In November of 2007, I half-jokingly started a band, ThrowAway Grrls. I quietly harmonized and plunked the bass while my friend crooned and thrummed the guitar. Along with two other friends attempting percussion, we practiced for a few weeks in a desperate attempt swiftly to master our instruments for a premature show into which we had managed to charm our way. We were scheduled to open for a few tribute bands on a sold-out Saturday night at the Bowery Ballroom in New York City, but as soon as we walked into the upstairs club for our first sound-check, all our feet froze to the floor. We knew we were ill-prepared; we did not even know which amp was for the bass and which one was for the guitar. We only prepared four slap-dash songs, but with the help of a patient sound engineer, we persevered! Although, I must admit, for those 15-20 minutes, I wobbled like a gelatin dessert.
Around August of 2009, I grew frustrated with the constant, suffocating stage fright. Until then, I averaged a show or two per month. I spent hours with my head in my hands wondering what ways to overcome my cowardice. At the behest of an ex, I slammed one fist into the other palm and challenged myself to play 100 shows to remove forcibly the fear through repetition and experience. I did not give myself a deadline, because I was unsure of how to count a performance. However, I eventually decided to count any time I performed in front of a crowd of strangers, anything from an open mic to a proper show.
Beginning that September, I counted 15 prior performances. As much as I pep-talked myself to be non-nonchalant and reiterated that I did not care what others thought of my lack of technique, the thought of making a fool out of myself overwhelmed my convictions. Fortunately at that time, I re-read Writing Down The Bones: Freeing the Writer Within, which not only inspired me, but also helped me feel less inferior since I realized that I was no better or worse for trying than were my peers. By January 2010 I reached performance number 65, and throughout the month I played 25 more times including one of my personal favorites, an “in-store” performance at Never Records, a fake record store. Continue reading →
"Absolut coffee" snapshot @ brunch, 05.30.10 @ Uptown Lounge (1576 3rd Ave. b/t 88th and 89th St., NYC). Hipstamatic iPhone print by Mystie Chamberlin (Lens: Kaimal Mark II Film: Blanko),
Over the past four and a half years, I have accepted that my body thrives on stress. It’s as though my body realizes I will have an extended weekend away from traditional responsibility and decides that this an acceptable time to become sick. Since paid time off is scarce, I find this physical decision thoroughly unagreeable. Although my diet consists mainly of stress and caffeine, I’ve managed to find a few ways to regulate (well, regulate the stress anyway…I’ll work on the coffee next year).
Writing in my journal and composing songs are my two favorite ways to relax. I appreciate my writing workshops and my writing peers. I eagerly anticipate our sporadic assemblages, fueled with words and wine, when and where we are all driven by the desire of wondering if we have anything worthwhile or interesting to impart. Once a story or song is transcribed from my mind to the paper or the computer (or communicator, ie. phone), I obsess over the editing process. I cherish when a word I initially chose for simplicity’s sake is replaced by something suitably descriptive. I celebrate each word and it’s sound.
Together with composing song lyrics, I unwind by playing guitar (pun intended). Twisting the chrome tuning keys and pressing down on the bronze strings is more cathartic than punching holes in my head. The misery of sometimes not having the fine motor muscle memory needed in order to craft what I auralize frustratingly, yet determinately, drives me to excel.
I still get goose bumps when I strike a string and from the sound that emanates, even when it is discordant (sometimes, especially when it is discordant). I even enjoy practicing scales; challenging my fingers to move faster or slower is satisfying. Some people might say I’m easily amused. Continue reading →
Mystie Chamberlin learning how to play (playing “Goodnight Sweet”) her pink Wildwood Daisy Rock guitar on vacation in Wicker Park in Chicago, IL. Filmed via mobile phone 04.20.08 by Cassie Weatherford.
Channeling Garbo in Boston
(photo by Billie Jo Sheehan)
“But Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leaves us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!” -Robert Burns, To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough
I was wrong about 2008, by the way. I ran away to Boston with the aforementioned ex-non-boyfriend in February. Something peaked by Valentine’s Day, and by St. Patrick’s Day weekend I was coming down…HARD!
I flew to Chicago with high hopes of a fanciful, impractical weekend away, only to have them squashed via text message as soon as I took a seat on the plane.
Friday after work, I ran home, grabbed a suitcase, literally tossed in an armful of whatever clothes were nearby, grabbed my guitar, and sprinted out the door. I barely made it to the airport in enough time to check in and board. As the flight attendants prepared for takeoff, I readied myself. Only when I flipped open my mobile phone to power off, I was greeted by three text messages, which was actually one long one divided because of text limitations. It read:
“Dear, Sweet, Beautiful, I don’t know quite how to say this, but I started seeing someone in the last few weeks. I still care about you, and you can still crash at my pad, but I will not be able to stay with you. I hope we can still hang out and party. xoxoxo”
This is the part in the “movie” where my face droops and silently tears begin to stream down flushed cheeks from my glistening eyes (good, huh?). In retrospect, I feel badly for the poor man who got the haphazard seat next to me, as I hastily decided that the best method to respond to this change in plans was to mainline whiskey, to find another friend at whose pad I could crash, and to catch the next flight back to New York (in that order).
Several hours and countless ounces of Jack Daniel’s later, I crashed with a girl friend near my old squat in Lincoln Park. Unfortunately, it turned out that I was allergic to her dog, or rather, that is what I deduced from the hives that broke out on my arms and chest. I proceeded to Schubas, where he was performing (I should know better than to get involved with musicians by now), to pick up the key as I was still unable to book an earlier flight back to New York. With my luggage and guitar in tow, I waited miserably for the first set to end. Meanwhile, I had a beer at the bar until reinforcements arrived, when I decided I needed to switch back to the hard stuff. Continue reading →
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