We were underwater.

As I looked for a picture online to convey the significance of the flooding in Nashville last week, I kept coming across the line, "We are underwater. We are Nashville." Upon seeing the words, it still brings tears to my eyes. Because we were and although the water has receded, we still are.

Some of us have returned home. Many of us still are unable. Some of us were able to salvage many of our treasured belongings. Many of us lost everything. Our streets are still dirty with what the flood has left behind. Mattresses, clothing, washers and dryers, televisions, photographs and sofas still line many of our streets. Homes and businesses are still ripping out walls and flooring, attempting with the last vestiges of hope to salvage what might be left...what might be left to return to.

I've thought about writing this blog several times in the past week or so. I wasn't sure what I wanted to convey. I'm still not sure what I hope to gain out of it. I'm all full on sympathy and empathy. I'm still waiting for validation at times. But mostly, I need to find a way to rebuild and move on. I need a way to expunge. Expunge the water. Expunge the bitterness. Expunge the unpredictability.

In the early morning hours of Sunday, May 2nd, I'd wake to a phone call from my neighbor, Ashley. She informed me that our apartments were flooded. She had suspected a water main broke. Hanging up the phone, I realized both of my cats were on the bed, crying. I got out of bed and put my feet down into water. Water drifting into my bedroom. I looked out the back window of my apartment to discover the water had almost reached my back window. I ran through the apartment in 3 to 4 inches of water to discover water coming underneath my front door. Looking out the front window, I discovered the water had also reached the window. The cars out front were almost fully covered in water. I ran back to the bedroom to find water (read: sewage water) filled the tub and toilet and sink. It seemed as if water was coming in from every possible place. The cats kept crying and I tried to think clearly. What can I do?

I'm at times a paranoid person, often imagining what I would do. You know, imagining, if someone broke in while I was asleep- what would I do? If I had to leave the house with little notice, what would I take with me? You think this might prepare you- carefully imagining how to follow the proper protocol. Grab the insurance papers, grab your passport, grab your most treasured possessions. But you know what happens? Nothing. Paralysis. You grab a toothbrush. You grab a change of clothes. You grab your pets. You don't grab the important papers. You don't grab your life in photographs and journals. No, you leave those to float away.

After calling my mother and 911, my neighbors informed me they were leaving and asked if I had someone to call to pick me up. Without hesitation, I phoned my friend, Art, asking him almost coyly if he could pick me up. As I ran from room to room trying to make decisions about what to salvage by placing it in high places, my mother called me and suggested I put the cats in their carrier, in case rescue arrived too quickly and wouldn't let me go back for the cats. The water kept coming in and I was unsure at the moment of how much might fill my apartment. The carpet tiles in the living room were floating. The cats' food bowl floated in the kitchen. Catching some of the news while I was running through the water, I began to worry about Art driving to pick me up. Apparently this wasn't a water main break, this was flooding. Nashville was flooding. In my fear that I had put a friend in danger, I phoned Art back and told him not to come. I would stay. I would defend my apartment. And in that defining moment, Art told me he was coming for me. He would make it to my apartment. He would pick us up.

While I packed a bag that would last me for some unknowable time period, the police arrived. Unable to reach my front door, I spoke on the phone to them. They told me to stay calm and within 15 minutes of waiting for the firetruck to arrive, the water started to recede. It started to drain. When the police officer and fireman came to my door, the water was only around 2 to 3 inches out of the front door. The water had reached every edge of my apartment. I asked in desperation as to whether I should leave. They told me to leave as soon as possible. It was predicted this would only get worse- and I should take this one opportunity to leave as soon as possible.

A few short moments later, Art arrived. We grabbed the cats, my packed bag, backpack with my computer, and one soaked laundry hamper of clothing and threw them in the car. Drenched with rain and sewage water, we drove to the safety of Art's house. Sitting at the light at Jefferson and Rosa Parks- we discovered that Rosa Parks was completely underwater at the Farmers Market. The water covered everything. We drove over the Jefferson/Spring Street bridge, the streets below were also covered. People were driving up one way exit ramps to escape the rising waters of the Cumberland. As the rain kept pouring down, Art and I unpacked the car and tried to comfort the cats. And the day would continue like this-- trying to make phone calls with my neighbors, the landlord, my family and friends, and finishing up my final paper of the semester.

