Last month saw the release of Little Thieves, Elli Perry's latest LP, which has been described as a story of renewal and rebirth, chronicling the journey of transformation and ultimately finding the strength necessary to start again. Perry's voice conveys the very real sense that it has been places, and each song on the record carries testimony to the sense of displacement, heartbreak, longing and scrappy resolve while also consoling the listener in those sweet spots that hide out along the way. Here Elli talks about the ways in which "being more or less permanently transient teaches you a lot about gratitude and respect for the people and places that care for you, take you in, and allow you to keep moving on down the road," how she first started playing music professionally by age 12 and has never really looked back since, concluding that the secret, ultimately, is to just keep going, to make art that you believe in, that can hold you and others up. AHC: What has this journey in music, so far, been like for you, the highs and the lows, and what life lessons do you feel you've picked up along the way? Elli: It's hard to separate my journey in music from the rest of my life, because I've been making music for most of my life. I started playing professionally when I was 12 and have spent most of my adulthood on the road. There's a huge degree of overlap in the vin diagram of my personal, professional, and creative experiences. That said, I've learned a lot from touring- about myself, about other people, about endurance and humility. I think one of the greatest lessons I've learned from being on the road is to be aware of the impact I have on my surroundings. Touring forces you into intimate situations with other people- living in close quarters with musicians who you're traveling with, staying with strangers and friends in their homes as you're passing through town. Being a good guest, not just a house guest but a guest in the communities that support you as you travel through and perform in them, is not always intuitive. But being more or less permanently transient will teach you a lot about gratitude and respect for the people and places that care for you, take you in, and allow you to keep moving on down the road. It's taught me to be mindful of how I can give back and reciprocate the generosity that's been bestowed upon me over the years of doing this. AHC: What first drew you to music and what was your early musical environment like growing up? Were there pivotal songs for you then that just floored you the moment you heard them? Elli: I think music has always just been a natural expression for me. My parents remember me humming myself to sleep as an infant in my crib, before I was speaking. Our household wasn't musical, but it was very creative. My mom was a novelist and my dad was an editor, so I was surrounded by words and art, and that permeated everything. My dad was a huge music lover, and he raised me on The Beatles. I think listening to The White Album repeatedly as a kid was truly pivotal. The sounds and songs on that record are still really influential for me. AHC: Do you remember the first song that you ever wrote or played? Or that first moment when you picked up a pen and realized that you could create whole worlds just by putting it to paper? Elli: I started writing lyrics and melodies in early childhood, but the first fully formed song I wrote on the guitar was called Bright Eyes. I was 12, and somehow I was convinced or allowed or encouraged to get up and play it at my middle school dance. That was a turning point. The realization that I could take these strands of word and tune that had been floating around in my head, and manipulate an instrument into joining them to become a full song that people might actually want to hear really blew the creative floodgates open for me. I think I wrote the rest of my first EP within a couple months of that initial song and performance, and I did my first show in a bar just a few weeks later. AHC: Which musicians have you learned the most from? Or writers, artists, filmmakers, teachers/mentors etc? Elli: Elliott Smith is probably my biggest hero in the songwriting world. He's been teaching me and inspiring me for 20 years and I still learn so much from listening to his records. Generally speaking, I'm a lot more inspired by and interested in literature than I am in a lot of music. I think growing up in a literary family in the South and reading a lot of Southern Gothic literature had a subconscious but significant impact on the kind of stories I'm drawn to telling and the way I tell them. My friend and producer Adam Landry has also been hugely influential to my current body of musical work and the work I want to do next. He's a phenomenal writer and player on his own, and he really helped breathe life into my songs when we were in the studio working on Little Thieves. He's encouraged me to push and stretch myself with my guitar playing, and has taught me so much about tone. He's the Tone King. AHC: What do you think makes for a good song, as you're writing and composing, is there a sudden moment when you know you've found the right mix, that perfect angle of light, so to speak? Elli: My songs tend to let me know when they're complete. I've had to learn as a writer to service the song, not my ego or my personal ambitions for the song. Sometimes the piece I'm working on doesn't want to go in the direction I want to take it, and I have to honor that. I tend to do my best work when I step back, give the songs some space, some room to breathe, and listen to them before deciding whether or not they're finished. I used to think a song was crap if it didn't come to me fully formed in this inspired moment. These days I write pretty slowly. I usually build up a song bit by bit over the course of weeks or sometimes even months. I get to know it over time, and it's a lot easier that way to sense how much it truly needs. I think a lot of writers tend to overwrite, to add too much, when the message can be so much simpler if you just let it be. AHC: Do you consider music to be a type of healing art, the perfect vehicle through which to translate a feeling, a state of rupture/rapture, hope lost and regained? Does the writing and creating of the song save you in the kinds of ways that it saves us, the listener? Elli: For me personally, the art of creating is unpredictable. Sometimes it takes more from you than it gives. It can demand so much that it leaves you with a deficit. But I've learned to take a comprehensive look at my life when I start feeling that drain. Usually I find there's something else that needs to be balanced or remedied, and that if I address it then the creative work starts to fuel me again. Music has undoubtedly saved me though, many times over. Trying to live without creating would be like trying to live without an arm. I'm sure I could do it, but I don't really know what it would look like. I can't imagine how much more difficult it would be. AHC: What are your fondest musical memories? In your house? In your neighborhood or town? On-tour, on-the-road? Elli: Singing Beatles songs with my dad at night when I was a kid; Going to see shows with him- he would regularly come home from work, tell me to be ready to leave the house in an hour, and surprise me by taking me to some phenomenal concert; Singing duets with my friend Samantha Harlow during the months we spent on tour together (her band The Bad Signs is terrifyingly good, and really starting to blow up); Writing from sunrise to sunset and throughout the night in the little adobe geodesic dome I was living in on a mesa in New Mexico when I first started writing Little Thieves; laying down the guitar tracks for Smoking Gun (the first song on the record) in the studio, and realizing that it was finally all coming together after so many years of work; taking turns picking out perfect driving songs with my fiancé on long stretches of highway all across the country. AHC: When you set out to write a song, how much does 'where the world is' in its current moment, culturally, politically, otherwise, influence the kinds of stories you set out to tell? Elli: I think moments of political and cultural crisis are when artists are needed the most. Art helps us connect to our humanity, to our collective experience in the world. It can heal, harness power, and act as a voice for those who need it. I'm a very political person, but I've never been particularly inclined to tell those kinds of stories. That said, at this current juncture in time, I want the work I'm doing to be purposeful. I'm not interested in just making noise for the hell of it, or solely for my own pleasure and fulfillment. I don't think we have need or room for that as a culture right now. AHC: Do you have any words of advice for other musicians and singer-songwriters out there who are just starting out and trying to find their voice and their way in this world? What are the kinds of things that you tell yourself when you begin to have doubts or are struggling with the creative process? Elli: Keep going. Let your creative work dictate what you put your energy and focus into, not your ambition. Ambition is far more likely to fail you, and lead you to make choices that won't hold up over time. If you make art you believe in, you will always rest easy and honestly with that knowledge. And don't forget that every storm, personal, professional, or creative, will ultimately pass. The doubt and creative struggle don't go away over time, or at least they haven't for me! So I tell myself these things pretty much every day, ha. AHC: Could you tell us about your new album, Little Thieves? I've read that, in part, it's a record about finding the strength to start again, could you talk a bit about what that process musically, creatively and in life has been like for you, and about how this album encapsulates/carries those experiences and that message forward?
