Mystie Chamberlin (aka “Just Another Folk Singer”) “Alistair” scratch demo recorded 10.21.11 @ Lucky Ray’s Studio, NYC by Mark Suall.Vox and acoustic guitar by Mystie Chamberlin.Played Jumbo Butterfly Bubinga Daisy Rock electric acoustic.
Tag Archives: London
Guitar and Heart Strings demo
Mystie Chamberlin (aka “Just Another Folk Singer”) “Guitar and Heart Strings” scratch demo recorded 10.21.11 @ Lucky Ray’s Studio, NYC by Mark Suall.Vox and acoustic guitar by Mystie Chamberlin.Played Jumbo Butterfly Bubinga Daisy Rock electric acoustic.
Baby, it’s cold outside!
- snowpocalypse 2010
On Christmas night, my dear friend and ex-bandmate from The Merch Grrls, Charlotte Eerie, visited New York City from London. After my delicious, filling, meat-less holiday meal and her long, fatiguing flight, we rendezvoused at our old neighborhood quaffing grounds, Black and White, on 10th Street between 3rd and 4th Avenue. I extinguished a cigarette after only a few drags, and dropped the remains into the dented metal pail hanging in a corner of the smoker’s recess under the awning before stepping into the warmth of the votive-lit bar and my friend’s tight embrace. Our bartender, a mutual friend and a wry writer with dark, disheveled humor and hair, poured our mixed drinks. He mingled witty repartee into our gossip and convivial conversation while an unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. (Plug: Check out Richard Allen the first Sunday of every month at Black and White for Fahrenheit, a five minute open mic for writers presented by the Antagonist Art Movement.)
Comfortable in old habits and hangovers by the next morning, we sojourned to our favorite diner, 7A Cafe, (where the front windows conveniently framed our favorite “dive” bar, Niagara) for our regular brunch as though a year had not passed. While we devoured our usual orders of vegetarian eggs benedict, mimosas, and coffee, snow began to fall outside. After eating, we attempted to brave the already vast and intimidating snowpocalypse. First we tried taking a cab uptown, however when the car drifted and hydroplaned on the wet road, we opted for the crammed subway at Union Square. Before that week, both Charlotte and I struggled with the superflu on our respective coasts, but, upon her arrival, we pretended the virus was not severe because we wanted to see one other. However, as soon as we trekked back to the apartment, Captain Trips (read: Stephen King’s version of the flu) flourished like the onslaught of the blizzard raging outside. Since Snowmageddon and sickness barricaded us indoors, we settled for a slumber party. Continue reading
Filed under Post A Day / Post A Week
“…While you told me fortunes in American slang.”
Continued from previous post “She’s Got Greta Garbo Stand-off Sighs…“:
I arrived at Manchester Piccadilly rail station, but could not find the Boy so I called him from a nearby payphone. He said he was running about 25 minutes late, but one of his mates would give me directions to his flat if I did not want to wait.
I did not want to wait. His mate was difficult to understand over the phone. I learned then the farther north I went in England, the stronger the accents sounded in my ears. His mate kept saying stuff that sounded like, “Yah tek bus numbeh forteh two or forteh free an’ keep gooin’ and gooin’ then yah see some ‘Ouses and yah keep gooin’ and gooin’.” I interruped him, and asked him to just tell me the name of my stop.
What I heard was gobbledygook. I asked him to repeat. He did, and I still did not understand. Ahhnspaahk? Something that sounded something like that?
After asking him repeat himself a noticeable frustrating (at least) eight times, I made him spell it out for me, then I felt like such an idiot. Continue reading
Filed under Adventures, Are you ready to rock?, the Blues
She’s Got Greta Garbo Stand-off Sighs…
Continued from previous post:
The train ride from London to Crewe lasted three hours. Crewe is a large town in south Cheshire, in the north west of England, and it was a stark change to London’s bustling urban environment. The windows of the train framed rolling hills of a lush rural countryside. Students, returning to school from break, stood in the isles or sat on the floor. (Clearly I consistently chose the ideal time to travel by train.) Luckily I found a seat on the overcrowded coach next to a middle-aged man and across from two elderly women. As I opened my notebook to slip into some reclusion and journal about the new friend I met in London, the old woman sitting directly accross from me opened her purse and removed numerous mini-bottles of alcohol and spirits. The middle-aged man inquired as to whether or not she thought it too early to be drinking.
