Rockwired.com's Best Female Artist of the Year Award 2009

Hey, everyone!

I am so honored to announce that I was awarded the Rockwired.com's Best Female Artist of the Year Award. Thanks to all who voted!

Frequently Asked Questions

Erin Muir

Frequently Asked Questions

HOW DID YOU WIND UP IN INDIA?
I’ve always had a fascination with yoga and meditation; the stories I could tell you about cutting class to study them back when are hilarious! But seriously… after moving to Los Angeles (from Minneapolis), I began working with acting coach Candace Silvers, who’s an extremely astute observer and teacher of human behavior. Every year, she takes her students to India to work with a teacher in Rishikesh (where The Beatles met the Maharishi). She told me my future absolutely relied on going there. Though I didn’t have the funds at the time, I somehow knew it would happen… The next morning, an overdue check arrived for the precise amount needed to cover the plane ticket. I nabbed it, then turned to creative fundraising to handle related expenses. When Candace saw how committed I was, she offered to cover the difference if I paid her back. I was really, really touched... She was right on too… That trip completely changed my life!


YOU PERFORMED FOR PRESIDENT CLINTON AT THE WHITE HOUSE: GIVE US A PLAY BY PLAY.
I arrived in Washington as part of John Jacobsen's "America Sings"- a gathering of young vocalists from across the country. The day of, we met senators, representatives- all sorts of world leaders. It was kind of a blur because I was seventeen and so darn nervous that I’d barely slept all week. We went down the line, shaking hands and suddenly there was Hilary… then Bill... He was just as charismatic and charming in person as on TV. There were throngs of people everywhere and everything happened so fast. The music began… And I was so swept away by this feeling of great elation and light... I stepped forward for my solo and the thrill of the meeting, the music, the moment, the energy… Everything about it was so uplifting. We met Senator Paul Wellstone after, who was still alive at the time. Being from the same state, he invited us to his office and gave me a personal tour of the Senate Building. It was an amazing experience. I could go on and on…


YOU’VE BEEN NOMINATED BY ROCKWIRED FOR FEMALE ARTIST OF THE YEAR WITH “POET’S LOVELY DAUGHTER”. ITS CMJ SINGLE “BLACK BUTTERFLY” CAUGHT MY ATTENTION; WHAT INSPIRED THE SONG?
I wrote it sitting in the back of my 1973 Vogue RV on Harvest Gold cushions… I’d run away from college and sacrificed everything to go on the road with International Girl. We had a lot of crazy experiences- some fun, some scary and everything in between. We’d ended up touring to Florida to play in a Spring Break cover band. A lot of musicians look down on cover bands, but I’ll tell you, I learned more about song writing and structure in one year of that than in my entire academic life! Plus, we almost randomly wound up in Cuba, but that’s another story for another time.


PRAY TELL ABOUT THE CUBAN CONNECTION!
That's one of those crazy touring stories. We were still down in Florida playing covers and people would often invite us over to their mansion/house/apartment to party afterwards. One night, this particular fellow who came to shows invited us back to his yacht. By about 4 a.m., I was exhausted and fell asleep while the rest of the band was living it up. The next morning, I woke up still on the yacht. Michael (our drummer) and the aforementioned fellow piped up that we were on our way to Cuba for cigars and Dulce de Leches. Groggy as I was, I was pretty clear that was NOT a good idea. Don't worry… we never made it to Cuba. Or at least, if we did, I can't tell you about it!


HAS ACADEMIC TRAINING EVER INTERFERED WITH PLAYING IN A ROCK BAND?
Naw. As the Dalai Lama said: “Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.” I began piano lessons at 5, but always wanted to be a singer. At 13- after a great deal of begging and pleading with my parents- went to study voice with Teri Larsen at St. Cloud State while continuing piano with Dr. Edward Turley (Dean of Music, St. John's University). On the other hand, my Dad was a huge Jazz and Blues buff, so we listened to lots of that; there was also this great college radio station [KVSC] that played pretty much everything. At St. Cloud State, world music was a trend. I was constantly exposed to so many different KINDS of music… I’m really grateful for that. Balancing the academic with the heart is what that I strive for, always. Well, that and breaking the rules!


HOW DOES THEATRE INFORM YOUR LIVE PERFORMANCES?
I’ve very thankfully done my time as an actress in various films here in Los Angeles… Musically, I spent several years performing in cabarets. You can’t be afraid of an audience- especially in that environment- or they’ll sense it right away, or worse yet, leave! There’s a lot to handle performing in that arena- hair pulling fights, back stabbing, bustiers; and that's just on stage. I loved it… It’s influenced my song writing, my love of falling into a song, passionately expressing it and of course… my style! We’d always put together these amazing outfits- all very Folies Bergeres- with ruffled bottoms, corsets, top hats and stockings. Or long length evening gowns, wigs and ginormous false eyelashes. I love the camaraderie of the theatre, I try to carry that into band situations. Depending on the venue, I also always try to carry a little burlesque torch with me too!