Elli: I started writing Little Thieves during a transitional point in my life. At the time, it felt like the end of something. I was going through a long, drawn out separation and divorce, I was creatively drained from several years of really aggressive touring, and I didn't have a lot of love for myself. It took two years to write, and for a lot of that time I honestly didn't know if I would ever finish it. The resulting work surprised me, though. Instead of being some dark memorial to all that had decayed and died, it was filled with hope and strength. In the end I think it helped me to carve a new path forward for myself. I mentioned earlier that sometimes for me creating can demand so much of you that you're left depleted, with an emotional and psychological deficit. Making this album ended up being one of those rare experiences that ultimately restored and repaid everything that it took at the onset. I'm really grateful for that.
Purchase Little Thieves @ squareup.com/store/elli-perry Visit www.elliperry.com/
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4/18/2017 0 Comments Poetry by Vivian Wagner On a Roll Skates are the opposite of shoes, circles where there would be lines, speed for steadiness, thrill for predictability. They turn the body into a vehicle, pulling feet across pavement into an uncertain future, toward the promise of a spectacular fall. They mimic spinning planets, tumbling waves, the circular eyes of crows flying straight across the curve. Bound The blue jay sounds sharp this morning, his voice an awl stabbing dream pages, pulling linen thread. The clouds are pink-gray ink, spilling the words of themselves on the day’s frontispiece. My coffee’s soft cotton, forming an archival cover, and the awakening April soil speaks of plain brown wrap. Bio: Vivian Wagner is an associate professor of English at Muskingum University in New Concord, Ohio. She's the author of a memoir, Fiddle: One Woman, Four Strings, and 8,000 Miles of Music (Citadel-Kensington), and a poetry collection, The Village (Kelsay Books). Mind If I Use Your Toothbrush? Outside the pharmacy, I spotted him a half-block away and waved. Mike had seen me and waved back. I focused on his tall, rangy frame, his familiar stride as he approached. “Haven’t seen you in weeks,” Mike said, brushing his lips lightly across my cheek. “What’s new?” “Left my toothbrush behind this weekend. I was just going to buy a new one.” “You must learn to be more discreet.” Mike took a step back and eyed me up and down. “You look good.” “I assure you it wasn’t the weekend.” “Didn’t get laid?” I laughed. “I did, in a waterbed, but I think I’m losing my touch.” “How so?” “It’s getting harder and harder to seduce a man these days.” Mike took my elbow. “Com’on. Let a friend treat you to a cup of coffee and we’ll talk about it.” “I have to buy a toothbrush first.” “The coffee shop. Five minutes then.” Mike had ordered two lattes by the time I arrived. Sliding into the booth across from him, I put both hands around the steaming mug. “Want anything else?” he asked. “No, not really,” I said. Our eyes met. “I’m stalling. I’m supposed to be at a conference at the Marriott, something about a new paradigm for dealing with child abuse.” I rolled my eyes. “How about you?” Mike shrugged. “Let’s go someplace and screw,” he said. “I feel like running my hands all over you.” I never let any other man make that kind of comment. “Sounds good to me,” I teased, “but I have other plans.” “I’ve got a meeting at noon. Be done by 1:30. Go show your face at the conference and I’ll meet you outside the Marriott at 1:45.” I shook my head. “By then you may have changed your mind.” I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine. Mike pulled his hand away. “Just be outside waiting.” Right on time, Mike maneuvered his motorcycle into a parking space in front of the motel and got into the driver’s seat of my dark blue Chevy. “I’ve got a few errands to run,” he said. “Do you mind?” “Does it matter?” “Sure it matters. I could do them some other time.” “What do you have to do?” “I have to drop off color samples for the kitchen,” Mike said. We drove down the winding country road to the new house he was finishing. It’s a miracle this house ever got built, I thought, remembering the last time I’d seen it, nearly nine months earlier. I woke early, but the day was already hot and the sheets damp with perspiration. I took a cool shower and washed my hair, but the uneasiness didn’t let up. After splashing myself with cologne, I put on a denim skirt and t-shirt. Half-dazed, I found myself behind the steering wheel driving down the road to the half-finished house. How long had it been since I’d seen Mike? I bumped into him at the supermarket several weeks before. We spent a few minutes chatting until a frazzled woman with a baby rammed her shopping cart between us. As I approached the house, I had no idea if he would be there. Then I saw him roaring down the unpaved drive from the house, his motorcycle blowing a torrent of dirt in every direction. Mike killed the throttle. I got out of my car, immediately aware of thick dust settling over me. “Hi,” he said, unfastening the strap of his helmet and taking it off. “What are you doing out here?” I hardly recognized him. He had lost weight, his clothes were filthy, eyes glassy. Clearly, he hadn’t shaved for several days. “Are you okay?” I asked, deflecting his question. “Just need a bath.” “Been working on the house?” I asked gingerly. “It’s almost done.” I approached him and touched his beard. “You don’t seem okay.” “I know I look a mess,” Mike said. “I was just going home to change.” The sun was beating down. I closed my eyes and felt perspiration running between my breasts. My mouth was full of grit. Averting his eyes, Mike began fidgeting with dials on the motorcycle. “What brings you here?” he asked again. “I had a feeling you’d be here.”I put my hand on his arm and he didn’t pull away. “Is there anything I can do?” “No.” I stepped away from him. “How’s the house coming along? “Slowly.” “Need money to finish it?” “Babe, I always need money.” Mike began brushing dust off his well-soiled jeans. Then, he blurted. “I don’t know whether I’m coming or going these days. I can’t remember what I did yesterday, if I ate anything. I can’t remember coming out here. I must have blacked out.” Before I could think of what to say, Mike started up the motorcycle and strapped on his helmet. “Look, I have to get home,” he said. He waved as he sped off, spraying up another cloud of dust. I turned away, shielding my face with my hands, the heat unrelenting. “It looks deserted,” I said, as he pulled the car up in front of the house. “It’s sold. There’s a family living in it. I’m going to let them choose colors for the kitchen. Then it will be finished.” “Make any money on it?” “At the closing, I was lucky to get away with my hide.” Mike got out of the car, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. A young girl with braids opened the door cautiously. “I have one more stop.” Mike said, as he pulled into the parking lot behind the Victorian apartment house he owned. The downstairs tenants, college girls, were not home. A note detailing repairs was propped against the toaster. Mike glanced at the note, crumbled it up, and tossed it into a wastebasket. I wandered through rooms I’d been in before. When Mike moved in right after his divorce, the rooms were barren, almost monastic, and in need of basics—coat of paint, new faucets. Since he only planned to stay a few weeks, and then rent the place, he didn’t bother to fix it up. His wife got everything useful or valuable in the divorce. Now a clutter of clothes, wall hangings, papers and books, several cats, a litter box in need of a good cleaning, and hanging plants couldn’t disguise the deterioration. “Do you remember how many times we made love in this apartment?” I asked. “Was that you?” Mike teased. “Do you remember how many times you couldn’t get it up?” I countered. “Take this,” he said, ignoring my comment. Mike handed me one end of a metal tape. “Stand over there.” He pointed to a spot across the room. “What are you measuring for?” “I want to rent both floors as office space.” “How will you get the tenants out?” “They’re on thirty days’ notice upstairs and the lease down here is running out.” “The shape this place is in you’re lucky to have tenants at all.” “What do you mean? I just raised the rent.” “No kidding,” I said, letting go of my end of the tape. I watched it snake across the room and snap into the metal case he was holding. The upstairs tenants, a group of foreign students, didn’t remember getting a letter about the rent increase. I kept looking at their feet. This was the first time I’d actually met them, although I heard their feet padding across the ceiling when I lay awake beside Mike in bed. “They’re nice kids,” he said. As Mike handed me one end of the ruler again and stretched it across the kitchen, one of the students also wondered what the measuring was about. “I’m going to redecorate,” Mike said. “Just look at the linoleum.” He kicked a section which pulled away from the subflooring and a large piece broke off. “You’re going to fix that?” The student sounded skeptical. “Sure,” Mike said, “right away.” “Where to now?” I asked, as I slid into the passenger seat of my car and dismissed what just happened in the house. I was well aware of how Mike conducted business. Distracted, Mike began making notes in his datebook. “Wherever you want to go,” he said, absently. I wanted his full attention. “I heard you’re back with Emily.” Mike nodded, but didn’t look up from his writing. “Does she know? Does she mind your being with other