Acknowledgements
The following small novel, is my humble attempt to note those people and instances on the path in which I am thankful and forever indebted toâ¦
I find myself embarrassed to be writing about myself in this passage- It has always made sense to me to be curious of those of whom set out to pursue their dreams, against all odds-against the wishes of family, against the ideals of significant others, against the will of a conservative society, and most of all, against oneâs own self-confidenceâ¦and although I fit into that vast category above, it is only with the confidence, encouragement and relentless persistence of some very special âothersâ that gave me the insane strength required to pursue this music âthingâ. Iâll start from the âbeginningââ¦
Born and adopted in Honolulu, HI, (click for picture) and brought back to (an igloo in)Wisconsin I can vouch first hand that there are very distinct differences between nature and nurture. Out of the womb, I was âin loveâ with everyone and believed everyone should be hugging, dancing and singing (and eating) all the live-long day (click for picture). My parents were freaked that they were raising a potential teen pregnancy risk.
They simply didnât know what to do with me. I had more rules than I believe were ever made to begin with. My siblings had very few confrontations and barely a rebellious bone for our parents (click for picture). The only way I found it possible to divert any trouble I was in was to âperformâ for my parents and all of whom entered our home (click for picture).
I believe I started climbing on the piano stool at 3 or 4 from what my parents tell me. I would play tunes that were either playing on the stereo or copy the songs my older sister was learning in her piano lessons-my parents were convinced I was a prodigy-I was convinced that I had them, my music teachers to follow and the thousands of people that have come to see me play as of today, FOOLED!! They got permission by the local piano instructor to take exception in teaching toddlers as I went on to âfoolâ everyone that I could actually read these intimidating symbols called ânotesâ. Playing by ear was my dirty little secret which carried onto violin. I got away with that, thanks to my favorite conductor, Mr.Tom Buchhauser for reiterating that in the orchestra, musicians must listen and feel the music in which we were playing to anticipate the music with all the other musicians in the orchestra. I understood âfeelingâ. I was savedâ¦and alas, âbustedâ four years later by Mrs. Peters, my sweet private instructor and grounded until I could recite every note in my music books and demonstrate them for my parents (click for picture).
I survived and conquered reading and sight reading since I still diverted my music book studies to playing to my favorite rock radio stations-I confess with shame that my parents wasted a lot of money on lessons I never actually practiced for. After all, I was going to be a singer someday anyway and the ability to play instruments was the accepted means to keep rockinâ. Yet my bigger dirty secret.
To say I wanted to be a ârock nâ roll singerâ in my hometown of Madison, WI, is horrifying just to imagine myself doing. You either go on to become a doctor, a lawyer, a professor, or at best, a classical instrumentalist.
I went on to college to say I did and to buy time to find the confidence to make my transformation into the dreams I at least feared. I joined the schoolâs orchestra keeping in mind a way to keep my grade point up. Eventual concertmistress for the loving and passionate Dr. Joseph Cordiero who died of cancer during my term, he really had me figured out. He would smile at me knowingly-knowing that I âsawed to a different drummerâ, and yet his being was âcomposedâ of the same thing I had going for me musically-feeling.
There were always musicians around me that could kick my butt, but for whatever reason, I always found myself âtakingâ their positions. I will always feel guilty for that as they still snub me.
I entered the Miss LaCrosse /Oktoberfest pageant on a dare from one of my friends momâs after 3 years of prodding. I had had it with working a million jobs (3 waitress/bartender jobs, babysitting, tour guide, private violin instructorâ¦) to stay in school of which I was about to flunk out of as a result of my work schedule. The pageant IF I were to win would pay for all remaining semesters and I could then escape the corner I had wedged myself into.
A SWIMSUIT AND HEELS!!!!!?? This alone freaked me out to no end. For those of you who know me now, I am certain that it is close to impossible for you to imagine me having stage fright, much less modesty issues. At this time in my life, I would have bouts of turretâs syndrome back stage at my recitals (ask Sherry Klotz-Birdsong or Laun Braithwaite). I even had to force myself with the help of my brilliant singer friend, Jeff Ness to do Karaoke but of course, not without a coupla T and Tâs (Today you will never see me with drink in hand whilst performing-I have a weird phobia of people, including myself, doubting where my delivery is coming from). When I had to strap that suit on, have the official Miss America Pageant spray glue glossed on my rear, my âat the time-over blessing of boobs taped into the cups (by the way for the record, EVERYONE stuffed but me!) the words that were flowing out of my mouth behind the curtain, are unprintable. Almost all of these contestants had been doing this from town to town, year after year, just so that they could go to Miss Wisconsin and then of course to Miss America. I was strictly in it for the school cashâ¦These chicks were on a different mission that, to me, seemed completely hypocritical to the result of what happens, at least in that proud city, if one should win. Braving âscaryâ judges in interview, talent, on stage question (which ironically was about my beliefs on sex education-I said, to summarize, âthe earlier the betterâ and yetâ¦) I happened to win. My soul and beliefs have never promoted being fake or representing myself in a way to please others. And thus, I was labeled by the pageant heads and the Oktoberfest committee as âthe rebel queenâ. Surprisingly, even in a small(er) town, they appreciated me and intern, I embraced the crown as it represented this beautiful river city and huge festival-Oktoberfest. We all traveled as a family in a Winnebago and caravanned all over Northern America and even Canada to freeze and sweat in about 50 some parades, visiting, speaking (people were interested in what I had to say!?) and performing in schools, nursing homes, town hall, city and community gatherings. This was heaven to me. Miss Wisconsin was hell.
