Clamour

No scarcity

Posted in Uncategorized by clamour on September 9, 2009

Today I was reading some of the historical archive stuff about riot grrl bands on Grrl Sounds and listened to some of the bands I missed out on because I was five years too young and lived in the land of boy bands and death metal.  I was especially inspired by Emily’s Sassy Lime playing a four string guitar and borrowing amps and the low fi cut up aesthetic.  I’ve been thinking so much about perfectionism, fear of judgment, and paralysis.  The first planning meeting for the Women’s Music Collective is tonight and all I can think is “who am I to make this happen?”  It’s kind of the way I feel when I write a song or a poem and it doesn’t seem real to me because it’s mine, like the only real things in the world are those that already existed without me.  Thinking about high school girls playing a four string guitar and borrowed drums turning out raw, beautiful noise is an antidote to that kind of thinking.

I am proposing a thought exercise: decontextualizing music from time and the idea of scarcity.  It’s tragic how music is thought of as locked to time and even though the music itself can travel as an artifact the rest of everything surrounding that gives it resonance is lost.  Planned obsolescence is a capitalist idea more suited to refrigerators than culture.  Music is infinite.  There is no scarcity of songs, images, musicians.  There is no scarcity of musical possibilities

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Sisterhood is noisy

Posted in Uncategorized by clamour on September 4, 2009

I’m taking this flier to Art Murmur tonight.  Let’s see what happens.

East Bay Women’s DIY Music Collective

Calling all home tapers, shower singers, songwriters, players of all instruments and skill levels and genres

Community, skillsharing, and workshops

for women and trans musicians

Organizational meeting

Wednesday September 9, 7 pm

Mama Buzz Cafe

Questions? Call 510-xxx-xxxx

email clamouring at gmail dot com

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Transubstantiation

Posted in guitar, music, Uncategorized by clamour on September 2, 2009

Yesterday I traded my steel string acoustic for an ’80s nylon stringed Yamaha classical guitar.

I hardly played the acoustic anyway because even after having the action adjusted a couple of months ago it was like playing one of those as-seen-on-TV wire egg slicers.  It sounded muddy and totally unforgiving. It had a weird separation between the lacquer of the neck and the body that made me nervous about its body integrity but didn’t really affect the sound.

It was a present from my mom on my 16th birthday.  It was the guitar I spent twelve hours a day playing during high school summers.  Then in my twenties it was the heavy, delicate thing I resented dragging around from house to house when I moved because it represented a part of my life that I was still mourning a little.

I feel liberated that I was able to let go.  Fourteen years is long enough to own a guitar that I didn’t really like that much. I like it when I can be practical and not buy into the idea that guitars are a sacred extension of the body.  Or a woman’s body, the other metaphor I see floating around that grosses me out.  There are so many silly cliches about mystical connections with musical instruments.  I think the mystique contributes to the idea that there is a right type of person (male) to play the guitar and one right type of feeling about it (all-consuming, reverential.)  I like thinking about guitars as tools for making noise.  Everyone has the ability to use a tool.  This thinking is new to me because I used to buy into the mystique wholeheartedly.  It was a big part of thinking I couldn’t play music any more much less own the term “musician.”

I have never liked classical guitar music at all and am still a little surprised that I own one.  I’m taking a community college class to learn sight reading and fingerstyle playing and thought that the nylon strings would make it easier to practice playing fingerstyle without tearing the fingertips off my right hand, which were blistered and bleeding after one class on the steel string acoustic.  The nylon strings make it easy to play for as long as I want to, kind of like an electric guitar.  I practiced sight reading this morning and I can feel the new connections prickling in my brain.  I love that feeling.  I also like the way the guitar looks small and unthreatening and a little blank; I can’t tell just by looking what kind of sound will come out of it.  It’s full of possibilities.

The guitar shop dudeliness was more muted than last time around.  It sucked a little but not badly enough to get upset about.

Next week I’m going down to Santa Cruz to play with my friend who is an amazing keyboard player with a ridiculously cool homemade electric/acoustic church organ set up in his house.  I’m going to send him one of the songs I’ve written to play together.  I feel a little nervous, like I always do when I open up to someone.  I’m going to bring my electric guitar and play loud because he lives in the middle of nowhere with no neighbors to annoy.

