I do what's next

This is the video I released on the second to last day of my Kickstarter campaign. It went over pretty well so I'm posting it here for your enjoyment (and mine).

 

It has been an interesting, inspiring, terrifying and humbling road so far. I imagine it will feel like that for some time and in varying degrees. Like so many things, when trying to advance or grow, the learning curve feels insurmountable and frustrating until you step foot upon that stone that looked so far off for so long. THEN you start all over again until you make it to the next level. That's good work, but it's hard work. I'd rather be writing songs.

But I was told that there's this hat labeled "business" that I need to put on in order to help the girl who typically wears the hat labeled "songwriter." It's true. It's totally true. So I'm trying to do it, but it's real hard for me. Here's what I tell myself as motivation:

"Hey dummy, look around you. People have been bending over backwards to try and make this album a reality. The least you can do is write some scary emails and do your share. Come on."

You probably already know I'm not great at being nice to myself in my self-talk, but I'm trying. 

So we press on. We do what's next. Even when things don't work out the way we want them to, we brush ourselves off, go back to our vision boards and we do what's next. Because getting comfortable standing in one place is never a good idea. There's always a new rock that needs looking under. There's always a book you haven't read yet, a road you haven't driven, and seeds you haven't sewn. Don't let the scary keep you from moving. Remember, motion begets motion. One move is all you need to find something you didn't even know was there.

Happy hunting. Do what's next.

Pick up the guitar

My mom and dad were in town for a few weeks for my son's confirmation and a little spring time in Nebraska. We had beautiful weather. We spent lots of afternoons sitting in the backyard sun, taking walks "around the square" and waiting for the irises to bloom. And then the irises bloomed.

Houseguests are wonderful. We loved have Grandma and Grandpa here, but lately I've been real weird about not being able to play music while people are in the house, let alone try and write something new. I've been dying to find some time to write and pick up my guitar again, but I feel like a naughty schoolgirl afraid to be caught doodling in the back row by the teacher. In my mind I'm telling myself, "You don't get to write because you have real adult work that needs to get done first." 

So it's been a while since I've written anything. 

The boys are done with school tomorrow and so begins summer break. They're calling for rain today and perhaps tomorrow as well. I think the rain might be the perfect excuse for trying out the sound of an empty house that won't be empty for long, but something's still keeping me from doing it.

Last night Star Belle got together for practice and ended up recording a song in Lisa's kitchen. Emily wrote it, I brought the microphone and, after working it out on Lisa's porch we dared set up the rig and see what we could come up with. It was glorious. Emily put down the lead vocal and guitar, we went back and tracked harmony and 15 minutes later we remembered who we were and what kind of magnificent gift we've been given. To say I was in desperate need of that magic is an understatement.

So I know it exists. I know that if I pick up the guitar and listen, something will appear and remind me of who I am. I've been living in a world of busy with precious little time and I know we've all been there. We all get to a place where we don't know where to start. We've all looked at the list of jobs and weighed it more heavily than that thing our heart is begging us to do. We've all sat between the rock and the hard place looking for a way out until suddenly the respite appears out of nowhere. It's a card from a friend, it's a little boy coming to cuddle at the end of a busy day, it's a chance meeting with someone at the grocery store, it's that perfect song on the radio while you're driving with the windows down. 

For me, it was singing with my friends on Tuesday as a storm rolled in. 

I woke up with morning somewhere in between the joy of last night's band practice and the weight of this Wednesday before school gets out. I thought I'd take a moment to voice that feeling here before going to get my guitar out of my car and dare to make something up. 

To you, I say, listen for the messages of joy and peace and freedom coming your way. They're out there, but the burden of work and life can make them hard to hear sometimes. Once you hear the message, then don't explain it away or make it small. Let it be the spark that ignites you again and then go pick up the guitar. Love, Hope

by Emily Dunbar and performed by Star Belle Ukulele Band

The hard ones

There are the easy gigs and there are the hard ones. The easy ones are when the rules of engagement are established and understood. The audience comes ready to hear the stories and I come ready to sing them and we have a conversation together over beers and wines or teas and coffees.

The hard ones are when the rules of engagement aren't agreed upon by both parties. This can be illustrated by a room where I'm telling the stories and no one is listening. I'm the background music to the frat party that happens to be taking place just feet from the stage. 

Now don't get me wrong. I don't mind being background music as long as you tell me ahead of time that that's the gig. 