They took me kicking and screaming and with the hopes and expectations, including the Associated Press, that I would clean up at this charade. I was everything but cut out to be âcut outâ of the same likes of most of these chicks. I was so miserable. I choked, I suppose-I donât remember anything but sneaking my friends into my hotel after the whole ordeal (Vickie, Ken, Terry, and Deano) and half of the city of La Crosse singing an Oktoberfest song to me from the foot of the stage (click for picture) to lure me out in my humiliation (Despite what Michael Sneed wrote of me in her Sun-Times column, I was not Miss WI).
Iâm sure youâre wondering why I note these events so detailed. Well, I suppose it is because of the deep irony of the âpageantryâ. It prepared me more than anything in my past or schooling to sustain what I would now venture in for the rest of my life. It taught me that it was o.k. to be who I was âa jock, a sympathizer, a âliberalâ, and still have adults actually listening to me. It taught me that it was a good idea to learn to walk like a âladyâ instead of a third baseman. It taught me humility, humility and then a tidal wave more of, humility. It gave me a platform and the courage to start singingâ¦
When I first told my dearest friend, traveling companion and pageant head, Sally Stinson, that I was going to start singing instead of playing violin at my remaining engagements, she went about as white as she had been attending my softball games prior to Miss Wisconsin (She didnât appreciate my valiant dives for grounders or line drives for fear of the scrapes and scars they would have to cover up). She feared what she should. I might blow (click for picture). I would go on to sing wherever I possibly could. I would crash weddings in strange cities and sing a song for the bride upon âher requestâ (usually âUnchained Melodyâ-one of the few songs I had actually memorized the words to).
I left La Crosse to finish school in Madison and upon my last final, drove to Minneapolis in a borrowed beat up van with my violin, boom box, roller blades and a suitcase of clothes. It was the city of choice to claim myself a singer and where I felt lured to by the obsession I had with the music of âPrinceâ. (I suppose I owe it to those who have heard sketchy rumors about my âassociationâ with my then idol, to elaborate here-I was approached a couple times by Princeâs âpeopleâ to make a âmeetingâ with him. I was too chicken for many reasons; although he may have been interested in me as a potential protige, I was so young and so scared that his intentions may be otherwise, and/or that I would be potentially pigeon holding my career-i.e.; Apolonia, Vanity 3, Lisa and Wendyâ¦I told his people that I was moving and when they came back to me with âhisâ request for me to postpone my move to Chicago, I declined. One has to trust their gut, but my âfriendsâ remain that I was an idiot. Believe me, itâs the only thing I almost look back uponâ¦)
I landed the best gig in town (after 4 months of schlepping beer at night in the dirtiest pub in Uptown and hostessing by at the hippest restaurant on Hennepin). My palace was a roach infested subsidized housing studio apartment off of Hennepin and I thought that I had it made. Once again, I had fooled the band and stage managers that I âdeservedâ to be in their renowned house 15 piece âorchestraâ that I had even tried sneaking into just to hear on a college road trip just a year before. The day I walked in, one of the three violinists were âlet goâ as a result of my âauditionâ. I told them that I was actually a singer but as sick as this makes me, I realized I was hired because I looked better than the principal violinist and as it were, I could ârockâ to the tunes of Janet Jackson and whatever was wielding the airwaves at the time.
I took the job bluffing that it was on the premise that eventually they would bring me into sing. Perhaps my list with only 6 songs of my repertoire made them a bit suspiciousâ¦
One of the female singers would get drunk and trip me backstage (click for picture) while the other was quite nice, but even still they gave me a song that nobody wantedâ¦I took it and ran with it (Proud Mary). I carried it all the way to Chicago where I moved for a man that had no business dating an aspiring artist in the first place, and with all of 12 songs that I knew, I started incorporating songs I had written into a âlive showâ and continued to âfoolâ people from club to club with gigs Iâd book (click for picture) with no rhyme nor reason with a manager of whom I got by default who tried the best he could but, like me, had no idea what he was doing.