Head like a hole / Black as your soul: I am a thirty year old fourteen year old

Posted in music by clamour on September 1, 2009

Headless T-Rex

I relate to teenage poetry.  I get the chainsaw subtlety of the metaphor and the darkness of the darkness.  It’s been about fifteen years since the last time I felt the urge to write something that sounded like Nine Inch Nails lyrics but I feel that way quite a bit of the time.  I’m a grown ass woman with, for good or bad, enough shame to keep most of those feelings to myself but I still feel like a hysterical, morbid, teenager almost any time I have something to be upset about like getting kicked out a band.

I don’t think I even knew that not everyone feels all their feelings (and some of other peoples’ feelings too) as if they were roaring, 200 foot waves rolling over and surrounding them until I got sober.  Then two things happened: one, I started feeling things even more acutely and with more awareness because I couldn’t just drink eight beers and cry about how much my mom hates me or how I was going to die before I was 25 or any of the other things I used to trip out on when I was drunk.  Two, I started going to meetings and hearing about how sensitive everyone is.  I feel like less of a freak knowing that other people share my emotional makeup.  Most of the time I don’t mind being an emotional outlier.  Lots of the people I love most are hyperfeelers.  I appreciate their sensitivity and awareness and the compassion it gives them for others’ struggles.  But today my own hyperfeeling made it really hard to get out of bed.

If I had gotten kicked out a band three years ago I would be drunk and crying right now.  Instead I’m feeling every one of my lurid, oversized emotions.  At the moment they kind of remind me of those ads you see on skeezy websites with the flashing lights that leave traces on your retina even after you close your eyes, the ones that you try to click to close and they take you to the site that’s made up of more hyperactive blinking trying to sell you viagra or pirated software.  My feelings of shame and regret and fear are like those stealth porn spammer links that open themselves and take over the whole browser, flashing things I don’t want to think about AGAIN across my eyeballs when I’m happily thinking about something else.

Because I am a big sensitive obsessive baby who takes everything personally, because shame and fear and inadequacy and panic are eating me up, today I had to write a fuck you song to jazz.  It’s 4/4 time with no swing whatsoever, key of C, lots of thirds and fifths and other vanilla intervals, no accidentals, NO SWING, dead easy chord progression.  I kind of like it.  It’s surprisingly pretty for a song born out of resentment.

I played a little guitar.  I read a little of my book about home recording.

I remembered just now, while writing this, having a very intense and serious (and hilarious in retrospect because we were so serious about WHAT IS ART and WHAT IS TRUTH) conversation with my friend Tom in tenth grade about whether Trent Reznor could be considered an authentic artist.  The problem, as we saw it, was that he wrote songs about being depressed and disenfranchised while living what sounded to us like a pretty fucking awesome life of making music and money.  From the perspective of two depressed teenagers having crazy bad times at home, being an adult with limitless social mobility and income meant you could never feel anything again except ecstasy and gratitude. Therefore NIN was inauthentic therefore NOT ART.  We solved the philosophical question of art and authenticity once and for all.

I had no idea when I was a teenager how small you can make your own world using nothing but your own head.  It’s one of the anti-miracles of human consciousness how badly you can fuck yourself up.

JAZZ KILLS

Posted in guitar, Uncategorized by clamour on August 29, 2009

So after less than a week in a band I’m not in a band any more.

Jazz got me again, just like in the 11th grade when my music friends, guys who I had known since elementary school, turned into jazz snobs and didn’t want to play fun stuff together any more.  Today (and Wednesday, when I was crying in the bathroom) I knew I was in trouble when the other guitarist wanted to play jazz standards and hear me improvise over a 12 chord blues that he was playing with the jazziest of jazzy altered chords.  I hate blues.  I haven’t soloed over a 12 chord blues since I was 16 or 17 because as far as I’m concerned there’s no reason to unless someone is making you do it.  I didn’t think that this band, which I have seen play live, was a straight up jazz band since out of the eight or nine songs I’ve heard them do only two sounded restless, dissonant, and hypercomplex.  The rest of the songs are pop/rock I can play easily.  It turns out they really are a jazz band, if not completely in music than in ideology.  That means that my competent rhythm guitar and bass and pretty good lyric writing skills aren’t enough.

