/ Guitars Have Personalities/ My Reverie Snaps/Someone Wants To Write About Us/My Favorite Cat/Bird/Kicking Your Mentor to the Curb/I Still Love You Estelle/Sam’s New Love//Song’s Will Haunt You/ World’s Colliding/ Smash House/ Why?/ Surrender/ Oh Brother/ Unfinished Symphony/Can I Be In Your Band?/ Rainbow and Dido/Pop Punk Princess/Sunny Skies/Our Quest For a Band Photo/Through Any Dog Day/Come Back to Jupiter/Music For Films and TV/Good Things Are Happening I Guess/Best of My Love/The Sams Against a Wall/I Love My Guitar/Songs Fly In/Land of 2nd Chances/The Forest Was Beaming/ Come in 2006. I’m Ready/Mary Gilmore/Musical Ignorance Can Be Bliss/Why I Started Writing Songs/ My Town AKA Smoke City/ Smoke City/A Band Is Like a Marriage, but.../The Sams are Written About/Another Fun Guitar/I Said It Before/ Here to There is Not a Straight Line/ I’m Not Sure How It Went/Hurricane/The Globe Controversy/ Ouch! She’s Much Too Reserved/My Stoop, The Birds, and Deadman’s Curve, Never Mind Doing It Right/ Perchance to Dream/Bozo and Ranger Hal/Tiny Bits/Where Songwriting Has Led Me/ Listening Vs. Playing Music/Come With Me To Tripoly/ Pipe Down Pipers/Don’t Let Them Grow up to Be Musicians/Are They or Aren’t They?/Inspiring Like Underdog/A Mad Scientist Lurks/Donnie and Marie/Sammy and KD/ Posed and Ready/ Songs are Like Birds/ Summer on Trade/ Silver Moon/ Guitar Angel/ Back to The Studio In Tears/Give Me Money, Please/I’m Ready, Sort Of/ Recording Vs. Live Performance/ Sail Away/I’m Not Speaking to Sam/ Who Are You Trying To Kid, KD?/ Schmucks with Dreams/ I Am an Artist, Aren’t I?/ Sam and I are Speaking Again/Shysters at Every Level/Copyrighting in Collections is Cheaper/ The Almighty Merch/ Touring Logistics: Can It Be Done?/ Maybe. Time Will Tell/ Sam Proposes/ Schmuck/ Man Can Sam Scam /Heart of Stone/ Something to Write About/The Perils of Working In the Library/ Pillars, Swords, and Water Hoses/St. John’s Payday/Nixon Was Stoned. We Were Blue /If You Want to Be Prolific/Sam Forgets My Birthday/ The Band Cook Out/ Toaster Loves the Ladies/Our Cook Out Continues/ Where’s the Bass Amp?/ Loaded Gun/ Cry Baby, Cry/ My First Band Experience/ Things In Their Proper Time/ No Logic In Love/ My Babies Are Grown/ Big Wide World/ Trucking and Puppies/ Jump in the River/ Coaxing Sam to the New Age/I’m Soooo Glad You’re Not Retarded/ Musician’s Zoning/West End Nazis/After the Fire/You Add the Stink!/Ha ha! I Just Got Carded/ Maury Povitch Wanted Me/ Fitness Nut and Social Creature/ What To Do with Broken Glass/Smashing Glasses/Life Lesson/ Fairy Tales are Not Just For Kids/ The Baddest Girl/ There’s a Rat in My House/ Ode to Charles Green/ You are Not Alone/Eyes, Nose, Mouth/ If Wishes Were Bottles/ The Mirror/ Start With What You’ve Got/Loving the Library/Don’t Let It Happen To Me, Sam/Jaws of Justice/Of Course, You Silly Young People!/ The Mind is a Difficult Thing to Change/A Blurb in NC Music History/Whines and Complaints/Pity Party Over For Now/I Love Stuart Smalley/That’s How It Goes/My Ragged Edges/You Can’t Go Home Again/They Must Love Us A Lot!/Call Me a Monk/Songwriter’s at Rub’s Smokehouse/Sam Makes Us Stay/Stories are Swirling/ Not A Well Oiled Machine Are We/We Need a Manager/ Living Is Tricky Business/ Oh, But Wait/ Better Fields/Address & Adieu
Roller Derby Queen
As a child I revered Albert Schweitzer, Florence Nightingale, and Jesus. I practiced patience all my life. I don't know why I am as explosive now as a roller derby queen. I admire people who mellow with age, but it is not happening to me. My friend and band mate, Sam, laughs and says he should have never handed me an electric guitar.