I made a demo of originals within a year with the help of Chicago âsweetheartsâ Enuff Z nuff, and the guitar genius of Harvey Mandel, (click for picture) and figured I was âon my wayâ. I started playing with and for ârock starsâ all over and yet still getting accused of being their mistresses.
The most beautiful revenge for those who wish for or accuse me of the âcasting couchâ, is them hearing the words ânoâ? and âneverâ? and of course my own mirror-the ultimate in seeing, knowing and seeking the truth and its silent rewards. Even though I, myself have heard colorful untruths about myself, after the pain of hearing lies about oneself dissipates, the validation of integrity sets in deeper than stories concocted by those who have empty lives. (Noting, it can be just as painful to hear of yourself described as âfrigidâ because you wonât âput outâ to people who canât believe you wonât!)
Since then, if I had a dollar for every person, fan, or friend who said, âwhat are you playing âhereâ for-you should be famousâ? or âIâll say I knew you whenâ?, well⦠Iâd still be playing âhereâ. Whatever all that means or will mean to me as I continue to gain ârecognitionâ, or âcredibilityâ, I am performing for the same reasons I was as a little girl.
The bottom line, is that I never saw what I do or project as âspecialâ. It has simply been the way I seem to communicate the most effectively. The ultimate, I suppose, is to see someone in your audience cry solely because that person must really get me or what Iâm trying to say at that very moment.
As of today, I have the encouragement of true believers past and present. I owe so much to the support from people like Lonie Walker and John Collins (click for picture) The proprietors of the infamous Underground Wonder Bar, where I play regularly in Chicago, have kept my ongoing practice, honing and experimenting alive with a vengeance. They never act like it is them doing me a favor performing in this extremely special and high traffic, live music venue.
Extraordinary musicians are a dime a dozen, here in Chicago. The best of those, have found their way into my heart and on âmyâ stages for countless, dedicated, loyal, selfless hours. The most of which have come from bassist, Mark Beringer. (âF nâ B). There are no words that can define his flawless fretless technique, and even fewer to explain his ear. He is by far the most sought after bassist in the city and like the other musicians I am so shockingly blessed to play with, plays with most elite of the national corporate jobbing bands. Thatâs the biggest compliment that one can get-these guys donât need to play with me-God knows I donât have a budget for what theyâre worth. Mark has selflessly VOLUNTEERED to fly from New York City to Los Angeles to play for nothing on the mere possibility that it might be âthe showcase to catapult my careerâ. And though each one has, the immediate âpaybackâ will never be. I am often humbled by his mere attendance, but bask in a deep friendship (click for picture).
The same qualifications go for Tom Logan. Although we and our CRAZY Sunday night crowd call him âT-loâ?, he has been referred to by city musicians as âmonsterâ. There is simply nothing he cannot or will not play. Above this, Tom, an immensely respected veteran, has offered countless times to do whatever it takes to get me to âthe level I deserveâ?. Whatever that may be, and however it may be, I find myself paralyzed as people like Tom believe Iâm worthy enough to sacrifice their own very precious time for.
Tom is one of few people I know that voices how they owe it to the world and themselves to live and understand better, each day. I learn so much from him all the time (click for picture)
Kevin Patrick, one of my two gifted drummers, again, has poured out soul, spirit, sensitivity and hours of music on and off stage with me. People love to watch Kevin play because his approach is anything but traditional-and he gets away with it, because for whatever reason, he wildly makes the most original and beautiful voicings with his skins. We have waded through our share of alcoholic or chemically impaired-to-play musicians together to finally land our dream musicians like an arsenal. His musical background is so rich and his stories of the people we hear on the radio that heâs played with are surreal. The three of these guys, have been and remain the most reliable sense of not only musicianship, but of absolute respect and love for one another (click for picture)
Skip Williams, was my very first drummer in Chicago. Poor thing, has had to watch me treading water on this wild scene without being able to âsaveâ me. I have known him for as long as I have been playing, and through my âboot campâ it is sure that he knows me better than anyone in the city. As far as I know, he is my brother from another mother. His playing is ridiculously solid, and is a bass players dream. He knows me so well that he can play to each voicing of each song as if he were truly me. I consider his best quality as a drummer, is that even though he is a total pro, he boasts of how he is still learning techniques and would never be to proud to settle where he is. People always know heâs in the room because he is the BIGGEST ham (yes, bigger than me) and has the biggest voice. He is always on stage and is always trying to put strangers at ease (click for picture).
