Good Things

The last time I wrote, about a week ago, I said I was going to try being only positive. And then you never heard from me again, and that might seem a little ominous.

But the simple truth is things are getting really busy around here, with putting the record out. We've been dealing with the logistics of booking and travelling to other lands and it starts to be all consuming.

The good news is there are a lot of gigs in the next few months! And Eric has updated his website!

Another happy thing was our gig the other night. After struggling with the sound and the cold at an outdoor concert the previous week, it was reassuring to play in our favorite local place, the Lawrence d'Arabie, with a nice crowd of friends and strangers around (except for that sour couple at the table right in front...but wait, only nice things...at least for another day or two) and sound like we know we can sound.

Then there was the fete du bois the next day. It's simply that, a celebration of - wood. There's a lot of it around here. This is supposed to be brawny men stripped to the waist, armed with chainsaws, battling it out over who can take down a tree fastest. But it rains every year, so that part of it is a little mythical. Instead it's some cute stalls displaying every kind of cutting board imaginable, and other stalls selling sausage sandwiches and beer. It poured rain just as we were eating and Eric and I ended up huddled under an umbrella with a couple of guys who were grilling and drinking wine. We laughed and talked with them until the rain stopped enough to run to the car. It was goofy and fun.

We've been working on the garden a little bit, getting a winding path going and trying to find the right spot to put a table and chairs. It gets the morning light and some evening light too, which the courtyard misses. I find myself walking up there a lot, which is what I love about paths - you want to follow them. Before, it felt too daunting, this big open green space (mostly weeds - oops, negative) but now there's somewhere to go.

Glass-Half-Full Girl

Eric was catching up with my recent blogs the other day. I wonder sometimes how other couples deal with blogging. Do you tell your sweetie the moment you post some witty insight ("Hey hon, come check this out") or a recounting of an event you both attended ("I need some fact-checking here!")? Or do you wait til they stumble on it in their own time? If you talk about someone online, do you ask their approval beforehand, or do you wait until you've posted and then alert them? I imagine there's a lot of new business in counseling these days to help people sort out their issues with sharing - not the old-fashioned kind between two people, but rather sharing with the world in general, especially when it might be things you haven't gotten around to talking about at home yet.

I'm often a little shy in front of Eric about what I write, mostly because I think he is such a fine writer himself and I would want him to like what I write. When he was looking at the last month or two of posts, I was reading over his shoulder and I noticed a few bad habits in my writing.

One is my overuse of the word "just", as in "they were just the worst band I've ever seen." A pretty useless word, "just", when trotted out constantly to somehow soften or make judgements and statements less definitive. (There's another word I overuse - "somehow". Same as "just", I use it to back off a little from whatever it is I'm saying.)

Another word I abuse is "adorable." Yuck! This has to stop immediately.

But my worst bad habit is one I've been guilty of for a long time, in my songwriting as well. And sure enough, with Eric's laser vision focused on my writing, it came clearly into focus. I accentuate the negative way too much. For example, why, when I wrote about the neighbor's get-together, did I have to turn it into a post about my lack of French skills? I have clearly made progress with the language from last year. Several of the neighbors made a point of telling me so! But in order to someh- (shit...see what I mean?) put a cap on the writing, to make it all fit together, I grabbed a convenient "hook" - and in my case the hook is usually something to do with me not being able to get it together.

So I'm doing some writing practice now that involves not falling into default self-flagellation mode. It's going to be hard. No, let me rephrase that. It's going to be a wonderful challenge, one that I'm looking forward to very much. From now on, or rather for as long as I can stand it, I'm going to see if I can tell a story without the woeful attitude. Call me Glass-Half-Full Girl.

From A Duckling To A Swan (And Back)

Yesterday all the neighbors got together for the annual meal in the barn across the street. We knew what to expect from having joined them last year, and in some ways we wished the whole thing would go away. Mostly because we were afraid of having to eat farci again.

Just like last year, I heard the gang gathering outside at around 10 AM. I wanted to get something to wear out of the front room where I keep my clothes and, since I hadn't remembered to shut the shutters the night before, I had to hit the floor and soldier crawl to the dresser in order to avoid being seen and waved to and shouted at by about thirty people.

Eric and I went over at noon and it was pretty much the same as the first time: kisses and handshakes all around, aperitifs and little sandwiches and then everyone sat down to eat the big meal. Which, thankfully, was not farci but delicious wild boar and roast chicken. And the most adorable pastries.