If you are like most people, you will probably scoff at my aspirations. All I want is to rule the world---in a musical sense, that is. Right now I write the songs that no one has heard, but I’m hoping that will change.
Me, Sam, and Dreaming Big
Sam and I are musical partners. We play in a band together and we also play out as a duo. He is an amazing guitarist, and quite a character! We clash vigorously at times, but we are both so consumed by our vision that we've managed to play together even when we weren't speaking to each other.
Last night we started working on one of my musicals called The Saga of Gypsy Nurse. We stood on two ends of Sam's hallway with a tape recorder in the middle. Sam played electric guitar while I told the story.
It takes a lot of work to get something from the songwriter's pen to the audience's ears. One of my dreams is to hear my songs on the radio. I can hear it as if in a dream. Reality starts with a dream. Why not dream big?
I’m Not in Your Boot Camp!
I am not speaking to Sam again. It must be amazing to have a head that big. I said 'I'm not in your boot camp any more. If anything, you should be in mine!' We are in a band together. It was my big idea to call it The Sams, only because I admire his arrogance in a rock and roll sense. Up close? I won't tolerate it any more. I don't care how well he plays guitar. I can play guitar too, more than enough for a singer/songwriter.
Telecaster Spankings
I have band practice tonight and I haven't spoken to Sam for 3 days. The last time this happened, it ended in a brawl, or should I say sprawl? Sam was sprawled on the band room floor with a look of sheer surprise on his face in an incident he now calls the "Telecaster Spanking." I used to be such a peaceful sort.
Where’s Sam?
Sam didn't show up for practice and it was at his house. I finally called him on Friday and asked "Do we still have a band?" He acted surprised I had to ask. I had a lot of time to think driving up to my sister's for Thanksgiving. (And driving back)I love playing with a band. It is a thrill to learn to play full tilt with three other musicians, and to create a sound together. Sam is perfect in this setting. I think he’s fired for everything else.
Blondie
One of my guitars is named Blondie. Sam gave me Blondie about a year ago. He said I had made it my guitar just by playing it so much and he was making it official. He says we have some serious Mojo together
Electromagnetic Radiation Recorders
Here I am at Doug William's studio, Electromagnetic Radiation Recorders, in little old Winston-Salem, NC, between vocal tracks.
Doug is our bass player, and is recording our album too. He's the cool head of the bunch. He has the secret power in the band because he is the only one we will all listen to.
Dave is our drummer. He's very funny and good natured. Unlike Sam, he doesn't approve of Telecaster Spankings.
Sam? Well, he’s the one with a power tool in one hand and an electric guitar in the other.
There is never a dull moment with Sam around.....
Climbing A Glass Mountain
I see how you can spend your life recording and not release a thing. I know it looks like that is the case for me, but my first album is coming out in 2007, period. I've done a lot of recording in the past 10 years, but I’ve never released anything. There are so many components to making a great album. Your work is only starting in the recording studio. After that, there is the editing, the mixing, the mastering, the duplication, the presentation, the publication and the distribution to think about, not to mention the time, energy, and cold, hard cash. I feel like I’ve been climbing a glass mountain when it comes to getting the whole pretty package together.
Hello Vicar!
. Sam and I like Hello Vicar as our upcoming album title. Doug is not so sure. He thinks Tiny Bits might be better. Tiny Bits is a song off the album. Hello Vicar is just something Sam and I think is hilarious. Sam's Daddy was a very respected Methodist preacher. 'Hello Vicar' is said with surprise, like you've been caught in the act of something either scandalous or dangerous.
Flying in Formation
I am very intrigued with the journey a song takes after I bring it to the band. The better I get at playing with them, the more I realize how amazing they are. I throw all kinds of curve balls at them that I didn't even realize were curve balls. They call it "flying in formation" "Just follow her," says Sam, and laughs. Apparently I do all kinds of crazy things.