I don’t swing.  I groove feebly.  I failed the virtuoso test I didn’t know I was taking.  I played a straight minor chord when I should have played a Ebm7+9.  I am innately not a jazzist.

It hurts like a breakup.  I feel humiliated even though the “this isn’t working” conversation happened in the calmest, most respectful way possible.  I took myself out for vegan Japanese food to cure my broken heart with miso soup.  I cried a little more in the restaurant bathroom.  The lucky cat watched me from the back of the toilet.  I hope it’s the last bathroom I cry in for a while.

But like a breakup this also means I’m free to do whatever I want.  Like not try to scramble songs I’ve already written to make them fit the band I’m not playing with any more or scramble my brain learning dissonant, 100% 16th note bass runs.   Like start my own band (East Bay music-making ladies, where are you?)  Also to crawl around Craigslist at 2 am fantasizing about finding women to make music with but finding dude after dude who RAWKS.

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Opening up

Posted in guitar, music by clamour on August 27, 2009

Every time the universe tased me today I took it personally.

Today was a good day because powerful, scary stuff happened and a bad day because powerful, scary stuff happened.  None of the bad things that happened to me personally seem very important now that I’m in bed with the lamp on, overhead light off, glass of water on the dresser next to the bed and an increasingly warm comforter around me.  My ego took some damage from an encounter with a guitar nerd, I dropped my keys six or seven times, I missed a train, I took the wrong way off the freeway and ended up in East Oakland when I wanted to be in Lake Merritt, I walked around San Francisco in a zombie fugue state because I only got four hours of sleep, I skipped lunch and crashed, my gums hurt for some reason, my head hurts from fatigue.  Except for the ego thing I can attribute all of those to inadequate self care and clumsiness.

Scary and powerful thing number one:

I feel silly thinking about the bad parts of my day when my partner’s mom had surgery for lung cancer today.  B is down there with her.  She’s recovering.  She has tubes sticking out of her.  I can’t imagine her without her glittery sunglasses and lipstick and puffed hair and matching tracksuits.  I am worried for her, obviously.

Scary and powerful thing number two:

I played for the first time with the really awesome and talented composer and guitarist in the band I’m joining and I could tell he was disappointed with my playing and even though he was very tactful it hurt.  I was nervous and playing stiffly and fucked up a few things I know well.  I was so nervous that when he asked me what song I wanted to play all I could think about was a silly four chord song that wasn’t even mine (I couldn’t think of a single lyric or melody line to a single one of my songs even though I’ve been working on them for hours every day.)  The song I finally played sounded so jangly next to the twenty chord multiple key jazz crazies we had been practicing that I knew it was wrong thing to have played half way through and wanted to disappear.  Even if I had been playing at my best I play on a much more basic level than he does.  He’s a ridiculously talented jazz player, so much so that I don’t know why they were looking for another guitarist when he is clearly more than enough for one band.  I’m not particularly competitive and I don’t feel crushed when I’m not the best at something but it’s really hard to work with someone far above my level who’s trying balance collaboration with teaching and being so nice about it but probably a little bored and judgmental. I did cry a little in the bathroom of his lovely Mission hallway-centric apartment with Crimethinc posters and hippie tablecloths and cast iron skillets hung on the wall, and a little more on the street walking home.

I felt a lot better once I switched to bass and learned some of those parts.  I love the bigness of the sound, the one-note-at-a-time zen of it, the lack of glamour.  I’m pretty certain I will play more bass than guitar in this band.

I have a friend a while back who, when we lived in the same place and I would call her on the phone fraught with some anxiety about some person judging me or hating me or being angry with me or choosing me (or not) for something, would tell me in a relaxed and peaceful voice, “your job is to be the person you are right now.”  There is so much truth in that.  It is also true that I am choosing to open myself to collaboration, to judgment, to creative energy and to criticism in playing with other people and that I can’t separate the parts of that openness I want from the parts I don’t.

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Words vs. Music: On Being Female in Guitarland

Posted in music by clamour on August 25, 2009

I picked my guitar up from the shop yesterday.  The shop was a back room off the kitchen in a cat-scented Edwardian house in a residential neighborhood of Berkeley.