women?” Mike snapped his datebook shut and looked at me. “She’d probably be unhappy if she knew it was you.” “Christ, she puts up with a lot.” “Not to change the subject or anything, but where do you want to go?” “Dammit, this was your idea, you decide.” Pulling up in front of a deli, Mike cut the engine. “I’ll be right out.” A few minutes later, he emerged with a handful of chocolate bars, a pack of cigarettes, and two sodas. “I thought you didn’t like chocolate?” “I don’t, “Mike replied, “but I’m hungry. He handed me the chocolate bars. I unwrapped one and fed it to him as we drove to a motel a few miles away. “Feels like old times,” I said as Mike unlocked the motel room door. But once inside the room, I felt uneasy, maybe because we hadn’t been together for a while and I didn’t like going to motels anymore. Or maybe it had something to do with the weekend I just spent with that guy, who had trouble keeping an erection. I sat on the edge of the double bed and surveyed the room. A clumsy print of a bald eagle hung over the bed, its head turned discreetly up. The walls were knotty pine and the blue chenille bedspread was shedding tufts. The thermostat didn’t work. Mike kept complaining about how cold it was as he pushed the lever up and down in frustration. I took my purse and went into the bathroom, where water in the toilet bowl was rusty, and the towels dampish. “Geez,” I thought as I unearthed my new blue toothbrush and placed it on the narrow rim of the sink. By the time I finished in the bathroom, Mike was undressed and under the covers, still complaining about the lack of heat. I began to wonder if I wanted to stay in this dump, but I took off my skirt and sweater anyway and stretched out on top of the spread. “Aren’t you going to take off the rest of your clothes and climb under the covers?” “In a minute,” I said, running my fingers through his thick hair. With my head on his bare chest, I closed my eyes and tried to calculate how long we’d been involved during our affair and after we started dating others. One time in particular remained vivid. It had been a warm summer evening. Mike called around dinnertime. I could tell by his voice he’d been drinking. We went out for pizza and, as luck would have it, we ran into my ex-husband and his friend. The meeting was brief, and, fortunately, not unpleasant. “I didn’t plan it,” I said, after we ordered pepperoni and extra cheese. “I know you didn’t,” Mike said. “It doesn’t matter, does it?” “Not really,” I replied, remembering how abusive my husband had been when he thought I was sleeping with Mike. I put it out of my mind. Outside the pizza place, Mike glanced at his watch. “It’s early. What would you like to do? “I don’t care, except that I want to drive,” I said. I didn’t trust him, not after he totaled a brand-new Lexus. Mike opened the driver’s side door for me. “Want to visit Ken? He’s a producer for a TV network sports show. You might like him.” When we arrived at Ken’s two-story Civil War clapboard at the end of a country lane in the middle of lush farmland, the air was alive with the sound of cicadas and the smell of moist, freshly turned earth. Unfortunately, Ken was not at home. “Let’s wait for him,” Mike suggested. He gathered a blanket from the trunk of the car and spread it on the wooden deck behind the house. When he started to unbutton my blouse, I said, “Are you sure you want to?” “Yes,” he said. Mike rolled on top of me and began to caress me. I knew his body so well, a touch that brought quiet pleasure, but tonight we dispensed with that. “You are so wet,” he said, as he pinned me against the deck. Then a light rain began to fall. Droplets, like pinpricks, jabbed at my skin. I started to giggle and pulled away from Mike. “Why are you doing that? The rain feels wonderful,” Mike said. “No, it doesn’t,” I protested, “and besides the deck is rough.” I couldn’t tell if Mike was annoyed or not, but he stood up and slowly turned around, arms outstretched, moonlight silhouetting his naked body. I watched fascinated. I took pride in being rational most of the time, but, when it came to Mike, I accepted the promiscuity, the drinking, the cocked-eyed investment schemes, the lack of order in his life. Whatever excuses I made to myself, the truth was that tonight I was huddled on a stranger’s deck in the rain, with no clothes on, wondering how I was going to get my half-sloshed lover dressed and out of there. Then I heard a car pull into the gravel driveway at the side of the house. “Ken?” I asked. “Probably.” A man emerged from the shadows. “It’s just me, Ken,” Mike called out. “Hi, good to see you,” Ken said, approaching us. I clutched the blanket and uttered a faint, ‘hello’ as Mike introduced me. “Come in and have a drink,” Ken said cordially, though he seemed nonplussed at finding us on his deck. He unlocked the back door and went inside. I looked around for my clothes. Kicked under a bench, they were only slightly damp. I hooked my bra. “You don’t have to get dressed,” Mike said. “You must be kidding?” I said, as I buttoned up my blouse. “Suit yourself.” Slipping into bikini briefs, Mike gathered up his clothes and went inside. I hurriedly finished dressing and followed him. “Place looks great,” Mike said to Ken. The interior was done up in a chic country look. “Thanks. I think they did a superb job, but it cost a small fortune. What are you drinking? “Scotch,” Mike replied. “And, my dear, what would you like?” “Scotch would be fine,” I said, as I surveyed the whitewashed sideboard, framed reproductions of pastoral scenes, and brass candlesticks. Ken disappeared into the kitchen. “What do you think?” Mike asked. “I met Ken two minutes ago under awkward circumstances. The place is charming,” I said, as I plopped into a chintz-covered armchair. Ken returned with drinks, handed me one, and immediately turned his attention to the other man in the room. “You know how it is,” Ken whined. “Everyone gets so bitchy. I was scheduled to go to Toronto last week to make sure everything was ready. Can you imagine they sent Brady instead?” I couldn’t follow the conversation nor did I want to, so I let their words drift over me, the Scotch warming me instead. “That’s tough, Ken,” I heard Mike say several times. “Hey, could I have a refill?” Reduced to counting the repeat patterns on the wallpaper, I ached for a way to leave. “This has been great,” Ken said, “but I’m suddenly not feeling well.” He stood up and began rotating his neck as if he were trying to loosen tight muscles and then smiled at me. I nodded. “Get dressed,” I said, handing Mike a bundle of clothes. “Time to go.” “I’ll stay here. Ken won’t mind,” Mike said petulantly, ignoring the clothes piled on his lap. His face expressionless, Ken busily plumped up a tasseled pillow. Taking the empty glass from Mike’s hand, I set it on the sideboard. I held up his shirt. Mike slowly began to dress. When he got to his belt, he fumbled with the loops on his jeans. I took the belt from him, threaded it through the loops and buckled it. As he watched me dress him, I was having trouble remembering how this whole evening began. “Sorry,” I said to Ken, as we helped Mike into the passenger seat of the car. “No need to apologize,” Ken replied. “Goodnight then.” He slammed the car door a little too hard, I thought. I could hear semis thundering down the highway, jarring me back into the motel room. “Are you asleep?” Mike asked, prodding me and lifting my head off his chest. “Just thinking,” I said. “Why don’t you take off the rest of your clothes?” “I will,” I said. “In a minute.” I was having a hard time letting go of the image of Mike gyrating in the moonlight. “What’s up?” “Never mind.” I slipped off the rest of my clothes. Mike reached over, smoothing my hair, lightly tracing the side of my face and around my ear with his fingers. His touch made me shudder, almost imperceptibly, but he must have sensed it because he asked. “Are you okay?” “I think so.” “Just relax,” he said as he kissed me slowly and pressed me against the pillows. Afterwards, I lay back on the bed, completely sated. The moment was marred, however, because Mike could make it happen for me in a way no other man ever did. I responded to a raw urge that required nothing beyond its consummation, no feeling of belonging together after that moment. As long as I’d known him I was never sure whether Mike just liked the idea of sex and wasn’t particularly invested in his partner at the moment. If I ever wanted to reach for real intimacy, I would have to give Mike up for good, forget the way he touched me, moved in me, and made me respond. I wasn’t sure I could do that. Mike went into the bathroom and called out. “Mind if I use your toothbrush?” “Help yourself,” I replied. Bio: Nancy Scott is managing editor of U.S.1 Worksheets in New Jersey. She is the author of numerous collections of poetry, her most recent, Ah, Men (Aldrich Press, 2016) is a retrospective of men who have influenced her life. A social worker, Scott has worked for the State of New Jersey and various non-profits advocating for adoption and foster care, mental health and homeless issues. She is also an artist working mostly in collage and from time to time she exhibits her art and poetry together in print and online journals. www.nancyscott.net. 4/17/2017 1 Comment Poetry by Shlomo Franklin Singer-songwriter, Shlomo Franklin, deeply inspired by the poet troubadours of yesteryear, Dylan, Young, Cohen, like many a songwriter before him, also writes poems on the side. Songwriting and poetry have always been, at the very least, close in nature, if not pure soul mates. Franklin has the spirit of the beats and Dylan's book Tarantula winds its way through these four poems of love gone wrong, aching and observing, not overly sentimental, street wise and a little homesick