HAS LIVING IN HOLLYWOOD INFLUENCED YOU AS A SINGER-SONGWRITER?
Certainly! Hollywood has everything. Literally… Everything you could want is here. That doesn't mean you get to go grab it at will, though. Whatever you’re putting out, you’ll see and find. That means, if you desperately want fame, it's here. And whatever you secretly (or outwardly) believe you must do to obtain it and believe about having it will come true. It's like a metaphysical candy store and it’s so easy to choose what's bad because it looks good. That said, there’s a very special creative energy here. Some of the most dynamic, brilliant artists and entertainers in the world live here; it's hard not to find that energy infectious and inspiring. Since everything’s here, there are many ways to be of service, to be kind, to give back. There’s lots of cultural blending. Being here is an extension of all of my life, which has been full of cultural as well as stylistic mixing and matching, which I try to bring to my work.


YOU JUST CAME HOME FROM TOURING “POET’S LOVLEY DAUGHTER”… WHAT’S NEXT?
I’m heading to Austin, TX to play a March 20th date at the Red Gorilla Music Festival. Also just finished starring as "Vangela" in a film called "Pretty Boys," about a Bowie-esque Glam Rock band and their trials and tribulations finishing a sophomore album. I play the band's manager/lead singer's girlfriend. It was directed by Everett Lewis; they’re editing and premiering the film in 2011 at various film festivals. I’m also working on a book- “My Life As A Phone Psychic”. Among the many, many day jobs I’ve held, one was "phone psychic." I originally wrote a play about it, which we produced in Minneapolis. My sister recommended I reincarnate it as a novel, since I'm such a voracious reader. I absolutely love the art form and format of that, so I did, and am in draft two. Thanks for asking and stay tuned!

My Own Nine Lives

My Own “Nine” Lives

I saw “Nine” with my friend Alison the other day. We went in the middle of a very wet and rainy day in Los Angeles to one of the screening theatres at the Landmark in West LA… she knows my love of the comfy sofas in those theatres… I had heard a lot about this movie because, well, anytime anyone who knows me sees a movie featuring sexy women in lingerie singing and dancing torch songs about love and sex and passion and religion? They call me and tell me they just saw a movie “right up my alley.”

(What alley is that, exactly?)

No, I’m kidding. I’m flattered. They call me and tell me that because years of singing my own crazy version of the habanera from “Carmen” while dressed in a bustier and garter belt in Le Cirque Rouge Burlesque Cabaret have led people to associate me with all things Folies Bergeres… ;-) Okay. SOME things Folies Bergeres.

I want to write about a moment of my own life, my own foibled, fabled life, inspired by the part when Louisa, played by the EVER amazing Marillon Cotillard, does a number in which in her fantasy, she torments her husband, the guilty philandering Guido, by performing a strip tease for other men. My take on that- it’s her way of trying to show him how she feels, how painful it is to be betrayed like that… but you know, when it’s YOU being the one betrayed? It takes tremendous awareness to be able to see those places where you yourself did the betraying, and this method rarely exacts any response that creates greater love and harmony.

But we’re not talking about love and harmony. We’re talking about passion, commitment (or not), betrayal, sex, fear, anger, and fire…

I know, because that scene mirrors the first time I ever did a burlesque striptease.

I joined the motley crew of burlesque performers in Minneapolis at some point in the early days of its inception. I had seen a notice that Amy Buchanan and Ophelia Flame (and others) were forming a Burlesque and Vaudeville style cabaret… it was listed somewhere in Minneapolis’ alternative weekly newspaper, City Pages… a number of my friends in Minnie had seen the notice and thought of me, too, and a few of my friends went out their way to email me and call me to tell me to check it out.

See, I’ve always had this thing for performing in slinky vintage slips. In fact, my very first time performing in such a thing was when I was 11! No kidding. I performed as an Egyptian Slave Dancer in my middle school’s talent show while my friends lip-synched to “Dance Like an Egyptian.” My mother and teachers and my friend’s mothers had no idea I was going to do this, or they probably would not have let me do so. And I, as yet innocent, had no idea that this might be in any way inappropriate for a pre-pubescent sixth grader. I just remember that my friends and I had rehearsed for days and days how we were going to do this little number, and I wore black kohl eyeliner and proudly marched my little butt out onto stage wearing just a bed sheet wrapped around me like an Egyptian slave girl’s costume. The audience LAUGHED and laughed and laughed. To this day, I’m still not sure WHY it was so funny, and yet I am grinning ear to ear because I remember how hard they laughed! Oh, and the starlet was born.

So, back to Le Cirque Rouge (and relative adulthood)… I went down to the club Amy and crew had built out of what had formerly been “The New French Café.” It was all dark red and Frenchified and sexy, even in the middle of bright and snow-covered Minneapolis afternoon. I think I sang Carmen, and then “Whatever Lola Wants.” They liked it. I was in.

