Sam at Rubber Soul in Winston Salem NC 2007

I was annoyed because Sam kept saying, "Take my picture! Take my picture!"

Now I think he was working on his goodbyes.

Sam Moss of Winston Salem, NC Lives on Through His Music

It is just like me to write blogs, write a lot even, and then abandon them, then forget about them. I just happened to google my name to see if I could find something I could call an art website and happened upon this site like a stranger seeing it for the first time. In this way, my life is full of (mostly) fun surprises! Like I will go to the kitchen to fix myself a cup of tea, and there it is waiting for me, like magic! 

Since I have always been this way, how will my loved ones know if I develop dementia? I asked them and no one said a peep. 

My last entry was 17 years ago, the year my indescribable friend Sam Moss took his life. The good news is that this happened:

"A larger-than-life character, Moss astounded local audiences in his club appearances, yet he never released a record in his lifetime. So producer Chris Stamey was thrilled to discover, in 2020, on the end of an old tape, forgotten masters of Blues Approved, a spectacular Stax – and Muscle Shoals–influenced solo record, made with Mitch Easter in 1977. This “great lost” record reveals that Moss was also a soulful songwriter and singer. It has now been carefully remixed and produced for release, with a deluxe booklet featuring detailed liner notes and bio, session notes by Easter, and lots of vivid color photos."  from the American Blues Scene

Listen to the premiere track from the album Blues Approved by 

Sam Moss: Rooster Blood here.

If you are interested, this is the 

SAM MOSS TRAILER—"Blues Approved" Great Lost Album

"How many of you are in there, anyway?" asks Sam. "I know I haven't met you all."

I am intrigued how Sam is so thoroughly Sam in any given circumstance.

He is intrigued how I can jump from face to face. 

I'm thinking doesn't everyone? 

Music by KD Rouse/Much of it with Sam Moss

http://www.reverbnation.com/artist/artist_songs/2019093

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.

Zen and Blind Fury

Sam said I could push his buttons more than any person he had ever encountered in his life.
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.

I paint in my bamboo forest and the birds come closer and closer to me.

I raised my children without violence and broke a family cycle doing it.

I scold Sam for being mean and bossy to our bandmates.

I want to flow like a fountain.

I want to be like Buddha and Jesus.

I want to be kind and nice and....

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'm the one who storms out of the band room, knocking Sam over with my guitar in the Telecaster Spanking Incident.

I am the one who can snap, capable of blind fury.

"You are a lot stronger than you look," says Sam with admiration.

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 was a PK (Preacher's Kid).

His parents were intelligent, kind, and supportive.
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.

Families are tribes, after all, for better or for worse.

But the best part was being with Sam.

Our love was intoxicating.

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.

I want to play music.

I want to be treated like one of the boys.

I've been divorced twice and had explosive endings to all my relationships.

My youngest child is leaving for college and for the first time I have an empty nest and no torch.

I don't want to be a couple with anyone, not even Sam.

But on the other hand, I can't stay away for long.

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.