Hello darkness my old friend.

 Hello there Blogworld.

Don't know if anyone even runs around here anymore, but it seems like a good place to return to.  Sorry it's been so long, I'm bad at turning inward and neglecting connecting because I'm too busy surviving my own storms.  

I live in the middle of this crazy place called the Palouse.  I'm super homesick.  I miss music shows, I miss friends, I miss being able to just roll up to my parent's house and say hello.  I miss my brother, I think he needs me right now... but I can't go home.

I got called for two crazy interviews, who knows what will happen.  It's all facts, numbers, and figures as an adult.  No time for the heart, no time for anything really.

I feel like I need years of staring out a train window or the farmhouse or a mountain or just breaking down at my best friend's house for DAYS.

Sometimes I don't even know where the songs come from anymore.  Like I have a clogged drain of ideas and emotions and they just take over.

Sometimes I don't realize what I can do on my own.

Often I don't believe in myself.

But as I slowly do... it makes all the small things disappear.  They don't matter.

And so I'm here again.

Hope to see you soon.

“And accept it that soon you’ll be drenched to the bone”

Hope wherever you are, you’re wrapping yourself in the arms of a song tonight.

I’m listening to Nina Simone sing Bob Dylan’s “These Times They Are A-Changing” (Changin’? My computer keeps correcting me which is a funny statement in and of itself) and sobbing my eyes out.

Nina’s is a strong, bold version.  A hymn of strength, light streaming through stained glass on Easter morning and your grandma has her eyes closed, singing softly, holding your little hand, and is crying happy tears.  I urge you to get in deep with her version.  Lights low and just let Nina take you on a journey.

Bob’s version seems almost tongue-in-cheek, as if telling everyone “look, you asked for this - you knew it was coming, you ignored it, and it’s finally here.”  Full of young fiery energy and angst.  I recall Simon and Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson” - “sow around the grounds until you feel at home” - because the only thing that’s not changing is Mrs. Robinson’s stubborn booty.

Somehow, as I listen to the echo of police sirens here in Durham the two versions of this song are melding into one for me tonight.

I’m stuck at home.  My friends are out marching.  I can feel them.  I want to be there with them.

“Come gather ‘round people, wherever you roam...”

On Saturday I’m boarding a cross country train from Union Station in Washington, D.C. to King Street Station in Seattle, Washington.  Aaron’s dad is advancing in Alzheimer's and I’ve heard all through the pandemic the stories of his mother struggling.  After begging for him to wait since we couldn’t take the chance of getting her sick, I broke.  He’s crying on the couch.  He needs his family, and he’s millions of miles and a pandemic away.  Racking our brains, we ran numbers and tried to find the safest way across the miles of the grand American adventure - and the train finally won.  So, we’ll be in a bedroom having meals delivered as we watch the American theatre roll by the window listening to the hum of the rails.

So, I’m on house arrest of my own choosing so neither of us catch anything that could lead to her death.  And it’s destroying my heart.

I logged out of Facebook.  Hopefully for a long time.  I watched local jazz musicians tear apart their own.  One’s not saying the right thing, one’s not saying enough, somebody’s posting a MLK quote while someone calls them out for not understanding fully.  I saw a man write “...and a white women is not the answer.”  I wanted to scream, fight, call him a sexist pig with every ounce of punk rock energy in me.  I didn’t.  He’s hurting and all he has right now are his words on a social media page.  He’s been hurt badly enough to feel those things strongly enough to write them on a public forum.  I logged out I just started sobbing.  We are killing our own.  In words, in action, in deeds.  It is time for deep reflection, open listening, and acceptance.

“Don’t speak to soon, for the wheel’s still in spin...”

How can I as a white person understand?  My ancestors came over to mine coal in the depths of Pennsylvania.  They were looking for a better life.  They had the privilege to choose.  They had their names changed on Ellis Island and tried to not teach their ancestors their native tongue.  I can try to be compassionate and understand - but I know I am blind.  The ancestors of my friends didn’t get the chance to choose.  They were chained and forced across the sea against their will.

Here we are.  The year is 2020.  Racism is deep.  Sexism is deep.  It’s accidentally or purposely taught to us.  However the darn train got here, it’s in the station.  Where do we go from here?  How the hell do we start?

“Come senators, congressmen, please heed the call...”

Called my father tonight.  He’s the mayor of a small town in North Carolina.  I knew he had a board meeting tonight - and I wanted to make sure he knew what was happening in Raleigh and Durham.  He told me he was helping the former mayor (a strong, brilliant, and wonderful woman of color) with a tree that had fallen on her yard.  We discussed how we needed strong leadership and well chosen words from those who have the microphones of the world.  How does one find the right words right now?  How can anyone?  Dad has to - he has no choice.  He has people looking to him for answers, for guidance, as someone to express their anger to.  We reminded each other of how we’ll never understand, how we must open our eyes as much as we can, how we must be humbled before it all, how we must do everything in our power to help, how we need to call out those of our own and make them feel the weight of the responsibility.  Dad reminded me that he hated the word “protest” and instead said “this is a march.  Dr. King called it a march.”

“Come mothers and fathers throughout the land, and don’t criticize what you can’t understand...”

I’m an alumni of an HBCU.  I remember being pulled over when my friends were driving and watching the police treating them differently.  I remember the cop seeing me and easing up on my friend.  I remember asking the cop if it was the color of my skin and him giving me a weird response.  I remember the doors locking on campus when we had active shooters - which was not uncommon.  No, you don’t hear about it on the news.  Apparently active shooters on HBCU’s is old news and not worth reporting for whatever reason.  How the hell is that okay?  Even “progressive” newspapers... nothing.  Silence.  SILENCE.

“The battle outside is raging, will soon shake your windows and rattle your walls...”

I remember my friend Bryn giving a speech at FemFest 2019, a music festival built around awareness of domestic violence against women in Winston-Salem.  She thanked all the male allies that had come out to support women... but she gave a grave suggestion.  Bryn said that men’s words have more weight in a group of their own and it was their duty as allies to speak up and hold their own up standards.  To accept nothing less.  I remember the room filling with cheers, our female fists in the air, tears and hugs all around.  As a domestic violence survivor, remember feeling as if a cool waterfall was cascading over my head and I felt free of the old hurtful memories burned in my brain - the ones I still struggle with.  I felt I was with my people.  I felt safe.  I felt good in my own skin.

“Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall, for he that gets hurt is he who has stalled...”

I don’t understand it all and I’m a fool to try and say my experiences could be anything equaling my black and brown family.  I remember that moment at FemFest though - that freedom.  The lightness, the feeling of safety.  Feeling victory.  Surrounded by understanding beings.

I wish this for my students, my friends, my family.

To the marchers:  I see you, I hear you, I’ll fight for you, I’ll be your ally, I’ll do all I can as much as I can.  Not just today, but for the rest of my life.  You are family.

“And keep your eyes wide, the chance won’t come again...”

We all love what we love and we can’t help it.  I’ll do my duty as an artistic educator to uphold the rich history of musicians of color and be a louder voice for my friends.  We can always do more.

Be safe tonight, all.  As I pack my bags my heart hurts, I’m in tears, and feel physically ill.  I am with you and pray for everyone’s safety.

I feel Nina’s strong and bold words at the same time as Bob’s voice of helpful warning calls for us all to be ready and open to change.  Somewhere in all of it is some kind of answer for me tonight.  I am humbled at how much I still have to learn and understand - but I know my capacity for love is boundless and that’s all I can send out to the universe tonight.  I love you all.

No real blogs for this week...

I wrote a song instead!

YEEHAW!  HECK YEAH SONGWRITING!!!

So, get yourself a pen and paper y'all do the same.

~Billie.

PS- Apparently I have ads below my blog now?  Sorry in advance if you get something silly.

Goodbye, Winston-Salem.

Hey all,

Wow.

So much lately.

The holidays are finally finished and, as fun as they have been, I am finally ready to get back into the swing of things.