It took a few months to get into the groove of costumes and egos and breasts. Don’t get me wrong. I had a lot of costumes and a lot of ego and two of my very own, thank you. But so did everyone else have PLENTY of supply of all those things (*except Garron the Houseboy, of course. He had everyone else’s breasts, but none of his own.) And then there were the endless performances, some great and some terrible, and the fighting, and the hair pulling (kept on stage for audience benefit!), and the jokes and the magic, and then there was the great and terrible SCHISM from which formed Lili’s Burlesque and etc., I won’t get into the nitty gritty here, you can Google search all of this and get everyone else’s story about how it all went down.

IIIIiiii want to talk about MY strip tease. See, in all the time I was with LCR, I never did a strip tease. Amy used to ask “why not!?” “Why not!?” And my reply was usually something like, “But I’m already wearing next to nothing while singing.” I remember trying something out while singing “La Vie En Rose,” in which I was wearing a Marlene Dietrich style man’s shirt and jacket, with just a garter-belt attached to some fishnet stockings and little black high heels. At the end of the song, after the “la, la la la la la las…..” I sang once more the line “La Vie En Rooooooooose” and tore open the white shirt to reveal my vintage black and white lace bra… and I noticed that although the audience hooted and hollered, they cheered longer and louder when I sustained a very high note earlier in the song. I realized I was probably better off showcasing my VOICE and my SONGS then showcasing my… ahem… pasties…. I’m not sure why. Maybe I should be offended that my voice is more impressive than my décolletage. Or maybe I should be proud…. but…. It probably had more to do with my belief in my voice over my belief in my body… Oh, hyper-analyzing my own psyche aside…

Really, the real deep down other part?

I had a boyfriend and he was a really great guy except he had this… jealous streak. He was excited for me to sing in the cabaret, because a) he got to hang around and watch the beautiful women dance, and b) he loved for me to sing and perform, and c) he was a drummer and picked up gigs as a fill-in for when the other drummer couldn’t make it. But his response to me performing the strip-teases?

“No. No Way. That shit is MINE.”

Well, fast-forward through four exciting and beautiful and crazy and at times, difficult years with this man, to the point where, eventually, he and I broke up. We had a really difficult break up. I mean, it was just awful. I wasn’t just losing a boyfriend, I was losing my way of life. We had a band together, a home together, cars together, gear together, dreams together. But… for some very specific reasons, the relationship ended. It broke my heart. And, in my immature response to that pain, I did what all drama-queen kitty cats do after a tough breakup. I broke all the rules I wasn’t allowed to break while I was IN the relationship!

Now, the funny thing is, I had been dating a loose cannon, anti-authoritarian, environmentalist, former punk rocker turned jazz drummer turned Americana singer-songwriter. So, there really weren’t too many things I had not been allowed to do for the sake of the relationship. Really, there was only one.

The Burlesque Strip Tease.

And damn it, I was determined to carpe diem and, in my ex’s own famous words, strap on a pair (of pasties) and get ‘er done.

It was New Year’s Eve. My friends Erin and Josh and I were going to a NYE Party hosted by my friend Sean, featuring a number of different burlesque performers as well as DJs, bands, body painting, food, booze, crazy light shows, all in this huge-o warehouse somewhere in Saint Paul. I had a mission in mind, and I quickly located my friend Stan the 3-D Man.

Now, Stan had invented a 3-D machine that could cause LIVE Performers to appear 3-D. This Tesla- loving scientist inventor was so smart and wise to introduce it to Burlesque Dancers, and he, along with the dancers, had invented what was known as “The 3-D Strip Tease.”

Imagine… the audience puts on 3-D Glasses and enjoys as the dancer, behind a white scrim, does a strip tease seemingly CENTIMETERS from your face! It is truly an amazing experience! When she tosses her items of clothing off, it appears as those they are landing in your lap. When she swirls the tassels on her pasties? Well. Let’s just say, it’s pretty darn exciting.

I’m serious. It really seems like the Dancing Lady is Dancing In Your Lap, only she’s not, she’s on stage, and you’re wearing 3-D glasses, and it remains that Sexy-Silly-PG13 style fun.

Stan was setting up the 3-D machine and was going to be running the show for a bit in this corner stage.

I walked over to Stan and said,

“Stan, I wanna do the 3-D strip tease…”

I had rendered a very eloquent man speechless.

“Good then,” I said, nodding, and accepting that his silence implied his consent.

I walked back behind the white scrim on the stage. I was wearing a black and white pinstriped pantsuit and black stilettos… not exactly a burlesque costume, but for tonight, it would work. There was a box full of props and costume pieces and I applied the necessaries… feather boa, pasties, top hat.

“Ready back there?” Stan asked….

“Ready as I’ll ever be…” I said.

And the music started…

You learn a few things fairly quickly- like-

Have the right costume. So, it seems like maybe a black and white pinstriped pantsuit is very sexy in a Marlene Dietrich kind of way, but I figured out pretty fast, if you’re intending to perform an old-school, vintage-style burlesque striptease to a song that’s 3 minutes long? That’s a LONG time to keep it PG AND interesting. The right costume will help GREATLY.

