While I Was Thinkin Of It....

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It’s a problem…I think of a lot of things…with an unfortunate rapidity.  My little mind, donned with hi-lights for irony, fires off from stimulation from every corner of the room that is my environment, sight, sound touch and smell…well, it’s like chasing sparks from one of those little firecrackers…ya know the ones that buzz around like a crazy bee on fire about two inches off the ground, throwing tiny flares every which way.  ....

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This kinda light doesn’t shoot up high and gracefully release sparks of various hues in lovely shades of amber.  It just…freaks out.  And it’s quite enrapturing for the viewer, and exhausting for the firecracker.  What do they call those kind?  I need a research trip to Chatanooga.  ....

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I’ve heard some call the concept “adult ADD”, but others say there’s no such thing.  I’d like to have a name for it though…I’d like to quantify it a nifty term.  For convenience, and an excuse!....

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I guess that’s one reason songwriting, when I feel like I’m on a good one, is so therapeutic…the magnet drawing me into the journey of writing is so compelling it actually has the power to transfix the overactive antenna between my super size earrings…ah, maybe that’s it!  It’s the damn earrings….shoulda known.  Think Lady Gaga would even be envious if I started wearing lighting rods for accessories?  I might ought to look into that.  And all the rabbit ears in our attic…this is the best argument for getting cable I’ve come up with…....

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But even when the enigmatic song comes, and I know it’s coming, I still have to take measures…which I’m learning to do.  Confine myself, close doors, set the light, turn off sounds and the stove, put the phone under the mattress…and better do it quick.....

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More outlets like these are the key to my longevity, or at least if peace leads to that end.   Knitting, reading, exersize, and cooking are all good…if I can limit the number of dishes, scarves, books and types of workouts…....

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One day I might burn out like that Elton John song.  A good stiff wind, multiplied by a new punk band, the latest from Stella McCartney, rambling letters from Van Gogh, a thrift store find, a new guitar, and old bluegrass song, the Ryman stage, meeting a new rock star, a documentary introduction to the strangest character, pictures from my childhood, moonshine and prison stories from daddy, discovery of a new ethnic food that takes me away, putting my feet on a foreign land and taking a look around, executing a new lick on my banjo, having my picture taken obscurely at the coffee shop, my cats hairball, and oh, a new shipment of earrings at HairWorld….and poof…there she went, girl dropped that basket....we found her in the bathroom washing her face with toothpaste.

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The only things that fall out in tact will likely be something I read, wrote cooked or knitted.  Isn’t that odd?  Such tangibles so real, all products of my escape from reality..my little dreams…where the firecracker gives way to a slow steady burn.....

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Well I just heard a car drive by so I better go ,but thanks for the match.  Just wanted so say that, while I was thinking of it.   ....

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Hey!?  Anybody home?  ....

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I hadn’t been around here much, but I miss it.  It’s only cause things are pretty good, can’t complain, and tween the radio show and touring I’ve been getting a little spanking!  Hurts so good.  Plus MySpace has become a bit buggy...FYI, I cannot respond to any of my messages! Anyway hope everything’s nice and naughty for y’all.....

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 I have been showing up on the facebook.  There’s a personal fun page AND an “Official” fan page.  Plus I’m on the twitter.  Yes, it’s true…I twit.  Sometimes it’s tough to get all my characters into theirs, iffn ya know what I mean.  I’m just so complex.  HA!....

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Home now from Texas after Guy Clark and Dwight Yoakam dates.  So freakin fun.  I played on a spinning stage!  Like I needed help spinnin......

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I wasn’t a bit scared stepping on stage in Houston for the Dwight show.  Thought I would be.  But I wasn’t.   Me, Tim Carroll and Bones Hillman marched down like a 3 man army, one just happened to be in fishnets.  We plugged in and I gave Tim the nod.  He knows the nod.  It’s assurance, eye of the tiger, it says “correct” and “here we go”.  Ya know, it’s just “the nod”.  Body language and a look from the eye between two people that know each other so well, words are not necessary.....

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And now, on this lazy Sunday nite in Nashville, well I guess my head’s more of a slow bob, the holidaze knockin…(I hear ya…damn…I hear ya!).  It’s back to home life before the next jugger knot of activity.  Really just Indianapolis next Saturday nite!  And I’m out!....