She retorted, “It’s never too early for a drink.”
The talkative old woman and the middle-aged man engaged in a wonderful conversation, which I overheard as I vainly attempted writing in my journal. He was traveling to visit his son and grandchildren, and she was 80 years old, but did not look a day over 60. Her friend listened silently, nodding every so often in agreement. I filled pages of my cheap composition book with the old woman’s quotes about the importance of trust in a marriage and travel for the soul, as well as the energy of youth and the wonder of life. Continue reading
Filed under Adventures, the Blues
The Sweet to My Mean: Sweet Cakes and Milkshakes
photo by Nathalie Baverstock
Although I enjoyed the remainder of my visit in New York on that Fourth of July weekend 2005, I felt something was lacking. I regaled my wistful tale of an ill-timed relationship much to the distaste of my friends, who were already displeased that I had stood them up. When I returned to Chicago, I believed I was the unluckiest girl on the planet since everything that consumed my life preceding that fateful weekend afterwards seemed foggy and insignificant. By any conventional judgment I should have been happy. I received a promotion, a pay raise, and an award at work, yet I desired to run away.
I worked to save up money to travel. Motivated by hope, I mailed my unused passport to the Secretary of State to be amended. Finding work became an obsession. I trained for my new day job position with my supervisor until she had to train for her new position. Afterwards, I completed my usual tasks of taking photos for slides to be used in mostly art history classes, sending the film out to be developed, and retouching and digitizing the returned slides in Photoshop. Then I returned to the suburbs and toiled on my freelance commitments. I organized my own extensive concert photography collection and edited two stop motion photography music videos, From Now On for Kill Hannah and Depression Glass for Cameron McGill and What Army. I ran on a treadmill twice a day at the gym twice a day to keep moving, because if I thought about my life, I would admit that I existed, but I was not living.
The bumper-to-bumper snail’s-pace commute from Bensenville to Chicago slowly was extinguishing my will to live. I despised rush hour, complete with blaring horns and obscene gestures, but accepted it as a necessary evil since I conformed to business hours. Knuckles white, I clenched the steering wheel and desperately hoped not to get rear-ended or shot. If I kept the window up and turned on some music, I had time to daydream. I hungered to attend a Jesse Malin concert in New York and to finally travel around the world. Mostly, I yearned to temp fate by visiting this star-crossed stranger.
Months passed, and only a few emails and photos, brief updates detailing the monotonous reality of our daily lives from 4000 miles away, kept me optimistic. Nevertheless, the messages were saturated with sentiments such as: “I am so happy that the last person I met on my travels was you. Our chance encounter will really leave a lasting impression on my whole trip,” “I was at work and just thinking about this time last week, and when I saw you.” All of them signed with “hugs and kisses.”
I sent him sentimental song lyrics that reminded me of our encounter, and confessed how I wished I could journey back with my British girl friend who was returning to Surrey from her New York vacation. He replied:
“I have missed you. It’s kind of strange because we only had a day together, but looking at your photos…we would have so much fun together!! It would be really cool if you could come to stay here when your friend goes home.”
Honestly, I could not afford to travel. I was swimming in debt. I kept a suitcase filled with unpaid bills and paperwork to fill out for deferment and forbearance requests in the cab of my truck. I needed to find a small affordable studio apartment in the city. I had begun the aforementioned new supervisor job, but my did not get paid for a few weeks. My skin was more pallid than normal save for the dark, puffy circles around my eyes. Most days I dragged myself around in lethargy, resigned to the idea that life was as good as it was going to get. Everything I fancied was fantasy. I was not special. Any idiot could fall in love. Any idiot could take a photo. Any idiot could relate to a song. I questioned if I had lied to myself all year since I did not feel as independent as a year prior. Every day I became more withdrawn, preferring the company of my journal to humans. Every weekend I became more dysfunctional, erasing all emotion with cocktails. My composure was bent to its breaking point. I reasoned that I needed to get away or risked becoming a mean, bitter person.