Vaulting Freedom
I never expected to play in a band. Perhaps that is why it pleases me so. As a songwriter, I have almost instant gratification. I can write a song and hear it with full accompaniment in the same day. As much of a kick as that is, my favorite part of being with The Sams is, for me, from an unexpected corner. My favorite part is learning how "to jam" with the big boys. There's big freedom in the jam. Vaulting freedom.
A Guitar Will Learn Ya
We shiver in the band room in Sam's basement, not even looking at each other, but to me it feels like we're dancing full-tilt through a field of stars. All you have to do is be fearless, and learn how to jump in and out, and switch directions without apology.
Is that not life itself or what? I think people have a notion that you "learn" guitar. From my experience, it is the other way around.
Can I Be in Your Band?
The Unfinished Symphony came about when I started playing with Drummer Troy Pierce, and (stand-up) bassist Randall Johnson in a band we called KD Rouse and the Dirty Boys. Sam saw us play at Ziggys and asked to join the band. He used to remind me of this in his Sgt. Carter pep-talks. To him, it is a big deal because he has only asked to join a band once and he's been in quite a few bands. Sam looked pretty beat up in those days. His wife, Dido, had a grueling bout with breast cancer and then died.
Rainbow and Dido
I worked with Dido at one of the local hot spots, Rainbow. It was a restaurant, coffee shop, bookshop, and a news-stand in an old house. Everybody went to Rainbow. I still remember when Dido told us she thought she had breast cancer. A group of us waitresses were sitting on the fence outside, smoking in the sunshine, when she told us she had a doctor's appt. to check out a lump, and she felt like she knew what they'd say. We scoffed that it would be the worst case scenario, and she just shook her head.
Everybody loved Dido. She was quirky and fun. She loved killer brownies, owned a Theremin, and would wait tables in a big furry Russian hat. I met Sam because of Dido. She urged me to take some of my songs to him to hear. I went to his guitar shop and gave him two cassettes in a brown paper bag. He still laughs at my presentation, and still tells people he was surprised to hear some of the best songs he's ever heard in that lunch bag.
We all met at Salem Graveyard when Dido died and everybody told funny Dido stories. Her closest friends wore bright colored clothes, and flowers, and danced.
Our Quest For a Band Photo
We have a band shoot this afternoon. It is overcast, but we have to get something! We, The Sams, are going to be part of a feature article about 5 Bands to Watch, and we, The Sams, are holding up the presses. We have to get a photo today or else! We are planning to meet at Sam's house, then walk across the street to Dorminy Studios, Winston-Salem, NC. I love the view from the back of Dorminy. We are going to wear black, let our instruments be the color, and try to get to the balcony for the photos. Sam's dentist owns the building so I doubt we'll get arrested. Romulus Ray, known as Rom, is our photographer. Oh, if you knew what a motley crew we make, you'd be as nervous as I am about the success of this photo shoot.
My Town AKA Smoke City
A songwriter doesn't always know what songs people will like. Sam says the song Smoke City is the one he is asked about the most when he's out and about in Winston-Salem, NC. Dave, our drummer in The Sams, says it is his current favorite. I would have not guessed this to be a favorite. Maybe it's a local phenomenon here in Winston-Salem, NC aka 'Smoke City'.
Smoke City KDR
It's late at night and I can't sleep
I wonder what went wrong
It's hard to believe that you're not here beside me
The nights are much too long
I've got those Smoke City/ Smoke City Got those Smoke City Blues
Another day/Another couple dollars
Never enough to go around
Every where I look are the cold reminders
Of this freedom I have found
I've got those Smoke City/ Smoke CityGot those Smoke City Blues
If you should find yourself in Smoke City
Say a prayer for me
If I'm still living in Smoke City
We'll toast our history
I've got those Smoke City/ Smoke CityGot those Smoke City Blues
The Globe Controversy
Sam and I thought our photo in a globe was really cool. But then Doug, the bass player, saw it and sent me this e-mail: " I can't begin to tell you what a violent reaction I have to that picture. I hate the stop sign and the rest of the cluttered background. We all look like fat old circus freaks. Looks like my eyes are closed. I hate the globe filter. Any of those 'auto-effect filters' just look cheap and cheesy to me, and also will to a lot of our audience. .." So I guess its out as an "Official Sams T-Shirt."