I just found out my school term ends May 6th, which is simply crazy.  I've never had school end so early!  Funny that.  In less than five months, I'll have my first year of grad school stuff in the bag.

That's so insane to think about.

What else is insane?

Leaving Winston-Salem.

12 years of good old 27101.

But, you know...?  It's time.

When I closed the door on my studio space for the last time, I was expecting tears maybe a hint of remorse.  But that didn't happen.

Instead?  I was excited.  Excited about the future and what it would hold.  I never thought this day would come, and it's finally here.

Story time!

My dearest of dear friends, Heather Watkins, stopped by her parents house in Rockwell, NC for Christmas/New Years.  The first night we were there I was feeling a little down, and Heather cheered me up by pulling out tons of old pictures from middle school and high school.  Smiling little teenagers, so excited about life.  Broadway shows, Drama Club productions, running around town, prom... all the essential teenager things.  Heather has a picture of me on her dresser at her parents' house.  It's me from a million years ago as we were getting ready for Broadway rehearsals.

"See that smile?  That's my favorite Billie smile."

I love this woman.  She always cheers me up.

The next day, after I clear out the studio with Dad, I send her a message.  It's 8 PM.  "You guys still up?"  "Yeah!  Get over here!"

Dad tells me to take his truck (since he's the Mayor of Granite Quarry and they tend to watch over such cars) and have a good time.

I open the door in standard high school Billie fashion, which involves opening the Watkins back door and saying "KNOCK!"  And I am greeted by Heather, Heather's husband Monte, Marie Donnalley and her beau, Josh, Brittany, their new little baby, and Mr. and Mrs. Watkins.  (I guess there are more than one pair of those now, which still boggles my mind.)

None of us drink anymore (or if we do, it's rare), so it's basically just us "old" folks sitting around the dining room table and talking about life.  It's funny... I remember Heather and I in the seventh grade lamenting the adults at the dining room table, dismissing them, and hiding in her room to paint our nails and talk about Star Wars.  Or KISS.  Or Aerosmith.  Or The Monkees.

Mrs. Watkins made a fantastic Italian Creme Cake (yuuuuummmm, Heather's mom is an amazing cook).  Yes, it was so good I have to mention it here.  True story.

"Billie!  Give me the hand you write with!" says Marie.

Marie is a palm reader (among many many many other fantastic things) and she proceeds to read my palm while giving me the most incredible facial gestures.  She nails a ton of things that happened in my life (with Heather interjecting now and then with comments about how right Marie is) and gives me some hope for the future.

At some point in the conversation, I comment to the table that I am no longer a Winston-ite.  I mention how I was more than a little surprised that I wasn't more upset about leaving.

Marie turns to me.

"Honey, that's how you know you did the right thing."

And there you have it.

I'm an odd bird (HA!  Get it?  Feather!), and more than a little indecisive and take a little extra time to make decisions (says my palm reading, thanks Marie!) but if there's one thing for certain...

When I FINALLY make up my mind?  I make up my mind.  Decision done.  Over with.  Put and stamp on it and put in the mail.  No regrets.

Winston, you've been beautiful and given me some of the greatest memories of my life.  But, you know what?  It's time.  Someone else can carry the torch, be the socialite, and make a holy mess of things downtown.  My good friends are still my good friends, and for that I am beyond thankful.

Onward to the next chapter.  :)

See you all around soon!

Take Care,

~Billie.

The P-90's and The Girlfriends at The Garage.

Photo by Jamie Kummerspeck Leigh

Hello all,

It's time for this Sunday's edition of my blog!

Whew!  

Guess what?

It's Sunday night!  The Christmas tree just got put up at the Feather household, and it's sparkly. (I'm tempted to repost my Wonderful Christmastime video from last year... but sadly I can't find it.  I know, I know... you're missing out.  Don't worry, I'll do another one.  Maybe.)

BUT TILL THEN!  You can enjoy Wings doing the real version!

This is crazy.  I have literally DAYS off.  Which is good, there's a decent amount of stuff to do... but all in all?  I HAVE DAYS OFF.  Billie Feather never has days off.  I HAVE DAYS OFF.  It's doing wonders for my psyche.  I can clean.  I can work on guitar.  I can sleep in.  I can work on stuff I've been meaning to work on for months!  I can write songs!  *insert happy dance*

But enough about me.

Let's talk music!

The P-90's played with The Girlfriends last night at The Garage in Winston-Salem, NC.  

Let's have a little flashback, shall we?

We had to find a fill-in drummer for the night, and after two other local drummers bailed (it happens)... we're not sure what to do.  It's two days till the gig.  After cussing, sitting, and thinking (think, think, think Pooh Bear style) almost all at once, we said... KARRIE SHEEHAN!!!  

We call Karrie, luckily and amazingly she's free.

Allow me to take a moment to give some mad props to the other drummers in my life too.  It seems I have the absolute privilege of currently playing with some of the most professional and easy to deal with drummers in the business.  Thank you - Dave Hartman, Brad Porter, and John Howie Jr.  I don't take any of the people I play with for granted.  I am a pretty lucky lady.

On Saturday Josh Caldwell (the P-90's bassist) and I roll up into Clemmons to find Karrie Sheehan and head off to the practice space.  Within an hour and a half (I'm pretty sure she can clarify this for me) she had our 10 song P-90's set ready to go.  Yup, she's amazing.  Add in a bit of girl talk (which is kind of fun, since we're both pride ourselves on being super professional and low drama in the music world) and we're all off on our separate ways to get ready for the show.

It's Dillon White's 21st birthday party show.  Which is kind of crazy since I remember him rolling up into my guitar studio at Separk Music on 4th Street with blue hair at the age of 14.

Now?  He's in my punk band!

As I roll up, Dale's outside and Josh is walking down the street.  Serendipity!

We all say our hellos, give hugs, and grab some gear out of good old Loretta.

It's a pretty cool thing to be the first people in the Garage on any given night.  The smell of years of Camel cigarette smoke, beer, and band sweat hits you like a brick wall.  Yup.  The smell of dreams and glory, eh?  The first time I played The Garage, I felt like I had arrived.  It still makes me giddy all these years later, no matter how I felt earlier in the day.  Ah!  A million memories.  All the posters from my favorite shows I've played there are still glued to the wall.

I snap out of it as the sound of Josh's bass cab's casters hit the concrete floor.  

"You ready, BeeBee?!" as he goes off to the bar in search of Guinness and a whiskey.  

I've known Josh since I was... 23?  I remember meeting up in his garage a million years ago for guitar lessons once a week and reminding him to loosen up.  All these years later?  He's a bassist in my punk band.  He's now beating the heck out of some bass strings.

I think Josh has seen me through some of the toughest times in my life.  

"BeeBee, if I have to drag you kicking and screaming through this, I will... damn it!"

Somehow, we've all crossed a threshold.  I now drink Cokes and Dr. Pepper at the bar, Josh is chatting it up with a nice lady, and Dillon is laughing and having a beer with his girlfriend.  It's a good moment.  

Sound check gets rolling, and everything comes together.  

We might just pull this off.  

"Check, check, checkin' the microphone..."

It's still crazy to hear my voice fill up a room.  Always like a dream.

Dillon flashes a smile, and gives me a fist pound to the arm.  I head butt him back.  I check back at Karrie and she gives me a head nod.  I look over at Josh, and I raise an eyebrow in worry.  I'm not used to fill-in's in the P-90's.  Normally?  It's the whole band or it's nothing.  But, it's Dillon's 21st birthday, and I'll be darned if he doesn't deserve a show for a far as he's come from that electric blue haired 14 year old.  And Karrie is as pro as they come.  Have I said she's amazing?

I zone out.  Josh catches me.  

"Bee?" Josh says.

I give him a look.

"Bee!  Think of all the other women out there who need to see this.  You're leading a punk band.  These are your songs.  We've got your back, we know you've got ours.  All that matters is right here, right now.  And guess where you are?  You're.  Right.  Here.  With people that love you.  Let's do this!"