Around the early afternoon (and after a few drinks to calm my nerves), I tried to take a nap. Laying on Art's couch with his dog, Maggie, I laid there wide awake. I couldn't shake the feeling of water on my legs. I could feel the water. I could see the water coming in the front door. I could hear the cats crying. And I couldn't shake the feeling that I might lose everything I had left behind. I'm still trying to shake the feeling of the water on my feet. I still feel it sometimes when I put my feet down on the floor in the morning.

Later that evening, Art and I would receive a phone call from our friend Ashley, who lives a mile away from me. She was being evacuated. She didn't know where to go- or more accurately, we weren't sure what streets were still open. While on the phone with her, Art and I used a map to plot various paths she could use to get across the river. With numerous failed attempts, I began to fear that Ashley would be secluded in her car stuck between Rosa Parks and the river. And finally, finally, she found one open bridge. A bridge that hadn't yet been taken over by the rising river and flood waters. She arrived safely. And the week would begin.

That first evening, I would have no clue what happened during the day and night at my apartment. I spent the evening imagining that I had lost everything. I spent the evening wondering how I would rebuild. I wondered if I would ever be able to return home.

Without access to the news or my computer (due to a flooded computer cord), I wouldn't know the impact of this flood on Nashville. It wasn't until the next day, as Ashley and I walked to a nearby restaurant for food that we would see the full impact. We sat in that restaurant, staring at the television, terrified. They showed images of Bellevue...then Antioch...then the Cumberland...then North Nashville and Germantown. It was all flooded. Less than a mile from my house, the water reached over the top of businesses. Sitting in that restaurant was painful, I suddenly realized how the flooding reached beyond my apartment, while still wondering silently what we would find as we drove to my apartment. Even getting to the apartment was difficult. The streets were closed with flood waters. There was essentially one road that was clear to drive to my apartment.

Luckily upon arrival, I discovered that the water hadn't reached higher than the previous morning. The next few days passed in a haze. And then the rebuilding would begin. I spent the next five days of my life in a state of flux. The second day, I would have to move all my belongings out of the two carpeted bedrooms into the living room, while making careful decisions about what to place out of the existing water on the floor. The landlord had sent over a crew to help in the process. With the help of three men, I emptied my closets, my bedroom, and my office. We made stacks of the most damaged, somewhat damaged, and salvageable items. Within an hour, all of my belongings had been moved. Then the carpet was ripped up. I then began documenting all the items that I could reach that needed to be thrown out. With my three neighbors- Ashley, Michelle, and Michael- and the help of Ashley and Art and the three young men- Shane, Brad, and Gator- we cleared out what was clearly damaged from three apartments. The trash cans overflowed. Our hands were dirty. But we laughed. Because what else can you do?

On day three, we dried. We waited. And I tried to salvage my clothing that had been soaked.

On day four, I would get carpet in two rooms, which required the disinfecting of all the salvageable items before moving them yet again into the new "clean" rooms. This meant making decisions about which items would be thrown out, particularly big furniture items- like the couch, chairs, bookshelves...most of which I lost. I would continue to document what was lost, naively thinking I might have insurance that would cover the loss. Becky, Ashley, and Art would help me wipe down the furniture and items I planned to keep.

On day five, a cleaning crew came to clean the living room. I would then proceed to unpack from the two rooms, trying to arrange some sense of normalcy in my home. Hanging clothes, setting up my bed, arranging the few items left of my living room furniture-- with the plans to spend my first night back in the apartment.

That first night was harrowing. It was quiet, except the roar of the fans still trying to dry out the walls and floors. I sat on the tile floor in the living room on the computer, reading stories and watching videos and pictures of the flooding that far exceeded my own experience. I was again reminded of how my tragedy was fortunate in comparison to others. I cried most of that evening. I couldn't imagine what others were experiencing. I would have nightmares that night. I kept seeing and feeling the water and the panic of that morning. I wasn't alone. The cats felt it too. We barely slept. We weren't alone.

And the next few days would progress much in the same. There was sadness around every corner, particularly as I drove through the city. The despair coupled with the tenacity for recovery overwhelmed me. And although I recognized it at the time, only after the dust settled did I realize what still makes the tears well up-- that I am surrounded by the most generous and kind friends.

