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The Ongoing Saga of My Baldwin Piano

I love everything about my Baldwin, from the brass hardware to the little scratches on the fallboard from previous owners’ fingernails.

If you have followed my blog at all over the past few years, you know that a) I own a magnificent 1912 Baldwin piano that I chanced upon for fairly cheap and shepherded into loving restoration by one of the Pacific Northwest’s top piano technicians, and b) when I moved to New York, I no longer had room for my beloved, and I had to figure out a place to house her indefinitely.

Now that I live in Los Angeles, again I find myself in a situation where I have a big grand piano and I don’t know what to do with it. I am putting the word out, through this post and conversations with friends and with piano people, that it is time to find a new situation for me and my piano.

In my rather desperate post from August 2016, “Other People’s Pianos,” written during a transient period, I maintained my practice on friends’ pianos, and cried to my counselor about how not having my piano was like having my musical/emotional safety blanket ripped away from me (I’m a Cancer). Looking back over the post, I realized that I also decreed exactly what would end up happening there in my writing: “I’m hoping to find a school, venue, church, or private residence where a piano would be welcome, and where I could also come practice. A mutually-beneficial piano-sharing scenario. Better that than having it wrapped in blankets and going unused in a warehouse.”

And that is PRECISELY what happened. I put feelers out with my musician friends in New York, and one of them very promptly connected me with a church that needed a piano for their music program. They just happened to be in Sheepshead Bay, only a few miles south of my apartment Brooklyn.

For the brief time I lived in New York, it was a lovely piano-sharing arrangement. I would hop on the Q train and ride down to Sheepshead Bay, and walk through the (extraordinarily) long blocks until I got to the church, where I had specific hours for practice. On dry days, I could just hop on my bike and ride all the way down Avenue R. I recorded some songs for The Dreamer & The Dream at the church, and the church has benefited greatly from having a nice piano for their services and music concerts.

But then I was seized by a wild impulse to abruptly move to Los Angeles. I had realized that, after spending most of my life in Puddletown, and then living in New York, I had lost my patience for crappy weather. I wanted to live in a big city again, and so, the natural math of my various requirements of place suddenly became obvious: Big City + Needs to be a Music Town = Los Angeles. Also, having my parents a tad closer (they’re both still on the West Coast) made much more sense than going south to somewhere like Nashville or Austin. (Although recently I’ve been hearing Denver has a great music scene, and dry sunny weather, and maybe a tad less traffic…)

So, I cast my fate to the wind and landed in a fantastic little bungalow apartment in Mid City L.A. I love it, and I have a nice little music studio set up in the dining room (which is, as far as I am concerned, the best use for formal dining rooms).

But now my piano is all the way on the other side of the country.

One of my first side jobs when I landed in L.A. was working for a piano store, where I tried all the possible avenues available for trying to figure out how to bring my grand piano back from New York. In fact, while working at the piano store, I happened upon a donated piano that is a distant cousin of my Baldwin grand, a mid-60’s Acrosonic. For a free piano that hadn’t been tuned in forty years, it ain’t so bad, and it satisfied the need for having an acoustic piano in my space. However, I play it far less than I used to play my Baldwin; once you drive a Mercedes, it’s hard to go back to a Hyundai.

I have determined that, if I could get it out here, there is room for the Baldwin here at my place. (Being that I am a person who has moved grand pianos so, so many times, I am in possession of a piano cutout, which is a large piece of butcher paper with renderings of various piano sizes, drawn to scale, that you can arrange amongst your furniture for assessment. Based on my calculations with this tool, I could technically fit my piano in my current place provided I am okay with blocking access to the kitchen when the piano bench is out. I think, all things considered, that I’m okay with that.)

And so, considering that a piano’s purpose in life is to be loved, maintained, and played, I am temporarily okay with things as they are but also constantly brainstorming in the back of my mind trying to figure this situation out. Considering that it worked the last time I made this declaration through my blog, I figured I should again put the word and the feelers out for a new piano situation: The ideal scenario is a music studio, either a recording or teaching studio, where a grand piano of this style and sound is appreciated (no, adored) and where I have a similar timeshare arrangement where the house gets to use the piano for their purposes and I get to come in and use it for mine. This place is close enough to Mid City Los Angeles that it does not lower my quality of life by increasing my time in traffic too significantly, so I can get to play it fairly regularly (and I could even BIKE there!) This piano timeshare is be a mutually beneficial arrangement for everyone involved.

