Los(t) & Jealous

Go With Happiness

Fri, 19 Aug 2011 00:05:00 GMT

When I was five, my mother took me to get my hair trimmed. I don’t recall anything about the salon. I can’t tell you the name of the woman who cut my hair, or what she looked like. The only thing I remember from that day is my mother’s face - first trembling and then crumbling as she sobbed huge mom tears–

OHMYGODWHATHAVEYOUDONETOHERHAIR?!

My stylist spent the whole cut talking on the phone and I emerged from her chair looking like a cross between a tiny, Mo Howard and Dorothy Hamill. For the next 13 or so years, my mother did my hair. She went to school, became licensed and turned herself into a top-notch colorist. Growing up immersed in the world o’hair, I learned the lingo, how to communicate what I wanted and expected, how to correct home hair coloring disasters, and how to take matters into my own shears if desperate. Despite this, that first time in the chair set the stage for my lifelong love-hate relationship with salons and stylists.

When I moved to California 8 years ago, I thought, “Surely, I can settle into a nice, long monogamous relationship with a stylist. I managed to do it when I lived in Boston.” In fact, when I moved to Nashville, I would fly back to Boston just so I wouldn’t have to go through the pain of finding someone new. But LA… I mean, this is the home of The Beautiful People. Therein, perhaps, lies the problem. I am not Beautiful People. I am the people who work for Beautiful People. I am the people who get fired by Beautiful People because I would rather eat my own limbs than wash their underwear, tutor their ill-behaved offspring or clean-up after their Pomeranian.

LA, as we all know, is home to some amazing salons and stylists. BUT - good luck finding the one that meets your needs and getting an appointment. And so, I’ve been whoring around, looking for someone to meet my crazy, unrealistic expectations: consistently good cuts that make me look cute and don’t force me to choose between buying groceries and good grooming.

Since my divorce this past year, I’ve been flip-flopping between a stop-gap salon in Venice and Super Cuts in Silverlake. Yeah, that’s right. When I need it quick, cheap, and dirty, I get a fix by a crazy woman named T-O-N-E-E. Tonee is a big girl, with huge tits, full-sleeve tats, curly bleached hair, and cocaine fingernails. The first time I visited her, I had Retin A burns on my face, because if I’m not fucking up my hair, I am definitely fucking up my face. She took one look at me and said, “GURRRRRRL! What the hell did you do to your face?! Leave that shit alone! You know what you need? You need a young boyfriend. YEAH! Get fucked enough by a younger man and you won’t need to do shit to your face.”

As you can probably imagine, surviving Tonee requires a strong constitution and this past weekend, I’d had enough. Now, the salon I sometimes frequent in Venice was not an option. I never really leave there feeling great about my hair. So I did something I NEVER do: I took my dusty credit card out of its hiding place and went to Beverly Hills. I visited a salon where a friend of a friend works. Put it this way: her FOF rate is $85 vs her usual $120 price tag.

While catching up, she told me she hated my color. “Heatherrrrr! You’re meant to be a redhead. I don’t know why you insist on this blah blonde. Let me put color on you, okay?” My stomach churned. I had a small flash of what was to come. This is when normal people politely decline, but for some reason I said, “Mmmaybe…?” I told her that I recently went super blonde - not the color I requested - and that my hair is pretty porous. I told her about all the hair-saving products I’d been using. She nodded, half-listening, half-dozing off.

We flipped through two look-books, which mostly featured the kind of colors that only a clown on crack could love. And then I saw it: a beautiful, subtle shade of honey red. The color of my hair when I was three. I pointed to it. Emmy nodded, but then said, “Let’s AMP IT UP because it’s going to fade fast, like all reds do. Besides, you have such a BIG personality! Your hair should match! It’ll look great on stage!” I looked up from the book, stared at her hard and said – “NO. NO. Please. Listen to me. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be big, crazy red. I need to be conservative. I have a day job now. Okay?”

She nodded and ran off to get supplies. When she returned, she prepped me, mixed the concoction, and applied it to my melon. It looked dark. Really dark. I looked at Emmy in the mirror and told her so. She cut me off, “Everything will be okay. Okay? Relax!” While my color processed, Emmy dashed off to eat lunch. I sat unchecked, goop on my head, reading magazines. After 10 minutes or so, I felt something on my nose. I looked up to find that the color mixture had bled down my face. I looked like I’ve been shot in the forehead.

I looked around for a Kleenex, a towel, something… anything to wipe my face. Nothing. Dozens of people few by me, a stylist worked right next to me - smiled at me in the mirror even- and no one offered me a towel. The mixture continued to run. I tried to get someone’s attention and that’s when the panic started to kick in: maybe, just maybe this is a bad sign.

Emmy came back from lunch and despite the fact that I looked like a victim of an Echo Park drive-by, I had to ask for something to clean up with. She led me away, handed me a towel, sat me at a sink and began washing out the color. When she finished, she returned me to an upright position. And that’s when I saw the mirror.

My hair was bright, screaming red. Fire engine red. Blood and guts red. Rhianna red. I grabbed a patch of it and it felt like a cross between cotton candy and straw. I started shaking uncontrollably. “Emmy, Emmy… oh my god. What have you… this, this is not what we talked about. This is not what we talked about…” My voice trailed off and I realized: I sounded just like my mother did when I was five. Emmy patted me on the back and assured me that it would be lighter once it dried. I thought to myself, “There is no way this is going to dry four shades and tones lighter.”

We headed back to her station and she began drying my hair. It took forever because of the damage and was almost impossible to get a comb through. I was seething. I wailed, “You have… you have to fix this. Please. This is not even close to what we discussed. I have an event to go to. I have a date this weekend with a man 14 years younger than me! I don’t even want to leave the salon. You have to fix this.”

I usually do my own color for this very reason: people do not listen. It doesn’t matter if it’s top dollar or low rent. They do what they want because they think that they know more about you than you do… person who wears your hair every day.