The night before all of this happened, I wrote a status update that read something like, "Katherine Everhart...has the greatest friends in all of the world." I had no idea how much I would learn this in the following week. I realized during that week of chaos and tragedy just how much I am surrounded by people who care about me and are willing to jeopardize their own lives to protect, provide, and comfort me. In addition to my Nashville family, family and friends from all distances (from Charlotte to South Carolina to Puerto Rico to California) offered up support daily by emailing, calling and texting me daily- to let me know they were thinking of me. And although, I couldn't always respond, their sentiments helped me make it through that week...and continue to help me navigate my way through the recovery.

A couple of days ago, as I drove through Nashville, I realized how much admiration I have the city, how much admiration I have for those folks who have been unshowered in the past week, how much admiration I have for the way the city has come together and spent their time helping those of us that were impacted by the flooding. I was fortunate, others were not so fortunate. Watching my friends take to the streets has made me so proud. And in those moments, I realized just how much in the past two years, I have built a family here in Nashville. Nashville, despite the still fragmented nature of my apartment, has become home.

These wonderfully generous friends were willing to offer up their homes, furniture, car, physical strength, groceries, dinners, laughter, money, support...just anything and everything to me. With their help, I've been able to rebuild my home and my life. It is with the deepest of respect that I thank them for what they've done for me. While I could never repay them, I hope they know that I've got their back, no matter what.

I'm including some pictures below that I was able to document of the flooding near my house and my own experiences. It is just one of many experiences of both the loss and community that came out of the past week.

Nashville Flood 2010

There is still much to do in Nashville. We still need help. We still need volunteers. I hope we don't forget that as things start to settle. There are many that have been left behind in the process. I heart you, Nashville.

Thank you, friends and family. I would have never made it without you. You are one of a kind. I heart you more than you'll ever know.

"You are the roots that sleep beneath my feet and hold the earth in place, each time a faucet opens, words are spoken, the water runs away, and I hear your name...All else is sure to pass, We clutch and grasp, And debate what's truly permanent, But when the wind starts to shift, Well, there's no argument, Now, I sing and drink and sleep on floors...Oh, you are the roots that sleep beneath my feet and hold the earth in place..." -Bright Eyes

Festival Internacional de Arte y Musica Subterranea

While I realize that Festival Internacional de Arte y Music Subterranea took place at the end of January, I can only claim that I've been overwhelmingly busy. Well, that and it took me a good three days to master the technology of embedding songs in my blogpost. Technology: 0, Katherine: 1.

As many of you know back in January, I made a trip to Puerto Rico to attend this festival, as well as to begin making contacts for my summer research on the island. The festival was a tremendous success, thanks to my good friend, Jorell who organized the event. It was absolutely lovely to see artists, filmmakers, bands, and good people all come together to watch films, listen to music, and well, play some kickball, eat starfruit, and drink some delicious drinks (of which I still don't know what exactly was mixed).

Festival Internacional de Arte y Musica Subterranea

Here are some pictures from the trip of the various events. I chose not to take pictures at Noche Acustica, but rather documented the event with an audio recorder, of which clips are available below.

The first night of the event was Noche de Cortometrajes, which took place at Executive Manolo-- an interesting collaborative where you can get your haircut, buy clothing, screenprint in the back room, and view the current art hanging on the walls. We had the pleasure of watching films produced by two separate independent collaboratives. One was The Gadabout Traveling Film Fest. And the second one was Guerrilla Films. While I enjoyed them both, I urge you to check out the work of La Guerrilla, as I think these are some of the most enjoyable and innovative short films I've seen recently.

And of my favorites from the night was the work of Carlos Irizarry, who has become a good friend and a tremendous help to me as I begin to plan my work for the summer. Here is the link to one of his films.

Evening One of the event was followed up with c-c-c-c-combobreakers at Cafe 103 and a night spent on Jorell and Magaly's couch surrounded by their lovely cats.

The following day I attended Circa 2010 at the convention center and met up with Jason Mena, an artist in town of which I had a lovely time conversating and attempting to finish too much sangria.

The second evening of the festival was Noche Electrica at Taller Ce, of which I had the opportunity to hear/see Campio Formio, Imperial Can, Un Final Fatal, and Anti Sociales. Absolutely fantastic, given the night began with our car almost being trampled by several men on horseback. I also had the pleasure of meeting Eggie, one of Jorell's bandmates from Anti Sociales. Most of the pictures are from this night, though in retrospect, I wish I had been able to tape some of the show.