I nod.  He's right.  There's a job to do.  And no one else is going to do it.

I look down at my boots for a second.  You know the old saying?  Put on your big cowgirl boots and deal with it.  (Or something like that... ;) )

I remind myself silently, "I'm surrounded by people I love."  One big breath, and I step up to the microphone. 

-----------

The P-90's have some amazing fans.  

Let me say that again.

The P-90's have some amazing fans.

Rick Johnson, who has some massive Ramones street cred I won't even get into on here, turned up last night and it's always a joy to see him.  Magically, he was there at the P-90's first renegade photo shoot at Wake Forest University by total accident.  I can remember the moment... "John Howie Jr?"  "Rick, you'd like this band."  :)  He's always got an amazing rock and roll story.  But last night?  He gave me the best life advice I could ever dream of.  It's as if the universe spoke through him.  I'm not sure he knows this, but it's the second time it's happened.  :)  And, for that I am beyond thankful.

Charlotte Stewart, who is our Triangle torch bearer, came out as well, and it always makes me so thrilled to see her.  She's in her last term of Law School (Rock and Roll lawyer!!!) and she said the sweetest thing to me.  "When I get really angry about exams or school, I put on a P-90's record and let you do all the screaming for me!"  Her unabashed honesty and clever wit are second to none.

Thanks to Charlotte, Karrie, and Rick for sitting with me in the corner of the bar and having great conversation the whole night.

Mad props to Mr. White, who is always so supportive of his son, and who I've known as long as I've known Dillon.  He's always a smiling supportive face, and things just feel safe when he's around.

The Garage crew (Karen Shew, you are included!)... I love you guys.  All these years later, all the times you've seen me act like a complete fool, you guys are still super nice to me.  Thank you.

To Alex and The Girlfriends, what a fun night!  Thanks for sharing it with us!

And MASSIVE THANKS to Karrie Sheenan for stepping up to the plate and knocking it out of the park.  Girl, you rock!

Whew!

When I walked into the Garage last night, I felt like the old me was retiring and giving the new me the keys.  I like the new version of me.  30 is really starting to feel like the best part of my life.  I'm thankful for my 20's, but THANK GOD IT'S OVER.

Here's to all of you for listening and being so supportive of me, my music, and my writing.  I cannot thank you enough for taking this journey with me.

Get ready, because the best is yet to come.

It's always the darkest right before the dawn.  And it's going to be one hell of a dawn, I promise.

Until next time!

Hugs,

~Billie.

PS- http://www.cinemaretro.com/index.php?/archives/5255-MERRY-CHRISTMAS-FROM-THE-BEATLES,-CIRCA-1964.html

Home meditation.

Hello all,

I am wrapped up in a quilt with a cup of coffee my Mother made for me while I write this.

The house still smells like mashed potatoes and corn (I'm trying to win them over to the vegetarian side of things, but it's a slow battle... at least now they've let me have part of the fridge for my veggie burgers).  There are candles in the window, fake evergreen on the table (Dad's got allergies), and mom's trying to get me to eat a fruit salad with Cool Whip.  I just finished watching a double episode of Dr. Who.

Today I did something I didn't think I could do.

I finished my first term of grad school.

I'm not going to go into details as to how much of a personal battle that was for me, but the important thing is not what's in the past.  The important thing is that it's done.

I cried on the way home from school.

I've been spending a good amount of time at my parents house this holiday season, and that's a funny thing to think about.

I was kicked out of the house when I was 18, right around Christmas time.

I can remember the fight.

Mom and I were putting up the tree, and I snapped at her about something.  She snapped back.  I didn't want to back down, so I said something I shouldn't of.

Next thing I know I'm in my bedroom, both of my parents screaming at me.  Me being bullheaded and definant.

Next thing I know, I'm out the door.  *boom!*  With my Dad throwing out my guitar right behind me.

I remember that lonely car ride.

I didn't have anywhere to go.  But I was determined to not go back home.  Thinking I was doing the right thing.

Well, I made it work.  Kind of.  I struggled, lived in really bad places...

What does all that have to do with anything?

My goal for this week is to discover detrimental patterns in my life.

One of them?  My bullheadedness.  Next one?  My inability to listen.

My bullheadedness got me kicked out of the house at 18.  Luckily, my family is amazing and they have forgiven me all my misgivings.

I can be rash.  And then I stand by my stupid rash decision because I am bullheaded.

What I should have done was drive around to calm down, go home, apologize, and have Christmas with my parents.

Here I am at 30, helping my mom put up Christmas decorations for the first time in... yup.  11 years.  Making up for lost time.

I remember when my Grandfather Feather died, I thought to myself... this is the first time I've had a week off in seven years.  SEVEN YEARS.

If that's not a detrimental pattern, I don't know what is.

But here I am.  Now taking things slow.  Practicing not being so rash.  Practicing not being so obsessive about things.  Practicing the art of listening and hearing.  Giving myself time to just be.  Letting anger go.

I've made a lot of lists lately.

Daily lists of "what I will do today?" which include things such as:  eat breakfast, take a shower, take a nap, go visit Dad at town hall, call K. C.

A list of things I want in my life.

A list of things I want to accomplish.

And the hardest to face... THE list of horrific patterns I have with thoughts on how to break them.

That's my favorite list.  I get to use my scientific skills to get in deep and figure out how my patterns occur, what brings them on, and in what situations they are most likely to resurface.

It's kind of shocking how simple breaking the pattern in.  A matter of, don't go here.  Don't put yourself in this situation.  Walk away.  Go home at this time.

It's also a matter of deciding what is really important to you.

I made a list of those too.

Then I made a list of things that I do that are detrimental to what is really important to me.

It made me feel like a drug addict in a way.  It's a simple thing, right?  Just don't do that thing.  Don't take "that drug".

Right.

It's about atmosphere.

Here in Salisbury, there are no bars I would dream of going to.  I barely know anyone that lives around here, and I don't go "hang out".  It feels like rehab.  Lots of quiet.  Lots of time alone.  Lots of time doing chores.  If I don't get home in time, I miss dinner.  I miss seeing people I love.  I'm permanently cutting off bad friendships and strengthening the good ones.

BREAKING THE CYCLE.  BREAKING THE PATTERN.  Restructure.

I often think to myself, what a waste of time my 20's were.  Then, I beat myself up a lot of a lot of reasons.

But lately, I've stopped.  Why waste time and energy beating myself up or reflecting on how bad certain times were?  It's a better use of time to just think on what I didn't like about A, B, or C, write it down, and write how I will change it.  I'm putting my energy into changing habits.

I'm in the middle of a break from music.  There's a P-90's show coming up this weekend for Dillon's 21st birthday (no way I could say no to that) but beyond that Billie Feather has nothing in the books.

Can you believe that?  Billie Feather has NOTHING in the books.  No every weekend gigs, no running around everywhere.

It's kind of shocking.

But you know what?  It's really good.  I'm taking time to remind myself of why I enjoy music.  Funny that.  The same room I learned my first song in a long time ago is the same room I'm meditating on things.  Tomorrow, for the first day in weeks, I'm going to pick up my guitar and work on some school things.  It's on the "to-do" list.  I'm rediscovering who I am without a stringed instrument in my hands.

It's funny how that has been my identity for so very long.

What the hell am I doing with my time?

Walking.  Riding my bike.  Reading, a lot.  Watching some Dr. Who.  Writing, a lot.  Taking baths.  Doing household chores.  Spending time with my family.  Finally getting the sleep I needed.  Not worrying so much.  Trying to let things be organic.  Do their own thing.  Not being rash.  Cutting out recipes from Southern Living Magazine and putting them into little baggies.

I'm resetting.  Giving myself all the things I haven't had since I was kicked out of the house at 18.

All in all, I'm doing much better.  I feel better.

I felt like for years I had a massive cloud over my mind.