Last night was a hard one. And it was a wake up call telling me I haven't had a hard one in a while. I don't fault anyone in that room last night talking with their buddies while I was singing songs. Hell, we're all entitled to a Saturday night where we have some fun. But man, it was a test of my cool, my focus and whether or not I was capable of steering a ship gone off course. 

For the record, I played a great set to the six people who were listening in the corner. Thank you, Six People. For the record, I wanted to cry when I got done so I went outside to pull myself together. 

While I was outside a young man who was one of the six listeners came up to me and told me how much he liked the set. Not only that he told me how much he was impressed by my stage presence. He said he's seen performers in that situation play one song, tell the audience to "F- off" and walk off the stage. And then what I told him was something I needed to hear myself. 

I told him that we, at the the bottom of the barrel, don't have the luxury of only playing the good ones. If we're hungry (and broke) then we try to play the best show of our lives every time we're up there no matter what's happening around us. We try to honor the listeners and be grateful for the chance to  be heard. 

Not everybody gets a chance to tell their story. Not everyone gets the gig. My take away is that maybe I need more hard ones to remind myself what the job is and what the privilege of playing the good ones feels like. It's hard to keep it together during the hard ones. But if you're hungry enough you say, "Thank you sir, may I have another?"

Wednesday recap or "These wave forms are out to get me"

Yesterday was spent with headphones and guitars and microphones and Emily and Bruce and me in a little room making stuff happen. You wanna know where magic gets made? It gets made in spare bedrooms and basements and living rooms when people come together believing that even they can create beauty after working their part-time jobs and moving around the schedule so they can put in a few hours for their vocation that is music. We've all seen the super cool studio footage of The Rolling Stones or The Heartbreakers singing into microphones on the other side of a glass wall where music nerds are hunched over some kickass board as big as a banquet table. That was then.

Now the music legends of the 21st century are the stories you hear about The Black Keys by themselves in some dirty warehouse recording their record on their own. There are countless musicians out there making magic with the tools at hand with the little time they've got before they have to leave for work. They're not magazine worthy images, but you have no idea how much heart and soul starts in those tiny rooms and basements before making its way out into the greater world in the form of a new record.  

That's what we're doing over here in Chicago this week and I'm so grateful for this time and for these people on the journey beside me.  

Yesterday was spent going through the tracks with a fine tooth comb. It was caring enough about the work to make sure it was just right. Confession: that level of caring is new to me. But I love it. Thank God for Bruce running the board and for Emily watching the screen and for them letting me sit behind my sound curtain and do the easy stuff (which my mind can turn into a really hard task). 

As I was waiting for the plane in Lincoln on Saturday I took out a piece of paper and started writing the names of people I wanted to take with me to the studio. I wrote down names of Nebraska friends, my family, Song Schoolers, fans who faithfully come support my music, people who've taught me things over the years, teachers who got me started in music when I was a kid, cheerleaders who are always there to give me a boost when I'm feeling down.  I wrote down people who have gone out of their way to encourage me or help me when I know very well they didn't have to do or say anything. I wrote lots of names down. So you're there too in the spare bedroom beside me while I'm plugged in and playing. Good thing you're in written form. You guys would've never fit in physical form. 

Today is a morning break. Then a little rehearsal then back to the studio before a songwriter's supper together at a local restaurant. The adventure continues. And I'll say that if you're itching to pick up an instrument and sing a song into a microphone so that it lives long after you do, then I know lots of spare bedrooms and basements and weekend warrior musicians who would be more than happy to help you along. Peace. 

Photo entitled "We're gonna make a great album"

Headline reads: Small town woman gets on and off Chicago train successfully and without incident. 

And I did. There are things about urban living that are alluring to me: public transportation, the people on the streets, the access to any kind of food you could ever imagine, the bars that feel like meeting places for friends who live on different sides of town. But not the parallel parking. I don't care for all the needed parallel parking skills. 

With the help of Sarah who talked me through my route, I took the train to the Chicago Art Institute and spent the day walking the halls full of masterpieces. Quite extraordinary. The collection is really amazing. I didn't know Seurat's "park" piece was there, Whistler's mother, a bunch of Andy Warhol, Picasso's "old man and blue guitar" piece, there were Chagall windows that reminded me of the church we visited in France that had been restored after the war with all windows by Chagall. Van Gogh's bedroom, Jackson Pollock, Mary Cassatt and on and on and on. Of course, I didn't make it through the whole thing, but it was a pleasure to stroll the galleries and take in all that beauty and all that interpretation of the world and what it's like. 