OR: I drum up the $2,000 or so needed to move the Baldwin back across the country and relocate her here to my place in Mid City, where I will selfishly keep her acoustic charms all to myself.

Here’s to manifesting what we need through speaking it and putting it into the Universe. That’s how this magical piano first came to me–by searching desperately for the right sound until I had pretty much given up, deflated and certain all beautiful pianos would be hopelessly and forever beyond my price reach, when my then-boyfriend happened across an ad for the Baldwin, which was patiently awaiting discovery at a small town piano shop that I never would have gone to in person.

Patience and trust, y’all. Patience and trust.

Music is a Human Right

In my work with Urban Voices Project, a nonprofit that provides music programs to people experiencing homelessness in Los Angeles, one theme I regularly encounter in conversation with members and colleagues is how making music meets fundamental needs. These are needs for expression, connection, community, validation, and identity that can be met regardless of whether a person is housed or not.

The overarching attitude in the capitalist industrialist system would have us to view art as a luxury item, a non-essential extra. Nice to have and life-enhancing, sure, but not fundamental. Typically, the thinking is that you must have shelter, food, water, sleep, clothing, safety, and personal security, before you should, or can, ever worry about making a piece of art to express yourself.

To look to Maslow on this topic, belonging, esteem, and self-realization only enter the picture after the lower tiers of the pyramid of needs have been met. Maslow’s hierarchy is in some ways a sort of compressed, simplified version of the Eastern chakra system of seven energy centers; Maslow’s hierarchy has five sections, whereas the simple version of the Eastern chakra system has seven. More or less, they correlate, though with some variation in ordering. The chakra system puts self-esteem and other solar plexus qualities as located “below” or “before” the heart chakra qualities of love and belonging, whereas Maslow bumps esteem “above” or “after” the heart chakra. The general idea is that we have to meet certain baseline, foundational needs before we can fully self-actualize.

But it is probably a mistake to relate to any model of human health and needs in a strictly linear model, where energy only moves in one direction. This tendency toward rigid linearity is where we get the idea that the whole “goal” of spirituality it to master the animal self with the spiritual, to conquer the beast with the angel. But if you scratch beneath the surface into energy studies just a bit, the one chakra that integrates them all is consistently thought to be the heart chakra, sitting right there in the middle of the energy system — not at the “top.” The heart is the point of integration between the lower and upper chakras. Perhaps the chakras were never meant to demonstrate a linear, one-way hierarchy, but merely the places in the subtle and physical bodies (and especially the endocrine system), where these energy centers each reside and activate. And although Maslow’s Hierarchy is extraordinarily useful in many applications, even groundbreaking in its day, it can also be beneficial to reorient ourselves to a nonhierarchical view of needs.

In a recent lesson, one of my beginning guitar students, who has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, kept nervously shifting in her chair and shared that she was being wracked by aggravating thought loops that were distracting her from the activity we were trying to focus on. Just as we started to get focused again, a large, heart-shaped rose quartz crystal necklace around her neck clanged into the guitar, causing her to stop again and nervously tuck it into her shirt to protect it. This quartz of course corresponds to the heart chakra, the center that integrates all the energy systems, and internally I winked at how appropriate it was for the activity at hand. We refocused again, and as she got a few repetitions of the chord progression in, something clicked.

“Oh okay, the chords are like a loop, but a nice one,” she noticed. We talked about how, using breathing to help focus her thoughts, the simple pattern of switching between two chords can become a new loop that has a more positive feel than the negative, harassing mental patterns she is used to. Integration between mind and body was happening, even if only in fits and starts.

Two of the kids who are more advanced musicians were talking one day about how it’s difficult to make time or have enough privacy to practice their music on the streets, or to take their mind off chronic concerns about getting enough food and where they will sleep that night. All of the attendant “adulting” that kids in their late teens and early twenties have to reckon with, these kids are dealing with in hyper-drive, with zero systems of support outside of circles of friends they know on the street and, thankfully, the support organizations available (like Safe Place For Youth). As one counselor said, one week is like several months on the streets, because daily life experience is so full of obstacles and stresses.