When I first moved to Southern California, a stylist someone recommended to me turned me so red it looked black. And then, there was the platinum bleach job I didn’t ask for. And the guy who trimmed so much off my pixie, you could see skin. A haircut so bad, it required wigs, hats and the patience of Job to grow out. There was also the stylist who gave me something called an “inverted bob”- which to me sounds more like circumcision than a haircut. His hands flew and he cut my ears – twice. I think Alice Cooper was right – Only Women Bleed.

Emmy, it turned out, didn’t have time to fix the mess she created and told me I could come back Tuesday –four days later- to get highlights. Highlights. On over-processed hair. By this point, I was thisclose to flying into a giant red rage. I didn’t even look at her as I descended the stairs to the changing rooms. As I stood waiting to pay my bill, she met me at the counter and passive aggressively apologized for my color. “Sorry, but everyone loves it! There are at least four people here who’ve commented on how great it is.” Four out of five dentists probably love the color, too, but it’s not what we talked about!

I handed my credit card to the receptionist who asked if I was happy with my hair. I stood in silence with my eyes closed for some time and finally said –“No, no I’m not happy.” The reception counter came to an abrupt halt, as if I’d just killed a bunch of puppies. “The cut is fine, but… this color is not anywhere near the color I picked, and it’s uneven. So, no, I’m not fucking happy and she knows it.” The receptionist, bless her heart, told me Emmy could fix it. When I told her Em’s schedule wasn’t open until Tuesday, she tried to convince me to let another stylist fix it – which meant – TA DA! Highlights! I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

I spent the next two days buying products to remove the color and even more products to get my hair to a color I could live with. The process involves removing the existing color, and then applying a toner, if need be, over what remains. Hair colorant is sold according to level and base. The darker the color, the lower the level. Auburn, for example, might be a level six. Likewise, all colors have a base, usually in one of these tones: gold, orange, red (or some combination), green, blue, violet and neutral. Each tone (except neutral) has an opposite that cancels or softens it. Don’t want red in your hair? Use a shade with a green (or ash) base. Gold? Use violet. Orange? Use blue.

I went from fire engine red to new penny copper, to baby poop orange to blinding gold. I stood staring at the products. I knew my damaged hair would grab dark so, I selected the lightest level possible: 10. But what about the base? I was somewhat two-toned. I picked a baby beige toner with a soft blue base. Suddenly it hit me: gold (ie yellow) and blue make green. Would I be green? OMG. I decided that if all failed, I could always shave my head. And so, I went to work. I cried so much my dog hid under my bed. I burned my ears and my scalp. By the time I was done, my eyes were puffy, my nose was red, and my scalp was so sensitive, it was too painful to dry my hair.

I posted something about it on Facebook and a friend I’ve known for the better part of a decade – someone who clearly doesn’t get my sense of humor- texted me, “HEATHER! STOP POSTING NEGATIVE THINGS ON FACEBOOK. It’s so fucking hard to read! Go with happiness. GO WITH HAPPINESS. HAHAHA”

Another friend, who is a brilliant comedian, read that same post and invited me to share it as spoken word piece at the infamous Rick Shaprio's weekly spoken word event. I took her advice instead.

All That Jazz

Mon, 31 Aug 2009 03:50:00 GMT

Growing up, my mother's family used to tell stories about the London House. Located at Wacker and Michigan in downtown Chicago, The London House was a restaurant owned by Oscar and George Marienthal that my great aunt Estelle managed. My great grandmother worked there, and during summers off from school, my mother, her older sister and their cousins all worked there.

As I grew older, the stories they shared were suddenly more... interesting. Shortly before my grandmother's little sister Marian passed away from breast cancer, I spent a long weekend with her. Like little kids at a slumber party, we stayed up late, getting drunk and sharing tons of great, gossipy family stories.

Marian told me that her grandfather (my great great grandfather) had taught his three daughters, Mary, Estelle and Wanda how to play cards. Estelle was especially gifted, and she quickly learned how to cheat him. When he caught on, he ordered the family dog to attack her and it bit off her nose. This horrified me, but as I said, we were three sheets to the wind at this point. Estelle, like her sisters, was over-the-top. She was loud, wickedly funny and could drink most men under the table. She liked to be in charge. She also never wanted to be dependent on a man, so she always worked and had her own money. Rumor has it her husband never worked a day in his life. Since she had her own money, she set her own rules. Over the years, I'd heard that she'd kept boyfriends, played guitar and bet on horses. Basically, she was a wild gal.

Then there was the story that while working at the London House, Estelle had an affair that her husband could not ignore. He was so furious, he went down to the restaurant in a rage and shot out all the windows. It made all the Chicago newspapers and Estelle was fully prepared to lose her job. The next day, she approached the owners and told them she'd collect her things and go. According to family lore, the owners told her she wasn't going anywhere because business had never been better. There was so much publicity that business tripled, as Chicagoan after Chicagoan came down to the restaurant to see the woman whose loony husband busted up the place.

The other day, I had dinner with my lovely cousin Carol (who is Wanda's daughter, so I suppose that makes her my third cousin) who is in town visiting from Switzerland. Over drinks, we compared notes. She told me that her grandfather hadn't actually ordered the dog to attack Estelle, but he did pull it's tail while it was licking her face. The dog bit her and she had to be taken to the hospital to have her nose stitched up. Still disturbing, and at least partially true.

Estelle's husband definitely took out all the windows at the London House, but how he did it is a mystery. Gunshot? With his fists? Who knows? As we gabbed about the London House, Carol casually mentioned that it was a jazz club.

HUH?!

As she sipped her drink, she nodded and said, "Oh, yeah! Anybody who was anyone played there. Dizzy, Ella, Sarah Vaughn... you name it. Oscar Peterson recorded there. Sarah recorded there. You should look into it."

In all my years of hearing about this place, no one ever mentioned this. You'd think that when I quit college to chase music around, someone might have brought this up to me. You'd think someone might have said to me, "Hey kiddo, you really should talk with your aunt Estelle."