We listened to some stories and songs and Eric and I managed to make it through a song in French, as we'd vowed we would do last year. It all seemed a lot easier the second time around. Part of it was knowing what to expect, who to kiss, who to "tu" and who to "vous". When the cheese course would come, when they would tell us to break out the guitars.

A big factor in it being easier was that I could understand and speak French better. It's actually possible for me to make small talk now, about gardens and travel and bakeries and music and children. I felt like I'd really made progress.

But apparently that was only an illusion, a little bit of magic bestowed on me for showing up at the barn yesterday. Because this morning, in the bank, in the bakery - nothing. I could say barely one intelligible word of French. The spell was broken.

Picture Book

Photo by Julia Gorton from "No Wave: Post-Punk.Underground.New York.1976-1980"

When Eric and I were doing photos for the album recently, I thought "God I've been doing this a long time." Like some old actor who trots out a variety of expressions that have worked for him year after year. Only there's a few more lines and wrinkles to compensate for. Still, we had fun acting out little scenarios while our friend Karen snapped away. At least in "band" photos there's someone else to interact with. I always sort of liked doing photo shoots. It's the one time I feel like I can control how I look - in real life my hair is straggly, the acne scars show too much, I'm self-conscious and awkward. I can stare down a camera lens in a way I never can with real live people.

I started getting my picture taken back in college days, by my friend and dormmate Julia Gorton. I hadn't done anything much with my life except for going to art school and knowing how to put on eyeliner and thrift shop clothes and loving music, but I figured in Julia's photos somehow. I got excited when I heard about Thurston Moore and Byron Coley's No Wave book that came out a few weeks ago. I heard there was one of Julia's photos of my brother Michael and I in there and I couldn't wait to see it. This was taken before I started posing as part of the job. Like most everything else at the time, it was all just for the sheer novelty and excitement of doing something, even if that doing something was just sitting around trying to look bored.

I can't wait to get my hands on the actual book. Looking at a few of the photos online was kind of a shock - at the time I was so intimidated by the whole scene, and now I just marvel at how cute and fresh-faced everyone was, while acting tough. Young & odd. I like how we fit in, a little.

I'll Always Have...Perigueux?

I was hoping to go to Paris this week. I need some clothes, and a little shot of sophistication in my life. And I still need to make up for the lousy trip I had in April, when what was supposed to be a lovely treat to myself before getting hitched turned out to be pretty much a dud.

It seemed like everything was off that time - the weather was cool and rainy one minute, broiling sun the next. My clothes weren't right, and that can make all the difference: I felt like a pluc (read "hick") who doesn't get to the big city too often, which at this point is pretty much true. I was stressed about finding some kind of wrap to wear over the dress I was getting married in and spent way too much time being indecisive in stores. I was supposed to get a facial and then couldn't find the address, ending up buying a tube of facial mask at Monoprix instead. Randomly chose a movie so bad I had to walk out after forty minutes. Got up and left a Chinese restaurant because they never bothered to serve me. And made the mistake of booking a cheap charmless hovel of a room - since I'd be out having a ball most of the time, what difference did it make, right? I think sleeping on a park bench would have been better.

The only really good thing about the trip was I realized how much my French had improved. And it made me appreciate the calm and quiet of the countryside. But I know that the next trip could be completely different - I know it's possible for things to line up perfectly.

But this isn't the week for it, what with visitors and booking and rehearsing. I had to make do with a trip to Perigueux the other day, which was actually a big deal for me because I've never driven that far (over an hour) by myself in France.

In America I'm used to driving huge distances alone. But having recently learned to drive a manual car, and basically having nowhere I need to go around here, solo adventure is unusual. Perigueux is a pretty town in the Dordogne with some decent shops and cafes. It's got a little more of a southern feel and even has a big movie theatre. A good place to wander around for about three or four hours.

The drive was easy and uneventful. I managed to maneuver into an underground parking garage which sounds pathetically simple but again, changing gears and reading French signs is new to me. But typically my timing was off. If I'd have checked the calendar or the newspaper I would've noticed that the big summer sales were starting the next day. So most of the stores were closed in preparation.