And yet, still, all of these young artists light up with esteem, confidence, and even spiritual transcendence, when they share their musical gifts and have those gifts affirmed and celebrated by others. They might not know where their next meal is coming from (root chakra, survival needs), but they are evolving emotionally, psychologically, and most definitely in their self-realization, nonetheless.

Anyone who gravitated to music during times when their heart was broken, their family was under the stress of divorce or addiction or other types of loss and trauma, anyone who found their way through depression or soothed an anxious and over-activated nervous system with music, is familiar with how humans often intuitively figure out how to meet this need, even if it isn’t charted in official diagrams. (Traditionally, the throat or fifth chakra is thought to correspond with music, singing, and public speaking, but we also activate the root chakra with repetitive drumming or rhythmic patterns, or the sacral chakra with dance, and so on.) Certainly, music is not the only art form with therapeutic benefits, but there is something particularly holistic about how musical activity integrates physical movement, patterns, breathing, and vocalizing.

Many of our students with Urban Voices Project talk about how singing or writing songs helps them self-regulate (our terminology, not theirs) and calm their nervous system (again, not the terminology they’re inclined to use, but nonetheless what they are describing).

Usually these conversations tend to break off and go into the wordless zone — music — which is exactly what they’re supposed to do. Or rather, that is exactly what the music is supposed to do. Every time, I encounter the profound gratification of seeing people who truly need music, get their needs met through song and movement. Too, there is considerable value in feeling a sense of accomplishment and excellence at creative expression, even while struggling with the everyday requirements of surviving in a capitalist system.

Music is not helping these kids survive on a material level, but it is nonetheless fundamental to their survival. None of this is to minimize the homelessness crisis, but simply to help us remember that there are values and needs that can and do operate outside of the materialist value system. Imagine for a moment that alongside our capitalist reality there is a parallel reality where, despite capitalist values not being achieved in their prescribed linear progression, human realization is still occurring — in real time, on the streets, all around us, throughout the city.

To read this post on Medium, click here.

Outsiders In: “Song To My City”

I wrote “Song To My City” in the summer of 2015. Portland had been changing for a while, but 2015 was the year I felt like I no longer recognized it. Being both a long-time Portlander and originally a transplant from California, I had a lot of mixed feelings about the rapidity of Portland’s growth.

On one hand, I’m saddened that the Rose City’s sudden popularity has led to the displacement of so many people. But on the other hand, the venomous attitude often hissed towards newcomers (especially, as always, towards Californians) feels not only small-hearted, but dangerously teetering towards the same xenophobia and Othering that has led many people to want to “Make America Great Again.” The term for this is Portland Provencialism, the cute small-town attitude that “native Oregonians” (which is of course not a thing unless you descend from an indigenous tribe) belong in Portland, and no one else does.

At a show that summer, some guy in the crowd was shouting his views on Portland’s changing demographic, with intensity but at no one in particular:

“Anyone who wasn’t here before 1980 needs to get the fuck out!”

Well, that counts me out; I had arrived in 1990 with my mom, from, of course, the Bay Area. But I had spent the better part of my life in Portland, to the point where a friend from Connecticut couldn’t accept the idea of me leaving, arguing that I was “the most Portland person ever,” (a comment which might have pushed me to leave all the sooner, just to be contrarian–which is, of course, so Portland.) I had been rooted in the Pacific Northwest, the backdrop of my life grey skies, lush temperate forests, the landscape decorated by so, so many dudes drinking craft beers in flannel shirts, for a long time.

I needed other places.

Unrealistic though it may be, Drunk Dude was expressing an attitude that lurks not too far down in the depths of many a longtime Portlander’s psyche: That some people “deserve” Portland more than others, and, of course, have a special claim on the city’s iconic “weirdness.” I’ve even heard the not-so-longtime residents, with only about a year or so under their belt, wax sentimental about how much the city has changed.

“It’s not how it used to be,” is a good catch-phrase to help you blend in better amongst the locals.