The third day involved a field day at the fort, El Morro. Loads of fun was had as kites were flown, sack races were semi-successful, and a mean game of kick ball ensued.

The evening was followed up with Noche Acustica at El Local. Performing this evening was Jan from Anti Sociales, Chris Clavin of Imperial Can/Captain Chaos, and Roberto Muerto. I have included all the audio clips from this evening below. The order of the clips is respective of the order listed above. While I should have labeled these, I found it an incredible feat to put them online, so you'll just have to scan through and listen. Magaly and Jorell even joined Jan on some of the first few songs, so give it a listen. Everytime I hear Track 7 by Chris Clavin, I'll always remember this trip.

Festival Internacional de Arte y Musica Subterranea by user829182

All in all, I had a blast at the festival and in my other investigations. I found out recently that I will be spending 6 weeks of my summer on the island. I cannot explain how thrilled I am to return to visit all of my old and new friends on the island and to spend more time with them, drinking, singing, and conversating about the things that keep me awake at night.

Addition:

You should also check out the work of Santos

and thanks to Carlos for reminding me of this video of Anti Sociales at Taller Ce that night.

"And evaporate in the sun, sometimes it can weigh a ton..."

"There's one thing we still got, this one last dance in this parking lot. Oh yeah, I got a heart of darkness..."


I've started this post several times already, without quite knowing how to begin. I wasn't really sure I wanted to post regarding the recent loss of Mark Linkous, but I also know that when I experience loss, the only way I know how to navigate those feelings is to write. The first "novel" I ever wrote was in the 48 hours after I first lost someone I cared about.

The most puzzling thing to me right now is just how personal the loss of someone I never met can feel. I have never been one to feel personally distressed over the loss of a stranger, particularly those in whatever dim limelight the people I admire may be. No, I've done a meticulous job of making sure those sorts of things don't bother me. But for some reason, when I received the news in the middle of the night on Saturday, I felt it. And I keep feeling it.


"I was the one who loved you most, but you can't put your arms around a ghost. Some sweet day you will be mine, you'll be mine..."

And the only real rationale I could come to today was because of memory. The memories that I have attached to the music of Mark Linkous. Thus, this felt like the perfect place for me to explore those memories. The memories are woven within and beneath all the lyrics and the music in such a way that I'm unable to fully disentangle the music from the memories. And I suppose in ways, the loss of Mark Linkous feels like the loss of those memories.

It is the parking lot of some old bar. It is the apartment that sits atop that mountain. It is the endless drives between Boone and Charlotte and Asheville. It is the track beneath the music on that mini-cd I made. It is the lyric that I wrote in my journal. It is the song on that first tape you made me. It is the track on all those holiday mixes. It is that song I listened to after I lost you. It is the smile of his ghost. It is the text message you sent me from the show. It is the text message I sent you from the show. It is the photograph my mom took. It is winter walks on the beach. It is an altered lyric that only I heard. It is my mom's request at the Christmas party. It is the converted adoring fan. It is a busted cd case from late nights. It is the feeling of being a restless soul. It is quite simply the sad and beautiful world of loss.


And this one is for my mom:




It is the loss of a truly great artist.

"I could look in your face for a thousand years. It's like a civil war of pain and of cheer. But if you was a horse, I could help you with your chains. I could ride you through the fields, by your fiery mane. May your shade be sweet and float upon the lakes, where the sun will be made of honey."

I called this number three times already today.

"I called this number three times already today, but I got scared, I put it back in place, I put my phone back in place. I still don't know if I should have called up. Look, just tell me why don't you if I'm out of place. 'Cause here's your chance to make me feel awkward and wish that I had never called up this place."

-Modern Lovers






After much deliberation, I can't quite pin down exactly which song I first heard by the Modern Lovers. I know it must have been 1996. I remember listening to it in my dorm room. I remember hearing a band cover "Roadrunner" at a high school in Boone, North Carolina. I remember thinking I had called a number three times and most certainly felt awkward about it.

The first time I saw Jonathan Richman play was in Chapel Hill at Cats Cradle. It was packed. It must have been right after the movie, Something About Mary- and all the college kids came to see that weird fella that was singing in the tree. It was fantastic.