And, I did.  It had nothing to do with anyone else but me.  I finally have time to sit back and reflect on what is really important.

So... what is really important to Billie Feather?

Quality of life.  My family.  My good friends.  Helping others reach their goals.  Teaching.  Music.  Love.

Living the best life I can.

I've cried a lot lately.  I'm finally letting myself feel things.  Not judging the feelings, just using it as information and letting it pass through.  Learning what makes me cry.  Learning why I am crying.  Learning what is important enough for me to cry about.

Anyways.

Actions speak louder than words.

I hope you all take the time to find what makes you really happy.  I mean, really really happy.  What, in Buck Owen's own words, makes your heart skip a beat.

Another list I am making is of things that make me happy.  For a while, I thought nothing would.  But, slowly... the list began.  I forced myself to write down anything that cause even a small glimmer inside of me.

It started like this:

Warm baths.
The Monkees.
The color of the sky.
A hug.
Bava, the dog.
Glitter.
Nail polish.
Dinner.
Smiles.
Dr. Who.
Christmas lights.

Insanely, coffee is still not on the list.  But, warm mugs are.  It's funny when you take time to realize EXACTLY what makes you happy.  You start to value things a lot more.

Yes, Elvis Christmas records made it on there too.

Suddenly, I started to wake up.  There is a lot of good in the world.  Things aren't so bad.

I'm also learning how to ask for help.

I'm queen of DIY, thinking that all you need are a couple of tools... and bing bang boom!  You have a solution.  (Bullheadedness)

Well, not quite.  I'm learning that I can't do everything on my own.  I have to allow room for someone else, and for me to not always be right.  Too see that my solution is not the only solution.  Trust me, I'm spending a lot of time not getting my way lately.  And, you know what?  That's really okay.

My parents are awesome.  I noticed something my Dad keeps saying, "I know you're not going to listen to me, but..."

And I thought, oh my God.  That's my MO.  Not listening.  Reactionary.

Hmmm.

Here's to the first month of the rest of my life.  I am thankful for this time.

I hope you all have a lovely evening.

Take Care,

~Billie.

Mandela and South Africa

Good morning all.

I am sitting in songwriting class listening to my South African classmates talk about Nelson Mandela, and I am moved to tears.  It's one thing to be a white person in a white world talking about Mandela...

It's another thing entirely to be in a predominantly African-American college listening to my South African classmate reflect on such a great man.

His will is astounding, and he accomplished some of his greatest feats after the age of 70.

Proof standing that it is never too late to make an amazing impact.  We are never too old.  Never to give up to what you believe in and love.

What a beautiful class.  Here's the poem we read:

By MAYA ANGELOU:

His day is done.
Is done.
The news came on the wings of a wind, reluctant to carry its burden.
Nelson Mandela’s day is done.
The news, expected and still unwelcome, reached us in the United States, and suddenly our world became somber.
Our skies were leadened.

His day is done.
We see you, South African people standing speechless at the slamming of that final door through which no traveler returns.
Our spirits reach out to you Bantu, Zulu, Xhosa, Boer.
We think of you and your son of Africa, your father, your one more wonder of the world.

We send our souls to you as you reflect upon your David armed with a mere stone, facing down the mighty Goliath.

Your man of strength, Gideon, emerging triumphant.

Although born into the brutal embrace of Apartheid, scarred by the savage atmosphere of racism, unjustly imprisoned in the bloody maws of South African dungeons.

Would the man survive? Could the man survive?

His answer strengthened men and women around the world.

In the Alamo, in San Antonio, Texas, on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, in Chicago’s Loop, in New Orleans Mardi Gras, in New York City’s Times Square, we watched as the hope of Africa sprang through the prison’s doors.

His stupendous heart intact, his gargantuan will hale and hearty.

He had not been crippled by brutes, nor was his passion for the rights of human beings diminished by twenty-seven years of imprisonment.

Even here in America, we felt the cool, refreshing breeze of freedom.

When Nelson Mandela took the seat of Presidency in his country where formerly he was not even allowed to vote we were enlarged by tears of pride, as we saw Nelson Mandela’s former prison guards invited, courteously, by him to watch from the front rows his inauguration.

We saw him accept the world’s award in Norway with the grace and gratitude of the Solon in Ancient Roman Courts, and the confidence of African Chiefs from ancient royal stools.

No sun outlasts its sunset, but it will rise again and bring the dawn.

Yes, Mandela’s day is done, yet we, his inheritors, will open the gates wider for reconciliation, and we will respond generously to the cries of Blacks and Whites, Asians, Hispanics, the poor who live piteously on the floor of our planet.

He has offered us understanding.
We will not withhold forgiveness even from those who do not ask.
Nelson Mandela’s day is done, we confess it in tearful voices, yet we lift our own to say thank you.

Thank you our Gideon, thank you our David, our great courageous man.

We will not forget you, we will not dishonor you, we will remember and be glad that you lived among us, that you taught us, and that you loved us all.

Friday is Lyrics Day.

Friday just became lyrics day.

I'll check back in with you cats soon.

Till then,

~Billie.

"Brand New Colony"

By The Postal Service

I'll be the grapes fermented,

Bottled and served with the table set in my finest suit

Like a perfect gentlemen

I'll be the fire escape that's bolted to the ancient brick

Where you will sit and contemplate your day

I'll be the waterwings that save you if you start drowning

In an open tab when your judgment's on the brink

I'll be the phonograph that plays your favorite

Albums back as you're lying there drifting off to sleep...

I'll be the platform shoes and undo what heredity's done to you...

You won't have to strain to look into my eyes

I'll be your winter coat buttoned and zipped straight to the throat

With the collar up so you won't catch a cold

Thanksgiving Pheonix.

(A post-script as a pre-script... I don't really go back and edit these, but... enjoy!)

Good Lord.

It's been a while.  Welcome back.  Hope your journeys have been fulfilling and enlightening.

Good Lord, mine have.


Wee... how scary a blank piece of paper is.

In my awesome and wonderful songwriting class, our teacher has been giving us tons of ways to deal with a blank piece of paper... different ways of thinking, tricks to get your mind out of blocks, random assigning of chords...

but it's still a little scary now and then.

The great unknown.

I'm discovering just how painful writing can be.

Say the wrong words, take them in the wrong context... you start wars.

But with the right words you can heal, teach, educate, and enrich.

My first outlet was with words.

Music came second.

And today I remember this.


So, it's Thanksgiving.  A time to reflect.  A time to be thankful.  A time to be still.

Stillness is something I have been HORRIBLE at, up until my 30th birthday.

When you move around all the time - you never stop.  Stopping is good.  One must rest, one must heal, one must listen, one must be still.

If you're not still you (or at least me) find yourself adapting to all sorts of bizarre things.  Humans were not meant to spend hours upon hours in a car.  It's not organic.  It's not normal.  It's too fast.

You loose yourself to the running.  You loose yourself to the speed.  You don't think anymore, you just do.  Reactionary.  Impulsive.  Rash.  Not thinking.  Doing.

And when I realized all that, I came crashing down.  HARD.

Turning 30 was catastrophic for me.

I discovered I'd been running since I turned 21.  Running away from home, running away from anyone and everything.  Being the rebel.  Not listening.  Just doing.  Act first, and pick up the pieces later.

When you run, you can't think straight.  You're only worried about getting to point B and yourself.

But you're not really worried about yourself.  You become a machine.  Throw a bunch of stuff in your car so you won't forget anything, start the engine, throw on a CD, and loose yourself to the road.

Yes, yes, yes.  That can be good.

SOMETIMES.

The weeks before my birthday, I'm thinking...

"Oh my God.  My 20's!  I haven't done enough!  I must run more!  I must do more crazy stuff!"

Then one day, your worst nightmare comes true.

You're 30.

Your twenties!  They're gone!  Holy shit!  What are you going to do?!