Cheap Trick, Buck Rogers and Liberace
Sam laughs when we look at band photos. "Look, KD," he says proudly, "You and I are just a couple of punks." He says our band personality is a lot like Cheap Trick because there are two distinct camps within the band. For one thing, Sam and I have a fondness for cheese. "They want Buck Rogers?" says Sam in his brilliant blue kimono, "We'll give them Buck Rogers!" And like I said, even though I haven't figured out how to unleash my Liberace/Gypsy Rose Lee yet, doesn't mean I won’t.
Are They or Aren’t They
Sam and I are musical partners. We've been in and out of romance. We've been on many stages together. We play by intuition more than anything else. We've decided not to fight "it" and just play.
Donnie and Marie, Sammy and KD
In our way, Sam and I are like Donny and Marie. I'm a little bit country. Sam's a little bit(ha!) rock 'n roll. But I rock too, and Sam is much more sentimental than I am. Whatever it is, we've got the "Hoo-ha", as Sam would say. We have a show tonight at College Hill in Greensboro. I have butterflies, but that's ok. I used to get so nervous before shows, I would cry.
Poised and Ready
We kick off the outdoor concert series here called Summer on Trade. The Sams are poised and ready. We've had a breakthrough in our sound---something difficult to do. The first ingredient in developing " a sound" is for a band to stay together long enough for this to happen. This is difficult.
The Sams Unleashing Out of Town
I've had a great time on stage lately. The Sams, played at College Hill Sundries in Greensboro last week and the audience response was wonderful. It is easier to shine with eager strangers than it is in my own town, Winston-Salem, NC. Tiny stages in tiny places where you know all the patrons is much too small for me. I can't unleash. I can't fly as high unless we play outdoors.
Summer on Trade
Playing Summer on Trade was very fun for me, despite all the sound glitches, and near fiascos. The first exciting thing was that it did not rain. The second exciting thing is driving on 6th Street and seeing the stage we are going to be playing on, loom larger and larger under the street light on Trade Street. It is a thrill.
When we get closer, Sam starts cursing under his breath. Showtime is slightly more than an hour away and the sound system isn't even up. A group of handsome harried boys in blue shirts are scratching their heads and scurrying around hooking things up. Where it really went bad is when they almost killed the band with a sudden screech.. Sam was the one who couldn't cover his ears. Besides Sam being angry, and his ears bleeding, the show went great.
Back to the Studio (in Tears)
We have gone back into the studio (My band, The Sams) Recording is a unique challenge. On the 3rd day, Doug was at the controls wondering where everybody was, I was sitting in the alley crying, Dave was speeding to Cook-Out for some burger and fries, and Sam was racing to the liquor store for some Jack Daniels. After I cried, I had to laugh. We finally loosened up and tightened up and got some great tracks
I’m Not Speaking to Sam
Sam and I hadn't spoken to each other in a week when we had our last show. We didn't talk on stage either, but all the anger disappears when we play music. Now we haven't spoken in two weeks.
Sam and I Are Speaking Again
Sam grins at me and says “I’m a tenacious S.O.B., aren’t I?”
Sam Forgets My Birthday
Sam is very mindful of dates, which is why it surprised me so much that he forgot my birthday this year. He wished me Happy Mother's Day repeatedly, however, until I finally said: "I am not your mother!" He never would admit he forgot, claiming instead that he thought it might be a touchy subject for a woman my age.
Meanwhile, Sam has called for tributes, toasts, and moments of silence for Duane Allman's fatal motorcycle ride, the Beatles first appearance on Ed Sullivan, the assassinations of Kennedy and John Lennon, the moon walk, the Rolling Stones first tour, Les Paul's birthday, the first time he saw Jeff Beck, when he shook hands with Jimi Hendrix, and a host of other red-letter days.
It is safe to say he is our band historian.
He still won’t admit he forgot.