Thank god for the box of props. I somehow figured my way out of the pantsuit and realized I hadn’t yet utilized the 3D Machine, so I made sure to take a feather boa and toss it to titillate the audience. The way it works is, there’s a light machine between you, the dancer, and the scrim. The audience is on the other side of the scrim. You play everything to that light machine and it causes the audience’s perception to see it as 3D.

So, I took my feather boa and I snapped it right into the light. The audience shrieked and giggled. Whew! All was not lost.

There was a sword in the prop box, so I grabbed a chair, danced around it for a moment, and then took the sword, pointed it right into the light. The audience shrieked again. Then I sat down in the chair, and did that trick where it looked like I was swallowing the sword.

Oh, so naughty.

Now I was relaxing into it and actually having fun with what was going on! I started mimicking my burlesque heroine, Ophelia Flame, doing all of her kinds of long leggy moves into the light.

And then, that moment divine, when suddenly you and the music and the lights and the moves and the impulse and the feathers and the tassels are all one, and you move without moving, you sway without direction, you are just in the dance. The feel of the feathers trickling down my arm, the fine soft downy hairs sparkling in the bright lights, my legs kicking high and round, my heart in pulse with the bass and drums, my hips curving in joy of femininity…

And then it was done. The audience was cheering, and I think I may have poked my head out to bow and blush, and then I grabbed my clothes and Garron the houseboy was there and he picked up the rest of the props, and my friends were smiling and I ran to the makeshift backstage, energetically high. I know dancers for whom this is their art and their passion, and I can see why. It was exhilarating, and- fun.

And then there was a moment- just a moment- when I was alone, and fixing my little pantsuit, and touching up my makeup, alone in my heart despite the booming crowd out there... And I thought of my lost love, for that moment. I thought of the night we met, and I thought of the night he and I watched the full moon rise over the Chateau de Chambord in France, and riding on the back of his motorcycle clinging tight to him… I thought of the nights we spent playing music together, and the time he got mad at me on stage and threw his (my) guitar at me, and I laughed aloud then, because he always had such a temper, but he was always trying so hard. And as I laughed, a single boa feather fell from my long raven hair onto my lap where I sat. I felt sorry, as if I had betrayed him, his wishes. Without having any feelings about what the art of the striptease is or is not, without having any opinions about what it may or may not have meant, I knew that, having done that… I was sealing the relationship, at least for me. That sounds so… final… to write it like that. But. It was. I had done the one thing he didn’t want me to do.

It was over.

grocery shopping with erin: in three movements

grocery shopping with erin

In three movements


ALLEGRO
Sunday evening, almost Monday morning
In Los Angeles, featuring a rare but welcome rain.
Traffic lights blur in the cool blush of sky tears.

I am on my way home from work, driving along in my Jetta with a check in my wallet, and, regrettably, the knowledge of an empty refrigerator,
an empty pantry,
an empty cupboard,
and an empty stomach…

With delicate counterpoint, I weave out of traffic and into the Ralph’s parking lot on La Brea. Eyeing the other cars in the lot, I spy no drug dealers,
no window smashers,
no hubcap grabbers
(*that I can tell.)

Andiamo, then, into the Ralph’s on La Brea,
into the toxic fluorescent mash-up
of late night nurses picking up cereal
and last call drinkers pulling out pizzas-
(it’s not delivery…)

Who is the DJ in this grocery store at this time of night? And by what prejudice did he decide that we, the late night grocery shoppers, deserved such a woeful listening fate? Just because I’m here at only ever odd hours… well, I think that means I fortissimo deserve good music to listen to… Perhaps I like the lack of long lines when checking out… or meeting the new trainees receiving the least desirable shifts… whomever you are, and you know who you are, it’s time to Come To Jesus on this mix.

And yes, I heard the guy with his Polo shirt tucked into his running shorts singing along.

I believe that is all testimony we need….

ANDANTE
Every time, it is the same story between me and the groceries.

Confronted with actual food for sale,

I seem to forget entirely what it is I actually eat.

I wander endlessly through the aisles, stopping to stare at the things I

* might *

put into lingering combinations over the stove
with the sweet harmony of flavors headed
directly for my lips…

But, no, I have no clue what I eat, once I am staring all this foodstuff in the eye.

Apples? Plums? Do I dare to eat a peach?

Rice cakes. Yes. Rice cakes, one for each… I….. Wait. Rice cakes? Or… was it Wasa bread? Oh, I don’t know, so instead, I shall stare at the Pop Tarts, but I know that if I take home fake food, I will eat fake food. I had better pick up a carton of oatmeal instead.

I know I don’t really “do” dairy, so ice cream is out, but that never stops me from picking up a pint, walking to the next aisle, and then turning and returning to place Ben and Jerry’s back on the shelf.