We did three hours last night in the studio tracking guitar and some vocal work and I think it worked out pretty well. Today is the long day and I'm ready dig in and get some work done. Even in the half days we've put in I've learned some things about the studio that I didn't know before and I've had the pleasure seeing Bruce (the engineer) and Emily (the producer) work together effortlessly. 

It helps that last night, after the studio, we went to Schuba's to see Cory Branan and he played an incredible show. He was as crazy as I remember him, he was really funny and had a great vibe with the audience. I was tired, but I'm so glad we saw that show. He's the best. 

To commemorate the night, Emily and I hopped in the photo booth to snap some pics. Our last pose is entitled, "We're gonna make a great album." Because it's true.

 

Studio Day One Rundown

Jake the bassist and I met on Sunday afternoon when we rehearsed at Emily's house the group of seven songs we were going to record together in the studio. Jake is very good at his job and, after the rehearsal, Emily and I smiled and high-fived.

Last night we met up again, this time at Bruce's studio to start recording. 

Some artists love the recording process and I find that I am not one of those artists. I will openly admit that, no matter how much I try and self-talk my way into being normal in a studio setting, all the insecurities of being a phony no-good faker come rushing in the minute they set up the microphones. I wish I could say last night was different, but it wasn't.  

I will also say, that despite my inability to calm the hell down, we did get all our work done in that first session and that feels really good. 

I've never spent more than two days in a studio for any project I've done and I'm thankful that we've got four, maybe five days to work and make the record what it should be. I like to think that the more I'm there, the Hope Dunbar of my every day will feel comfortable enough to show her face.  

And finally, Emily White is a champion. I chose her to be my team captain for this job and I'm so glad I did.  

Stay tuned for tomorrow's update. Perhaps heavenly angels will descend and tell us to our faces that this is a going to be a really good album. If so, I'll tell you all about it. 

Do it anyway.

I turned forty on Saturday. I spent the day with my family and received flowers. Jon made me a gin and tonic and we sat outside in the afternoon sunshine and then on Sunday the boys washed the cars. 

I'm not that into birthdays or any special occasion for that matter. I can remember mourning my birthday when I was a child. I remember standing in the kitchen close to tears at the age of 15 or 16 lamenting to my parents that we all get robbed of the first ten years or so of life because we don't remember very much of it. So, yes. I've always been like this. I like sad existential questions. 

So now I'm forty. And on Saturday I fly to Chicago to start recording for my new album project. Hopefully life starts at forty. Or at least, it keeps going. 

It keeps going despite my own best efforts to railroad it with my own sadness and depression. I get real close to the edge and then something pulls me back and I get back up and keep going. In one moment I hate all my songs and wonder if I can write 12 good ones before Saturday. In the next moment I remind myself of how these songs are worth honoring. Some days I think this is my only shot at showing the world what I can do. Other days it feels like I've got all the time the world. And this, all while doing the work of the here and now in my small town.

Mamas don't like seeing their kids fall down. They don't like seeing their kids storm into the kitchen, slam the door and throw their backpacks down by the sofa eyes full of tears and rage. Mamas want to hold their babies just like when they were babies. It's written into us.

Daddies see Mamas want to run to their kiddos and daddies gently hold them back. Daddies understand the need for space and time and doing nothing. I get a sense it's written into them.

And so I let them run off and slam their bedroom doors. I leave them be. And I think about my own falling down and my own getting back up. 

No book is going to tell you the age and date of when kids need to be left to manage their own battles, but I can tell you that years of trial and error and trial and then error again, of the sin and the sacred, of the rebellion and the redemption, I can see how daddies help their babies get back up over and over again. 

Mamas are always there to be the safe place and refuge after the war, but I can't take up arms for a life that ain't mine. 

I'm forty and far away from my mom and dad, but I've got the lessons they taught me right here close to me. I go to church on Sundays, I share what I have with others, I try to welcome the stranger, seek forgiveness and give forgiveness, and I get up and keep going just like they did. My own darkness never disappears completely, but I've learned how to fight it. 

I hope I can give that gift to my kids. I hope I let them learn the hard way and then hug them when it's over. I hope they learn that imperfect love is everywhere. We care for each other and we care for one another imperfectly. We move forward even if it's two steps forward and one step back and we keep going. I hope that when they're forty they go record their album if that's where they're at. I hope they see the possibilities and are unafraid of the falling down. And I hope they know I'll be there with arms open and a pep talk ready to go. 

Chicago: here I come.