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I have zero zilch notta motivation to cook or decorate a damn thing.  But I do feel a little guilty about it, so at least that’s SOMETHING, right? ....

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If I can find a small white plastic tree, I might put fishing lures on it, and maybe some dried hydrangeas from the yard.  Sucks when tradition implodes.  That’s revolution baby.  Nobody said it was pretty.....

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Here’s what I know.  I’ve been reading more and more for “parts” in TV/movie stuff, a lesbian folk singer, a current wife, an ex-wife, a spy’s wife…, though my greatest success so far is sounding like a GEICO commercial pothole, which unfortunately, I am not.  ....

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I’m gonna break into one of these things.  I just don’t know how the hell, where the hell, or wtf.  But if I knew that, wouldn’t it be dull.  We couldn’t get together and angst like a Taylor Swift record.  Ha, sorry couldn’t resist.....

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I’ve tracked 14 songs for my new record, which is full of angst btw, and produced by Don Was.  Yes, it has happened, one rainy week in October, I didn’t notice a drop of anything but adrenaline.  It was a wonderful time for me.  ....

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I sang into big fancy microphones a Frankie Miller cover, a scad of all over the place freaky originals, something by a pop band from Brooklyn, an ole school country song my mother wrote when she was young.  I wrote two songs on the spot.  ....

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Rodney Crowell did some singing with me, The Carol Lee Singers from the Opry too…and other special guests TBA. I ain’t sayin til their ass is on tape.  ....

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If all goes right, the creek don’t rise over the swinging bridge, and NASA don’t spot any inbound meteors, we’ll mix in L.A. early in the winter.  The album will drop in the Spring…April probably.   Stay tuned…I know, it’s for-freakin-ever.....

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After my Uncle Darrell died a few weeks ago, my cousins were going through some of his things, inevitably pounds of Gator pride items and railroad paraphernalia.  They came across a vinyl 45 record.  It was a recording of my mother.   “Joyce Smith” she was then.  I knew this existed at one point, but didn’t know where it was, or how to look for it.  A loving cousin vowed to pack it up and send it to me.  ....

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Right before I left Nashville for this last Texas run, I checked my p.o. box so I wouldn’t get a nasty note from the postmaster saying “bitch please, your box runneth over”….and there it was…a big box I just knew was holding insuring amounts of bubble wrap and a little black circle with my mama’s young voice recorded on it.  ....

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Mama sang sitting on the edge of the bed, at local bars, churches, and various events all my life.  But I had NEVER heard her when she was young.  She was 42 when I was born.   That was 6 babies later!....

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I tugged at the cardboard to get it out.  It was wedged in tight by junk mail, mags from Kappa Delta and Georgia Southern, a few early holiday cards and a couple of miniscule checks, statements from record companies that are ripping me off, invitations from art galleries, though most all my visual art comes from Goodwill so it’s futile, and so forth and so on…the people that built the Sphinx must stuff the boxes at my post office.....

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Finally after a few embarrassing semi-violent thrashes, arms overflowing like a crazy lady leading a tickertape parade, I got it all out to the car.  I sat in the parking lot and tried to get the box open.  It had tape on it so freakin strong North Korea would be interested in it’s composite. ....

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One broken fingernail and a busted ink pen later I drove to my old publishers office on Music Row to drop something off.  I carried the package in knowing my buddy Jeff would have a pocketknife, like all good men.  He sliced it open, and out it came.  The inches of bubble wrap, a letter, copy of my uncle’s eulogy, and…the record. ....

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Jeff so graciously offered to drop a needle…after I assured him I would not puddle up on his floor.  The crackle started and black warped disc spun on his turntable.  An old band kicked in a fashion that’ve made Hank proud.  Then my mother’s voice so young, part Kitty Wells, part Loretta, and every bit the hillbilly alto I know so well (but definately a few pitches higher) began belting out a lonesome old country song.  ....

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It wasn’t sad.  It was exciting.  I continue to know her in new ways.   I strained to hear every note, word and breath.  Knowing I couldn’t hog the turntable all day, for now I’d probably just get this one listen.....

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Daddy later explained that a man with a little money wrote some poetry about his broken heart.  He knew mama as the local go to hillbilly girl singer, so he paid her to put music to the words and record the songs at his expense at WZST.  Still trying to figure out where that is…but I think it’s in Ocala FL.....