Unfortunately, she's gone now. Most of the people who worked for Estelle and knew all the gritty details are gone now... my great grandmother, grandmother, her younger sister. And so, I did some digging online and called my mother. When I asked her why she never bothered to tell me that it was a famous jazz club, she said that it never occurred to her.

"I never worked the shows, I just set up the room."

I wailed, "How could you not think this was important?! For Pete's sake, Bill Evans played there! The Ramsey Lewis Band was the house band! Joao Gilberto, Gene Krupa, Joe Pass, Stan Getz! For crying out loud, Mom! Stan Getz!"

Her reponse?

"Oh yeah! Stan used to come in all the time. Your Uncle Dan just loved him."

The London House closed when I was kid and Burger King took over the space. Now, I hear, a Corner Bakery occupies it. From grand jazz club to a chain sandwich shop. Ah, the wonders of capitalism.

There are two or possibly three more people in my family who might remember a thing or two about the club. I have calls into them, but in the meantime, I have some digging to do.

Giving Thanks

Sat, 06 Jun 2009 00:00:00 GMT

One of my social media friends has this great blog where, each day, she lists three things for which she's grateful. I think it's a fantastic way to counter negativity and redirect energy towards something more healing and productive.

Before my grandmother passed away, I had a routine that helped me stay focused and put me in a more positive frame of mind.

I started eating more veggies, fruit, fish and turkey. I gave up processed foods and booze.

I waked three to four miles every day with Rosebud.

I did yoga.

After my gran's health began to slide and I started staying at her house in the Midwest, I found it really difficult to maintain the lifestyle I'd built in California. I couldn't find great produce. The weather and the location of her house made it next to impossible to take my daily walks. I brought along a yoga dvd, but her dvd player was wonky. Grrr! I muddled through and when I got back to California I picked up where I left off.

And then... she died.

The phone rang at three a.m. It was my mother, calling to tell me that my gran was failing. When I started sobbing uncontrollably, she encouraged me to calm down. I told her that if there were any time in my life in which it should be okay that I was not calm, it was now. I made her promise to call me from the hospital so I could say goodbye to my gran.

When my mother arrived at the hospital three hours later, she called me again and then held the phone up to my grandmother's ear. My grandmother could not speak, but supposedly could still hear. Her breath was ragged; it sounded like she was drowning. It turned out, she was. Her lungs had been filling with fluid. I pulled myself together and told her how much I loved her and that if she needed to go, I understood.

For the next few hours, there were phone calls. Many, many phone calls. My mother's younger sister told me it was time to come home. My husband called United Airlines while I grabbed my winter coat and our car keys. As we were heading south on "the 5," the phone rang again. It was my aunt, telling me not to come home. I would not make it in time. They placed the phone next to my gran's ear again, and I told her all the things I had already said. I couldn't think of what else to say. I wanted to beg her to wait for me. But how do you ask an 80 year-old woman who is drowning... whose organs are failing... to wait? I could not, did not.

Craig took me home and then left for the studio. It was a brilliantly blue day. There were fluffy white clouds in the sky and hummingbirds in my yard. It was unseasonably warm.

And then...

my brother called.

There was silence followed by a squeak and then crying.

She was gone.

I fell to my knees and sobbed so hard, my nose bled. As a child I had frequent nosebleeds that often landed me in the hospital. I hadn't had one since I left Nashville. After she passed, every time I started to cry, my nose would bleed.

Suddenly, nothing seemed to matter anymore. I didn't want to walk. I didn't want to eat veggies or fruit. Yoga master Rodney Yee started to look like the devil to me. I fell into a very dark place and I'm just starting to come out of it.

I'm walking again. I'm eating better. I haven't quite gotten around to the yoga yet, but I'm determined to get back to the mat. There have been a few interactions with industry people over the last week or so that have left me feeling patronized, useless and pissed off. I was starting to slide back into that dark place when I read a Buddhist saying...

Throw a dog a stick and he will run after it.
Throw a lion a stick and he will turn to see where it came from.

In other words, consider the source. Is it worth your energy?

I've decided to be like the lion.

And so... in the spirit of Jenn's blog, I'm going to start giving thanks for things that are going well.

Today, I am thankful for...

1. the house concert host who declined a free album download and instead bought both records.

2. my friends who called just to see how I was feeling.

3. having been blessed with such a great grandmother for so long.

Until next time...

hmw

Returning to ISP

Tue, 02 Jun 2009 21:10:00 GMT

I've just been asked to play another show at Indiana State Prison when I'm on tour this fall. I'm probably going to say yes, but thought I'd revisit my blog from the last go round.

* * * * *

After getting lost on the south side of Chicago and having to take a detour through downtown Gary, Rich and I finally made it safely to my brother's house. We were greeted at the door by his two dogs, Elvis and Hallie. Elvis is a 35 pound pug who apparently likes to eat his own doodie, so my brother has taken to calling him, "Poop Chin."

We played two shows yesterday afternoon at the Indiana State Prison, one for the general population and one for Death Row. The Death Row show was a first in the history of the prison, but more on that later.

An offender named Harry ran sound, and I have to say, he did an awesome job. I've met many an incompetant sound guy, so this was a pleasant surprise. He even recorded the show and that also sounded amazing. I have no idea which offenders are granted access to the internet (none it turns out), but a big shout out and thank you to him nonetheless.

The show opened with the Praise Team, a gospel choir/band that writes their own music. An offender named Earl was the soloist and he was so damn good that I had second thoughts about taking the stage. He really knocked my socks off. After the show, the PT presented me with their cd, which was a very humbling moment. Despite their situtaion, they maintain their love for music, a tough order to fill in that environment. There are so many days when I fill like I'm failing and should throw in the towel, but I have a different perspective now.

Hands down, this was the strangest gig we've ever done, but it was also one of the best. I've never signed so many autographs, shook so many hands, or heard so many thanks yous. I signed guitars, hats, t-shirts, id cards, and letters home to their kids and families. Some sang along, some even clapped along and at the end, we got a standing ovation. They were polite, well-behaved and very, very appreciateive. They even asked me to come back. I realize this was a captive audience, but attendance was voluntary.