for "Somewhere sacred." // Yours // I am not yours anymore April, 26th and the year doesn't matter I am not yours anymore This is me saying goodbye Farewell into the forest Into the long night May you sleep or lay awake until 8 AM I don't care I am not yours anymore I don't think of you every time I see the sunset these days I don't recall your kiss when my head meets the pillow I don't miss you on long drives I don't reach out for your hand when I see a storm coming I don't need you I am not yours anymore I'll read this once more for the moon in the meadow I'll let the cows hear me clear Let the spring peepers know I mean it Make the muskrat see I'm serious I am not yours anymore // Bowery Electric Blues // Here's to another night on the bowery Alone and happy as ever She's in fur coat shaved head elegant Bad weather The theater's packed and the tiny Italian restaurant is crowded beyond capacity Her wants me to entice her with wine and sad stories And all I need is a friend Or something resembling Brigitte Bardot New York's no longer too big for me The street's asleep due to unpopular demand she's in the car waiting to take me to sleepy heaven God bless this meaninglessness Blame it on the most beautiful Mexicans I've ever met She wants me to bend her over in an alley behind East 1st Street but I'm all the way across town Chasing rumors and regulations of memories and Chinese miracles There's hot yoga across the street My mind's a thousand miles off Dozing in Arizona desert sand She's cowgirl in the back of a rental car in mistaken identities and silver screens from a million miles ago I'm not even dreaming It's all transparent You could touch it and let it burn your fingertips off They won't be able to catch you now Happening two feet from my face Now she's kissing me without ever having made eye contact The child is asking for help or a cigarette or a dollar I don't listen anymore It's all too much to bear My ears aren't big enough Too much crying Sandwich shop is packed People must be in need of sandwiches They're in need of a lot of other stuff too Snowflakes cover the bicycle on 2nd Street and I'm not sure if it's snow or rain but whatever it is I love it She's got an umbrella I prefer the elements There's a French flag hanging from the fire escape two floors up across the street There's a flowerpot and an old lady that doesn't want to talk to anyone I don't blame her The neon sign lets the weary passerby know there's a cafe and they'll sell you anything you might need for only 26% above cost I don't want to go in there Gonna go somewhere else Far away I'll be back though As soon as I'm awake again // Airmont Eats My Soul Away // I'd finally gotten to the end of the marathon There were no flags or flashing lights No balloons no fireworks Just a noisy morning and bad coffee I'd come to the end of my past and it wasn't glamorous It was just quiet and looked like nothing I was tired Felt like I could sleep for seventy years The neon signs and Tylenol nightmares had finally gotten to me The diner served bad birthday cake and the soundtrack came right out of the wrong decade My knees were bruised and my mind was numb I knew nothing Heard nothing Didn't see much of anything either Felt like I could listen to Ben Webster and not feel a thing My senses were asleep and everyone drove Cadillacs and Fords The news was on Picture of a kid Probably killed somebody or robbed a corner deli Didn't make a difference I didn't have the heart to get bagels Romance was in purgatory The cliffs were angelic at night but that all faded away by the time morning came around I forgot where I was headed Knew I'd come from somewhere important but couldn't quite put my finger on where or why I had left for that matter I was at my wit's end I couldn't tell a joke to save my life Was shooting blanks I was trigger happy but that didn't effect anyone or anything I looked through the acid rain window into the afternoon and saw kids all happy in their Neanderthal pajamas There wasn't a full cloud in the sky A crow sat uselessly on a hemlock The hills beyond the nursing homes were lonely and ill advised Dunkin donuts was sold out The power lines were exhausted I knew I had to leave Knew I couldn't leave for a while Maybe a week maybe a year But I'd be gone one early Monday morning and that would be the end of it all The end of my past I'd even do an encore if anyone cared I'd cut the tail off the dog and just leave it there in broad daylight I'd mow the lawn, trim the hedges, paint the house and be gone. That was that and I'd settle my torture I'd move to California or Paris. Somewhere sacred. A place that would buy me at least a year before I'd discover all its imperfections Notice the stretch marks, bad habits, and emotional unavailability. I wasn't happy but I was okay Good enough to go home // Brighten Beach Postcard // I watch her resent the cascade of everyday life Listening intently to the whimper and whisper of the unsolicited pavement I didn't ask for this Didn't ask to pay my taxes Didn't ask to leave womb Don't want to see the daylight today Leave it all on the banister Roads are paved with useless sidewalks I don't want to look at anybody Just you Only your face With your eyes that put everyone else's gaze to shame Your lips acting like a gateway to somewhere I want to be Meeting every weekend on the corner of forever & always Watching you near the brink of what used to be and what could be Endless possibilities disguised as riddles with answers acting as problems "No shortcuts in life" your mother says No shortcut to your heart Just the long path Lined with ancient flowerbeds and long live the king rituals I say way too much in my dreams Kissing you is better than dreaming I hope all the good in the world for you Bio: Shlomo Franklin grew up in Bethel, New York. He soon developed his own style of music inspired by the neighboring grounds of Woodstock. His musical influence includes Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Nirvana and Johnny Cash. Shlomo Franklin is a touring musician whose music can be found on Bandcamp. shlomofranklin.bandcamp.com/ www.shlomofranklin.com/ Photo: Jesse Flamand To singer-songwriter Brad Sanzenbacher it's all about community. And not just in music, you find it all sorts of places, Brad says, "I think anyone who goes to the same place every week and sees the same group of people is going to find themselves healing. Whether that’s an open mic night, a kickball league, or whatever, it’s the sense of community that heals." The journey, Sanzenbacher says, has been one of trying to do the best he can, keeping in mind that he's had to learn it all along the way. How we get to A and B doesn't matter as much as the images, the world building that comes through in a well painted song. Pulling all of the senses out of the musical kit bag, "Honeysuckle. Lilac. Perfume. Nostalgic smells; a secret weapon in lyrics." Building diorama's that pull you in is a large part of what you aim for, Brad says, a good song has a lot of moving parts, and a songwriter, the ones who are paying attention, are constantly working to fit those pieces together. AHC: What has this journey in music, so far, been like for you, the highs and the lows, and what life lessons do you feel you've picked up along the way? Brad: I was 22 years old when I decided I wanted to be a folk singer, and at that time I’d never played guitar in my life. The journey has really been the story of trying to do the best I can with that in mind. Most of the lessons I have are ones I’ve just almost learned. Don't be so hard on yourself. It's not a competition. Enthusiasm is a qualification. Those are hypothetically great lessons. I’ll let you know if I ever learn them. AHC: What first drew you to music and what was your early musical environment like growing up? Were there pivotal songs for you then that just floored you the moment you heard them? Brad: I’m more of a song guy than a music guy, if that makes sense. I don’t often turn on music just for the sake of having something on in the background - especially because when a good song catches my ear, it’s hard to focus on much else. My parents listened to James Taylor a lot when I was a kid and I was always mesmerized by “Sweet Baby James.” I loved how that song was so beautiful even though narratively, it doesn’t make any sense. In the first verse we’re out in the desert with our cattle, sleeping in a canyon. In the next verse we’re on the turnpike in the snow in the Berkshires. The only story connecting those two places is the one you bring with you. That’s all that matters. A little later, “Five Years” by David Bowie floored me when I was maybe 14 years old. It reads like a screenplay. There’s not a lot of detail in the song, but when you hear it you see the scene like it’s a movie. “A cop knelt and kissed the feet of the priest, and the queer threw up at the sight of that.” I still see it in my mind the way I saw it the first time I heard it. “Abandoned Love” by Bob Dylan was another one. There’s a line that always hit me where he says “I love to see you dress before the mirror.” It’s difficult to find such a simple image that can concisely describe a universal feeling like that but Dylan makes it look easy. I maybe have only done that a few times. The first Wilco song I ever heard was “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart” and that felt like it was written for me. When Jeff Tweedy sings, “I assassin down the avenue,” you know exactly what he means. When I write, I think about lines like those. I want to keep the song moving forward with images but I also want to give the listener room to put their own story and own world into it. AHC: Do you remember the first song that you ever wrote or played? Or that first moment when you picked up a pen and