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I don’t know what else I’ll learn but all I’ve regained will not be lost.  The vinyl is being transferred to disc and cd’s made for the family.  I can’t wait to put her in my car.....

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Maybe one reason besides career play action, I haven’t blogged here as much lately is cause it was seeming all blogs led to mama.  I don’t know when that’ll change.  And here I am again.  ....

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I wish she could hear my new record.   I miss getting her reaction.  I’m surrounded by love and support of many friends and family and people that work with me.  So blessed.  And I’m more confident in my game than ever before.  But nobody else could listen…and give me the nod.  ....

It Just Be’s Me…

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That’s how it starts…a phone message from my beloved Uncle Darrell…a retired railroad man, avid Gator fan, adored by his family.  I’ve saved it on my phone for months.  As many of my friends and business acquaintances know, my voice box if often full.  That’s one reason why.  And I’m glad of it.  

The man who over and over upon command every time I ever saw him bellowed the Tarzan yell for me to a tee, who took care of my basically orphaned mother…showed her the first three chords on the guitar when she was twelve, took her to the fair, climbed a tree and pretended to be a mountain lion to spook the neighbors…the man who was always ready to host us at his New Smyrna Beach trailer complete with iced down Mich lite and KFC, passed tonite around 7pm. 

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I heard it was possibly coming with a call from my distraught cousin.  Here I am away from home and my family again…in Branson no less with the Conway Twitty Musical.  THe first night back after months, dialogue and cues hazy and my sea legs like lemon jello.  I got through the show, even the death scene, and resisted looking at my phone until it was over.  Sure enough.  The last of a generation gone.

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This yo-yo is so intense.  Just two days ago I was in the studio with Don Was having possibly one of the best experiences of my life, to a groovy bluegrass festival in rural South Carolina, not to mention a few weeks ago hanging with Robert Plant at the base of the Golden Gate bridge, to here…alone, overlooking the IHOP out of my hotel window in the heartland.

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This man was pivotal in my life.  He was the one who rescued my abandoned mother and her five children from the hills of poverty in West Virginia…drove them south pulling a trailer in a big long Cadillac.  A trip they ALL recount.  They had never stayed in a hotel before.  It was in the sandy Florida neighborhood he took them where my daddy would move next door and woo mama one starry night into riding to the truck stop with him to buy cigarettes.

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Uncle Darrell sang “Ole Shep”…but the family joke was he was so sentimental none of us knows how the song ends cause he could never make it through the last verse.  He was liquid gold and light, tanned muscular and handsome, with classic Welch blue eyes and Ross cheek bones, wearing an orange and blue tank top with style all through even his 60’s.  Grilling chicken and playing volleyball, leading the party at family reunions..saying goodnite with a verse of Danny Boy.  I’m full and empty all over again.  I guess that just be’s life. 

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Today I crossed over the bay into San Francisco in a Ford Econoline.  We were in good spirits after a somewhat grueling but cute gig. Played just through the almond trees tucked back in the sleepy California college town of Chico. 

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Tim Carroll held is left hand pointer index finger slightly up off the steering wheel gently pointing towards heaven.  It’s purple and knarled from nasty run in with an “all saw“ or something like that.  Played through it last nite though…90 minutes straight and didn’t even wince.  If he missed a note he was wanting to hit, I didn’t hear it.

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Marco Giovino was stellar on drums and percussion, as is par for him.  And Bones Hillman grinned, grooved, and tuned the rented Kay upright bass we’d picked up just that morning.  Funny scene.  A grumpy Russian named Alex met us in his garage in southern San Fran out by the airport.  Coffee in hand walked through the home space unfolding in rows of beautifully shaped wooden basses, work benches with lacquer and wrenches and an ashtray overflowing with the stubby remains of intent and perseverance.  Hollow bodies of sensuously shaped wood lay around in various states of reincarnation.  A messy but oragnized work room.

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He pulled out the bass we agreed to rent from him for this trip over the phone some weeks ago.  For the $100 price he quoted we weren’t sure what the hell to expect.  He presented an unassuming but solid instrument at first glance.  Bones asked him what year the Kay was…he said “Who Cares?...it’s a Kay.”.  We all shared an inaudible laugh with cuts of the eyes at his crusty retort.  And in short order, Marlboro pursed in lips, he helped us load the big baby into the van.