Playing to Death Row was an entirely different experience. Out of the 19 men on X Row ( what the officials call it) 11 of them attended the show. Rich and I both found it incredibly difficult to concentrate and I found it even harder to sing. Playing without amplification and having to reach people sitting 30 feet away was quite a challenge, but looking these men in the eye was even harder.

As a performer, I always want to connect with my audience, but it's scary to face someone who has taken a life. There was a 25-year old man sitting not 5 feet away from me who had killed his step-father, sister and brother. Another man killed a little boy. Someone else killed and ate his father.

You read that right.

He ate his father.

One offender took to giving me advice about which radio stations I should send my cds to. He was incredibly chatty and quite honestly, the only person who made me nervous. We were seperated by huge bars and a series of locking electronic gates; I am most thankful for that. I am also thankful to the incredible staff who were gracious, totally on-the-ball and well-organized.

After the show, we were given a tour of the prison, which included a viewing of "Sparky" the retired electric chair, and a stop at the death chamber. Seeing these things on TV is one thing, viewing them up close is a whole other ball of wax. I have no idea how anyone could think the electric chair is a humane method of execution, but there is no doubt in my mind the United States Supreme Court needs to step in and ban it's use. The generator that produces the current is enormous. It's about the size of a residential refrigerator. The "switch" is actually a very large lever akin to something the railroads might use to switch trains from one track to another. It looks like something out of Frankenstein.

I'm really not sure where I stand on the death penalty. While I was living in Maine, a 10-year old named Jeffrey Curley was murdered near my home. The details are much too grim to recount here, but suffice to say I was firmly on the side of the death penalty. A few years after Jeffrey's murder, I heard an interview with the victim's father in which he said that putting the murderers to death wouldn't bring back his son and he therefore didn't see the justice in it. I agree, but on the other hand, I doubt with every fiber of my being that rehabiliation (at least in this case) is possible. I also don't see how allowing them to live out their days in prison makes any sense.

And so, the conundrum.

One thing is for certain: I have a new outlook on music. I am grateful that I had the chance to reach so many people in such a positive way, but I am just as thrilled that I was able to walk out into the sunshine a free woman.

* * * * *

Well, it's been a year since I played ISP and I'm still unsure of where I stand on the death penalty. I'm leaning towards abolition. I've looked over the cases of the men on Indiana's X Row and 95% of them have IQs well below average and have a history of physical abuse or trauma. There are some who just snapped. Either way, I don't see how putting them to death them is going to change anything. While it will prevent them from committing other crimes, so will life w/o parole. Execution will not undo the crimes they've committed, or bring back the lives they've taken. It will not deter others; that much is clear to me.

If you've seen The Green Mile, you've probably not forgotten the execution scene where blue flames shoot through the inmate's skull.

That actually happens.

An officer who attends executions told me that electrocution burns a hole the size of a baseball right through the skull. And the smell is... he didn't say words, but the look on his face said plenty. I don't want anyone blowing a hole of any size through someone's skull on my behalf, with my tax dollars. There has to be another way. Yes, the people on death row have committed horrible, horrible crimes, but they are still people. If we demonize them, view them not as people, but only as the crimes they've committed, then we are no further along than we were when we were lynching people or baking them in ovens.

I suppose demonizing offenders makes it easier to condemn them to death, but John and Ann Q. Public don't throw the switch. They don't inject the lethal dose of drugs. The family of the victim isn't pulling the strings. The person carrying out "justice" is an officer who can't get the smell of burning flesh out of his nose... the person who has been guarding them for years. Not you, sitting in your easy chair watching the news. Not the family of the victim, who may even be related to the offender.

I spent one day at ISP and it was enough to convince me that spending the rest of your life behind bars isn't a pardon. It's not letting crimes go unpunished. It's not a walk in the park. It may be life, but its not a rich one. You don't sleep alone. You don't eat alone. You don't shower alone. You do not piss alone, shit alone, or get sick alone. You do not set your own schedule. You do not choose what you eat. You don't get to call whomever you want, whenever you want and you certainly don't get any privacy when you do talk. You may be raped. You may be beaten. You may be stabbed or killed. Your letters, if you write or receive any, will be read and assessed by your jailers. Your family may never come to see you. You may end up in solitary. You will never have a dog, or go for a bike ride, or grab a beer with friends. You will not enjoy sex, or be able to attend your mother's funeral when she passes away. You will not see your children graduate or get married, or be able to comfort them when times are hard. You will never see your favorite band play live or go to the movies. You will wear the same thing every day. You will own one pair of shoes that may wear out long before you are assigned another pair. You will live among rats and roaches. It will be drafty in the winter and hot in the summer. There are plenty of ways in which will you pay for your crimes.

On that note, I think I'm going to take the gig.

Stonewalling

Thu, 28 May 2009 04:05:00 GMT

California has failed once again. Yesterday, our state supreme court upheld Prop 8 (or Prop H8, if your prefer), which altered the state constitution to keep same-sex couples from marrying. Oddly enough, the court also allowed 18,000 same-sex marriages to remain intact.

Confused?

Prop 8 passed by a very narrow margin, thanks in part to religious black and latino voters. I find it so very odd that the same people who have fought discrimination for years are now the same people who are discriminating against others, because some ancient Bronze age text and their "god/God" says that it's okay.

It is not okay.

It is not okay.

It is not okay.

It's also not okay that California allows special interest groups from other states to pump money into opposing or supporting legislation that doesn't affect them. Why the hell was this left to the popular vote? Why wasn't it decided by the legislature as mandated by our state constitution?

Some folks claim that allowing two people of the same sex to marry is going to destroy the fabric and sanctity of marriage. Those people need to take a long hard look at the divorce rate in this country. Heteros did that damage by themselves and considering the number of people who claim to be church-going, that means there are a lot of believers contributing to the mess. In fact, I dare say MOST of mess was created by church-going people.