That October, I secretly purchased a flight to London. I was scraping to survive, but scheming. If I had to throw in the proverbial towel and be one of those 30-year-olds who moves back in with her parents and gets a job at Starbucks for the benefits, I was determined to have one last grand adventure. When one has nothing, one has nothing left to lose.
Fate must have had some pity looking down at me, and she must have seen what a sad sight I had become. She spun the stars, and with the support of my boss and my friends, I was on a plane bound for London.
First, I was almost not admitted into the country. Apparently there is an asinine rule stating one must carry the address of the place where one is staying (which, of course, I did not since I am not a planner). After about 20 minutes, I persuaded Customs to allow me into the UK with little proof that I was not some young-crazy-vagabond criminal. Continue reading
Filed under the Blues
Leaving the Boogaloo
- At the Camden Hostel (photo by Jas)
Marky is allowing me to add or remove a note from a chord and still count it as one chord. Last night he asked me how the challenge was going, and he told me that I should be able to write a one-chord song in 15 minutes. Now, I could blame it on the fact that I had to remove the guitar strings, re-screw the input, and restring my guitar (yes, I fixed the Bubinga ALL BY MYSELF! I can so play with the boys!), but perhaps I am trying too hard. So, I turned off the television and pulled out the lil’ pink guy (but only after spending a few hours checking out how my Chili Dog octave pedal sounds with my fixed Bubinga) and placed my fingers over the notes in the formation of a C-chord
After another hour of picking around, I started randomly strumming, adding a finger here, taking away a finger there, until I found something aurally pleasing. Marky says that is the easy part. I then placed the guitar beside me on the bed, and I opened my journal. I spent the next few minutes staring at a blank page. Then, I checked Twitter and Facebook on my iPhone. I responded to some text messages. I listened to Etta James, and I watched some White Stripes videos. When I was finally finished messing around, I finally picked up the pen and scribbled a few random words such as: hurt, head, bed, and arm. Then, I started humming, and meanwhile I thought about a trip to London that I took over three years ago.
I spent three days with a friend in Surrey then got a hotel room in London on Old Street, but instead of staying there I went out with to the Good Mixer pub in hopes to run into another friend whom I had met on my last visit. He introduced me to his lovely friend (are you still following?) whom I stayed with on Chalk Farm Road that night. I made it back to my hotel with just enough time to check out and check into another hotel in Belsize Park. I was restless, but I remembered a suggestion to check out the Boogaloo bar.
The Boogaloo bar is located in Highgate, a village in north London. I suppose there was an easier way to get there, but being foreign, I got directions from my bellhop and took the train to the Archway tube station. It took me a while of wandering around in the dark by myself to find this infamous bar. After about a 15 minute walk straight down Archway Road, I came across a charming little juke-joint with a small sign that unassumingly proclaimed: the Boogaloo!
I walked inside, and my eyes took a moment to adjust. The room was amber lit with modest neon signs and some candle light. A handful of people occupied the cozy space, some in the corner, a few at the bar and one or two making use of the red couches in the center of the room. I could not help but notice the tall, angular gentlemen sitting on one end of the bar. There was something about him. It was not that he was wearing tweed or that his bright orange hair seemed to catch fire, illuminated as it was by the amber light. It was, rather, the soft curves in his face, and the way he slouched over the bar with a pint of Guinness in front of him that suggested an air of defeat. I thought he must be waiting to melt into the floor, and I let my eyes linger on him momentarily as I carefully chose a seat all the way at the other end of the bar. Continue reading
Click for more official JAFS sites.