Talking shit about Portland’s gentrification with friends who also used to live there has become a new past-time. My friend José who visited from New Orleans couldn’t get over that there is actually such a thing as “personal isolation flotation chambers,” which felt like the ultimate symbol of how strongly Portland has become “Liberal Disneyland.” I told him he better believe it. That cushy indie Portland of yore, now infused with a fat wad of developmental cash, has been rendered into a kitschy Port of Portlandia consumable version of itself.

My friend Kirsten recently observed, on a trip back to the city from Idaho, that “Portland about a decade ago was like a 10 year old, playing in a sandbox, just trying things out. Now it’s like a teenager, it’s changing and going through that awkward, cranky period.” If Portland is a teenager right now, it’s her party and she can cry and be snotty if she wants to.

My friend Lydia who now lives in Oakland wanted to make sure I remembered, after living in Portland so long, that, “Portland isn’t a Real City. You know that, right?”

But if the results of gentrification–skyrocketing real estate prices and the constant mushrooming of traffic in places it never used to be–are qualifiers of city-hood, then Portland has now definitely become a real city (I mean, right? Kind of?) And as convenient as it would be to blame this all on Carrie Brownstein and Fred Armisen, the “sudden” growth is not Portlandia’s fault and not really so sudden; it was apparently always the city’s vision to build up the central core and maintain the urban growth boundary as best as possible–in other words, for the city to get more dense, and with greater population, more commercial. A worthy goal, to prevent suburban sprawl and protect natural spaces. The less forgivable glitch is that this plan seems to require moving all the poor and brown and black people out–what many people of color experience as part of a longer history of displacement at the whim of white Portland and its evolving vision of the city (see Here’s What Four Decades of Gentrification in North and Northeast Portland Looks Like). 

Though Portland likes to think of itself as uniquely progressive, the truth is of course that we do not have much to be proud of in terms of how redlining and other exclusionary practices shaped the racial history and overly-white modern demographic of this city. In this sense, the “Portland provincialism” of today is really only a short hop from the anti-black, anti-outsider attitudes of the past.

Portland’s increased housing crunch mirrors the larger nationwide crisis in housing and homelessness; we have to remember this is an issue across the country—not one that Portland is being uniquely struck with because it is just so damn special.

What has happened in Portland, and San Francisco, and Oakland, and Seattle, and Cincinnati, and Denver, and what continues to happen in New York City, and what is driving residents inland in Miami, is still often defined by issues of class and racism. It is no mistake that it is usually poorer residents who are of color who are driven out of “up and coming” neighborhoods by extreme rent spikes; “up and coming” is code for, “Black people won’t live here anymore in about a decade.”

I lived in one such neighborhood in Ditmas Park, Brooklyn (where I learned the difference between a typical, aggravating post office and a truly underfunded, neglected one). When I lived there, Ditmas Park hadn’t yet “tipped” to trendy, without the name recognition and unreasonable rents of other parts of Brooklyn. I often found myself wishing the process of gentrification could be frozen in place where it was, because many of the longtime residents actually welcomed the area getting cleaned up a bit, and were tired of feeling unsafe and ignored by the city government. I often found myself wishing that the elderly black people who had lived in the building for thirty years, and the younger families with kids and teenagers, could feel safe and not have to worry about drug deals going on in the lobby–without having to then worry about tons more young white people (like me, of course) moving in to enjoy the newly safe neighborhood. I mean, since our rent was low, perhaps it’s true that my roommate and I weren’t contributing as directly to gentrification; it’s not like we were opening a posh art gallery in the building or something. In fact, we were doing what musicians in New York City have done for generations–making a one-bedroom into a two-bedroom, hauling instruments and gear up the six flight walk-up stairs when the elevator broke down, alternating our practice times across our variegated schedules, making it work.

Before anyone gets too high and mighty about being the O.G. in their particular neck of the woods, it’s good to remember that, since most people move somewhere new at some point in our lives, we all have or will contribute to gentrification somewhere, in one way or another. In fact you might move because gentrification itself causes you to find someplace more affordable, to a place where other people have lived a long time, who see you as a newcomer or outsider.

In Brooklyn I had some good conversations with people who had lived in Flatbush or BedStuy their whole lives. Their feelings about gentrification ranged from anger and resentment on one hand, to a detached weariness, on the other.

“That’s just change. You can’t stop change,” one man said. Some might say that’s apathy, others might say it’s realistic.