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The “who cares” bass in tow, cockeyed sticking up over the back few rows of seats,  we cruised slowly over the water lapping violently beneath us on this warm Friday afternoon San Fran traffic.  

The double decker bridge sparked the earthquake stories during which I had to ask Bones to please refrain using the word “pancake” while were on the structure.  People eeking along with windows down, some tattooed and blasting metal, some windows up tight and clean, eating something out of Tupperware, smug and efficient.  The waters looked deep cold and powerful…I don’t know if this is what they mean by high seas, or if they're referring to my redneck ex bro in laws smoking pot in a boston center console boat, but the white caps lapping around Alcatraz looked pretty tenuous to me.

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I’m definitely feeling in high seas but my bouts of doubt and borderline panic are constantly interrupted by the seemingly futile tasks at hand…annoying details required to just pull off the experiences right in front of me.  Maintaining the relationships of the people I love and need, and who need me and the amazing opportunities before me…constantly reassessing the priorities. ..stopping, reshuffle, try again....and hopefully soak up a little hippi attitude.  Think I could use it.  Ya know let go and let ghanja, or whoever...

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After playing Hardly Strictly on Sunday afternoon on the “Porch Stage” (…feel like I should bring some potato salad…), I’ll fly to L.A., read for a part I’d give all my shoes away and get a Mariah Carey tattoo to get, and then be with Don Was in the evening, the producer of my 5^th studio album, to be recorded in just a few days.  

It is new waters for a Florida girl, and the stakes are so high, but I wanna enjoy the ride….. and one day….I wanna just look back smilin over a big stack of pancakes with my floppy catfish hat on and say ah yeah...what a wonderul time that was...what year was that?....who cares?

Last nite we sat on our bus backed up tight to the Possum’s in downtown Chattanooga.  George Jones fans loitered outside in the tepid drizzle.  A laptop played distorted Lynard Skynard in the front lounge, the only band agreeable by all occupants I’m sure. 

 

A stack of 8 pizzas in greasy cardboard boxes teetered on the tiny table.  I retired to my bunk with a green apple and some almond butter, guessing my mood to watch either the Bob Dylan biopic I’m Not There, or my new Cassavetes documentary was probably out of step with my fellow travelers. 

 

I fell asleep soon.  And dreamed of mama.  She was getting ready to go to the beach and me and daddy were helping her.  She asked me for a scarf to wear around her neck in case the wind was cool.  I stood in my dressing room and mulled over a hundred options…vintage and silk and lovely, or soft and knitted with more weight for warmth….I couldn’t decide.

 

The other day I sat in indecision on the swing in my backyard in Nashville…one of the few moments I’ve been home this month and not on a giant vibrating bus wishing like I hell I could pee in a jug.  A giant ole tree that’s been struck by lightening 5 times obscures me from the street and tucks me into a lush corner….a hidden newly green garden in the city. 

 

I was distraught, heavy, teary….I can’t even remember why.  I heard something sudden and powerful like a helicopter come up against the back of my head.  The flapping made a strong wind so close my freshly washed hair parted and blew from the back of my neck and up around the sides of my face.  It startled me.  I turned my head and saw a giant red breasted robin light on the fence a few feet away.  She looked me up and down and all around.   She’s huge and shiny and healthy.   I’ve seen her everyday since.

Life Changin.

In 2008, I said hello to London, hello to Hollywood, and goodbye to my mother.

Relatively, this year had been gliding along quietly in a melancholy drift, like an ole piece of bony cypress, floating in that south Georgia swamp. I miss it so much.

Back last fall, a wild curly haired psychic woman stood in the back room of the Station Inn with me. She told me she saw big changes in April. If she was guessin, she guessed right. My friend, The Rock N Roll psychic has long predicted theatrical work, and even mentioned Broadway. Well, Branson may be as far as we go with this one, but who knows…I think it’s cool and with some props could kick “Cats’” ass.

So this is it, I’m the newest cast member of a musical on the life of Conway Twitty, “The Man, The Music, The legend”.