That being said, it was a true joy to have the opportunity to see him in Nashville on Thursday night. Going to the show reinforced what I already suspected- I have an entirely skewed view about music. Obviously, I interpret through my own lens, but I thought Richman playing at 5 Spot in Nashville, a very small club, would mean I'd need to arrive early and would potentially have to wait in line. Not the case. I can't say that I was displeased, but there is something odd to me about the fact that I have trouble navigating the landscape of 5 Spot on Soul Night (when two fellas with computers play Motown), but not on the night when Jonathan Richman played. I digress. And I refuse to get into a "these kids these days" sort of refrain.

I suppose I place Jonathan Richman in my own personal canon. He ranks pretty high on my list of troubadours, particularly troubadours that make me feel star struck. So, yes, while I had hoped that more folks would be there to support him, I was also pleased that I actually had the opportunity to hear and see him without all the distraction of too many East Nashville-ites.

It was a wonderful show. While I had hoped I might have the opportunity to hear Richman belt out some of my old favorites, I was mesmerized by him. He was odd. He was funny. He was a great dancer. He was endearing.



By the end of the show, Richman was out on the floor talking to his audience. And it crossed my mind that I should thank him for the performance. I'm usually not keen on doing this, because well, I mean, I can only imagine how many times hearing "Great show" one person can take. But then I thought, "Fuck, Jonathan Richman is a few feet away from me. I should at least talk to him." And then, Becky and Brian cheered me on.

Before I knew it, I was grabbing a business card out of my wallet and walking towards him. I know, I know...but I've learned the habit of handing out my fancy Vanderbilt cards to anyone available and willing after my most recent trip to Puerto Rico. So, I did it. I thanked him for the show. I told him about the blog. I told him about the book project of music and memory. And almost as if I had planned it, I told him I'd love to interview him for it. And it wasn't a lie. He was on my original list of potential interviewees.

I think I expected, as most folks do, he would take the card quickly and the interaction would be over. Instead, he told me he would love to talk to me about the book and asked me if I could write something on the front of the card to remind him about the book idea. Jeez, as if I wasn't already freaked out enough shaking his hand and talking to him. With shaky hands (and thanks to Becky and Brian for the pen), I wrote the information down and returned the card to him.

While I recognize realistically, this "interview" may or may not take place. I found myself experiencing sheer joy in having the opportunity to meet him personally.

It was a lovely night. And I'll always remember dancing with Becky atop chairs in the back of the 5 Spot.

Enjoy the videos. I think one of the things I'd admire the most about Richman is that he sang about half of his songs in either Spanish or French. He commented they just made more sense that way....and I agree.

Seventeen Years...with Jennie Ann

It is difficult to recall the first day that I met Jennie Ann, but I do remember us being bound to one another by feeling that we were "on the margins" in high school- even among the eclectic group of friends we both had in common. We had commonalities-music, bad habits, and a penchant for living as if "we were burning the candle at both ends." Trust me, that sounds much more wild than it really was...

I do remember what we later decided to consider our "anniversary." At the time I was dating a young man in a band. His band was scheduled to play at a fraternity party at a local college. I was looking for someone to join me and Jennie Ann willingly accepted. Of course, this also meant we'd have to concoct a story to tell her mother about why she was spending the night with me and what we were planning to do with that evening. When I picked Jennie Ann from her house that evening, we told her mother, what we thought was a great fib about the evening. We were going to The Milestone. My boyfriend's band was playing there. We'd be back home by midnight. I said goodbye to Jennie Ann's mother.

By the time we arrived back at my house, my mother greeted us on the porch. She told us, "You've been busted. Jennie Ann's mom is on her way her to pick her up."

And that is how it all began.

Seventeen years later, we are still best friends. While I thought about crafting a blog that traversed through our memories...I decided instead (damn, graduate school responsibilities!) to post some pictures from those first few years. Though I did spend most of today thinking about our friendship. And I've realized that it is rather rare to have someone in your life for this many years- as a constant. Through the ups and downs, the miles that have separated us, the misunderstandings and tears, and the cackling laughter that most folks can barely fathom to hear...Jennie Ann has always been there.


















And so I give you this, a poem Jennie Ann wrote me when we were oh, so very young.

"If you were a mosquito bite, I would itch you (but not too hard),
If you were my socks, I would never change them,
If you were a cuss word, I would use it in every sentence,
If you were a movie I would buy it and watch it all the time,
If I were a sailor, I'd name my boat after you,
If you were in Phish, I'd buy the tape anyway,
If you were a drug, I'd establish a habit,
but since you're a human, I'm glad to say you're my best friend."