Meanwhile, two stoney boys with their pants slung low have passed me by three times now, and I know that during the next pass they will try to catch my eye. I’m not sure I want this recapitulation, as I miss that one note where the composer shifted it from sharp to natural. Always just a half a step ahead of myself, and yet never quite inside the groove, we’ll play it out again… I guess… or not, as I feign deep interest in Boboli pizza crusts and thank god I had put away that Ben and Jerry’s five minutes ago….


RONDO

A race to the check out then,
I see the girls in miniskirts and big earrings eyeing my basket
as I eye their champagne and potato chips.
who shall make it first?
None of us. We were all eclipsed by the old lady with a can of cat food.

Waiting to be warmly met,
I should still be waiting yet,
were it not for magazines that let
me indulge in a trashy fete…

And here we are now, Ralph’s Club Card, please!
And cash, down to the penny, but ten dollars I’ll need,
So, debit or credit, whate’er you prefer,
Paper or plastic, damn! I left my cloth bag in the car.
…
And now I here I am at my little Spanish style fourplex,
pulling into the long driveway,
Singing along with the music at the top of my lungs,
Shoving dried cantaloupe in my mouth.
Managing all five bags and a purse in one arm
with my keys at the ready in the other,
Home!

And I put away the groceries only to discover that
I already had lettuce, and carrots,
And I really should have tossed this guacamole out a long time ago,
And I have literally three jars of raspberry jam and still no bread for toast.

My roommate, however, appears to have bought chocolate covered caramels and
Honey sesame almonds at Trader Joe’s.
I’m sure she won’t mind if I borrow a bite….
After all, she has full access to all my groceries.
Mi miso es su miso.
And finally, as I tenderly put away a duplicate container of oats (seriously)
I notice she has bought those sweet terrors of fake food-

all hail

the forbidden fruits.

Behold:

poptarts

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens the silver foil packaging; only something in me understands
the voice of sprinkles and frosting is deeper than all whole grains)
nobody, not even the rain, has such sticky hands

…………….


I needed the energy to practice?

D.S. Al fine.

Song of the Sea Bathed Siren

….aj ondas….

Love, along a mystical shoreline,
Where we throw away so easily these
(small) gifts-
sand. pebbles. deep, wondrous sea.

Where words become meaningless
despite my stretching, and
‘mystical’ and ‘love’ ever fast,
now approach the loss of
truth, as
symbols of my
heart (love.)

But breathless, now, my heart, my love,
let not these words fall in vain,
drop by drop against your hopes.

I beg of you, if you can hear me calling,
here on this distant shore,
close your eyes and feel the beating of my heart
pressed against yours.
I desire never your anguish,
Nor ever did I dare to cross the Sea of Faith
to prove I am but a cheat.

Hear me-

Where once a poet dreamed of sailors
taking first voyages to lands unknown,
dreams of beauty, riches, ritual attrition,
(Valhalla, I am coming)-

Now we have come, still wet
to a country neither you nor I have known.

I will not scuttle across the sand
which has worn away my shell.

I am here,
I am here,
and I lay in wait, soft upon the strand.

….aj ondas….

Each day, I linger in the rising of the sun,
watching infinite the waves
which called me to this foreign place.

Each day, I bathe in salted sea
and witness my legs, growing dark
beneath the punishing sun.

The walking. The crags. The inlet streams.

I am watching, I am waiting.

Penelope? I renounce that fate.
The churn of day by day by night by day-
The stories I have told
of star made heroes,
star made shadows round-

Where is faith now?

Where once, this poet dreamed of mermaids
echoing in sleep,
I have heard the mournful cry in truth, and
it was mine.

In the reflection of this molten tide,
she, the mermaid?
She was
me.

From my better makers,
I steal sounds which pierce my heart
that I might take from it
its healing juice
and revive your withered mind.

I will give you this heart, ‘though it has broken open.

But were you here-
your ear close to my lips-
your heat enclosing my sunbaked body warm,
your fingers untangling my white washed hair,
I would not cry.
I would tell you, instead,
my stories from the sky,
and sing you melodies
from sirens I have heard within
the echo of the tide.

I shall wait. I…

And see here, how fine my cerulean gem
which I have plucked from oceanic sparkle!
I wear upon my finger, here,
and there, upon my cheek,
at times, around my neck,
and in sorrow at my feet.
In hope I touch my lips to it
and cast it out
to fairer days,
that it might bring tales
of the sea of faith,
and the sailors calling,
alee, alee.

Film Log November 14th, 2009, with a new song

Just checking in with everybody in video nirvana...

I don't really have a title for this song just yet... but I really like it. I have been very creative lately, producing and producing and producing!!

For Maggie, A Song

Dream, to make it worth waking from sleep
Plant the seeds, 'cause it's worth the dream
Winter covers the ground
So seeds might reach for light
and the great one turns the page,
bringing spring in its time...
Even if you don't know where it leads,
even if you may not succeed,
still,
you gotta dream...

Cradle your beloved in your arms.
Take this moment before its gone.
You know spring returns,
but you know so does fall,
So love it all,
love it all, love it all..
Even if it breaks your heart,
even if it takes so much to get back up and
start
again...