If we really want to talk about what destroys marriage, we should look at communication, or rather the lack of it, and see what we get. We should look at communities that allow people as young as 16 to marry (nevermind that those same communities will allow those same kids to fight and die for our country, but not drink beer.) We should look at why we make obtaining a divorce so easy.

While we're at it, we should also look at the history of marriage. For all this flower-filled-adjective talk of sanctity and love, we seem to be forgetting or ignoring its original purpose. Marriage was about the transfer of property. It was a transaction. The ketubah, for example, was merely a receipt that spelled out of what the bride could expect. That's it. It was not about vows and love and kittens. Okay, maybe kittens. Kittens could be considered property.

If our definition of marriage has evolved to something other than a transfer of property, surely we can stand to expand our definition again so that marriage will be available to everyone. If we can't, then I'm starting to think we should just toss out marriage. Toss it the hell out... for everyone. Let it be a religious ceremony, and those who want it can go to their religion of choice to participate. Let it be something not legally recognized. If you (and by you, I mean the collective you) want legal recognition, you'll have to get a license and civil union.

By the way, let's also get rid of "In God We Trust" from our money and ditch "one nation under God" from the pledge. The pledge didn't even contain those words in the original text. As a songwriter, I can only imagine what the author, Francis Bellamy, would have thought of someone taking such liberty. Sure, he was a Baptist minister, but he was also a socialist. That's right! A socialist! "Under God" was added 62 years after Bellamy wrote it, during the height of the anti-Communist fervor in the 50s, and as the NYT so eloquently stated, "a petty attempt to link patriotism with piety."

Please, let's get it together California. The world is watching and Maine is kicking your ass!

Life's Rich Pageant

Wed, 22 Apr 2009 21:00:00 GMT

I've been avoiding TV since I returned home from tour and have been relying on NPR for the news. What I don't get from NPR, I glean from The Huffington Post, Salon, and other websites. Yesterday, in my web wanderings, I came across the video clip of Miss California "competing" at the Miss USA pageant.

While I'm a staunch supporter of free speech, I don't necessarily know that her loss is about censorship. She dropped her poker face, she was inarticulate and she alienated lot of people. I really believe that's why she lost. Miss USA is supposed to represent ALL of us and in one fell swoop, she blew it. She lacked diplomacy, and if there's one thing you need when dealing with the public-at-large, it's tact.

She could have said something like, "If selected as Miss USA, I believe it would be my job to unite and inspire people, not wax political. This is a very sensitive subject for many folks and ultimately, I believe it will work itself out in our court system."

I know there's quite a bit of maneuvering going on, but that's her job. Be pretty. Smile. Make people feel good. Feed hungry people. Read to kids. Dance around the ugly and tough issues. Stay away from cocaine and partying like a 1980s rock star. She's a fucking beauty pagent contestant, not Bob Dylan.

Some Girls Wander

Fri, 10 Apr 2009 01:00:00 GMT

It's hard to believe that it's been a week since Duane passed away. A couple of nights ago, Rich McCulley and I went out for dinner with Dave, my vocal coach and as soon as we left the restaurant, I burst into tears. So many things I wish I had said and done. So many songs, so many gigs we'll never get to play. I'm comforted by the fact that the last correspondence I have from him is a text he sent two days before he died that read, "I love you Heater!" I love you, too, man.

Over the past week, I've been booking shows and talking with a handful of guitarists. I stumbled across an amazing singer/songwriter named Joanthan Byrd, who I'm hoping to do some touring with. His song Wild Ponies knocked me out. It's like Springsteen's Nebraska, but with a sweetness. It's haunting. Achy goodness! And speaking of achy goodness, have you listened to Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago? It's like a punch to the heart. I heard it while driving through upstate New York on my way to The Naples Hotel. It was the perfect soundtrack to the freezing cold and light snowfall. I wish all things worked out so well!

Please keep checking back as I'm adding new shows all the time. I'm heading back East in September and I'll even be playing a show in Raleigh on the 22nd. SO, if you are out in those parts and you're dying for a house concert, drop me a line and we'll make it happen.

Thanks for your continued support!

In the End We Are All Light

Tue, 07 Apr 2009 01:10:00 GMT

When I was at university, I stumbled upon the poems of a writer named Liz Rosenberg. I loved her work so much, I tore it out of an anthology I’d found in the library, fearful that I’d never see it again.

Years after my thievery, I was standing in my friend Sookie’s kitchen, retelling that story. She stopped chopping her veggies and said, "What was the last name again?" I told her; she paused, looked up from her cutting board and said, "Liz? She’s my cousin."

I ended up tracking Liz down though a Google search and we started writing each other. When I relayed all of this, it brought back many sweet memories of her childhood. In thanks, she sent me a signed copy of the book. It’s been out of print for some time and if my house were on fire, I would rush in to find this book.

After 9/11, and with Liz’s permission, I gathered some lines from several of the poems and turned them into a song for a friend whose mother was on American Airlines Flight 11. I have yet to put "Judy September" on a record, but I imagine I will some day.

In March of last year, my friend’s wife, who was in her early 40s, passed away following a bout of pneumonia. She leaves behind her husband, and their very young daughter. It made me think of a one of Liz’s poems, one that my friend Kim Grant read it at my wedding. Now, with DJ hovering in some ether, it weighs on my mind again.

IN THE END WE ARE ALL LIGHT

I love how old men carry purses for their wives,
those stiff light-beige or navy wedge-shaped bags
that match the women’s pumps,
with small gold clasps that click open and shut.
These men drowse off in medical center waiting rooms,
the bags perched in their laps like big tame birds
too worn to flap away. Within, the wives slowly undress,
put on the thin white robes, consult, come out
and wake the husbands dreaming openmouthed.

And when they both rise up
to take their constitutional,
walk up and down the block, her arms are free as air,
his right hand dangles down.