Sam’s Band Cookout
Sam decided to throw a cook-out yesterday for our band's 3rd anniversary of our first gig. Sam kept reminding us it was coming up, but our drummer forgot---We don't call him 'Toaster' for nothing. I said I would be there at 6pm, right after I picked up my meds from Walgreens. I put off this month's purchase again, hoping my busy-ness and good attitude would save me from paying another $80. for 30 days of options and the ability to smile. But it was closer to 7pm when Sam called and woke me from a troubled sleep. Everybody else was there for the cook-out, even Toaster!
It reminds me of a Chinese Fire Drill when The Sams convene and commence. Doug (and Woodie when she's there) is the calm, bemused driver, while Sam, Toaster and I whirl, and scramble in and out of the car.
It is too hot to cook out, says Sam. KFC or Bojangles?
What are we celebrating again? I say, trying to get my eyes to focus.
We have to have a Project Runway night, says Toaster. That would be awesome!
Doug and Woodie have brought imported beer, risotto, appetizers, and mouth-watering home-made chocolate chip/coffee bean cookies to the cookout. They exchange glances as Sam, Dave 'Toaster' Seward, and I spill out the front door.
Sam says we can go together, but I point out that Bojangles and Walgreens are in opposite directions.
Toaster Loves the Ladies
Toaster hit on, and was a hit with the ladies of Bojangles, and of Pig Pickin's where Sam stopped to pick up some fried chicken livers, and hush puppies to add to the feast. Sam said the drive-through Bojangles woman did a good job of trashing fast food. "Maybe she works for the competition, " he says. "She'd be a lot more at home at California Buffet, if you know what I mean," making his eyes wide and vacant.
We know exactly what he means. We approach California Buffet like children creeping up to a haunted house in a graveyard under a full moon on a dare. The building itself is entirely new, but the staff works for free, and are entirely, spookily nice. If you admit it is your first time being there, you get a kindly, knowing nod, and they lead you away to introduce you to their University of Inner Light or some such. You only ever go once unless you are trying to scare the uninitiated.
I was as nervous there as I was at the revival I attended in the name of good mother/daughter relations at First Assembly, a church with a sanctuary the size of a football stadium.
Our Band Cookout Continues
Dave Toaster Seward wanted coffee after dinner.
Doug needed a computer that worked.
I needed my meds to kick in.
Sam said he wanted time to digest.
I think Woodie had just had enough fun a la the Sams.
Where’s the Bass Amp?
I was downstairs in the band room when Doug and Dave returned with coffee. “Doug! Where's your bass amp?” I call. Doug and Sam groan, and start cursing. Sam starts tracking down Kent. He's not at the end of his phone. He's not at his house. Bingo! Sam finds him at Rubber Soul. Kent will have the bass amp here in 20 minutes.
We practice despite a bit more ado, then wrap up the evenings festivities by watching our first show. I can't believe it, I say, clutching my stomach. I thought it was so good at the time. I'm so timid, so careful. I see Kathy when I thought I'd see KD!
“But look at the blood on your guitar!” says Doug.
“That’s true,” I say, nodding slowly, looking at my blood splattered pick guard that Sam keeps on display in his living room. “I guess I have learned how to unleash a little bit.”
“We've come a long way,” says Sam, smiling at me.
“What's today’s date?” I ask from the fog of dinner plus meds- kicking-in.
“July 18th,” says Sam. “The 3rd anniversary of our first gig ”
“July 18th,” I repeat. “The 3rd anniversary of our first gig.”
I am lost in the sped-up memories of our past three years together. “Wow. Wow,” I finally say. “Okay. I guess we have come a long way.”
We laugh, and hug and give each other high 5's. It was one of those priceless band moments.
“I told you so,” says Sam.
Coaxing Sam to the New Age
Sam Moss, my indefinable friend, and band-mate, has not joined the computer age. I told him I was trashing him on a regular basis in my web log in the hopes that he would at least learn how to check his email. He was only slightly taken aback. After a moment, he said it was ok about being trashed on the internet, just so long as it was true. I laughed and said I promised no such thing!
"It's the truth according to KD!" I cried, laughing, and karate-chopping the space between us with great vigor. That got his attention, but he still hasn't approached the computer.