Chris Forte. The name speaks volumes. (Get it, get it?!) Chris is our original project guitar player. Chris is scary. He is polite, soft spoken (around strangers), dependable, a man of his word, but Chris is scary. Chris and I met playing in the band for âTony nâ Tinaâs Weddingâ? which still holds court for the longest running theater show in Chicago history. We rarely spoke, and even though we had mutual friends, we sort of danced around each other. Chris was, however, the first call I made when I knew it was âtimeâ to âdo this thingâ. For a couple of years, I had been actively visualizing what it was going to take to thrust myself completely into the âitâs all or nothingâ category. I would not be able to live with myself if I were to expect people to dedicate themselves in such an unsure business, without me pushing like a maniac. Chris Forte has a bizarre way of making it look like heâs hardly touching his strings and yet his tasteful, flawless notes soar as though he truly made âthe dealâ with the devil. He also has a bizarre sense of âthe big pictureâ and what it takes to see and therefore realize the reward(s). His sense of humor completes the package, though, let me tell you. I still have cramps in my stomach muscles from a road trip back from Nashville with Chris and Skip. I do not recommend anyone to be captive with the two of them in a car. I truly thought I was going to need the hymlik from choking on my own gut laughing (click for picture)
So as I come to a âcloseâ, I find that I truly could have gone on forever, but these, I suppose, are more of my own indulgences of acknowledgements that I already bask in each and every day. I just hope someone cared to read about each one of these truly remarkable people that I am proud to call my family.
At the risk of leaving someone out of the list to follow, I am confident that âyouâ or âtheyâ will know it was an honest oversight. It is so obsessively important to me to let anyone who might be interested in knowing who has in some way been a true help and source of encouragement to me in such a selfish, âevery man for himselfâ racket.
So, with no further ado, and in no particular order, I thank youâ¦
Mark Beringer, Tom Logan, Kevin Patrick, Squat, Skip Williams, Steve Beals, Chris Forte, âWild Willieâ Horton, Mama Maria, Lonie Walker, John Collins, Underground Wonder Bar and their ENTIRE staff past and present, Monique Scher, Desiree Irwin, Mike Poupko, Island Recorders, Scott Shapiro, Tim McGraw, Joe Stephen, Michael Santucci, Amy Quinn, Maria Constantino, Trish Cook, David Schoelley, Pamela Saul, Donna Zyrkowski, Ken Green and Jim, Estie Zirin, Mic One, Ken Valdez and family, Bruce Wexler, Sally Stinson, Phil, Jenny Reutten, Candy Bloom, L.A. Lundstrom, Chris Mosher, Jacqou, Brian Ebert, Taras Nahirniak, Michael Barrett, Tim Rebori, Tom Buchhauser, Kim Beringer, Heidi Kujawa, Michael Kujawa, Terry Charles, Kim Bohstedt, Rocky, Gramma George, Grandpa Dan, Joey Tomaska, Tony Tomaska, Ken Jambois, Vicki, Kate Stein, Jann Clemments, Rob Mc Mahon, Dave Follansbee, Tracie Reiner, Illyssa Heath, Dennis Pryce, Mike Borun, Mark Jacob, David Gotowko, Steve Kouba, Dimitri Alexander, Karen Layers, David Kupcinet, John Cordogan, Clint âTutâ Tuthill, Larry Braverman, Michael Mc Dermott, Christopher âTechsâ Bateman, Skully, Anthony Watkins, Thomas Boston, The boys at Gentry, John Sullivan, Michael OâBrien, Frankie Avalon, Ray Kinetsky, Peter Blastiosso, Alex George, Ken Dabec, BJ, The Borensons, The Eismans, The Silberts, Chad and Andrew, Mark Sheldon, Cyndi Marinangel, Carmella Tafoya, Tom Gerlach, Jimmy Collins, Paul Rivers, Mitchell Cannoff, Nash Kato, Art Harrison, Harvey Mandel, Rose Mandel, Melissa Brown, Stanley Hilton, Todd Causley, Charlie Nicosia, Elizabeth Faulkner, Glen and Julie Kozlowski, Kari Stolley, Terry Prokus, Michael Cappucci, Larry Beers, Phil Barron, Sonny, Robin Smith, Mike LeBaron, Ira Gordan, Christopher Greene, Danny Paradise, Christopher Jackson, Cheryl Hooks, Mary Hamacher, Andycam, Mark Raasch, The âAndeeâ Parkers, Charlie Rock, Daniel Spratt, John Krishack, Heather Tobin, Happeninâ Harry, Jimmy Howard, Julienne Schubert, Ashley Di Buduo, Andrea Fawcett, Kenny Hale, Lonie Walkerâs Big Ass Co. Band (Joe Thomas, James Perkins, Luis Ewerling, Herb Walker, Bones, Robin Kay and Suzi Petri), Jay Leggett, Matt Botos, Rick Kurek, Nu Nu, all the members in my family, my birth family, my beloved, Jimmy and last but not least, all of the loyal fans turned friends throughout this continuing journey as well as the hundreds of faces and spirits I have cataloged with the impactful, heartfelt words expressed to us during and after shows.
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