Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

performance

As a Matter of Record

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One 20 oz. Beer = Forgetting the first line to every song in my entire repetoire.

One and a half 20 oz. Beers = Note-perfect Kelly Clarkson songs with impromptu djembe.

By way of explanation, there is a standing Thursday night open mic in Philly at Buckets. It’s a small, comfortable room, organizer Josh knows how to mix, and the beers on tap are served in 20 oz. glasses, which slay me every time.

First I joined Lindsay to play an impromptu “Who Will Save You Soul,” followed by a barely memorized “Time After Time” that sorta rocked, and finally our bluesy “Oh, Darlin’.”

A few minutes later (after the euphonium solo) (no, really) (and it was awesome) I played one peculiar set of “Regrets,” “Rehab,” a little bit of “Not So Bad” until I realized that I had no idea what the first line was, “Icy Cold” (during which the first line of “Not So Bad” popped into my head out of nowhere, which was a little distracting to remember while singing “Icy Cold”), following by “Not So Bad.”

Later, after a Jim-Morrison-does-Johnny-Cash-playing-left-hand mindbending set by someone whose name I didn’t catch, we realized we had run out of people, so I went up again for an epic set of “Standing,” “Ziggy Stardust,” “Under My Skin,” “Love Me Not,” “Day 94” (!), and – by request – “Since U Been Gone.” And, being buzzed and agreeable at that point (enough that I was playing Kelly Clarkson by request in a bar), when I noticed Josh’s drummer tapping along on the bar I recruited him mid-verse into the tune.

And it fucking rocked. It’s nice to be out in the world playing in front of people again.

Whoever’s Listening

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Two years ago this week we were just about settled in this house, and I was packing up my gear from the third annual Lyndzapalooza. I had only written two songs in the previous year, and I hadn’t played anywhere other than Lyndzapalooza in just about that long. I had no new recordings to speak of.

A year ago this week I had just finished my yearly engagement at Lyndzapalooza, and otherwise hadn’t played anywhere other than the Shubin X-Mas Revue since… well, since the last Lyndzapalooza.

However, I had also just written and demoed two new songs that seemed not to suck, and I was arranging for and singing in an a cappella group (the latter for the first time ever).

Minor changes. Little earthquakes.

This year I am not quite packed up from Lyndzapalooza. Gina and I practiced weekly for several months to prepare for our evening set, which featured harmony on every song. I’ve written several new songs, and have played a few monthly engagements at Melange Theatre. Though I haven’t recorded much lately, I tracked 30 new recordings in 30 days of November.

I’m finally re-enrolled in voice lessons, with an awesome young PhD candidate at Penn. Also, I was hired (hired!) to co-write two songs, which I just finished recording (and received payment for!).

And, just to keep myself limber, I’m throwing a dinner/concert for my mother where I’ll be playing two dozen of her favorite songs, and I’m arranging the entirety of Tori Amos’s new album for guitar.

Still not quite a rock star, yet – considering I let my musical life grind to a halt in 2005 – I’m gratifying by my acceleration back to musical relevance.

And So It Goes

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Well, i survived a small portion of the bike ride only to be sent packing by the boys and their quick pace and constant pedalling.

Many interesting events occured in the intervening week, the least of which was a tonight’s very positive open mic outing at The Sidecar (and the most of which i can’t really go into. yet). Their open mic is the first Sunday of every month, and they have a fun house combo that churns out funky fill-in music and some outrageous covers. If you’re in town on Monday you can see the sequel, my debut at XPN World Cafe’s Philly Rising open mic. I seem to have re-discovered my confidence, but i’m still a little nervous about doing my own songs. We’ll see how it goes.

Meanwhile, i must link to the utterly fantastic Skyline Online, an engaging architecture blog penned by Inquirer critic Inga Saffron. Also, a re-plug for the sidebar-linked The BM Rant, who i really need to engineer a run-in with at a Philly show, eventually.

At least in this instance of an absentee-week from blogging i can truly claim that i was busy ;)

Bleed Like Me

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I am always more the rock star when I draw blood, and last night was excruciating. After a week of practice had thickened my skin to new levels of callousness i spent the day nervously picking at these foreign fingertips, leaving them as naked and vulnerable as a tiny baby’s for my rehearsal with Dante. Our first time through “Volcano Girls” I winced and dropped the tempo, eventually giving in and playing the chords as a sevenths to rest my battered pinky.

“Bucket Seat” solved the problem, though, so fun to play, and with drums! Real, live drums, doing what I’d imagine they’d do – propelling me into choruses and matching my crescendos. And, after, inevitably after my spirited performance, I found that I had drawn blood.

I think it was the turning point in the rehearsal, really. Everything rocked more after that. Saturday at the party I’ll have nearly half an hour of rehearsed(!) set, with drumming(!) throughout. For most of the guests it will just be background noise; for me, a little victory.

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Tiny blonde girl, six or seven maybe. The mic stand was as low as it would go and she kept twisting it back and forth trying to get it even lower, her eyes crossing every time it centered in her field of vision. On every chorus her father would glance at her and nod, and she would grab the microphone and softly sigh into it – recoiling after each phrase with her hand over her mouth, giggling. Half babbling child’s nonsense but half assured harmony, after three songs she was done and she crossed her eyes at us a final time.


Every open mic i’ve ever played has been a little different from the one before it, and this was no exception. Northeast Philadelphia has an eerie quality that it lends to its residents, world worn and weary as they are, so that you can read their lives off of their faces without even needed to hear the songs they had chosen for that purpose exactly. One man, in a faded blue shirt with strong biceps and a cracked and weathered guitar channeled Tom Waits with his slow gravelly delivery, not a surprise at all. A woman, her long blonde hair trailing her and a half apologetic smile on her face, playing self-consciously narrative songs on her full size piano. A thirteen year old girl dressed like a gypsy, holding herself as though she was twice her age until she took the stage behind another piano, this time to play swirling piano compositions she meekly announced that she had “written when she was eleven.” Not so long ago for her, the MC reminded us.

Gina and I must have presented them a conundrum, not betraying our world in our faces. First Gina, shocking them as she revealed her range note by note, first tickling the very highest and then descending to a nearly bass hum as she slowly circled the most basic chords in Bb. And me, i suppose, energetically bounding up and back from the microphone with each line, sticking out my tongue when i missed my riff, and making steady eye contact with anyone who was bobbing their head along. I can’t imagine that we telegraphed our moves, our voices, our emotions as well as the regulars, because our faces just don’t have that quality. Even the tiny blonde girl in her staring cross-eyed at the microphone in front of her face told me all i needed to know before she ever opened her mouth.

I don’t know if i can go back.

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