You Add the Stink!
No matter how neatly I think I'm wrapping my guitar cords, when I pull them out of my gig bag, they are tangled in a snarly mess. 'This is your brain,' says the voice-over, zooming in on the tidy cord going in, and 'This is your brain with KD', zooming closer to a cord that now looks like it was wound by a techno spider with a passion for fission. I am very good at bringing chaos to an otherwise orderly situation...and I don't even try!
If you travel in the right circles, this is a gift. Apparently, it is a desirable thing to have an unpredictable someone in a band to shake things up, or "to add some stink," as Sam would say. One of the things my band has done is to encourage me to be entirely comfortable with them doing anything I feel like doing. I feel like the giant baby in Honey, We Blew Up the Kids, laughing, throwing cars, and smashing buildings, while my band-mates grin and cheer me on.
Sam has been very patient with me explaining why it's a good thing I'm unpredictable, and don't play by 'the rules.'
"Look," he says, "If we didn't have you in the mix, we'd be the effing Eagles! Don't get me wrong," he says. "They're great cats, but we don't want to be them. We," he says looking at me, "We like the stink, and that's where you come in."
"The stink?"
"Oh yeah, " says Sam, waving his hand in front of his nose. "Sheeeeww-eee! It's perfect."
There’s a Rat In My House!
I called Sam at 4AM last week in a panic. "Sam! I think there is another rat in my house!"
"I'll be right there!" he cried. My daughter's 12 lb. miniature pinschers were on the hunt, the same way they were when a rat chewed its way out of the dryer vent and into my house the week before, the way they did before they quickly dispatched of it, with one wailing death squeak from the rat. Sam arrived while the pups were hot on the chase, swiftly and silently circling the basement, circling, and searching. "I didn't think anything scared you!" chuckles Sam.
"It's a rat, Sam!" I cry. "In my house!" Sam starts pumping up his pellet gun. "What are you doing?" I cry. "You'll shoot the puppies!" Sam keeps pumping.
"Darn," he says. "I forgot to bring the pellets." The puppies drive the rat into a corner. Sam is the first to see it, and blasts it with his pepper spray.
"What are you doing?" I cry, as the rat runs across the floor. "You'll poison the pups!"
"Dogs like spicy food," says Sam. "It won't hurt them." He lifts up the dryer. The dogs dive under and we hear the rat squeal."Get 'em!" cries Sam. "Kill! Kill!" Moments later, they have the rat trapped in the doorway. "Kill! Kill!" cries Sam. With one last agonized squeak, it is all over for the rat.
"Ok!" I say. "I'm outta here!" and I dash up the stairs.
"This is one biiiiggggg rat," calls Sam, a moment later. "What should I do with it?" He is holding it by the tail, whistling under his breath. "Throw it outside!" I say, and he starts climbing the stairs. ”No! No! Not up here!" I cry. "Downstairs! Downstairs!" Sam arrives upstairs with the same satisfied glow as the pups. I am still shuddering, as I wipe the dogs' mouths with soap and water. "That was fun," says Sam. "Do you think there's any more?" I promised to call if there were. Mini pins may look like perpetual puppies, and they are as sweet as can be, but now I know why they love squeaky toys. They sound remarkably like dying rats.
Ode to Charles Greene
Winston-Salem is reeling from the loss of one of our finest musicians: Charles Greene. was the one you could count on. He's the one of us who could play in Winston every night, and still draw a crowd. He's the one that the musicians would say 'Oh, cool. Charles is playing. Let's go poke our heads in.' Sam is taking it especially hard. "I've known that Cat all my life," he says, the tears streaming down his face. All I can do is nod, remembering all the times Sam packed up some beaut of a guitar to take to the top of the hill to show Charles, all the times we went to his shows just to say 'hey!', all the years that he brought us together, young and old, rich and poor, black and white, through the power of music. And now he's gone. We simply can't believe it. He was only a few years older than Sam.
“Sam,” I say suddenly, “I am really glad you are alive.”
“Thank-you,” says Sam. “I'm glad you're alive too.”