His music makes me crazy, laugh, cry, squench, all that, always has. So what a fun (and unpredicted, at least by me) way to spend the early summer!

I’m honored to be hired by the family, who are personally involved, and their hard working associates to play the role of Joni Twitty.

The tour dates are up here and will continue to be added as the calendar, well, doesn’t grow, cause time can’t grow, but uh, get’s filled! Yeah that’s it. And we may get to fill an evening of yourn if we get close enough!

Come see me squirm on the trail, and try to mimick the “golden growl”. We’ll be in for a fun night.

I’ll be continuing with 5 mornings a week on Sirius XM Outlaw Country, because apparently it’s also in the stars for me to work to death. Plus I just can’t part with my beautiful outlaw people.

Everybody gets a script of “life changing” from time to time, though I think my dosage may be a little on the heavy side, here’s to good changin’ for you, or if life is already good, a whole hell of a lot more of the same.

Thank you for the love and support and outlaw prayers. Our time is what we make so the great philosophers like Kanye West say. I think Conway was right, at the end of the day, reckon “It’s Only Make Believe”. (ha, you knew that was coming.)

xo,
ec

I think my cat is trying to ask for bidet.

He gets in the shower with me, jumps in at the far end, turns around with his hind-quarters towards me and the spout.

He sits with excellent posture, his upper body tucked between the liner and the tub, and only his behind sticking out, and sitting in the water.

I splashed a little, just enough to make some extra suds. That seemed to make him happy.

I wish I could give my cat a bidet, and myself, a boudois.

This time of year reminds me of unfulfilled longings.

They’ve fired up the storm tracker down at the local news center and that always made me wanna brick in my mama’s trailer. Never did. And now she resides far above the tornadoes.

I need a new car. Tim and I both do. My old beamer rattles down the road like a pawn shop drum kit. Always somethin, never nothin.

We got what we need apparently, cause we’re living relatively happy. Could be a lot damn worse. Could be better, but ain’t that always the truth?

The trees are waking up and after what seems has been one damn long winter’s nap, so am I, I guess.

Time to sweep the porch, plan a garden, flip a bird at my neighbor, and walk barefoot, feeling the cool violets between my toes. Happy Spring Beautiful Outlaw People.

I’m particularly nuts right now I guess. But y’all are used to that. So much to do I walk in circles until collapsing on the couch and committing to watch the 2 ½ hour Cassavetes film about a crazy woman. Perfect. Here’s the edge, and here’s me, standing on it in 3-inch stilettos.

I worry about our country and our relationship with the mainstream media. I think that even if jobs spring up over the next 18 months, and we begin the process of catching up and modernizing our nation and our approach to achieving a civilized union, the potential has a deadly ceiling. Why? Ratings. Ever since 9/11 bad news sells like a mofo. The worse, the better, the nastier, the longer the lead line.

So what’s the incentive to report a turn around, to bolster the all important public confidence? Apparently apocalypse is so much more entertaining. Well, one really twisted hope is that maybe reality will start to suck bad enough for good news to develop some sort of shock factor.

The deterioration of journalism from reporting findings and honest perspective to the game of pushing emotional buttons on numb couch potatoes is a devastating pop culture evolution. I sound so dire. But hey, I don’t make the news…I just bitch about it.

And there IS some good news, and we sure could use some, according the great philosopher Ann Murray.

Besides playing Nashville and Ohio this week, plus a newly added round at the Bluebird with badasses Nanci Griffith and Mary Gautier, I have a new booking agent and will likely be taking my hillbilly wisdoms (or lack thereof) on the road on a more regular basis.

I used to pass a certain inconspicuous building down on music row with a sense of intrigue and knowing. It was an unlikely beacon admist the glass housing of arrogant labels and Reba’s bad iron horse sculptures, a modest unrennovated stone structure, inhabiting a small booking agency, home to long term solid, touring artists…in itself an undeniablly rare and exotic breed.

And there was a man up there behind it all…a man who I imagined to be something like the wizard in Oz. I drove by for years, and on occasion, prayed for tornadoes.

Well the right winds may have blown alas, and I am proud to say I am as of this week, an artist of the Keith Case Agency. I like him. I like his people, his building, his glasses, his shiny teeth, his cander and his affinity for San Pelligrino. It’s a new day in my world, and that’s at least some good news.