realized that you could create whole worlds just by putting it to paper? Brad: I studied film in college, and while I love film, it’s a lot of work to tell a story in that medium. You need a script, camera, crew, actors, lights, sets, costumes. It takes years. I can create a world in a song with an acoustic guitar and write it in a few days or weeks and play it on stage the next day after it’s done. It’s much easier. The first song I ever played was “Hotel Yorba” by the White Stripes and the first song I ever wrote was called “Soldier of Fortune.” I’d only been learning guitar for about 3 months when I wrote it. I wouldn’t say it was embarrassingly bad, but I don’t perform it anymore. It had some ok lyrics. AHC: Which musicians have you learned the most from? Or writers, artists, filmmakers, teachers/mentors etc? Brad: My friend Adrian Krygowski was pretty influential to me in terms of work ethic. I met him when I was just getting started with performing. He’s a guy who would drive 5 hours to play to a dozen people, then drive home and spend another 5 hours writing. He always seemed like he was equally grateful to get to play to 5 people or 200, and I’ve learned over the years that’s pretty rare. Lyrically, Todd Snider has been a big influence on me. Todd has a way of making obscurity sound glamorous, and I’m about as obscure as it gets. He also builds worlds and mood well. He can say “there’s a coke machine glowing in the parking lot, they call that a room with a view,” and you immediately know that this song takes place in a dirty motel, and stars a cast of characters who would be found in a dirty motel. It’s like he builds a diorama and pulls you into it. AHC: What do you think makes for a good song, as you're writing and composing, is there a sudden moment when you know you've found the right mix, that perfect angle of light, so to speak? Brad: World building is important in songs, even if they aren’t necessarily narrative songs. If you can drop little hints of setting, timing, or seasonality, you can help it connect. I think smells are important too and try to put them in songs. Honeysuckle. Lilac. Perfume. Nostalgic smells are a secret weapon in lyrics. I try not to confine songs by the idea that narratives need to be logical. I’m fine with cutting a story from scene to scene without a lot of explanation. A character can be teaching school in one line and robbing a bank in the next. How we got from A to B doesn’t matter that much to me as much as the images. Musically, I’m not an advanced composer and I don’t know much about music theory, so I try to make simple compositions. I write mostly in traditional forms, but I try to be original and avoid working in ready mades. My secret rule is if it gets stuck in my wife’s head while I’m writing it, it’s probably got a strong enough melody. AHC: Do you consider music to be a type of healing art, the perfect vehicle through which to translate a feeling, a state of rupture/rapture, hope lost and regained? Does the writing and creating of the song save you in the kinds of ways that it saves us, the listener? Not necessarily. I think what’s really healing is community, but I do think music probably creates community more easily than other types of art. But I’ve seen great communities around film and theater, too. I think anyone who goes to the same place every week and sees the same group of people is going to find themselves healing. Whether that’s an open mic night, a kickball league, or whatever, it’s the sense of community that heals. There used to be this old guy who’d come to the open mic at Modern Times Coffee in Washington DC, and sit down in front and paint with watercolors the whole time, just kind of slopping them onto paper like Jackson Pollock. I don’t think he cared who was singing or how good they were. It just mattered that the same faces were there. We were all misfits, and he felt like he belonged. AHC: What are your fondest musical memories? In your house? In your neighborhood or town? On-tour, on-the-road? Brad: The fondest memories are usually these unexpected moments that feel like you couldn’t dream it up. I spent a Sunday recently at a place called the Mudpuddle Shop in Niles, California with a bunch of folk singers and we were drinking wine and swapping songs all afternoon. And there were maybe 10 musicians, and David Kaffinetti from “This is Spinal Tap” was there playing keyboard (I swear I couldn’t make that up). We’re jamming to folk songs, and of all the things that aren’t really supposed to happen in California, it starts hailing. And one of the guys started singing, “Listen to the Rhythm of the Falling Rain” and everyone joined in. And when the fiddle solo started, I knew that I was in the best spot on Earth to be in that particular moment. That’s really the magic of folk music. It puts you in these weird, perfect moments. AHC: When you set out to write a song, how much does 'where the world is' in its current moment, culturally, politically, otherwise, influence the kinds of stories you set out to tell? Brad: I rarely set out to write about specific issues or events. But if that’s the direction a song starts to go, and I feel the lyrics I’m writing are good enough to do that topic justice, I won’t try to stop it. I write through heavily redacted stream-of-consciousness, so I don’t shoehorn topics to fit the lyrics I write, but I’ll chase an idea for a while if it seems like the story, the sentiment, and the message are starting to mesh together in a way that doesn’t sound forced. John Prine is the best at this. Sam Stone. Hello In There. Angel from Montgomery. Those are make-you-cry good songs with deep sentiments, and there’s not a cliche, bad rhyme, or contrived idea to be found in any of them. AHC: Do you have any words of advice or encouragement for other musicians and singer-songwriters out there who are just starting out and trying to find their voice and their way in this world? What are the kinds of things that you tell yourself when you begin to have doubts or are struggling with the creative process? Or what kinds of things have others told you that have helped push you past moments of self doubt/creative blocks? Brad: Base your self-worth on how much you’ve improved, and not how you compare to others. If you’re obsessed with writing songs, you’re going to keep getting better at it, and you’ll eventually find a level of success that you’re happy with - even it’s not what you thought you wanted when you started. And slip the sound guy a few bucks before you go on stage. AHC: You just released your latest album Stepping Towards The Light last month, could you talk some about this record, what the binding themes of this work are for you personally? Do you have any new projects moving forward or ideas that are percolating for the future? Brad: Stepping Towards the Light is an album of songs that I’ve written mostly in the last 18 months or so. It’s a live album that I recorded in my living room with maybe 15 friends as my audience. It has songs that are both very personal, and songs that are built around narratives. I think what’s different is my comfort level with honesty. That includes the songs and the nature of the performance. A few years ago I wouldn’t have dreamed of making a record without session musicians, or by singing in one take without punch-ins. This record is kind of a statement. Like, “Here I am. This is what I sound like. Deal with it.” What I’m most excited about is co-writing at the moment. I just finished co-writing a song with my friend Jesse Bryant, and I’ve been writing for a couple months with my friend Marissa Muraoka. Jesse tends to write with a funk sound, and Marissa writes with a pop sound, so it’s fun for me to write in styles I probably wouldn’t write in on my own. I’m learning a lot from it and I think we all bring different things to the table for each other. As for what’s next, I have a few songs that I chose to leave off this record. I’m hoping to lay them down with a little more production in the near future. Brad's latest album, Stepping Towards the Light, can be purchased @ bradsanzmusic.bandcamp.com/ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/bradsanzmusic Instagram: @bradsanzfolk Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/user/bradsanzmusic 4/16/2017 1 Comment Whispers by Maryam KhamesiWhispers I hear them whispering things they shouldn't know, things my mother swears aren't true because she rather believe lies than face reality, because she rather cry for something you weren’t than for something you were. You're buried beneath the silence in the same position you were when you injected the poison that you fell in love with, that you thought could save you because you were afraid of the air, of your breaths, of your thoughts, of the words you needed to say but held in always, because you were afraid of them, afraid of all of them, when they were in your room, on your bed, in your mind, twisted into your veins, the ones you misused so that you could prove a point, one that no one cared about. You treasured the numbness, mistook it for peace, something no one can have, no one can own for free. I hear them reading their eulogies, saying they remember your smile, your radiance, the way you sucked in oxygen, as if you'd never get it back, the way you woke up every morning looking forward to life, another chance, another opportunity, and I sit in my chair consuming the black I'm wearing, pressing my hand into my leg, hoping it will cause another bruise, wishing I could tell all of them, Fuck you. They don't even have the fucking decency to tell the truth, not even at this moment, when you're helpless, when you're soaked in hell, the kind you don't get on earth. They've turned you into a god, erased all the shit you've done, as if it didn't make you