Regardless of the political lens one takes on gentrification, perhaps it is everyone’s job to be open-minded, curious, and accepting towards new people. If we’re going to create solutions to the problems raised by increased density, we have to at least start with a basic attitude of common ground, an assumption of humanity. If we can’t do that, we’re buying into the Trump vision of America, one where people cause problems for each other more often than they generate solutions, where it is acceptable to simply reject other people up front, branding them a socioeconomic problem that is taking jobs or housing or resources of one kind or another, rather than getting to know them over time, come to understand what their life is about, who they are, where they’re going.

My ambivalence about seeing my own “home” cities–Portland and the East Bay Area–change so rapidly, is why I originally wrote this song. Moving to other cities and being the newcomer on other people’s home turf added a new layer to the song’s meaning for me. On the track, that’s me on guitar, keys and vocals, and that’s my friend Max Johnson on upright bass. Victor Nash at Destination: Universe! helped me with mixing, and then I added some more parts at Virtue & Vice Studios with Rocky Gallo in Williamsburg. The song is available through my new album, The Dreamer & The Dream, streaming now on Spotify and available on iTunes and all other places music is sold.

And here is some more food for thought on gentrification:

Here’s What Four Decades of Gentrification in North and Northeast Portland Looks Like

De-Gentrifying Portland

Is $20 Million Enough to Reverse Gentrification?

“Listening Through White Ears: Cross-Racial Dialogues as a Way to Address the Racial Effects of Gentrification”

Transcending The Cultural Amnesia of ‘Women-In-Music’

I’ve never seen a soul detached from its gender,

but I’d like to. I’d like to see my own that way,

free from its female tethers. Maybe it would be like

riding a horse. The rider’s the human one,

but everyone looks at the horse.

-“Horse,” by Chase Twichell* 

*used with permission 

A while back Dazed published a brilliant piece by Emma Hope Allwood about the co-opting of feminist empowerment into a meaningless tool of commercial branding (“The word ’empowerment’ has literally lost all meaning”). From ‘girl power’ t-shirts made by girls in UK sweatshops to “empowering” activewear and protein powders, Allwood notes the consumeristic hypocrisy of how feminist consciousness manifests in mainstream culture. “When we’re sold the idea of power as a purely individual force rooted in buying stuff rather than a collective one with the potential to drive forward change,” Allwood writes, “all that results is a kind of tokenistic personal brand politics that doesn’t go much further than the square crops of our IG feeds.”

Indeed, such marketing ploys naturally tend to neuter the very power out of ’empowerment.’ Allwood muses that back in 2012 she never could have imagined this strange new future where feminism would be so popular that ’empowerment’ could even become a marketing slogan. But the truth is that the co-opting of feminism has a long history, one that operates in predictable patterns.

I actually first wrote this essay a few years ago, in 2015, while on a long layover at JFK airport. These were the pre-Trump days when race and gender politics were important, but nonetheless seen through a lens made a bit hazy by the hope-filled Obama glow. In writing, I was trying to capture my mixed feelings as I noticed a familiar tide coming in, with the topic of women-in-music popping up on the music culture radar with increasing frequency. Over that previous year, I’d seen interviews with women musicians detailing the sexism they endure in the industry, and even entire websites and magazines exclusively devoted to female artists (She Shreds, for women bassists and guitarists, Tom Tom Magazine for female drummers).

While in general I support the idea of women and girls being encouraged to find role models in the music industry, I also know that a few mentions of the ’empowering’ female rocker is all it takes to set off a media trend that ends up making a fool of feminism. As I saw more and more interviews about sexism and the music industry, I started to flash back to the late 90’s, when my young feminist brain was trying to make sense of how to proceed with proclaiming oneself a feminist with any integrity anymore now that the Spice Girls had taken over pop culture. Ani DiFranco and Sleater Kinney’s growls of power had suddenly become co-opted into a feminist-lite version of “Grrrl Power,” plastered all over girls’ backpacks and hair scrunchies. It was disheartening and altogether disempowering to see feminism rendered into easily digestible (and thus easily forgettable) pop culture phenomena. As Allwood discusses, whether this consumeristic reduction takes place in wellness brands or entertainment or even in politics itself, the central problem is the way in which a force that is supposed to be an agent of cultural change becomes subsumed into the larger capitalist status quo.