Now it is time to throw down your sorrow.
Find your breath and the promise of tomorrow-
Discover beautiful day...
Dream of greatness and stay
Here in your heart,
Come what may...
I will do it with you-
I am here, and I will do it, too...

seven years of love songs

i have burned every love note,
every desperate scribbling on a bar napkin,
on a Post-It note,
letters written and labored over for three days' time,
drawings and comic books that tell of love between me and

oh, pick any lover,
for just as
whose lips these lips have kissed
and when and where and why
has been my (romantic) (swan)song

i have known only the thrill of the falling
and have come around to the deep seed of love
unfolding softly
as an ex girlfriend
as an ex "love of my life"
and never as
one who said yes to the ring

so i have many, many friends
whom i know SO well
and who come to my aid in times of deep trial
and who safely and wisely counsel me
on my own folly
and vice versa,
for we know each other SO well
in the safety of no future possibility
and no fear of loss of the love from the other
for we have already lost
and now can throw our hands up in laughter and
be here to help each other

men, lovely men,
with whom I have experienced seemingly karmic levels
of forgiveness and redemption

and with whom
i shall make never home nor child.

and the wind blows,
and the pages of the calendar flip
and a secret child is born and dies
and a career is rewarded and then denied
and the throngs of ignorant revelers
join a madness they never created,
only agreed to on accident...

and inside this bubble of insanity
an entire world of true love reverberates
inwardly and outwardly
every cell of every being

calling you, it is calling you as it is calling me
as it is calling every soul,

drop this lie
drop this madness.
now.

i, myself, am awakening to the unconsciousness of my own
hell pain rendering

so what a surprise this morning to find, tucked inside an old text book,
between the Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock
and
Sweeney Among the Nightingales

the last remaining love letter

a note i somehow never burned in ritual
(full of pomp and drama, i have
renounced my mistakes in romance
for the sake of finding a true love
never noticing the tender slowness
of partnership)

my first love,
secret, forbidden,
an obstacle built by age and position
and family relation
full of poetry and pain
that continued
an un bel di
for seven years.

now we are seven years past.
i do not love him and he does not love me.
i wish to have a partner, not a father, not a teacher.
he is long married to another.
and yet
as if it were the echo of some ancient dream
rounding the corner of this mountain
my heart aches to discover
his plain song to me,
a love song for me,
one written after seven years of trying
and failing

when my ship comes in...
my ship has come in, again and again.
i have always run to another shore too soon
to enjoy the unloading of the ship
i have just lighted to shore.


ah, ego. i temper myself
and enjoy the agony of love lost.

"Erin (I am in her so much"
by M

(Hope it's okay I put it here, my love,
and I am not sorrowful at our parting,
I am grateful for out meeting. By the way
I love this poem you wrote)

"I am in her so much,
that the tender brine
of the tears left behind
still pull
as she slides out form under me, forever.

I am in her so much,
that the slender spine
of the crimes rot behind
still ill
as she slides out from under me, forever.

I am in her so much,
that the slander sign
of the hopes shot behind
still shrill
as she slides out from under me, forever.

I am in her so much,
that the candor rhyme
of the love said behind
still thrill
as she slides out from under me, forever.

I am in her so much,
that the decanter wine
of the truth sipped behind
still will
as she slides out from under me, forever.

I am in her so much,
that the torture blind
of a world so unkind
still kills
as she slides out from under me, forever.

I am in her so much,
that a joyous time
of a world still divine
will shine
if she slides into me, forever.

...

Illness roaring in
settle over our fine dreams.
A crippled, dull fog mystifies me.
But you,
you,
you are a reminder
that God has not disappeared-
You are a reminder of Beauty in this world.

..."



the rest is too personal
even for me
to share
and already I am probably making M
mad at sharing his personal letter to me
here
on the other hand he may like it
if he reads it he will let me know

but

I like that poem
a lot.
I wish i had not burned all the rest but
they say
what every poem, every war, every tango, every ant says on the inside of its words
the seed of intention is
love
even inside fear
there is a deep love
drop down
drop in
find that word
and all the world becomes a lovesong.

moonsong

leaning over the bow, my chestnut hair/
flows into the wind as i sing unto heaven/
sweet, tremulous air/

for i render all as sweet, my love/
'though I am lost in a storm of faith/

i have witnessed/
with the sailors upon the water/
that the sea draws near the moon/
and back again/

this turbulent hope/
this succulent pain/

round the shores once more, my love/
embrace the mist of day

Unfathomable, this life. Let's love it.

If I were to tell this story as true no one could believe it.

Well, perhaps it is not so unbelievable; it is me and my life.

I played the Ace of Clubs last night in New York. I was whisked away after my set and so didn’t get to hear the musicians on after me… but the adventure I did have! Getting a head of myself….

I must tell it in first person, immediate, now, so as to relive the experience… for at this very moment of writing it, I am hung-over and I may still be a little drunk and so the mind is less constricted (well, my mind is rarely constricted anymore, since I mostly have learned to ignore it. I don’t usually like to drink so much wine, but it was the moment and that was the time….)