more real, as if they’re embarrassed to share your last name, as if they don't care that I care, that you care, that this world should care, because we're tired of the fakeness, the legacy that's now invisible, the image that's fallen into the same hole, every single one of us will be in, every single one of us will taste, that sweet flavor of everything we couldn't do, of everyone we couldn't please, of every time we held it in, that pain we hated, that we were taught to never feed. I hear them whispering again, as if I can't hear it, as if you can't feel it, as if saying it softly changes anything. Bio: Maryam Khamesi likes to write lyrics, poetry, and stories that explore emotional pain. Alone with Your Heartbeat Here is the part where it hurts Where you no longer recognize The way your mouth holds words The way your fingers twist nerves Through your unwound hair They said you’d feel better, clearer After the first sobering month Less pickled and bloated But you’re still sour skinned And angrier than ever Alone each night with That same wandering rhythm Unable to quit biting dirty nails Bio: Kimberly Casey is a Massachusetts native with her BFA in Writing, Literature and Publishing from Emerson College in Boston, MA. She now lives in Huntsville, AL where she founded Out Loud HSV, a spoken word and literary arts collective dedicated to creating a welcoming platform for language, writing, and communication to flourish. Her work has appeared in Hypertrophic Literary, Red Fez, and The Corvus Review among others, and she has a self-published chapbook of poetry, ‘Learning to Love Anchors’. "Music has saved me countless times, and it really does feel spiritual to me in that sense," Barth says, adding, "That it’s something that has never turned it’s back on me and shows up for me again and again and helps me through tough times." Growing up in a musical household, Barth's father, an opera singer, and her mother a choreographer, Lesley grew up on the sounds of Carole King, James Taylor, Carly Simon, influences one can hear on Barth's debut LP, Green Hearts. A soulful and equally introspective record that takes one back to the musical landscape of a different era of songwriters, the 1970's, when confessional female pop, soul and folk ruled the airwaves, Janis Ian, Joni Mitchell, of which Barth eloquently describes, after having first heard the song “Case of You,” "It was almost like the song was a physical presence in the room – it really felt like there was life before that moment and then life after that moment." One gets the sense that this is the approach Barth uses in writing and composing her own songs, leaning into each one, fine tuning toward the essential, with strong, unforgettable tracks like The Falling, resulting in one of the most intelligent, evocative pop albums to appear in recent years. "I fall squarely in the Dizzy Gillespie camp of “if it sounds good and it feels good, it is good.” I think things that tend to feel good to me are things that are a good mixture of clever, honest, and surprising. And when things feel good you just want to keep doing them." And we, the listeners, want to keep listening. AHC: What has this journey in music, so far, been like for you, the highs and the lows, and what life lessons do you feel you've picked up along the way? Lesley: My relationship with music has always felt incredibly personal and intimate. Listening to, performing, and writing music is how I make sense of the word and my experience of it. And when you make that very personal relationship public by putting the songs you’ve written and recorded into the world, I’ve found that it unsettles things a bit internally - makes you question your music and that relationship, because all of the sudden you’ve added in this third party into it: the audience. So I think that the act of releasing music is a pivotal and strange one for artists, because it’s a funny transition to navigate. You go into the studio and make the songs you want to make. Then you put them out and wait – like planting a bunch of little seeds. You slowly grow some fans, book bigger shows, learn more about the industry, and in the hustle of the business side, it’s easy to become incredibly reactive – i.e. trying to figure out what your audience might want/prefer vs. making the art you were born to make. And it’s a balancing act – don’t get me wrong, I love my audience and my fans. But I can't really write with them in mind. Because I’ve found that the best moments – the ones the audiences are most taken by – are when I’m performing a song I really believe in and feel – there’s just no substitute for it. Humans are so good at intuiting honesty. I’ll give you an analogy: my husband and I don’t have kids yet, but I think there’s something in that idea of needing to put your marriage above your children, precisely so you are able to give your children the best and the most you can give. And I think the analogy with music is that you have to love your music more than you love the fans and more than you love being a musician, because your music is the food for those same fans and for your career. At surface it could sound like a radical view, but I actually think it’s very rational – the songs have to be at the center for me. AHC: What first drew you to music and what was your early musical environment like growing up? Were there pivotal songs for you then that just floored you the moment you heard them? Lesley: I grew up in a very musical household – my father is an opera singer and my mother met him choreographing a show he was in. We listened to a lot of their old vinyl LPs – a lot of 60s/70s music. Singer/songwriters like Paul Simon, Carole King, James Taylor, Carly Simon, TONS of Beatles (and all their solo careers) and Motown, Prince, Cat Stevens, Fleetwood Mac, Tom Petty, Michael Jackson, The Beach Boys, and a massive quantity of Bruce Springsteen. And I think we had some novelty 45’s that were always a hoot to play. Since I’ve listed a bunch of artists, I’ll mention just one moment of a song taking my breath away: “Case of You” by Joni Mitchell – I was at a high school teacher’s house with some other students talking about philosophy, and he played us some Joni Mitchell. I was going through my first breakup so of course the connection felt so incredibly immediate and real. It was almost like the song was a physical presence in the room – it really felt like there was life before that moment and then life after that moment. AHC: Do you remember the first song that you ever wrote or played? Or that first moment when you picked up a pen and realized that you could create whole worlds just by putting it to paper? Lesley: I think I had been writing songs since I was in preschool – definitely did an album direct to tape (via our boombox) of improvised songs about animals with my brother in elementary school. Not sure where it is. I was always writing poetry in school, too, but I do remember the first song I wrote on piano. I was 13 and played it my piano teacher’s house during the annual recital. It was called “This Place Ain’t What it Used To Be.” Wow – only just now am I realizing that’s a hilariously funny line for a 13-year old. Wasn’t a bad melody though, standard pop form if I remember correctly. I might have to see if lyrics exist anywhere or if I can recreate some of it for fun. Hahaha. After that performance, my piano teacher said I had to buy Carole King’s “Tapestry,” which I did. And I played the Lennon-McCartney songbook cover to cover and between those two things, think I learned chord theory and the art of songwriting. AHC: Which musicians have you learned the most from? Or writers, artists, filmmakers, teachers/mentors etc? Lesley: If I had to pick a shortlist of those whose songwriting has influenced me the most – probably Leonard Cohen, Carole King, Bruce Springsteen and Tom Petty. I really love moments of poetry in songs and weird, dark, esoteric language, but I’m also a sucker for a killer chorus and just classic pop songwriting. I think I’ve also learned a ton from the musicians I know and play with – I’ve been fortunate to play with an incredible band and know several insanely talented songwriters who constantly inspire me to keep pushing. The grind can be lonely and isolating, and it helps to be going down the road with fellow musicians. AHC: What do you think makes for a good song, as you're writing and composing, is there a sudden moment when you know you've found the right mix, that perfect angle of light, so to speak? Lesley: I fall squarely in the Dizzy Gillespie camp of “if it sounds good and it feels good, it is good.” I think things that tend to feel good to me are things that are a good mixture of clever, honest, and surprising. And when things feel good you just want to keep doing them. So if I keep wanting to pick up the guitar or sit at the piano with a song, I know it’s good. And if I want to play it for my husband (who’s also a songwriter and performer), I know it’s good. I am often writing as I walk and having pen and paper or an iPhone to grab a quick inspired lyric or melody is really helpful. I usually dig through these little phrases every month or so and see if anything is good, but usually if it’s good I can’t stop writing it and work it over obsessively in my head and on paper until it’s there. AHC: Do you consider music to be a type of healing art, the perfect vehicle through which to translate a feeling, a state of rupture/rapture, hope lost and regained? Does the writing and creating of the song save you in the kinds of ways that it saves us, the listener? Lesley: Absolutely. I think performing, writing, and listening to music helps people feel feelings and connect with our deepest selves and longings. Music has saved me countless times and it really does feel spiritual to me in