So I, desiring to shed this skin
for some light silken one,
will tell my husband, "Here, hold this,"
and watch him amble off among the shining
cans of motor oil, my leather bag
slung over his massive shoulder bone,
so prettily slender-waisted, so forgiving of the ways
we hold each other down, that watching him
I see how men love women, and women men,
and how the burden of the other comes to be
light as a feather blown, more quickly vanishing

Duane Jarvis: 1957-2009

Sat, 04 Apr 2009 12:00:00 GMT

A few years back, I was walking around the local Rite Aid in Highland Park. As I was (again) contemplating hair color, my phone rang. The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Duane Jarvis. He called to say that he heard I was looking for a guitarist and he wanted in. To say I was happy is an understatement. I was so happy I did a Snoopy dance - right there - in Rite Aid.

I met Duane backstage at The Grand Ol' Opry shortly after I moved to Nashville. Our mutual friend George Marinelli, who plays guitar with Bonnie Raitt, introduced us. Duane had a very easy way about him and we hit it off instantly. After talking at length, we said in unison, "we should write together!"

A couple of years passed and I moved to Los Angeles. While bopping around a fundraiser for John Kerry, I literally bumped into Duane, guitar in hand. In unison, "Hey! What are you doing here?! I live here! No way!" Again, we talked about writing.

When my phone rang in the Rite Aid that day, it was at the behest of Randy Weeks, one of my all-time favorite songwriters, voices and players. That call started a four year collaboration that lasted up until Duane was diagnosed with colon cancer in November of 2007. We had so much work on the books, but his health was the first and foremost thing on my mind. We both hoped we would write, play and tour together again, but it was not to be. After 16 months of fighting cancer without insurance, we lost DJ on April 1st at 1:30am. His brother Kevin said that he passed with a smile on his face.

Duane Jarvis made me a better musician. A better writer. A better person. A better friend. He kept the wolves at bay. He fought off the drunken bartender/sound/door guy in Chicago and calmed me down when I lost my wallet in Philly. He cooked for my grandma. He made calls and booked gigs for us. He stuck his neck out. And... he always, always, always believed in me. I can hardly believe he's gone.

While sobbing my eyes out, I suddenly fell into hysterics when I realized that the man who wrote, "Forgive the Fool," left us on April Fool's Day. Such a practical joker! I'm not much of a spiritual person, but I think the ether just got a little louder... and a lot funnier.

Love to you always, my dear friend. I'm so sad we're not making music right now, but I'm relieved you're not suffering anymore.

Love & light

Existential Angst

Fri, 25 Jul 2008 19:40:00 GMT

Someone on one of my social networking friends list, who as of two seconds ago is no longer on my friends list, posted a bulletin about Jesus being the one true way, the light, the redeemer, yadda blah ad nauseum. He wrote that those who don't accept him (Him?) as a personal savior, etc are in denial, need prayers, yadda yadda yadda. I am so so so so so so tired of proselytizing and Jesus trumpeting. My soul is fine. I do not need saving and if I did, it would be my responsibility. It shouldn't and doesn't depend on someone else. For me, any other approach would mean giving up a whole lot of free will and personal accountability. I think we need to do all we can to make THIS life worth living, especially since we can't be certain what happens after death. But that's just me and I'm a Jew... I don't spend my days thinking about how I can convince people to convert to Judaism. I don't think about teaching everyone to sing Oshe Shalom (even though it's a darn fine tune). I don't post bulletins chastising those who don't want to be an MOT (Member of The Tribe) or as my pal Adam likes to say, CP (Chosen People). You know what I think about? I wonder when we're going to get out of Iraq and stop "giving" democracy to sovereign nations at the end of a AK-47. I wonder when the people of this country will demand a revision of election laws and processes so better qualified people will consider running. I wonder if its ever going rain again in Los Angeles. I worry about my friends. I brainstorm how I can book more house concerts. I question what I'm doing to make the world a better place... I ponder what it means to keep kosher. Really. I do. I even wrote my rabbi about it. I was out with a friend when she asked me about keeping kosher. I was trying to explain it and got to the part about "thou shalt not boil a kid in its mother's milk." I told her it meant that cheeseburgers were off limits. I said something to the effect of... well, you don't mix meat and dairy, which as I understand means you don't mix a product of life (cheese) with a product of death. Days later, I was running around doing errands when my mind drifted back to my explanation. Let's say I'm having a steak. Does this mean (according to my understanding anyway), that I'm not supposed to have anything that is a "product of life" alongside it? When I really started to think about it, it seemed really ludicrous to me. If "thou shalt not boil a kid in its mother's milk" means what I take it to mean, then why the heck should having a salad (just greens, let's say) along with a steak be okay? The salad is a product of life, right? I understand that cows don't yield salads, but I'm really having trouble wrapping my head around this one. Maybe my explanation is all wrong? I've held the position that chicken quesadillas were okay because chickens don't lactate, but what about a burger with goat's cheese? Technically, one is from a cow and one is from a goat, so this whole business of boiling a kid in its MOTHER's milk goes out the window. I'm also starting to think the whole thing is crazy. Is eating a cheeseburger really going to matter in the Book of Life? It seems G-D would have bigger things to consider like war, lying about WMD, Michael Vick, etc. etc. At what point does a cheeseburger factor in? How is not eating a cheeseburger going to make me a better Jew? a better person? If Jews don't believe in hell, then what's the impetus for eating kosher? If I'm supposed to be making THIS life better, this world better a better place, then how does not eating a cheeseburger factor into it? So... these are things I think about. More power to those who need a messianic figure in their lives, but for the love of Pete, stop ramming it down MY throat. I'd rather see that energy put into something worthwhile like volunteering to read to sick kids or helping out at Meals on Wheels. The world will certainly be much better off for that.

Roadrunner Rage

Wed, 14 May 2008 09:25:00 GMT

While Rich and I were on tour, I bought a new road case from Guitar Center. It's a Roadrunner Utility case, and like most cases, it came with pull-apart foam. My foam, however, was eaten by a dog and needs to be replaced. Sounds simple enough, right?

Here's the saga...

