Driving in the van in the wee hours of the morning after our first show back, it seemed surreal. I felt like I was back in time. But I wasn't. I had a whole life beyond Scarce. I was a mom! Yet, here I was packed into a van with Chick and Joe, and all our equipment, just like I had done so many times before. My body was humming with a life that had sat inert inside me for a long time. After all, rock and roll was something that you did when you were young. Then you grow up, have kids, buy a house, and do grown up things—things that don't include playing in a rock band. I was happy with my life being "mom", but, this was another happiness—a happiness of something that you do for yourself. Being a mom had been all about giving what you had inside you to your children to nurture. Now, I felt like I was nurturing myself back to me.
Chick and I delved into working on new songs so we could put out a new record. We both felt it was important to get beyond our album "Deadsexy" in order to move forward. During our songwriting sessions we began conversations that slowly chipped away at all the hurt we had caused each other in the past. Chick would say something to me like, "You know it killed me when you left." And then I would say, "Why did you let me walk away? Why didn't you try to stop me?" He told me about the first five years after the band broke up—how he felt nothing at all. The brain hemorrhage had left him with no emotions. He asked me, "Do you know what it is like to be here and feel nothing for what's around you? You don't feel tied to this earth. It's scary."
Chick said over dinner when his birthday arrived, "Glad to be celebrating another one of these, and with you. Could have been celebrating ten years of my death." "Me too." I said feeling truly thankful that he was here and back in my life. And after a couple weeks, we slowly ran out of apologies. We were in the room and in the present. No more regrets, no more past, and no apologies were necessary anymore. We both had come to the same place, and understood and forgave each other. Now we both had our eyes focused on what lie ahead of us—the chance to make music together again. A second chance. Not everyone gets a chance to redo something over again—but here we were. Here was our chance. What we would make of it would be up to us.
We had been a band again for two months when we settled into our friend Chris Cugini's studio to record some new songs. Chick and I noted ironically that it was exactly two months time when we had made The Red Sessions, the first time around. Recording at Chris's was another familiarity that brought back smells and tastes of the past for me. We had recorded many times with Chris for b-sides years ago—and Chris was a great friend and bandmate of Chick's in Anastasia Screamed. It was so comfortable to play in his studio and work with him. Chris was like family. When Chick had been in the hospital, Chris had been such a big support to Joe and I, and hanging out with him was a reminder of knowing who your true friends are. The atmosphere was relaxed and fun. We stayed up all night drinking, playing, singing, joking, and enjoying rock and roll. There aren't many things that compare to the escapist feeling of being in a studio.
Riding on the train to work the following Monday I listened back to the rough mixes through my headphones and felt like I was drifting in and out of a strange reality. The music in my head brought my mind to the feeling of being in the music, onstage, and the loud exuberance of guitars, bass, and drums. I closed my eyes and zoned out with the hums and bumps of the train seemingly moving in time to the music in my head. I opened my eyes in time to catch my station, and drifted out with the crowd of people like a pack of cows mindlessly moving from one space to another.
Chick and I delved into working on new songs so we could put out a new record. We both felt it was important to get beyond our album "Deadsexy" in order to move forward. During our songwriting sessions we began conversations that slowly chipped away at all the hurt we had caused each other in the past. Chick would say something to me like, "You know it killed me when you left." And then I would say, "Why did you let me walk away? Why didn't you try to stop me?" He told me about the first five years after the band broke up—how he felt nothing at all. The brain hemorrhage had left him with no emotions. He asked me, "Do you know what it is like to be here and feel nothing for what's around you? You don't feel tied to this earth. It's scary."
Chick said over dinner when his birthday arrived, "Glad to be celebrating another one of these, and with you. Could have been celebrating ten years of my death." "Me too." I said feeling truly thankful that he was here and back in my life. And after a couple weeks, we slowly ran out of apologies. We were in the room and in the present. No more regrets, no more past, and no apologies were necessary anymore. We both had come to the same place, and understood and forgave each other. Now we both had our eyes focused on what lie ahead of us—the chance to make music together again. A second chance. Not everyone gets a chance to redo something over again—but here we were. Here was our chance. What we would make of it would be up to us.
We had been a band again for two months when we settled into our friend Chris Cugini's studio to record some new songs. Chick and I noted ironically that it was exactly two months time when we had made The Red Sessions, the first time around. Recording at Chris's was another familiarity that brought back smells and tastes of the past for me. We had recorded many times with Chris for b-sides years ago—and Chris was a great friend and bandmate of Chick's in Anastasia Screamed. It was so comfortable to play in his studio and work with him. Chris was like family. When Chick had been in the hospital, Chris had been such a big support to Joe and I, and hanging out with him was a reminder of knowing who your true friends are. The atmosphere was relaxed and fun. We stayed up all night drinking, playing, singing, joking, and enjoying rock and roll. There aren't many things that compare to the escapist feeling of being in a studio.
Riding on the train to work the following Monday I listened back to the rough mixes through my headphones and felt like I was drifting in and out of a strange reality. The music in my head brought my mind to the feeling of being in the music, onstage, and the loud exuberance of guitars, bass, and drums. I closed my eyes and zoned out with the hums and bumps of the train seemingly moving in time to the music in my head. I opened my eyes in time to catch my station, and drifted out with the crowd of people like a pack of cows mindlessly moving from one space to another.
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