Well, for me it was sit in a car, cry my eyeballs out, and basically act like a selfish idiot.  Wanting to cry out for help, but not knowing what to say, how to say, or even what the hell to ask for.  Needless to say, I am thankful that I have the support system I have that allowed me to go through that nonsense with some dignity.

Apparently this kind of break down is a normal thing for people that have a nasty habit of always moving around.

Moving around started for me as a child.

We moved at least every couple of years.  The first two moves are pretty devastating, but then you get used to it.  Leave things in boxes, knowing that they'll have to be re-moved eventually.

Moving didn't stop in college.

Every year?  A different place.

That's a good thing, right?  Sure!  Adaptation is a wonderful trait.

And then I turned 30.

I realized pretty quickly that my 20's were not all they were cut out to be.  Graduated college.  (That was good.) I had a ridiculous amount of fun playing in bands, touring the United States and Europe, making tons of new friends, and basically being ridiculous.

But... what did I do?

Sure, yes... "I had a ridiculous amount of fun playing in bands, touring the United States and Europe, making tons of new friends, and basically being ridiculous."

But what did I do?  What deeply mattered?

Graduating.  Teaching.  Owning my own business.  Making people happy through music.  Making good life-long friends.   Helping to raise a little boy.  Watching my students grow and become amazing adults.

That's what mattered.

Not the fact that at one point I could drink half a bottle of Jameson without batting an eye.  Stay up late singing songs till my fingers bled.  Getting attention I never had before as an awkward teenager.  Driving all over creation always operating on half-awake status.

I hear that's how they do torture.  They keep you half awake and delusional.

I can hear you.  "Yeah, sure, that's great... what does this have to do with 'Thanksgiving Peonix?'"

Easy.

I finally had a chance to stop these past few days.

Park my car, and not move it for a while.

From 23 to 30, I had been making some really bad decisions in between some really good decisions.  These past few months leading up to 30, I felt as if I had become a fireball burning out of control.  Mass destruction.  Everything coming to a fiery end.

I guess Billie Feather had to do with with as much gusto as humanely possible.

And this led to a cold night with me crying in my Loretta.  Not even knowing what to feel or how to feel it.  Taking it out on everyone.  Completely and utterly selfish.

But that's your 20's, eh?

And what happened?  Somehow one of the most amazing men in the universe managed to get me back into the house, to eat a piece of wonderful birthday cake, and start to calm the hell down.

The burning was stopping.  The ashes were beginning to gather.

Since October 24th, the embers have grown cold.  I have a rather lovely pile of mess at my feet.

And now, here, in my middle school/high school bedroom, I feel like a tiny baby bird.

Weak.  Small.  With big glossy eyes.  Alone.  Defenseless.

Which causes one to look inward.

Who is Billie?

What does she want?

You've crashed, you've burned, you've raised all hell, you've done it all that any self-respecting rebel would and could do...

But now what?

And here I am.  Back to where I began.  With words.

A tiny baby bird with her words.

A much smarter, more together bird, but a tiny bird.  Fresh from the flames.

I like the phoenix idea.  I like rebirth.  Welcome to half of my cusp... the Scorpio.

Everyone has something they attach to.  An element, a symbol, a movie character...

Mine's a fire bird.

I am weak.  I have damaged myself.  I have ruined things I hold dear.

But!  In these past few days of stillness, I am healing.  Raising from ashes.  Learning to love myself and to recognize what it is that drives me.  What makes my heart skip a beat.  What makes my pulse race.

I decided to start looking back at the beginning and what made me happy as a little girl.

Writing.  Dancing around the room to music.  Strumming on my guitar.  Watching the sunlight through the windows.  Cowboy boots.  Quilts.  Performing on a stage.  Making people happy.

As easily as I can navigate social situations, I'm an introvert.  Maybe I'd been fighting that.

But, I like being still.  It's nice.

Sure, I enjoy movement.

But, after burning, you become a little more cautious.

You value things more.

Images burn.  They can't sustain.  Strong foundations and strong buildings do not burn.  They stand the test of time.

So, here I am, finding my foundation.

A tiny bird, learning to use the legs she burned up.

Accepting that I am going to be weak for a while, until I learn and earn the right to use my wings.  To watch.  To listen.  To help others.

I am not a cartoon character from the realms of some dark honky tonk.

I am a girl born in the mountains of Pennsylvania in a mobile home.  Raised surrounded by love, family, and wild open woods.  My head reluctantly filled with values and morals.  Lessons on how not to lie, and how to treat others as you wish to be treated.  To nurture.  To help others and things grow.  Because when you don't have a lot, you value what you do have.  You work for it.  You work on it.

I am girl who loves country music from when I lived in Knoxville, Tennessee.  I started my first country band in the 4th grade.  (True story - we played the heck out of some pre-recorded Diamond Rio) It's in the water over there, I promise.  :)

I am a girl who loved turning her amp up to 11, cranking the drive as loud as it would go, dressing in goth makeup, and playing punk rock.  Learning how to wrangle a guitar much like you learn to wrangle a bull (I'm pretty darn good at mechanical bulls, by the way) and laughing the whole time.

I am girl who loved running through the woods with her friends in Granite Quarry, making up new trails and paths on my bike.

I am a classically trained guitarist, who worked her tail off to get her degree.  I remember that awesome feeling when I got my piece of paper and thinking "If I can do this, I can do anything."

But... what are you now, little bird?

I'm a student.  I'm back in school to be a teacher.  To enrich others lives.  To help them find happiness.  I repair instruments, bring them back to life so someone else can find their joy.  I'm no longer the bar fly (yes, I still love whiskey, bourbon, good beer, and the occasional gin and tonic AND LORD KNOWS I love a good jukebox).  I no longer want to stay up until 6 am till my fingers bleed.  I don't need a scene, newspaper, or anyone else to justify or explain my musical endeavors or myself.  I am a musician, and I love the music I play.  I only play music I love, with people I love.  I don't have tattoos because I'm too busy paying off my musical instruments.  (Not that I don't want one, or that I don't have a design that I've been sitting on for years...)  I don't have the deepest southern drawl (although I've been south of the mason-dixon line since I was four).  I have a military jacket with patches on it because I couldn't afford a bad ass punk rock motorcycle jacket when I was a teenager.  I like sweaters and snap button shirts.  I will damn well be buried in my cowgirl boots.  I like all music.  I adore lyricists.

Quite frankly, my dear... this little bird doesn't give a damn about what you think of me in the past.

What I do give a damn about is my friends.  My loved ones.  My family.  My studies.  My music.  My honor.  My integrity.  My professionalism.  My well being.  My health.  My future.

When you take time to think and reflect, you realize what matters.  You grow.  You take time to look in the mirror, see all the damages, and go... "Okay.  All I can do is go forward from this point."

And there you have it.

I am thankful for the stillness.

I may have ruined everything in my burning, but now I am still.

Quiet.

Reflective.

Growing up, yet again.

I hope to goodness this helps someone be smarter than I was.  Maybe we all have to go through it, but hopefully you won't make as many mistakes as I have.

For all my intelligence I like to think I have ( :) ), my emotional intelligence is clearly a little slower to catch up.

They never teach you emotions in school.  Apparently you have to deal with those when you get older with a therapist.  :D

But!  Yes!

I am so thankful today.  Thankful for my 30's.  Thankful for growing up.  Thankful for my awesome friends.  Thankful for my family.  Thankful for my fantastic bandmates.  Thankful for words.  Thankful for music.  Thankful for the chance to be alive.

Hug your loved ones close.  Life is short.

God bless you all, and goodnight.

Bridesmaid dresses.

Today was an interesting day.

It seems all events in my life converge suddenly.

The old "when it rains, it pours" deal.

Today was not only my four year anniversary with my boyfriend, but it was also his birthday, and the day that I helped my best friend Heather choose her wedding dress.

Oh my God.

My best friend chose her wedding dress.

I watched her mother cry.

As if in a movie.  There was the woman I had known since I was in sixth grade, crying her for daughter.