I relay the story to hubby who writes Roadrunner on April 23rd inquiring about replacement foam. No response as of this writing.

On 5/11, I write Roadrunner and let them no that no one has responded... no response as of this writing.

Roadrunner's website lists only a P.O. box in Thousand Oaks, CA with no physical address and no phone number. What are they trying to hide? I manage to track down a phone number for them in Gardena; it was answered by a man who only speaks Spanish. Not Roadrunner.

And so I write Guitar Center for help...

5/12/2008 4:45:25 PM
Heather Waters:
I purchased a Roadrunner Utility case ( SKU6925553000 ) from your Ft. Wayne, IN store while I was on tour in April. During the tour, I stayed at the home of a friend whose dog decided the foam made a great chew toy and he went to town. I wrote to the Roadrunner offices regarding a replacement, but I still haven't heard back. Is this something you could help me track down/order? I'd really appreciate an email or a call regarding this. The case is nearly useless without the foam. Thanks!

Enter Guitar Center! Note all the fun grammatical errors!

5/12/2008 5:26:50 PM
C, Dillon:
Thank you for your recent inquiry. Im sorry but I can only see orders done with the online store, I would have no way to see a store order. If you have any other questions feel free to email us back, or call at: 866-498-7882 , we are open 24/7.

5/12/2008 8:21:19 PM
Heather Waters:
What does that have to do with anything? I simply need to know if you can order replacement foam for Roadrunner case 6925553000.

5/12/2008 9:07:23 PM
W, Thomas:
Thank you for your recent inquiry. If you ordered the item in the store then you would need to call the store to find out were your order is. We appreciate you choosing Guitar Center.com. We are dedicated to your satisfaction with this and every purchase from us. Please feel free to contact us if you have any other questions or concerns.

5/13/2008 11:03:46 AM
Heather Waters:
Forgive me for being terse, but no one has yet to READ and UNDERSTAND my question. This is not about a missing item!!!!

1) Bought case at store while on tour

2) Dog ate foam in case. Foam essential to case's usability.

3) Need to order replacement foam.

4) Roadrunner, who makes case, is not answering emails. No phone number listed on their website.

5) SINCE I BOUGHT THE CASE AT GC, CAN YOU PEOPLE HELP ME GET REPLACEMENT FOAM?

5/13/2008 11:40:07 AM
B, Jason:
Thank you for your recent inquiry. Im very sorry for the lack of understanding from the last 3 emails. Unfortunately of all the research I have done it looks like we do not sell replacment foam for a case. This is going to have to either go back to the store or back to roadrunner for replacement. If the dog did any strucural damage then I think its best just to get it replaced vs fixed. Please call RoadRunner 562-424-2293 to see what they can do for you. Again sorry for all the trouble.
We appreciate you choosing Guitar Center.com.
We are dedicated to your satisfaction with this and every purchase from us.
Please feel free to contact us if you have any other questions or concerns.

5/13/2008 11:43:43 AM
Heather Waters:
Thanks Jason. Just an FYI, that's not Roadrunner's number. They changed it, according to the sweet grandma who answered the phone, about five years ago. I'm taking the case back to the store. I don't understand how anyone can sell a product that could need replacement parts without offering the replacement parts! As for Roadrunner, what a crock!

East Coast, Fench Toast

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 06:30:00 GMT

After an insanely long drive from Fort Wayne to Philadelphia, Rich and I finally had a day off. We spent the day hiking, drinking wheat beer at a great little pub called Molly Maguires and shopping around a little town called Phoenixville. There are two great shops I fell in love with: Hipster Home and Best Friends. Best Friends has the sweetest little dresses and locally made wares, so if you're into that and out that way, check it out.

We were the featured artists Steel City Coffee's weekly open mic. We managed to keep them quiet for most of our set, and escaped afterwards without being attacked by the moody emo kids who had scary self-inflicted wounds on their arms.

After Phoenixville, we made our way to The Berkshires in Western Mass. If you haven't had a chance to see this beautiful part of the country, get thee to Massachusetts! Seriously, it's so lovely, especially when the trees are blooming (or changing colors in the fall.) At the Dream Away Lodge, we were met by three dogs: a bipolar chow, a sweet rescued beagle named Ramblin' Jack and a boxer named Ruben "Hurricane" Carter. I fell in love with Ramblin' Jack... he would have made a great pal for ol' Rosiebud dog.

Once again, we stayed in Dreamaway's shed. You may recall that I nearly caught my pjs on fire the last time around I stayed there, but there was no chance of that happening this time. Alas... we had no heat. That's right... we slept in a shed in New England during early spring with no heat. Oddly enough, we had an insanely warm and beautiful day, but the night was chilly, so I ended up under 5 wool blankets. In the morning, we found we had no hot water, so we high tailed it out of there and drove 9 hours to Indianhead, MD.

Indianhead is roughly 20 miles outside of DC and is smack dab in the middle of miles of huge, newly green trees. Lovely. Our host, my long-time fans Po and Jean, had an amazing place and went out of their way to put on a great show. Their good friends Dave and his son Hank set up a tented stage for us, and brought in a sound system complete with monitors and lights. Can you believe it?! Lights! It was amazing. We had a huge attentive crowd and tons of yummy food and beer. Yes, beer. I have not managed to stay on my diet at all. And you know what? I don't give a crap! I'm having a great time and if I have to diet, I'll do it when I get back to L.A.

We're in NYC right now... played a great lil club called Banjo Jim's last night. Today, we head to my old hometown: Boston!! WOOO HOOO! I love Boston. We have a night off tonight, so I'll be playing tour guide since Rich has never been to Bean Town.

At some point, I really need to post the silly footage I've shot and the audio from our shows. Heather Waters: Live at Indiana State Prison up soon!!

Stay tuned...

One the road... again!

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 18:30:00 GMT

We're into the sixth day of the tour and will be heading to Ft. Wayne, Indiana in an hour or so. It's a 10 hour drive, the longest on this trip. Between the amazing cds Rich had the good forsight to bring and the satellite radio, we should be in good shape.