I decided to see a film. "Sagan" was playing and I was curious about this film bio of Francoise Sagan. Partly because I remembered reading "Bonjour Tristesse" as a teenager and thinking it was incredibly French and glamorous. But the main reason I wanted to see it was for the period details: fifties, sixties and seventies cars, clothes and home furnishings. If I couldn't keep up with the dialogue there'd be plenty to look at. And aren't most films about writers kind of similar? There's usually a person sitting at a typewriter occasionally, either typing furiously or staring into the distance with a blank look on their face, a tumbler of brown alcohol nearby. The rest of the time is filled in with scenes of the writer fighting with their family & friends.

"Sagan" was no different. Even in French I could tell that the movie was pretty bad. But Sylvie Testud and her haircuts were adorable. And that white 70's cowboy shirt she was wearing in one of the typewriter scenes? That alone was worth the price of admission. It wasn't exactly a trip to Paris but for the moment it'll do.

Fete de La Musique, Pt 2

A few rules for next Fete de la Musique:

Bring along some friends. Without Emmanuel and Michel on equipment and crowd control, we could not have done 4 shows in 4 towns in the space of 6 hours. If there had actually ever been a crowd, they surely would have played the heavies with charm.

Nico (patron of le Lawrence d'Arabie), Michel, Emmanuel, Amy & Eric

Make sure you're louder than the generator. Ours sounded like a small plane taking off. Thankfully we had a long, long extension cord, so we could play twenty feet away from it.

If you set up across from a church on Saturday afternoon in June, there is an excellent chance of being drowned out by the sound of wedding bells. The newlyweds surely got their money's worth that day - the off-key clanging went on for a good ten minutes while we waited in the baking sun.

Brantome

When stopped by the police, be honest. As the gendarmes pulled us over for a "routine check" we considered telling them we were daytrippers enjoying the scenery. Then we remembered the posters we'd stuck on the sides of the car. They demanded all our details - so that they can come see us play next week.

Pick some slightly bigger towns/villages. Notice there's pretty much no one in the photos but us. This part of France is, shall we say, tranquil. It was best when we had listeners, gawkers, and the occasional dancer.

Face your enemy. We saw a poster proclaiming that our arch-rivals were playing outside a bar in the village. We showed up to play (thankfully, they had already finished, so we didn't have to listen to it) and taught them a lesson. Don't. Mess. With. Wreckless Eric. &. Amy. Rigby.

La Cabane (enemy territory)

It's hard to keep looking groomed after hours of sweating and playing. And it's wonderful to stop caring.

Chalus

It's worth taking a risk. From the time Eric and I talked about doing a commando raid for Fete de la Musique, I kept wanting to back out. I wished we'd gotten a spot on one of the many organized stages or at a bar in the region. When we went to pick up the generator and it turned out to be super loud and impractical, I really hoped that meant we could put the silly idea to rest and stay home.

But Saturday was one of the best days I've spent in France. With all the traditions and prescribed ways of doing things that exist here, it was such a relief to go right in the face of all that and just do what we do. I felt like myself in a way I don't often get to, what with trying to speak the language and fit in somehow.

Michel, Amy, Eric, Emmanuel, Nico

In the end, the day really was about freedom. And we got three other gigs out of it. No sitdowns required.

Fete de la Musique

I got the impression that Fete de la Musique in France is a free-for-all, that it's a crazy day of anarchy and mayhem, where by government decree anyone can play any kind of music anytime, anywhere they choose. And that's possibly the spirit the day was started in, back in 1982.

I love playing for French audiences, but even booking a show in a tiny bar in the back of nowhere here requires a sitdown with the proprietor, various family members and some friend of theirs that owned a guitar once.

And it's not surprising they take it very seriously - if the French performing rights society catches wind of them putting on live music, they are subject to heavy charges.

So June 21, Fete de la Musique, seems like a perfect day to get around all that and just go out and play. We've rented a generator and have a plan to go around to some of the more populated towns neaby, set up our PA, plug in the guitars and play.

But just to be on the safe side, at the suggestion of our friend Michel who would hate to see us languishing in a French jail, I checked the rules on the government's website. And found, to my amusement or horror, I'm still not sure which, this chart regarding the organization of this very spontaneous day:


This, for an event that gives the impression of being about freedom. And it's written there in the really fine print that one is obliged to inquire in each town what their policy is regarding public performances on June 21, "for the safety of the public."

But we're going to pretend we never saw any of this stuff, and play anyway. Is there internet in jail?