Here now, Wednesday, October 14th, 2009. 7 pm.

Walking to the train and taking the train with Debbie, who is blooming so much right now. She is so beautiful. So very beautiful. And she is so much fun. She is so graciously letting me stay at her two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn just one train stop over from Manhattan. We bustle down Bedford where we spy records left on the street.

“Records!” we shout. She has the old school player, which I am adding to my wish list to buy. Someone had left a pile of undesirable-to-them-but-another-man’s-treasures, mostly Christmas albums, and we pick up some Mozart and jazz.

I can see why she left LA for NY. The energy is so open, so interested in all you out there and everything you are doing and driven, very driven. LA is driven but very differently. New York is basted in the juice of it and LA has tucked it inside, under the skin. Neither is healthy, per se. Both are exciting.

Get to the club, check in. Lovely Alex Cave and his song partner perform first. Acoustic Beatles and singster songsters tell of riding in cars and obsessive love. My energy, my nervousness, which I pretend to choose to ignore, converts into snapped strings and lost pics. That’s okay. I open myself up to the experience of it, and love it. And lo, a friend from childhood! The boy who grew up around the corner from me, who I used to play vacuum cleaner with, who, with his sister, we would roam the fields and woods and find little turtles and rabbits as pets… and then, another treat! My dear friend the violinist! He, the violinist, takes both my hands. “Are you nervous? Well, now, no!” He says. He wears a beautiful black leather coat and his silver hair is sleek. He introduces his friend, the artistic director of the Kiev Orchestra, who wears a beautiful red leather coat. His dark hair is sleek and dramatic as well.

None of us fit in at this club, we all look a little out of place. Everyone is wearing jeans and tees. For me, this is often what happens. I am always a little out of place. I apparently like it, because I never make much of an effort to fit in, visually. I just choose to listen to everyone instead. The other bands and the other club goers are amazingly nice, truly, truly.

I am wearing a low v-neck silver tunic. The v goes to just below my bust line, showing deep cleavage, and then the top is tight around my waist. I wear it over black leggings. I wear my mother’s cameo ring on my right ring finger and my friend’s Mayan Ruin ring on the pointer finger of my left hand, which I must switch to my right hand for performing. I wear a sparkly scarf and a lot of lipstick and smudged eye makeup. My hair is its natural auburn right now, loose and layered with bangs. I am five pounds overweight at the moment and I carry it in my tummy and my breasts. I am okay with it. I feel very womanly.

I take the stage. I play along with backing tracks for some songs, then give up the protection of it all and fly free. I go into my heart and feel the spotlight on me. I hear the people talking but soon they begin to listen. Is this boastful for me to write about this? I was recently called out by a friend for being boastful. But is it boastful to tell my experience? Is this my ego? I will tell you parts of the story that aren’t as flattering to myself to make it even.

I am a capable guitarist at best. I can never be bothered to perfectly tune my guitar and I know it is because I cannot believe I have to play guitar in the first place. THAT is ego. But after years of playing, I can handle a basic strummity strum, at least more than what Rita Hayworth plays (fakes) in Gilda. I should practice the guitar and become very good at it but I just don’t want to. I want only to sing, only to write songs and sing. I prefer to have a band back me up. I am a show woman. I like that. I am not perfect nor would I ever want to be. I want to inspire you. I want to entertain you. I want to move you and be moved by you. I want to have communion with the listener and I am a listener as well. I want to share an experience with you now here at this moment and I want it to open deftly, skillfully, some fiber within me, within you, made of light, which pulls and expands upon the tissues of our soul, be it physiological or energetic, known or unknown, hidden or apparent.

More flaws: I have been eating dairy and so my voice is very phlegmy. I feel we recorded the record in lower range that is slightly too low for me for performing live and I am upset with myself over it and yet like it at the same time. I have the ability to hold many conflicting emotions at once and be aware of some or maybe most of them and it is very confusing although perfectly normal and at the same time inspirational for songwriting, performing and acting. So while I am singing I often cry and laugh and appear to be a lunatic. I do not care. I must be truthful to me experience onstage so that I can be my nice, normal self girl off stage. Off stage I am a normal girl who wants to look pretty and be happy and hang out with her friends and pay her bills and volunteer and spend time with her family and get a nice boyfriend and have pets. On stage I open myself up to any experience that comes through me. I feel you out there and I will take that energy and share it, and share mine with you, and together we build that tower of Babylon, that tower of song.

I see my flaws as positives because I can learn from them.

I love, while I am performing, that Debbie films me. I love that people stop talking in between songs to clap. I love that I never know what to say but my mouth flaps anyway. I love that when I tell the audience that I am a die-hard member of the lonely hearts club, a girl that I do NOT know shouts out, “Nooooo! No you’re not! Don’t talk that way about yourself.” “You’re right,” I say. “Thank you for correcting my speech.” I think about Wayne Dyer and wish I were more like him. Only not. I love my life. So I sing another song. And another song. I sell two CDs. Life is beautiful.