As I poked around the topic as a teenager, to my dismay I found that this exact same ‘women in music’ trend had in fact happened back in the 70’s, too. Gloria Gaynor and Helen Redding roared and survived and proclaimed their female independence up the charts, and the industry took notice, trying to repackage all the existing female singer-songwriters in the “I Am Woman Hear Me Roar” branding. (Dolly Parton, Joni Mitchell, Carole King, and Aretha Franklin were a few of the already well-established artists the industry tried to retrofit  into this new “women artist” packaging, each of whom, you might have noticed, has nonetheless circumnavigated around the “women artist” categorization enough to maintain their own artistic legend–but each did it with considerable longevity and persistence in the industry over a very long period of time.) After that rash of proto-feminist media attention in the 70’s, women artists didn’t “go” anywhere, but the industry returned to its centering of the male norm in all discussions of everything music.

In her 1992 book “She’s a Rebel: The History of Women in Rock n’ Roll,” feminist historian Gillian G. Gaar noted that “women in music” trends in fact reappear with startling regularity, about every 15-20 years. She wrote her book as Tracy Chapman and the Indigo Girls the grist for the “female singer-songwriter” pop culture mill du jour, but a few years before the peak of the bigger “women’s movement in rock.” Though all of these are part of one loosely defined cultural period, the “She-Rock” peak came after the original Seattle Riot Grrls, but preceded the Spice Girls, who were its commercial peak and fizzle. Around 1996-97, the mainstream music media was all abuzz with Alanis Morrissette, Queen Latifah, Ani Difranco, PJ Harvey, Meschell Ndegeocello, Tori Amos, and Bjork. Sarah McGlaughlin and the women of Lilith Fair would soon convene each summer for a women-only summerfest which the press heralded as a revolutionary idea that was really only a more palatable (e.g. less lesbian, more traditionally-feminine) version of the long-running separatist Womyn’s Music Festival, which had been held every summer in Michigan since the 70’s.

Same as in the 70’s, in the 90’s women artists were profiled and interviewed with special attention to their female plight in the industry. Sure, there is no denying patriarchy is real and everywhere, so there are ample experiences of sexism, harassment, and disadvantage to discuss and analyze. Thus, the double-edged sword of the media coverage of these women-in-music “trends” is that it always feels alternately insulting and, well, empowering. Whenever and wherever women give voice to the reality of living through sexism, we validate each other and a teensy bit of consciousness of shared experience is raised. It’s just that when it is Rolling Stone magazine telling the tale, for example, too much patriarchal detritus can sneak in and muddy those waters, ultimately only reinforcing the idea that women artists, and their music, are mostly only relevant to women.

As had happened a generation before, after all the mid-90’s media buzz about women in music, the female artists portrayed as torch-bearers of a new feminist movement were effectively sidelined into a nonsensical, gender-specific “women’s music” side-genre. After each of these women-in-music “uprisings” the pattern is that feminists and feminist dialogue inevitably branches off again into separate subcultural quarters, and the women musicians who enjoyed a temporary spotlight generally return to the cultural periphery. And the irony is that through all this supposedly feminist attention,  women musicians are ultimately held back from being fully integrated into the cultural canon. This means that the work of female artists is continually, repetitively categorized first by gender, and its true musical value becomes secondary.

Women-in-music is the music industry’s WNBA; women are never assessed on the same terrain as the men because it is always a foregone conclusion that men are simply “naturally” the definitive players, with women artists an ongoing gender-specific variation of the male norm. And our constant recycling of the sidebar of ‘women in music’ perpetuates a type of cultural amnesia from one generation to the next–both about women artists of distinction from earlier generations, and about feminist backlash in general.

In appreciation for Gaar’s math, this “movement” was precisely twenty years ago. Hence, my ambivalence around 2015 as I noticed stirrings of the same gender-specific phrases starting to recirculate in the music mags. On one hand, it is good and thought-provoking and healthy to do revisionist histories of forgotten women artists alongside profiles of under-recognized women artists, as She Shreds and other mags often do. There is no shortage of supposedly earth-shattering new retrospectives on Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and the “gods of guitar” greeting us every year at the newsstand. A bit of intelligent, feminist counterbalance is necessary, by Goddess.