This guitar is an abused 30 year old low-end Fender that, if it hadn’t had some kind of accident that looks like it involved fire,would be worth about ten times what it cost new.  Because the entire finish is blistered and flaking, because the neck pickup was dead and had to be replaced, because it needed rewiring, because some ’80s punk carved cryptic almost-poetry all the way through to the wood, it’s not worth much, but it’s a playable guitar with a nice sound and some funny stories behind it.  I felt lucky when I took it in and found out that all its problems were electrical and cosmetic.  Most importantly the neck and bridge were fine.  It sounds good–warm and fat and a little remote–but I mostly love it for the neck, which is curved and thin and perfectly shaped for stumpy fingers on small hands.

When I went to drop it off last week I carried it from Oakland to Berkeley on the 51 bus in a red Galapagos Island totebag with a parrot on it.  Punk as fuck.  The real reason for the unorthodox case was that my hard case is the size of a six year old and weighs twenty pounds empty and puts a lot of strain on my already-crappy right shoulder and I had to take the bus.  Why hurt myself and smack around my fellow passengers for the well-being of a guitar that hasn’t been really played since the late eighties, when it was set on fire and carved on?  And then I walked into the shop and remembered why I quit really playing guitar–quit taking lessons, quit dreaming about starting a band, quit getting better, quit doing anything but strumming easy chords to easy songs so that my friends could sing them–I got the look.  The “what are you doing with that thing, sweetie” look.  The “you’re doing it wrong” look.  The luthier and the blues-rock guys hanging around the shop interpreted a rational decision about valuing my own body over a thoroughly trashed guitar as not knowing any better.  I felt like I was six years old.  Nobody actually called me “sweetie” but the luthier casually touched my knee during conversation.

When I picked up my guitar yesterday I felt so intimidated that I could barely play to test the repair job.  Electric guitar is so loud.  It’s such a big broadcast of your self, your thoughts, your taste, your skill.  A guitar plus an amp fills the room.  If you try to quiet down the guitar with your fingers, which is what I was doing when I tested it because I felt so small and self-conscious, you end up sounding stiff and thin and hesitant.  What goes through the amp sounds awkward and unmusical.

I wish when I was 18 and 19 and 20 I had had the strength of Kathleen Hanna or Annie Clark, to say “fuck you” and start my own genre like the former or to be tough enough to play with men like the latter, but I didn’t.  I don’t want to second guess how my life would have been if I hadn’t been so sensitive but I do know that not playing music during those years left a hole in me.  I felt sad every time I went to a show.  I went from a passionate musician to a passionate listener. I gained a whole universe of music that I didn’t even know about when I was a teenage guitarist in small town Florida or a socially awkward college student who was terrified of the cool kids who listened to the cool music, but I was sad to not be doing it myself.

When I quit really playing guitar I started writing more.  I wrote half a novel, I wrote more poems than I could count, and now I’m writing a doctoral dissertation, poetry, and a rock opera that might just be a large-scale private joke.  I’m writing at least a song a week, too.  I am proud of what I have accomplished as a writer but also feel a little shame at not being tough enough to deal with the look and the teasing and all the shit that comes with being a woman making music with men.  It’s easier for a woman to write– to work in private and be read in silence — than to make a lot of noise in public.  It was true 200 years ago and it’s true now.  It breaks my heart.

Earlier this summer I got out my guitar and played a few chords.  It felt weird and at first I couldn’t change chords in time.  I listened to some Gillian Welch albums and realized she uses the same six chords to write brilliant songs.  I learned the songs.  Then I learned some Mountain Goats songs, also based on the same six or eight chords with alterations and fills.  I started learning Belle and Sebastian songs, which are a little more complex.  Then I taught myself how to read sheet music again.  Then I relearned some jazz chords.  Then I started writing my own songs for the first time ever.  Then I started practicing improvisation over songs I like.  Then I bought an amp.  Then I relearned reading bass clef.  Then I started playing scales.  Then I signed up for a classical guitar class at the community college to work on my right hand fingerstyle technique and sightreading and arpeggios.

Then I joined a band.  The first practice is tomorrow.

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