Don’t Let It Happen To Me, Sam
Tributes and gatherings in the name of Charles Greene occurred all over Winston-Salem yesterday. I went with Sam to his funeral at the Green Street United Methodist Church in the AM. It was a church much more to my liking than the churches I've left behind, warmer, more musical, with more of a sense of humor. They even clap in their church, something Episcopalians just don't do.
The Green Street United Methodist Church was packed, and looked like a Hallmark Poster Child for Better Living through Love: the strong, almost cheerful, black women dressed from hat to pumps in sparkling white, celebrating Charles' 'homecoming', seated alongside tearful white boys with dreadlocks and tattoos. Stoic men, white and black, brushing the single tears that escape down their faces, ladies dabbing their eyes, some looking like they just heard the best news yet, and others, not so much.
Sam is sitting there in his Sunday best: a bright, orange dashiki while I am dressed in black except for my leopard skin cowboy hat. "Leave it to Charles," I hear a man chuckle behind me. We are in the balcony, overlooking the proceedings. We can see Charles' casket, the band, the row of Reverends. We clap after the first soloist is through, a hefty, well-intentioned, white woman who gazes heavenward, beaming while she warbles into the microphone, which is set entirely too loud. She is so fervent, and joyous, and she is wearing sparkly, black, rock 'n roll gloves---I forgive her for being off key.
Even her gloves couldn't save her rendition of Curtis Mayfield's 'People Get Ready.' She is singing with extra gusto, and the amp is feeding back. I forgive her again, because it is church after all, and maybe she is a really close friend of Charles. And she has some nerve too, which we admire in rock 'n roll, along with 'stink.'
"I guess she meant well," I say with a sniff. "But don't let it happen to me, Sam, ok? If I go first? Just turn down the mike and keep them to one song if I have 'a lady in the black gloves' 'celebrating my homecoming.'"
"Done. Ditto," says Sam. "Now let's not think about this for awhile, ok?
"Done. Ditto," I say.
Songwriters at Rub’s Smokehouse
If it were up to me, I think I would have slunk away quietly, but Sam says 'Look, we drove all the way here. It's a beautiful Sunday afternoon, the weather is perfect. We're going to sit here and enjoy it. That's what people do on Sunday afternoons! Besides that BBQ smells dee-lic-ious!'
We are somewhere very near Raleigh, in Morristown, NC, at Rubs Smokehouse, at a picnic held by the NC Songwriters Cooperative. It is beautiful. We are at a picnic table under a shade tree. There is a lily pond beside us, a pear tree heavy with plump, picture perfect pears beyond, and beyond that a perfect vista of children playing in a field-sized expanse of grass carpet. In front of us is a little stage, the sound engineer tucked in a grove of trees to one side, the BBQ guys to the other. Songwriters with guitars dot the landscape.
Sam Makes Us Stay
I'm feeling awkward, and I'm so glad Sam said we should leave our guitars in the car for the time being. The open mike is filled up except for the last two slots after the meeting, at nearly 6pm, and it is only 2pm. It's pretty, sure, but I'm not sure I'll last. I can play for a thousand people, no problem, but I almost always want to run when the emphasis is on talking to people.
My son and his fiancé joined us by the lily pond, and we laughed and talked, and listened, and critiqued, and met people, and exchanged email addresses, and participated in the meeting with our group leader, Pete Leary, who is surely a leprechaun, and writes a very funny song, and before you know it, Sam and I played our two song set at 5:40 which will eventually be on the NC Songwriter's Cooperative pod cast.
I have to say it was really fun. Songwriters are a quirky bunch, and come in many styles, shapes, and sizes, and basically we all want the same thing: to play our songs to an appreciative audience. I'm glad Sam made me get out of the car.
P.S. Rubs Smokehouse is a very cool place, very scenic, the BBQ and service divine. My future daughter-in-law and I both were the most impressed with the ladies bathroom, which was not only cheery and spotless, but was equipped with sanitary pads, hand lotion, moist toilettes and tampons in 3 sizes. Now that is Southern Hospitality!