This must have been written around 1994. Pure poetry.


















Happy Anniversary, best friend. Thank you for being there through it all. And here is to many more...(Don't forget, we are celebrating Year 20 in Costa Rica, finally.)

Grapes, pears, and a great loss.

Several years ago, while teaching in Myrtle Beach, I made the decision to write a book on music and memory. I had decided that despite being associated with a formal research institution, I would become an independent scholar. While writing the book, I began to download countless sociological articles about music. During these searches, I noticed the same name appearing over and over again- R.A. Peterson.

It would be several months later that I would apply to graduate school at Vanderbilt, and while I hate to admit it- I was ignorant to the relationship between R.A. Peterson and Vanderbilt.

During the first month of school, I remember sitting down with one of my new professors, Jennifer Lena, to discuss my research interests. As I stumbled through my vague ideas for research on music- she inquired if I knew about the work of Richard ("Pete") Peterson. It was at that moment that all the pieces came together and I realized that I was at the same university where this R.A. Peterson was located.

While I did not have the opportunity to converse with Pete during the first official gathering of the department, I was overwhelmed with joy when I received an invitation for dinner at his home. Apparently, Pete and his wife, Claire, always invited the new cohort of students over for a welcoming dinner. My excitement quickly gave way to nervousness, as I thought about the implications of having dinner with someone I considered to be one of the greatest scholars in the field.

I know that none of us will ever forget that dinner. Whether it was the awkward first moments with the block of cheese, the conversation about Riot Grrls, or the simple and clear advice that Pete gave us about being graduate students. I can't remember the exact line now, but I remember Pete reiterating to us that if this wasn't something we loved, we were in the wrong line of work. I also remember him telling us to take our summer to travel, to explore.

When the next year of incoming students arrived, I remember telling them with excitement about how they would have the opportunity to also visit with Pete and Claire. Unfortunately, due to Pete's health, they were unable to visit- which saddened me.

I would luckily have the opportunity to spend several opportunities with Pete in this last year.

Last semester, Pete offered to provide feedback on papers that a handful of us were writing for a course on cultural production. Again, the excitement- and then the nervousness. The afternoon that we (Becky, Carly and I) spent with Pete was fantastic. He gave us a tour of his office, showing us books and pictures he had collected. He told us about his most recent project, which involved hearing many personal stories that he was reflecting on in his life. And then, he proceeded to tear through our papers providing incredible insight and suggestions for the way we had approached the field. While I recognize that only a handful of you might realize the grandiosity of writing a paper for a course in cultural production and having Pete provide you with feedback on a draft, I know that there are those within the field that can understand exactly what this meant.

More recently, I had the chance to visit with Pete on less academic terms. As his health waned, I had offered to provide any kind of assistance to both Pete and Claire. On a Saturday, while reading through Swidler's "tool-kit" piece, I was asked if I might be able to help with some grocery shopping for Pete. As I glanced over at the articles that I had left to read, I realized that reading these articles was far eclipsed by not only helping Pete, but having the opportunity to sit and talk with him more.

Arriving at Pete's house, we sat and talked for almost an hour before the grocery list was introduced into the conversation. We talked about Swidler. We talked about his research on omnivorousness. We talked about cooking shows. At one moment, Pete asked if I was in a rush. When I replied that I wasn't, he remarked that it made him feel better just to see me. I recognize that it wasn't "me," but rather that Pete truly loved sitting and talking to someone that day.

And then there was the grocery list. We discussed each item on the list. What I remember the most was Pete asking for a certain type of pear, of which he had forgotten the name, and seedless red grapes. He said to me that I would need to taste the grapes. He told me not to buy them if they did not "explode in your mouth." They should be crunchy. Wait, I don't like grapes, I thought to myself.

As I left for the grocery store, Pete grabbed my hand to thank me. This is a moment I will never forget. Not that he was simply a person in need, but rather that he was the R.A. Peterson from all those years ago- and his work had become overwhelmingly important in my life in the last few years.

In the grocery store, I picked up the bag of grapes. And I knew, that I would have to test them. While searching for other items, I grabbed a grape and tested it. It exploded into sweetness, exactly what he asked for.