Time moves so very fast.

When I look in the mirror, I still feel like a teenager.  Sometimes, I am even mistaken for one.  (YAY!)  But moments like today remind me... no.  You're a grown woman, and time moves very quickly.

My best friend Heather was so beautiful today.  No, I didn't cry on the spot today... but I did on the drive home.  My sweetie.  My best friend.  My one and only.  Going off and getting married.

It's wonderful!  It really is!

That she has met a man who she loves enough to say "yes" to.

I remember us as little (well, preteen) girls.  Talking about Star Wars, Sailor Moon, David Bowie, The Monkees, everything!  I remember looking over at her and thinking, "Yes.  This is the only person in the whole wide world who will ever understand me.  The only one who will ever accept me for who I am.  All the way.  No questions.  She knows me better than I know myself."  Stealing away at lunch hour in high school, to go sit on the Theatre Arts stage and eat lunch just the two of us, because we couldn't stand anyone else.

Boys, school, life couldn't tear us apart.

But today, watching her try on dresses... I couldn't help but be moved.  My baby girl is all grown up.

I know, whatever.  Girly BS.

But it's true.  My partner in crime has found her partner.  It's beautiful!

And she looked over at me, and said I needed to stand out since I was the Maid of Honor.

Honestly, when it comes to Heather, I never wanted to stand out.  I just wanted to hide, like two girls on the theatre arts stage at East Rowan High.  I don't mind standing out when it's a show... that part of me comes out... the outside Billie.  But inside?  I keep that pretty darn well guarded.

Because, honestly... who wants to talk about books, Star Wars, the latest anime, my new science fiction series, what gorgeous new dress we found, what constellation is currently in the southern sky, when the next meteor shower is, when soccer practice is going to be, the new guy on the swim team, my high school crushes, kendo, how best to dress up for the Aerosmith/Kiss concert, what new song I'm learning, writing a novel, sharing stories, how David Bowie and David Jones have the same name, how we're going to travel the world, what shade of blue she should paint her room, what the Ouija board said, that K-Mart had the Star Wars figure I was looking for, what eye-shadow is best for dark rocker makeup, how I was going to sneak out of the house, how it was okay to be who we are, that Sears had bellbottoms on sale, where did you get those cool new socks, how fast we went in the car around the Rowan county back roads, who could recite Monty Python lines, who could sing every part of The Labyrinth, quizzing each other on Star Wars malarky, how I wanted to move to England, work on our British accents so we could blend in,  how we could change the drama club script to match our own desires, what the best flavor of ice cream was at Charlie's, check out my drawing that I was working on, that I just bought a pair of awesome black leather pants, talk trash about other girls that we didn't like, and generally dream about what our future was going to be like...

Heather always did.  She always listened.  She always accepted my craziness, and made me feel loved, whole, and okay with everything me.

When it's Heather?  I don't want to stand out.  I want to be just Billie.  Hidden, proud, and happy of her special day.  The ultimate support system.  A pillar.  A guardian.

I know... silly, huh?

You think little Miss "I'm gonna go play upright bass and do all these crazy motions with it!" would wanna stand out.

Not when it's "me".

But Heather knew me when I learned my first song on guitar.  Heather knew me when I wrote my first song.  Heather saw me before anyone did.  Heather believed in me when no one else did.  Heather made me feel okay.

"HEATHER!  LISTEN!  Check this out!  Hear this guitar thing I did!  I'm so happy!"  And the phone was on the floor next to the guitar.  "Can you hear it?"  "Yes, Billie!  *insert her wonderful laugh*  I can hear it."

It's weird to think of myself as ever NOT having an instrument.  Just being a girl that doodled and wrote in a journal and did crazy things just because.

She knew Billie before I was Billie.  The dorky girl in braces and glasses.  The one who made road runner calls down the hall and pissed everyone off.  :)  And she made the same road runner calls.

And there she was today... in a beautiful wedding gown.

I know... weddings are just silly technicalities.  She's loved her man for a long time.

But, still.

I felt like the Doctor today.

I know, brace yourself, a Dr. Who reference!  OMG!

Watching his companions go through life.  Smiling that beautiful half smile and raising an eyebrow.

If you know what I am referencing to, you get it.

I know I am not loosing her, but gaining a brother.  Another addition to the great big family of friends I have.

I don't let many people in my deep close circle.  Very very few.  Heather is my right hand.  My partner in crime.  My Super Monkette!

She's my oldest friend.

And she's going to be a beautiful bride.  I am so proud to be in her wedding, and even prouder that she considers me special enough to be the Maid of Honor.

Yeah, so... I'm crying again.

Good Lord!  Growing up is WEIRD.

I am thankful for all the wonderful friends and family I have that have helped me through the crazy times and stuck with me.

Everything changes.  Everything comes and goes.  Everything evolves.

It's the holding on that hurts.  When the current starts tearing at you and you're still holding onto the same branch.  It's a lot less painful and enjoyable if you just float.  Enjoy the ride.

Heather and I will never be the same little ladies we once were.  One of her bridesmaids had her daughter (flower girl!) along for the wedding dress picking.  She kept giving me the biggest hugs.  She was ADORABLE.  And I kept thinking... we were once like that.  Once little girls who loved glitter and pretty dresses.  Sparkly things.  Happy things.  Uninhibited smiles... just beautiful.

But now we're older.  Still the same happy smiles, but with a lot more living behind them.  And, a lot more to go.

I'm so proud of the beautiful woman my friend heather has become, and proud that she is still in my life.  What a beautiful bride she will be!  Her finance is one lucky guy.  The luckiest, I think!

Oh, and we talked about going paint balling in dresses for the bachelorette party.  Cheers!

What's this week?  More grad school goodness.  Whoo!  I feel like it never ends.

Hug the ones you love and call your dear friends.  They're wonderful people and need to be reminded of how wonderful they are.

Adios for now, my lovelies.

Hugs,

~Billie.

Hey You.

How have you been?

If you were here I'd offer you a cup of coffee and a piece of my fantastic quilt that my mother made for me for Christmas.

Quilts are like resonator banjos to me - the heavier they are the better they are.  This quilt is like an old Gibson banjo in other words.  Only my mom just made it for me for Christmas.

And, yes,  I just used a musical instrument to describe something.

Yes, I do that often, I know.

Have I said how good it is to see you again?

Let's paint a picture.

It's... oh.... 20 something degrees outside, our road is still solid ice along with it's buddy the driveway and we're kinda stuck until it warms up.  Not so bad.  The sky is that well-known milky snow sky color, and everything is just still for the moment.  It reminds me of the Feather farmhouse in the winter before everyone wakes up.

At this point, I would like to thank my father, The Eagle Scout, for teaching me how to build a proper fire.  For those of you that don't know, prepare to be enlightened... http://www.wikihow.com/Build-a-Fire.  Nothing like Dr. Who and a roaring fire.  Yes ma'am!

I just found out that there are only two seasons (Well, one full season and a bunch of specials) with my favorite Dr. Who, David Tennant (oh, let's have another one!).  I'm vetoing Matt Smith although I have been told by several of my Dr. Who counterparts that I should give him a chance and that he is quite good.

GIVE HIM A CHANCE?!  Oh yes, there's a good idea.  The Dr. Who you're really into just packs up and leaves, regenerates and all that rubbish, and yeah... it's all okay, right?  HELL NAW!  I need some time!  I ain't no Rose Tyler!  (Although, if my Doctor did regenerate into David Tennant I'd be like..."Okay, this one is okay.  He can stay.")  I stick by my man!...ah hem... Doctor.

Have you figured out I am a mega nerd yet?  If not, well, it's kinda the way it goes.  Might as well shake hands, accept the fact, and move on.  I have a Star Wars coffee mug sitting right next to me at the moment.  Because Billie Feather had to dress up in everything Star Wars to ride the Star Wars ride at MGM Studios when she was a little teenager.  At least I had fun!