I love, during the set, that the director and the violinist give ovation to the violin solo. They are classical people. They behave accordingly. I love that the other bands are drinking and merry making. They are rock and rollers. They behave accordingly.

After the set, my friends part ways but for the violinist. He and Debbie and I go to dinner at the Cooper Square Hotel. It is terribly beautiful in that hotel. We order salmon from the salt bar, and I eat way too much bread and butter. I will never be thin again if I continue to indulge and yet I am nervous and excited and I do not do drugs so instead I eat. My friend orders way too much wine and I indulge. I am not proud of how much I am drinking, but I am doing it anyway. The wine is, let’s just say, half my rent a bottle. I do not feel guilty, I choose to enjoy. I choose to live here in this moment, and pray to god to let me help somebody. Maybe that somebody is me. I pray to god to let me help whomever I should help. It is all relative. The night before on the plane, I bought a man a pizza because he had no money. I am no saint. I am just a singer doing her turn and her twirl. So my friend loves wine, and he shares it with us. I feel a little guilty. And not. See? Conflicting emotions at once.

We talk to the concierge about music. The violinist insists I give the concierge a CD because he is a producer. The concierge sends us to Zinc. My friend has a driver and a car on hire for the entire time he is in New York. Felix, the driver, is so nice. He is from Dominican Republic and has sons who are 30. He takes us to Zinc, this fantastic jazz club on Houston. The tables that are open are right down in front, where I always end up sitting. My friend leans over and asks me about my love life. I shake my head, “no,” and pout. He says, “You need an older man. That’s who can handle you.” “So I hear,” I say. “And so I write about on the record.”

I laugh out loud. I work so hard to NOT be too much for men my own age. I have never dated a guy my own age and I am told it is because I am too much. Too much. Too much. Either these guys gotta catch up or I gotta figure out some other way of existing. I do not know how to be anything other than myself. I do not want to be with an older man. I will be, if that is my lot. But I have only ever dated older men. I want to date a guy my own age- for once- see how it goes. I just scare them away too fast. Bummer.

Oh that’s not true. I dated Justin, he was a year older than me, and Jens, a year older than me. Those boys were fun. And probably if I had not been so crazy, they were very nice boyfriends. Hm.

I think the problem has been, until now, I am too much for MYSELF.

Ah.

Aha.

I’m backing off that. Now. How? By giving that to my musical life, to my writing life, to my acting life. As Candace says, give it to my r-e-e-l life so that my r-e-a-l life can be nice and normal. I wake up in the mornings. I run. I do yoga. I eat oatmeal. I run errands. I talk to my roommate. I wave to my neighbors. I go to my day jobs. I sometimes am exhausted but go to those places in me that are not so that I can do a good job for them. I am excited that I have two free days in New York. I am scared about the money. I cannot afford to be here. But for my soul, I cannot afford not to. I am dedicating the day to writing and then tonight my childhood friend and Debbie and I will go to Café Luxembourg. I am going out of my way to prove to myself that I am normal. I am not normal. I am healthy. I am not healthy. I am both and I am not both, like any woman, like any girl, like any person.

I look at my friend. I shrug my shoulders. He pats my back.

Then-

percussion!

Samuel Torres is playing!

He is an AWESOME jazz percussionist whose music is inspired by the work of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. WOW. One of my favorites.

We are moved. We are moved. And we are moved.

And now I am drunk.

I look at my friend.

“I must go now,” I say.

He nods. We leave. Felix drops him off at his hotel, and then shuttles me through the night lights to Brooklyn. I stumble up the steps, Debbie has gone earlier and taken my gear with her. I say good night.

And I dream.

I dream that my mother is driving me in a big van, my old touring van, only she cannot see anything anymore. She is driving us through the playground at my old elementary school. We are getting messages from friends in newspapers, they leap out of the newspapers to warn us of impending dangers. I sense that they are all living in fear and it is unduly affecting my mother’s ability to see. I take charge. My mother sits in back and I take over driving and take us to the sea. We are now driving on that highway that appears in my dreams, the lost space highway. We drive to the hospitals where I leave my mother to help heal the sick and wounded. The sick and wounded show me their hospital beds, Murphy beds that drop from the walls. I must go to the water now, I say, but I will return. I go to the water and there is a boy I had been dating and he is running after a bull, a great and giant bull, which is running into the high and treacherous waves of the ocean. The waves get higher and higher. The bull had been on a leash that this guy had been holding. But the bull runs out to sea and there are giant trees and jagged pieces of old ships that have broken apart and are being washed in to shore by the dangerous waves. A piece of jagged ship pierces the bull through the heart and a deep dark blood seeps up. I dive into the water, where, despite the night, I can see everything as if it were sunny inside the sea. I try to save the bull, to pull the ship from the heart of him, but he is dead. I return to shore, where this boy is crying.

And then I awake.

And I write this.

Promo video from Spinout Records