In the last few weeks, I've kept up with Pete's health through Jenn, getting updates on his status. On Wednesday, I went grocery shopping for myself. While walking through the produce section, I found myself buying the same pears Pete had asked for-and then I grabbed some grapes. I took one from the bag and tested it. A simple explosion. These were keepers.

While it may seem silly, when I received the news that Pete has passed away on Thursday, I thought of those pears and grapes.

The loss of Pete weighed heavy on me today, while I sat through class and walked the halls of Garland. While I led a class discussion on cultural production and social movements, I couldn't help but think of the incredible debt that we owe him- both as a person and as a scholar. He will be missed.

And here are a couple of other postings from folks that knew Pete better than me....

Jenn's post about Pete

and Omar Lizardo's posting.

And because for some reason when I experience loss, I often turn to this...


If I had one wish, I would have interviewed Pete about his memories of music.

Ruminations on a Past Decade

(Picture by Leslie Bivens. This might have been late 1999, but was about as close to 2000 as I could find in my archives)

It must have been mid-December when I started thinking about composing an end-of-the-decade blog. At first I had planned to compose a blog that captured the last ten years of life, you know, a where I’ve been, what I’ve done, what I learned, what I didn’t learn. Upon returning back from Charlotte with a trunk full of journals and pictures from the last ten years, I commenced to writing. And I wrote three pages about the last ten years. I thought about each year, pouring over the pictures and journal entries. So, why haven’t I posted it?

I’ve re-read what I have written for the last several days trying to decide upon posting both the three pages and 75 pictures I had selected. But then, I realized, I can’t. While the process was extremely cathartic, I realized it was more important for me to travel through the years than it would be for me to share it. With that decision, I’ve decided to print out what I’ve written and post it in my new journal for the New Year. It’ll serve as a reminder of the joys and sorrows of the previous years, with an overwhelming hope for the upcoming decades.

But what did I learn?

In the last ten years, I’ve lost two people that I loved dearly- both my dad, Greg, and Joe, an ex-lover. While I, in complicated ways, dealt with their passing, I’ve learned how to forgive and remember. I was also engaged twice to be married to two very different men. Through the ups and downs of my relationships, I’ve learned how to open myself up to love and also how to find happiness on my own. Over the years, I’ve self-published the last two issues of my zine, bittersweet, run my own promotional company and record label, Bittersweet Promotions and Records, and started my own blog, www.musicismemory.com. Through these experiences I had the wonderful opportunity to work with dozens of excellent musicians and find ways to express myself through the written word. In addition, I’ve written two and half unpublished novels and two chapters for a book proposal about music and memories. I recorded, with the help of a friend, four songs based on my prose. I also worked at a school uniform company, Coca-Cola Bottling Company, and at various schools and universities. I earned my masters degree and started work on my PhD. I overcame one of my biggest fears about lecturing in front of a class only to discover that I loved it more than anything else I’ve ever done. I adopted two fantastic cats, Sabine and Igor. I’ve traveled all around the country and ventured to Puerto Rico twice. I’ve lived in Charlotte, Myrtle Beach, and Nashville. I’ve seen hundreds of incredible rock shows and even seen a couple of legends. I got sea-sick on a casino boat ride and flew over the ocean in a helicopter. I’ve welcomed the life of my nephew, Emmett. I've always had the constant of my family, my Mom, John, Ashley, Jambe, and Taylor, and best friend, Jennie Ann, for laughs and love. I’ve shared my life with so many wonderful people in the last ten years that it’d be difficult to name them all. But I thank them and know, for a fact, that life would not have been worth living without them.

Recollecting on the last decade has been (for lack of a better word) bittersweet. And so, I raise my glass to the new decade, with the following resolutions for the New Year…

1) Use lots of conditioner. I’ve heard it works for getting things disentangled.
2) To ‘rosetta stone’ my way to fluency.
3) To be more thoughtful in my reactions to people when they are a) kind to me and deserving of recognition and, b) not kind to me and deserving of an ass-kicking.
4) Take more trips.
5) Write more, with my new journal and book proposal in mind.

First Show of the Year: Eric Bachmann, Charlotte, 2010

"Drinking sparkling wine and cheap perfume. I've been looking for some soft abuse."

I was in Boone, North Carolina when I first heard of Archers of Loaf. I think I probably peaked a little late on the whole Archers adoration, but I can remember driving through those mountains in my 1984 Ford Escort blasting the song, "Web in Front."