Maybe not a mega nerd... I like sci-fi stuff.  "Like" like a big old stuffed animal of sci-fi I could cuddle with and nuzzle my nose into.

Clearly the coffee just hit me.  Damn you organic Rain-forest Blend!  I wonder what else is in that rain-forest...

ANYWAYS.

A snow day is most certainly welcome as of late.  There's so much going on my head hurts.  John's back in school, which has changed our relationship dynamic.  Not in a bad way, just... you know... an evolution of sorts.  I'm really proud of him for stepping up to the challenge.  I'm filling out applications and getting ready for my audition at Central University for yet another guitar degree - but this time I'm not stopping until I have a doctorate.  Unless, of course, some crazy thing happens along the way.  What in the holy heck am I gonna do with a doctorate in music?  Teach at a university, and happily spend the rest of my days playing music in a Frank Lloyd Wright type house mixed with some ideas from Myst, and more than a touch of Japanese temple architecture.  With a library/record room.  Maybe even get a dog.  By the time I am 39 (EEEPP!!!) I should have it all in order.  (Maybe?)

I leave Sunday night straight from a show to Clarksdale, Mississippi with my father (he's being a real trooper, and being the second driver).  I'm recording a bunch of blues songs with a bunch of really talented singers.  It should be a lot of fun.

After that I believe I will be at The Thirsty Beaver (I love Mark and Brian, I hope we all grow old together!) with (GASP!) the bo-stevens for Super Bowl Sunday (No STEELERS?!  Booooo.  I'm wearing my Steelers jersey anyways.  Probably bring my Dad too since I am neglecting our annual Superbowl Party duties by playing a show.)  Come on over and say hello.  Maybe help me boo the Patriots.  Why?  Because of Tom Brady.  Why do I not like Tom Brady?  I dunno, he's just fun to pick on because he has no other real issues in life.  He beat the Steelers once.  UNCOOL.

But then THE STEELERS SHOULD HAVE DONE BETTER.  Step it up boys, step it up!

Not that I can throw a football to save my life.  But I can wear the heck out of a jersey and kick a soccer ball!

I have mad soccer skills.

Not really, but I like to pretend I do.

It's nice having a five/six year old around to play soccer whenever you want.  And he never gets tired.  "Hey Little D!  Let's play soccer!"  "Okay, Big B!"  Nice.

I can, however, swim team with the best of them.

Coffee refill!  BRB.

doo, doo, doop, da, doo...

BACK!

Well, it looks like the Billie Feather and the Hallway Waltz are coming into the world.  I've got a wonderful bassist and drummer on board, and I'm looking for a multi-instrmentalist/harmony (Chapel Hill/Durham/Raleigh area?) singer to round it out.  What's it gonna be like?  Folky/Americanay/Punky something.  It's basically all the songs I've been writing since I picked up a guitar finally having a place to go.  I've had a ton of people ask me about my own stuff lately, and I thought... well, I guess a little low pressure, low commitment thing wouldn't be so bad.  It also gives John a bit of breathing room since he needs more time to focus on school.

Speaking of all that, The Rosewood Bluff has a TON of awesome shows lined up.  Cash Bash Winston-Salem being one of them (I'll be playing bass not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES in one night!).  I'm waiting until after Clarksdale to get my head back in the Rosewood Bluff game, and I'm sure you'll hear all about them on the John Howie Jr. and The Rosewood Bluff facebook page.

The P-90's?!  Still kicking!  We're doing a show with The Bleeding Hearts at The Cave in Chapel Hill on February 8th.  So, if you like spead-up old school rock and roll, (what we like to think of as 70's punk) it's the show to be at.  And The Cave makes you feel like you're in the band.  :)

All right.  Gonna take a shower and get to it.  Maybe try to see if the roads are open enough to make it to Waffle House.  Mmmm... maybe.  I can hear Loretta the Volvo saying "NUH-UH!" from here.

And, yes, coffee in the shower.  Or tea, as my cousin likes it.

Love, love, love,

~Billie.

PS- It's still cold outside.  Brrr!

Ben Gibbard and Awesome Punkness.

No, Ben Gibbard didn't bring out his awesome punk band.  (Although that would be fantastic as well, I am sure.)

Instead, he brought two guitars (an Epiphone and Gibson to be exact) and put pickups in the piano from the coffee shop upstairs in the Haw River Ballroom and sold out one of the most beautiful venues in the SouthEast.

Where did I get to sit?  THE FRONT FREAKING ROW. 

I mean, really, the only way I could have been closer would have been to be up on stage with him. 

It's weird.

There are some musicians that I want so desperately to rock out with on stage, get inside the show, and help them rule a venue for a night.  Like a little army of musical goodness.

As an aside, I am lucky.  I've pretty much had the chance to play music - even if it's just a few minutes - with everyone I have ever dreamed I would make music with.  (That's still living on this plane of existence that is.)  Except maybe Loretta Lynn... but Jack White is close enough.  :)

AND THAT WAS FREAKING AWESOME.  But anyways.

Back to what I was talking about...

There are some musicians I would never want to rock out with on stage.

(I know... SAY WHAT?!)

Ben Gibbard is one of those guys.

I have ADORED his songwriting since I first heard "Such Great Heights" on a mix CD that a boy in high school gave me as a present (I know... mix CD's!  Almost as old school as mix tapes!) back before iTunes made it easy to give the person you love a CD of rare and fantastic love songs.  I heard that song and decided that I had heard the most perfect love song ever written.  No really.  I had no idea who it was, no idea what band it could be, and we didn't have "SoundHound" to help figure out a song.

And, at that time, it was too new to be found on the internet.  BAM!  Can you imagine that time ever existed?

It should be noted at this point I had not heard the entire Beatles catalog yet, nor ventured into the world of popular music very much, so this random love song on this mix CD was a huge deal.

Sitting down with my guitar in my college practice room (Yes, I should have been working on classical guitar studies, but instead) I found myself playing that song over and over again until I finally figured it out.  Delighted, my favorite love song was now mine.  It wasn't until months later that I figured out who wrote it.

Let's flash ahead, shall we?

I'm front row at The Haw River Ballroom... dork-face Billie was super prepared with her cup of coffee at the ready to sit and listen all night long.  It's a little strange being on the other side for once. 

Ben starts his set, and begins it with... what?  Yup.  "Such Great Heights". 

He may have done that to save the crowd from shouting it over and over and over again until he played it and causing general distraction, but it caught me off guard. 

There it was.  The song I'd spend hours going over in a practice room, trying to figure out exactly how the songwriter would have played it... right in front of me.  "Farmer chords" and all.  Perfect.

I'm sure I looked like a complete fool with my head tilted and smiling the whole time, but it was exactly what I wanted.  A cup of coffee, a guitar, and one of my favorite songwriters.

Sure, I love a big stage show.  I fell in love with Aerosmith at a young age on the Nine Lives tour with all the pyrotechnics and stage flair and I love punk music with all it's crazyawesomefunness.  (I'm tossing this "L" word around like it's nobody's business, huh?  Meh.  Not my problem.  :) )

But... bring it back to it's most simple point and it reminds me of that moment when the elegant solution is finally found.  When the puzzle in finally solved.  That missing piece finally slips into place.

Simple chords, a box of wood with six strings, someone to play it, and one person. 

Perfect. 

Elegant, simple, and perfect.

I'd have it no other way.

I've put off seeing him in Death Cab for Cutie or one of his other fantastic incarnations, just because I remember that moment in my practice room with me and guitar.  I wanted to see that, yes, my favorite songs started out the way that my songs do - just a person and an instrument.  Nothing else.  No fancy clothes, no beautiful boots, no million dollar sound system, so perfect make up...

...just a person and their instrument of destruction.

Yeah, I think that's how John ultimately won me over.  Sitting on the couch, he'd call out to me the magic words,

"Hey, can I play something for  you?"