that sense. That it’s something that has never turned it’s back on me and shows up for me again and again and helps me through tough times. AHC: What are your fondest musical memories? In your house? In your neighborhood or town? On-tour, on-the-road? Lesley: I’ve loved some of the project release shows that I’ve played with a full band – it’s a great catharsis both in terms of playing some new songs for people but also in being a celebration of a ton of hard work. I also think solo shows really can feel special – being able to quiet a noisy bar for an hour with just you and an instrument is a really wonderful intimate experience for a songwriter that puts your songwriting front and center. And of course, I will always remember the moments in which my really good songs come together, because the best songs tend to come in one big burst, sometimes as short as 10-15 minutes. The feeling of playing a good song through beginning to end for the first time is magical. You created something out of nothing – it defies the laws of physics. AHC: When you set out to write a song, how much does 'where the world is' in its current moment, culturally, politically, otherwise, influence the kinds of stories you set out to tell? Lesley: It depends what I’m writing about – the album I just put out is really a collection of love songs, but I’ve been writing a lot more expansively and reflectively about --- pain, I guess? Hahaha. A lot of sadder, more serious songs. But when I feel like writing a sexy poppy love song, I just do that. So absolutely what is going on in the world influences my music – but the world is so expansive and even in times of great pain and sadness, there is also great joy to inspire you. AHC: Do you have any words of advice or encouragement for other musicians and singer-songwriters out there who are just starting out and trying to find their voice and their way in this world? What are the kinds of things that you tell yourself when you begin to have doubts or are struggling with the creative process? Or what kinds of things have others told you that have helped push you past moments of self doubt/creative blocks? Lesley: DO THE WORK. There are a lot of things you can do to make it more complicated than that, but that’s pretty much it. You want to write songs? Write some songs. You want to play shows? Book a show. Learn as much as possible about the industry, but don’t think you have to do ANYTHING a certain way because that’s worked for someone else. Artists have never had as much control as they do today because of the internet, so figure out ways to leverage that. But – more than anything else – just DO THE WORK. AHC: You just released your LP Green Hearts at the beginning of the year, could you talk some about this record, how long did it take to write and put together, what the binding themes of this work are for you personally? Do you have any new projects moving forward or ideas that are percolating for the future? Lesley: I crowdfunded Green Hearts in fall of 2015 and recorded it during the spring and summer of 2016. I had released a single and an EP before that, but this was the first full-length album, and I didn’t have a set tracklist for it. In other words, I didn’t write all these songs for an album, so the theme kind of came after the fact as I looked at the songs I wanted to track, which ones were strongest, it became pretty clear this was an album about young love. The oldest song on this album, Soul, was probably written in 2008? About half were very recent, and the others span 2008 – 2016. It makes sense that this would be an album about being young and in love and questioning things about love because that’s where I was during those years. I have a big backlog of songs and am trying to shape up a new album that is essentially about getting older and the things I’ve learned, and the things I still struggle with. I feel like life-wise and songwriting-wise I’ve been leaning into pain recently to better understand it and deal with some old stuff, which has been challenging but very cathartic and a time of personal growth. How I end up packaging these songs and releasing them, I’m not sure. Right now, it’s just about the music and the healing – and until I’m ready to share the songs, that’s all I’m going to focus on. With new songs, especially ones you are really excited about like I feel about a lot of my new stuff, sometimes it’s like the early stages of a relationship – you just want to keep them all to yourself for a bit. Green Hearts, Lesley Barth's debut LP, can be purchased @ https://lesleybarth.bandcamp.com/album/green-hearts Socials Website: www.lesleybarth.com Spotify: http://spoti.fi/2pcOYMC Facebook: www.facebook.com/lesleybarth Twitter: www.twitter.com/lesleybarth Instagram: www.instagram.com/lesleybarth YouTube: www.youtube.com/lesleybarth1 4/14/2017 0 Comments Poetry by Olivia MeyerSilvia Sala Fighting “You taste like fermented blackberries.” Words wet and hot on my ears. Tears spill down my face leaving my cheeks sticky with salt water residue. “i love you.” These words fall out of my mouth. Words that usually feel sweet warm like melting honey Feel like cotton balls soaked in rubbing alcohol as they wash down my tongue. When i look in your icicle eyes they are not looking at me. i feel like i can’t really see you. Like suddenly there’s glass tinted in all the things we cannot say between us. i punch and kick the glass until my knuckles and ankles bleed. i try to scream through the glass but you can’t hear me. So instead i just mouth the words “please, please, please” begging you to understand. You don’t say anything. When i reach out to touch you, to feel the warmth of your skin, my hands slam hard against the cruel glass again and again. i can’t touch you. i can’t touch you. i can’t touch you. i can’t keep reaching and screaming Can’t stare at the ominous tint of the glass, it hurts to look at you. i can’t look at you. i can’t look at you. i can’t look at you. Then all my bones break. And i sob and sob. And then you’re back. You’re holding me and my tears are on your cheeks and the glass has melted away like plastic in the sun. Sometimes i will remember the glass. It will linger in the back of my memory for several days and i will fear it’s return. But whenever i am afraid i hold myself and remember that you always come back. You always come back. You always come back. Whenever i am afraid i will hold myself and remember That the glass is a window not a wall. Soft and Strong Girls are soft and strong. Lovely in their anger. Exquisite in their rage. Girls burning red like molten lava Kissing hot orange like flames. Citrus on burning lips. Girls pulling brushes through vines of hair Tugging out imperfections. Their nails smooth and beautiful Cutting across any skin that oppresses, that lays too hard on their bones, pushing them down. They claw at the men who won’t let them breathe. They take long sips of paint, soda, spitting out acrylic onto canvas, puke out art and pink foaming intimacy. Rose petals on their fingertips, Thorns on their palms. Soft and strong. Girls weaving ribbons of influence. Touching each aspect of culture with a delicate and powerful proclamation to leave nothing without a hint of something deeply artistic, to pour beauty and strength into each organ of society. Girls who breathe life, who pump blood into hollow, wanting cheeks. Girls who are soft and strong. We are On a Bus We are on a bus. We feel the tires hit pavement rhythmically underneath us as we hum through the city Thump thump whoosh Part of the ticking of the streets. Part of the ordered chaos. You rest your head on my shoulder and your paper eyelids flicker shut. I squeeze your chilly hands softly in mine. I close my eyes. Thump thump whoosh. Memory One: I am on a bus and I am 10 years old. My little sister throws her head back and laughs too loudly at something I’ve said that isn’t that funny. So do I. We clap and sing and shout with the reckless abandon of those who have nothing to hide, children with light pink faces and minds. Our father sleeps undisturbed across the aisle Maybe he is dreaming of driving a car.. The other passengers stare at my sister and me, some with cold grey eyes, angry and solid. Others look on with melting molasses expressions They remember what it is to be very young And very loud And very happy. And then they look away. Thump thump whoosh. Memory Two: I am on a bus and I am alone. I feel nothing, my wet concrete heart works hard to beat, one two three, breath Don’t cry. I am numb. My dry eyes don’t focus on the gray blurry faces around me, I do not see them, I do not care. I am thinking about the other times I’ve left this place on a bus. I am remembering the way my heart used to tap fast as I could still feel his lips buzzing on mine, frantic, lusty bumblebees. I try to forget. Thump thump whoosh. Memory Three: I am on a bus and I backpack is hurting my shoulders. I am anxious and too hot and my limbs are heavy but I don’t know where to put my jacket, I am congested. Skin feels itchy around my bones, wrapped tight and suffocating like your least favorite sweater. I am on my way to make sure she is okay. I am going to see her because one day of her missing class has made visions of blood-stained bathroom floors and limp bodies whirl around my crowded brain. I will save her, hold her, show her I care. I get off my bus and walk a few blocks to her house, angry blisters rubbing against my boots, I didn’t plan to walk a lot today. I tell her I am here. She hates surprises. She tells me to go home. I cry at the park by her house for 15 minutes before boarding a bus back home and riding away from my messy failure. I feel so pathetic. Thump thump whoosh. Memory Four: I am on a bus, I am by myself but I am not alone. I grip the sweaty metal bar