But I would truly fall in love with the music of Eric Bachmann in 1999 or 2000. My good friend Charles would make me the first holiday mix I would ever receive. It was boldly (and quite simply) entitled, "Holiday." Somewhere buried on the first side of the tape was a song by Eric Bachmann. It was the song "Broken Man." I remember visiting my friend Sam Carter in Asheville and playing the song for him.

From that moment on,I would follow the career of Bachmann with enthusiasm. I remember sitting out back at Tonic in Charlotte during their singer-songwriter nights as a young troubadour drunkenly covered the song, "New Drink for the Old Drunk." I remember seeing Crooked Fingers at Tremont Music Hall in 2001 with one of my oldest friends. I remember a late night party at my folks house where a house full of kids screamed the lyrics of his songs at the top of their lungs. And I also remember driving to Chapel Hill to see Crooked Fingers...well, that must have been around 2002.

I decided on a trip to Charlotte for New Years for a couple of reasons. One, I had been unable to find a great New Years rock show to attend and two, because I wanted to spend the end of a decade with my mother. So, imagine my pleasant surprise when I discovered that while I was still in town, Eric Bachmann would be performing at The Evening Muse. It would be the first rock show of the year.

Shows at The Muse are always intimate. And it was lovely. Eric played solo, as Liz Durrett, the other performer on the bill, would be absent due to the death of Vic Chesnutt, a member of her family. Given the circumstances, Eric dedicated the entire set to Vic, something we all appreciated.

Throughout the show, Eric asked for requests...which I finally mustered up the courage to request "New Drink for the Old Drunk." Here is a short video. [Note: I only took very short videos, because while I wanted to capture the song, I also didn't wanted to inundate myself in the music, so they'll leave you desiring more. That's for sure.]




He also played my favorite Archers song. See below.




And here are a few other clips for you.







And I must say, I couldn't have imagined a more perfect first show of the New Year. Though, I did shed a few tears, as did my mom, particularly when he finished the set with "Little Bird," which felt like it had been written for Vic. "A gentle bird of grace and beauty came down to sing a sweet refrain. Won't you fly away with me? Won't you fly away with me?"

The Apprehensive Holidays

I'll admit, up front, right now. I'm sort of a scrooge.

Here's the thing- I love buying and making gifts for loved ones. I love seeing loved ones. But there is just something about packing it into a handful of days, while out of town (read: in Charlotte) that makes my skin crawl. This means I sort of hate holidays. I know, that's awful to say right now, particularly only a handful of days before Christmas and only one night before I head home.

Tonight, though, my mom sent me a couple of gift songs on iTunes. And while listening to these songs (yes, brooding is genetic), I realized how despite the chaos of driving the 7 hours home (yes, I'm griping about it) and the constant social interaction, I'm actually looking forward to going home (shhhh, don't tell anyone). Moreover, I'm looking forward to seeing some really wonderful people in my life that I don't get to see that often.

And here they are....from previous home visits.

Holiday Pictures

And yes, this is probably as close to holiday spirit as I get.

So, I should say that I look forward to the parties and celebrations. I look forward to the gruesome Monopoly games. I look forward to catching up with old friends. And I would also love the chance to see my cousins too...as it was has been years.

Independence of Irrelevant Alternatives

While the holiday mix of this year may still be in transit to you, I've decided to go ahead and post the song listing. Hope you enjoy.

Independence of Irrelevant Alternatives
8th Annual Mix

Lonely Teardrops: Jackie Wilson
Whole Lotta’ Losin: Monsters of Folk
My Love: The Bird and the Bee
Electrocution: Bill Fox
Brave As A Noun: Andrew Jackson Jihad
Sleepyhead: Passion Pit
The World Is Alive: Ezra Furman and the Harpoons
I’ve Got Dreams to Remember: Otis Redding
Baby: Devendra Banhart
God Help the Girl: God Help the Girl
96 Tears: ? & The Mysterians
Tonight You Belong To Me: Lightspeed Champion
Fitz and Dizzyspells: Andrew Bird
Go Green: Rattail
When We Swam: Thao
Fell Down The Stairs: Tilly & The Wall
Llegar al Sol: Anti Sociales
I’m Sorry Friends: Captain Chaos
Motion Sickness: Bright Eyes
Take Me as I Am: Au Revoir Simone