It's as if someone just invited to me a priceless musical concert for two.  At that moment, I'm the most luckiest girl in the entire universe.

I'd hear all my music that way if I could.  Maybe that's why I'm attracted to minimalist music, or music taken down the the bare elements... power trios, duos, solo acts - there's something really special there.  Maybe that's why I love teaching one on one.  There's magic and power there.  It's the foundation, and without a solid foundation the whole structure falls, no matter how fantastic it is. 

So, adoration of my boyfriend and Ben Gibbard aside... what did I take away from the concert?

Happiness. 

I have a guitar, I can play some chords, and I like to write. 

Why did I ever stop doing that?  Why did I ever put that to the side in pursuit of other things?

Not saying that those other things are not worth it, but part of me has been missing something.

The part that will always be satisfied with just a guitar, notebook, and pen.

Sure!  My songs may go NOWHERE.  No one might care, no one might ever come to one of my solo concerts, nor book one. 

But I don't care.  They have this wonderful outlet now where you can record yourself and put it out on the internet for all to see.  All the shame and all the glory.  No one may care, but years from now... I still will.  And that's what makes me feel whole, strong, and able to face the whole world every day.

So, yeah, the punk band.  Where does that fit?

I've been putting of the punk band for a number of reasons... Dillon's family moved away and we were unsure as to what was going on, Josh talked about changing jobs and was in the middle of a move to a new place, and John and I were wrapped up in The Rosewood Bluff and our own lives.

We met for the first time in months on Saturday, and... I must say... it's like that band has evolved light years.  Maybe it's that old saying - set something free, and if it comes back, it was always yours and meant to be.  So, there were three were, in Josh's new pad, drinking coffee like the old days and going through the set list for the upcoming shows.  Josh is telling me how he discovered that the recording of our new cover was different from the tab online (BWAH?!  Is this our bassist talking?!), and Dillon nailed the solo in... oh... ten minutes?

So, if you get the chance, stop on by one of our upcoming shows.  The P-90's are really getting good.

Maybe it took a lung infection on my part (Yeah, try going through one of the biggest auditions of your life with no freaking voice, and having to cancel a bunch of important shows... it'll humble the "rock star" outta you real quick) and stepping away from the band, going through some crazy life changing, and general quarter-life crisises for a while for all of us to get our war game perfected and really appreciate the music we make. 

I mean, really... we're all very lucky.  We get the chance to do what we love and want to do.  Not many people get to that point.

So, that's what I felt last night sitting in the front row.  Very lucky and very thankful.  Sometimes life gives you those wonderful, beautiful, perfect moments that you never dreamed would happen.  When the light breaks through and the puzzle is solved.  The equation makes sense.  The Ah-ha Moment.

There was my favorite love song... played on a guitar by the gentleman that wrote it less than five feet away from me.  Sure, he missed a chord, but it made it that much more real.  I felt the most vulnerable I have ever felt sharing that moment with a sold out room of people, and that took a while to work out in my head... but... yes, this moment really happening.  I never need to meet Ben, shake his hand, or tell him how much I admire his songwriting.  I just needed that moment.  Clock out and call it a sucessful day.



It reminded me of hearing John sit on the couch and play my favorite songs.  Just sheer joy beyond explanation.  All the years of hearing a sonic recording... all those collectors who try so hard and spend so much money to get the recordings to sound as real as possible...

...it's never as good as the real thing, I hate to break it to you.  :)  In all the heartbreak and awe of realization, nothing is as fantastic as seeing happen with your own eyes and ears.  I've been rather blessed by this crazy universe.

I remember when my college buddy Heather Wible would look and me daily and ask... "What is your most beautiful thing of the day?". 

What a lovely way to look at life.

Speaking of which, I have business to attend to known as bedtime.

Until we meet again!

Hugs,

~Billie.

Thursday, Take Two!

Hey!  Look!  I did it!

Isn't it three times, and it's a habit?  One more week, and I'll be a regular Thursday blogger!

I don't have long.  My brain is on shut-down mode, and it's almost past my bed time.  There's a huge conference at The Haw River Ballroom tomorrow (Switchpoint, I believe - someone correct me if I'm wrong), so I'm getting up early to help for a few hours, before heading to the repair shop, then back to Winston-Salem to teach, then BACK to Chapel Hill to play the Cave.  Dinner happens somewhere in between, I promise.

And my car has started to idle funny (miles, maybe?  Hmmm, clearly my car didn't ask for my lifestyle).  Not looking forward to checking that one... but I'll figure something out.

What's happened in the past week?

I have new contacts!!!! HURRAY!!!  I can finally see again!  Thank you Downtown Winston Eye Care Center for being so gosh darn convenient.  I didn't have time to navigate Stratford Road (yay traffic) but the new location is pretty sweet.
 
I'm also super excited because I finally have dual P-90's in my Les Paul.  YEEEEHAWW!  I didn't get the chance to crank up The Evil Twin at my studio, but I did get to hear it on a clean setting, and, boy... those pickups don't mess around.

May I guitar-nerd for a moment?  You can sit back and let your eyes glaze over for a second until I get this out.  This won't take long.

So, I ordered the pickups from Lindy Fralin (they're the best I've heard out of the repair shop so far... the Lollars are pretty spectacular too), but Lindy's 1950's P-90's are my favorite for the chainsaw grind and high end scream I'm going for.  It looks like he even baked them for me after I gave him the description of wanting to sound as much like Johnny Thunders on LAMF without losing some 50's retro-ness.  Nicely done, Sir!  The only thing I miss on the Fralin's is the fact that you can get the Lollars with your name inscribed on the back of the pickup, it's a pretty cool touch, I must admit.  Kind of reminds me of getting one's ipod engraved.  :D  Oh, and they hum cancel if you put it on the middle pickup setting.  Awwww yeah.  For those extra quiet moments.  (Bwah?!  In a punk band?!)

Through the routing process (no, that part I didn't do... I don't trust myself to rout my own guitar.  Plus, if I mess up I'm the one that has to look at it and curse myself forever - no thanks!) the discovery was made that, indeed, I luckily obtained one of the maple top/mahogany bottom-ed Studios.  MEGA score.  Take that, Les Paul Standard!!!

Back to other things, besides my really beautiful, awesome sounding guitar - (Hey, I've waited on this mod for a loooooonnnng time, I have to boast just a little - he's my little sports car I'm gonna drive around town on Sunday just because I can) -

THIS WEEKEND'S SHOW REPORT!  (cue theme music... I'm envisioning the Star Wars opening theme...)

Friday -

The P-90's are back at The Cave with The Pheurotics (our other band had to cancel, so they stepped up to the plate!) and the rock starts at 10:00 PM.  New pickups included.  Come make a fool of yourself and have a blast - that's what punk shows are for.  We're here for you.

Saturday -

RECORD STORE DAY!!!   Whoopie!  John Howie Jr. and The Rosewood Bluff are doing an in-store during the day at SchoolKids Records in Raleigh as part of the festivities, and I'm too tired to remember the exact time.   Keep an eye on The Rosewood Bluff facebook page for up to the minute details.  It's an entire upright bass set, so it's a rare Bluff moment indeed.  And... my first record store in store.  I'm elated.

Apparently, John is taking me on a date Saturday evening.  We're going to see a real live movie and a have a real live night to ourselves.  Rare!

Sunday -

Band pictures for the Rosewood Bluff (FINALLY HAPPENING, if it doesn't rain on us) and a show at The Nightlight with Joe Fletcher and the Wrong Reasons.  This should be an absolute blast.  Come join us!

Then, it's back to normal on Monday.  Normal being working in a guitar repair/building shop.  Not too bad.

It seems like everyone in Chapel Hill who owns a Taylor guitar had decided to smash through the back of them, or at least that's what I've been doing a lot of lately - so fair warning for all you Taylor owners... :)

BEDTIME.  Gotta go.

Love to you and yours, wherever you are.

~Billie.  (and her rekindled love affair for her Les Paul)