above me, squeezing my intrusive fingers uncomfortably in between those of the passengers around me. We sway with the flow of one another, with the street below and the walls around, push, pull, push, pull, stop, go. Girl pulls bus, bus pulls girl. I feel separate but connected, I am very alive. I am learning what it is to be an individual, on a bus, part of the rest. Thump thump whoosh. You are on a bus. The people around you are strangers but you recognize small parts of them. You recognize the violet shadows painted thick under their dark eyes. You recognize the subtle movements of their restless hands, holding bags and phones, running palms over pant legs, clicking nails on window sills, the motions of those in a place of transition. Moving from one stop to the next. Their flushed cheeks, lungs pushing chests, breath going in and out, in and out. As you move through the streets you are part of them, they are part of you. We are on a bus. Thump thump whoosh. The Boogie Man The boogie man living in my stomach makes my mouth taste like gasoline. I vomit strawberries when he pushes them out of my raw throat. He makes me miss you He makes me lie. This is his fault. Fast Feeling i eat conversations my guts growl for connection sodium saturated small talk it doesn’t really fill you up but it tastes good as you shove it into your open, weeping mouth licking the sugar of his words off your shaking, starving fingers i’m so hungry Bio: Olivia Meyer is 17 years old and a junior in high school. She lives in Seattle, Washington and has been published in her school’s newspaper. Writing is her favorite way to express herself and she's been doing it for as long as she can remember. Olivia thinks that poetry is a beautiful part of life and she loves both making and reading it. Minneapolis singer-songwriter Jake Allan has a bare bones, straight-to-the-heart-of-matters, lived in quality to his voice and lyrics, after all, he says, it is simplicity and truth that make songs a bit more steady on their feet. "Many people try to make things harder than they need to be. I’m certainly guilty of this too" Allan says, adding "don't get ahead of yourself and don't look back. Just be." Citing Steve Earle and Bob Dylan as abiding influences, one can also hear a bit of John Mellencamp breaking through, "Just because you're alive doesn't mean you know who you are" he sings on Wherever You Are, cutting away the lyrical fat and getting down to the bone of truth. On Somewhere to Somewhere and Everywhere in Between, Allan's latest record, we find a songwriter who has, as he puts it, "set out to create sources of love, danger, and truth for the listener," while also sifting through what Jake calls a "general unknowingness. Not knowing much about living, or being a son, or being a man, but trying to figure it out." When music asks these questions we can't help but pay attention, these are, after all, the kind of things we all find ourselves wondering and wanting to know about our own lives. How to be honest, true and better at all the things we continually have to learn along the way, never quite getting it right but aiming to come in as close as we can every time. AHC: What has this journey in music, so far, been like for you, the highs and the lows, and what life lessons do you feel you've picked up along the way? Jake: The journey, so far, feels short. Important life lessons that I’ve learned from being a musician and songwriter are to be honest, hard working, and kind. AHC: What first drew you to music and what was your early musical environment like growing up? Were there pivotal songs for you then that just floored you the moment you heard them? Jake: Music was always present in my life. At the age of six my dad bought my brother and I a drum set. He had been a fantastic drummer all his life and wanted to pass on the gift on to us. So my earliest memories would be pounding on the drums way to hard but innately understanding rhythm and time. As far as music that floored me the first time I heard it… I couldn't get over the magic of The White Stripes the first time I heard them. The tone, the songs, the power. The White Stripes were kind of unbelievable to me. The Ramones were another band that blew my mind at a young age. The first song, however, that floored me in the most unique way was “Christmas in Washington” By Steve Earle. The first time I heard it I felt that it had been written immediately, right then and there for me to have. That song truly changed the direction of my life and I still don’t exactly know why. AHC: Do you remember the first song that you ever wrote or played? Or that first moment when you picked up a pen and realized that you could create whole worlds just by putting it to paper? Jake: I remember writing my first complete song. I was probably thirteen or fourteen years old. I finished it and thought I was going to take over the world. I immediately ran out of my room to play it for my Dad and he told me it was awful. Which it was. I went back into my room and kept writing. I haven't really stopped since. AHC: Which musicians have you learned the most from? Or writers, artists, filmmakers, teachers/mentors etc Jake: From Steve Earle I learned the importance, in songwriting, of honesty and heart. From Bob Dylan I learned the importance of poeticism and style, in songwriting. From artists like Hank Williams I learned the importance of translating the overcoming of pain. From bands like Cheap Trick I learned the importance of melodies and hooks. The list goes on and on. I also learn a lot from my songwriter friends who I see here in Minneapolis. We support each other and critique each other’s work honestly. AHC: What do you think makes for a good song, as you're writing and composing, is there a sudden moment when you know you've found the right mix, that perfect angle of light, so to speak? Jake: The most important things that make a good song, in my opinion, are simplicity and truth. Many people try to make things harder than they need to be. I’m certainly guilty of this too. It’s important, however, to stay in the current moment while writing. Not to get ahead of yourself and not to look back. Just to be. When I am able to convey a true message simply and with a strong melody I feel I’ve found the perfect angle of light. AHC: Do you consider music to be a type of healing art, the perfect vehicle through which to translate a feeling, a state of rupture/rapture, hope lost and regained? Does the writing and creating of the song save you in the kinds of ways that it saves us, the listener? Jake: When I’m not creating music I feel an odd kind of overlying misery. Creating music temporarily saves me from that feeling, as does hearing a great song. AHC: What are your fondest musical memories? In your house? In your neighborhood or town? On-tour, on-the-road? Jake: My fondest musical memories are those shared with my Dad who passed away last year. We would talk, deeply, about rock and roll for hours. He also took my Brother and I to many concerts. I inherited, from him, a love for live performance and a love for songs. AHC: When you set out to write a song, how much does 'where the world is' in its current moment, culturally, politically, otherwise, influence the kinds of stories you set out to tell? Jake: I try not to write political songs. Things that inspire me the most are very menial interactions that I have with my surroundings. I try to effectively convey my experiences with those interactions in song. AHC: Do you have any words of advice or encouragement for other musicians and singer-songwriters out there who are just starting out and trying to find their voice and their way in this world? What are the kinds of things that you tell yourself when you begin to have doubts or are struggling with the creative process? Or what kinds of things have others told you that have helped push you past moments of self doubt/creative blocks? Jake: If you are just beginning then my advice is this: Take the energy that you would use on creating art and focus it on a degree in accounting or starting a small business or something. However, if you need to create because something is always forcing it’s way out then do it. Create always. Everyday. You will be faced with self doubt countless times on your creative journey. Always know what your cause is for creating art and keep creating. Work powerfully through the joy and the misery. Work powerfully through the loneliness. Know what you love and always set out to create sources of love, danger, and truth for the listener. AHC: You just released your album Somewhere to Somewhere and Everywhere in Between this February, could you talk some about this record, what the binding themes of this work are for you personally? Do you have any new projects moving forward or ideas that are percolating for the future? Jake: The songs on this record were only a few of the songs that I had written during a five or six year period. They aren't necessarily the best songs from that time period but they made the most sense to me for some reason. They were written in a few different areas of the United States, (Mostly the midwest.) Some were written during periods of incredible joy. Some were written in Milwaukee Wisconsin. Some were written in Minneapolis. Some in Michigan. The binding theme of this record is general unknowingness. Not knowing much about living, or being a son, or being a man, but trying to figure it out. I’m currently writing songs for my third solo record which is going to be a very concise album lyrically and stylistically. Im also writing for a new album with my other band, Buffalo Fuzz. Jake Allan's latest record can be purchased at jakeallan.bandcamp.com/releases Follow Jake on FB, Twitter & Instagram |
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