We played the Bluff View House Concert Series yesterday afternoon in La Crosse, Wisconsin. La Crosse is a lovely little town, nestled where the Mississippi and Black rivers merge with Lake Onalaska. It is also the most drinkingest (a word?) city in the state and boasts the most bars. We didn't venture out to any of them, but we had a nice stash of Leinenkugel's "Creamy Dark" to keep us company. The beer tastes like Guinness without the weight. Yum! Our gracious hosts, Dave and Laurie, took us out for dinner afterwards, where I discovered fried cheese curds. For anyone who loves cheese as much as I do, Wisconsin may very well be heaven. I'll need to book some shows again in Vermont just to be sure...

We also played a house concert series in Bloomingdale, Illinois called Bloombox. The hosts, Rolland and Lisa, really pulled out all the stops. There was more food than I can ever recall seeing and my wine glass was mysteriously omnipresent and omni-full. Having grown up a stone's throw from Bloomingdale, this show felt like home to me. Suffice to say, no matter where I go, I will always be a Chicago girl.

Both series were hella fun, with gracious, attentive audiences who laughed at my bad jokes and commiserated with my shitty haircut horror story. They also went along with my new obsession with video.

During one of our many drives, Rich and I were half listening, half zoning out to Springsteen's Nebraska, when Bruce let out what I can only describe as a freakishly loud "WOOOOOOOO!" We got to talking about vocal styles and phrasing, when realized that only male singers seem to whoop and holler woo during their songs. Of course, "WOOOOOOOOO!!!!" has become our tour battle cry. When you're slap happy from driving long distances, "WOOOOO!!!!" is the perfect antidote for miles of green grass and pasture after pasture of cows. In Wisconsin, however, I was informed that WOOOOOOO!!! should be MOOOOOOO!!!

We've shared our new found knowldge with both house concerts and in the process, managed to convince all these nice upstanding folks to shout "WOOOOO!!!" for us on video. Once I have some time to edit, I'll post the results on my website.

WHOOOOO!!!!!!!!

I'm off in search of Guitar Center and more WOOOOOO!!!

Career Career Advice from Death Row

Thu, 17 Apr 2008 21:25:00 GMT

After getting lost on the south side of Chicago and having to take a detour through downtown Gary, Rich and I finally made it safely to my brother's house. We were greeted at the door by his two dogs, Elvis and Hallie. Elvis is a 35 pound pug which a poop fetish. He apparently likes to eat his own doodie, so my brother has taken to calling him, "Poop Chin." Say that five time fast when you're drunk and it becomes very funny. Hallie is a 120lb Rottie who lets you know that she likes you by sitting on you. Yep.

We played two shows yesterday afternoon at the Indiana State Prison, one for the general population and one for Death Row. The Death Row show was a first in the history of the prison, but more on that later.

An offender named Harry ran sound, and I have to say, he did an awesome job. I've met many an incompetant sound guy, so this was a pleasant surprise. He even recorded the show and that also sounded amazing. I have no idea which offenders are granted access to the internet, but a big shout out and thank you to him.

The show opened with the Praise Team, a gospel choir/band that writes their own music. An offender named Earl was the soloist and he was so damn good that I had second thoughts about taking the stage. He really knocked my socks off. After the show, the PT presented me with their cd, which was a very humbling moment. Despite their situtaion, they maintain their love for music, a tough order to fill in that environment. There are so many days when I fill like I'm failing and should throw in the towel, but I have a different perspective now.

Hands down, this was the strangest gig we've ever done, but it was also one of the best. I've never signed so many autographs, shook so many hands, or heard so many thanks yous. I signed guitars, hats, t-shirts, id cards, and letters home to their kids and families. Some sang along, some even clapped along and at the end, we got a standing ovation. They were polite, well-behaved and very, very appreciateive. They even asked me to come back. I realize this was a captive audience, but attendance was voluntary.

Playing to Death Row was an entirely different experience. Out of the 19 men on X Row ( what the officials call it) 11 of them attended the show. Rich and I both found it incredibly difficult to concentrate and I found it even harder to sing. Playing without amplification and having to reach people sitting 30 feet away was quite a challenge, but looking these men in the eye was even harder.

As a performer, I always want to connect with my audience, but it's scary to face someone who has taken a life. There was a 25-year old man sitting not 5 feet away from me who had killed his step-father, sister and brother. Another man killed a little boy. Someone else killed and ate his father.

You read that right.

He ate his father.

One offender took to giving me advice about which radio stations I should send my cds to. He was incredibly chatty and quite honestly, the only person who made me nervous. We were seperated by huge bars and a series of locking electronic gates; I am most thankful for that. I am also thankful to the incredible staff who were gracious, totally on-the-ball and well-organized.

After the show, we were given a tour of the prison, which included a viewing of "Sparky" the retired electric chair, and a stop at the death chamber. Seeing these things on TV is one thing, viewing them up close is a whole other ball of wax. I have no idea how anyone could think the electric chair is a humane method of execution, but there is no doubt in my mind the United States Supreme Court needs to step in and ban it's use. The generator that produces the current is enormous and the "switch" is actually a very large lever akin to something the railroads might use to switch trains from one track to another. It looks like something out of Frankenstein.

I'm really not sure where I stand on the death penalty. While I was living in Maine, a 10-year old named Jeffrey Curley was murdered near my home. The details are much too grim to recount here, but suffice to say I was firmly on the side of the death penalty. A few years after Jeffrey's murder, I heard an interview with the victim's father in which he said that putting the murderers to death wouldn't bring back his son and he therefore didn't see the justice in it. I agree, but on the other hand, I doubt with every fiber of my being that rehabiliation (at least in this case) is possible. I also don't see how allowing them to live out their days in prison makes any sense.

And so, the conundrum.

One thing is for certain: I have a new outlook on music. I am grateful that I had the chance to reach so many people in such a positive way, but I am just as thrilled that I was able to walk out into the sunshine a free woman.