Not a Well Oiled Machine, Are We
My band, The Sams, is not exactly a well-oiled machine. We had a gig at Ziggys, one of Winston-Salem's premier clubs opening for the Mood Cultivation Project last Saturday. It was a great show, musically speaking, but not one of us thought about bringing the box of 'The Sams' t-shirts we have for sale, much less collecting email addresses from potential new fans. We actually have some 'merch' and we didn't even think about it! A band could die in obscurity with our kind of attention to detail. It has been strongly suggested: We need a manager!
Monday, November 26, 2007
Zen and Blind Fury
I pointed out that he pushed mine on purpose whereas I only stumbled upon his buttons.
That should make a difference.
He was a goat. I was a bull.
No wonder we can't get along he'd say in our pissing match eras.
I accused Sam on a few occasions of being a 'mean drunk.' He could slice and dice if the conditions were right, but he never laid a hand on me in anger.
I can't say the same for me.
I'm the one who insists on peace and harmony in the band room.
Then... I'm the one who literally flies at Sam in a rage, tackling him in his living room. making him wrestle for his life until we give out and lay panting on the floor.
I have not learned to tame my emotions while Sam is master of his.
He doesn't mind my tirades.
He says he has a very low threshold for boredom and he sure doesn't have to worry about that with me.
He likes a good row and wants me to learn how to shake it off. He wants me to yell and let it out! He knows I am built on rage, despite my good intentions.
"These amps go to ELEVEN!" says Sam. "Now HIT SOME LICKS! YOU'LL FEEL BETTER!"
As for me, I try to avoid setting her, me, KD, off.
It is exhausting, sometimes taking several days to recover from.
Also there is a little part of me that is afraid of what I might do.
As dreadful as it sounds, I quit my last waitressing job because I kept imagining stabbing my shrill, red-haired, Irish boss through the heart right there in the wait station.
The big serrated knife.
Always out, always there on the cutting board.
My gritted teeth, my clenching fists.
What if for just one moment fiction became fact?
I write. I make up stories.
My characters, my paintings talk to me.
I could swear I lived through exact conversations in my stories where customers and co-workers are killed like flies, but I know for a fact it can't be true.
There were no actual murders at Leons, or at the Colonel Ludlow Inn, or at Pauls Fine Dining or other places I worked. Just my stories.
But if I didn't know that, I would swear every word was true.
Basically, my anger makes me ashamed.
Where's the Zen, KD?
Where's your peace and love and harmony and all your beautiful benevolence now, KD?
Fallen like a house of cards.
Sam, however, is fascinated.
He grew up in what he called a "Beaver Cleaver" family.
He figured his birth family just didn't have that much stuff to work out in this lifetime.
He thought maybe my birth family had a pretty full plate and our work is far from done.
In fact, Sam insists we travel to see my parents at the Eastern Shore.
Sam's parents are dead. He misses them.
He knows I feel estranged and haven't seen my folks in several years.
All the more reason to go, says Sam.
We had an idyllic time especially when it was just the two of us and even though my parents had no idea that I had felt estranged, it felt good to see them.
Our band was our pride and joy, and we played countless hours as a duet, but the music that we loved so much was hard on our romance.
This was my dilemna, not Sams.
To me, it felt like much too much.
Loving Sam brought out my girly side, which I both enjoyed and detested.
I had grown accustomed to Sam's style of barking in the band room, but if I'm feeling all girly, it hurts my feelings.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Sam In a Box
Sam is dead and he pulled the trigger.
What's done is done.
It doesn't matter where his ashes are.
It doesn't even matter if his ashes are forever mingled with his long gone wife which they might well be.
It doesn't matter.
It really doesn't matter.
Sam's friend Timmy makes me laugh, roaring at me just like Sam would.
"I know you'd like to think it's all about you," he says. "But it's not."
When I whine about Sam's ashes, it does sound funny, even to me, especially when I say I'd carry Sam with me in a little box everywhere I go.
"Carry him in your heart!" Timmy says, gruff and bossy just like Sam would. I know he's right and its so much easier than my little box.
Timmy teaches me a new mantra and makes me repeat it over and over: I will live and stop reliving.
I will live and stop reliving.
I will live and stop reliving.
"Mean love," Timmy calls it, but it cheers me up.
Sam is gone.
I had my time with Sam.
I can almost, almost, let go of this grief.
Surfer Sam