My concern four years ago, as I wrote the first iteration of this article, was that we were about to go through the same whole quasi-feminist circus again without it yielding enough permanent gains. I wondered if feminism, with female musicians as its poster children, was about to be dragged into the cultural spotlight, only have its power neutered, yet again. When the Brett Kavanaugh/Christine Blasey Ford debacle revived in horrific precision the Clarence Thomas/Anita Hill hearings, reminding us that our revolutionary feminist feelings post-2016 are really only a repeat of the early 90’s, I felt this same weariness again. Moreover, I felt a sort of matriarchal protectiveness over the activist generation coming up, so inspired and full of intersectional feminist vision. I cringed at the thought of the high likelihood of their politics getting sucked up into the branding machine?

When Brandi Carlile swept the Grammys in 2019, in one of her after-show interviews she deftly claimed the “women artist” question first, before the press could frame it in their familiarly reductive terms. She saw the 90’s as an era where women dominated, and as an example by which we can only hope the modern music industry can reframe its appreciation of women artists.

(In fact, I couldn’t help but wonder if women’s predominance in 2019’s award show was Grammy president Neil Portow’s way of apologizing and side-stepping around the pile of political poo he created after defending the almost exclusively male winners of the 2018 ceremony with his “Women artists have to step it up” line.)

I agree with Carlile that it would be nice if the music industry evolved to value women permanently. But considering all the evidence, we have to ask ourselves, is another round of girl power in music what we really want? “Female empowerment” is so pervasive a sub-genre by now that advertising houses and labels with pop divas looking for new song material regular post for girl power anthems. It is a concept that has been thoroughly bookended by the limitations of commercial purposes.

True, today is different. Since the 70’s and the 90’s women-in-music media blitzes, the entire music industry has nearly collapsed–except thanks in large part to the cash cow of hip hop. New artists aren’t invested in and developed by labels in the way they used to be—which is part of what fueled the women-in-music trends of the past (A&R developing female acts according to the successful prototype of previous hits). Second, today, everyone is their own “brand”—and no one stands out as a triumph of  feminism on one hand and identity politic branding so much as Queen Bey, whose deft blending of marketing and empowerment could easily leave most people feeling there isn’t much difference between the two after all. This is all a far cry from the mid-90’s ambivalent Ani Difranco singing, “I am a poster girl with no poster,” an artist who was as clear-headed and feminist as she was in great philosophical conflict about being expected to represent an entire generation’s varying feminist impulses.

Wherever you fall on the spectrum of feeling like feminism and branding go well together, the ongoing issue is that there is still a need for feminism in the music industry and music culture. But stopping short at relegating that attention to a ‘women artists’ category inevitably encourages the analysis of gender in music only in relation to women, thus subtly reinforcing the idea of the ‘male norm’ (not to mention the gender binary).

In other words, to speak in gender-specific terms is not by default feminist, nor does it necessarily correlate with feminist intentions. True feminism analyzes all aspects of gender and power. Why not, for example, analyze how male identity and masculinity are formed in music and its many subcultures? What about all the gender-specific ways in which music and its accessories are so heavily marketed to men as extensions of their masculine identity?

In my first stab at this essay, I philosophized on how music actually transcends gender, and how feminism, too, should not be allowed to fall prey to becoming merely a reactionary arm of the larger patriarchal system, but should hold steady on the path to ultimately transcend that system altogether….Ah, back in the glow of the Obama years, there was headroom to reach for the broadest, most abstract visions of what feminism going forward in the 21st century could look like.

As Allwood notes, with a pussy-grabber in the White House and amidst the initial gains of the Times Up and Me Too movements, this is a moment when we simply cannot afford to have our rallying cries get watered down into ad slogans. We need feminism to be strong, robust, and capable of calling bullshit, now more than ever. This is especially true considering the larger wave of white supremacy and xenophobia taking over the world’s political stage. Feminism, when done right, is one of the best cross-cultural modes of communication and activism available to us. Women are everywhere, of course, and everyone is impacted by women’s issues. Maybe this magnitude of potential is why feminism is so vulnerable to co-optation?

When our empathetic impulses to create a more just world are numbed into individualistic consumerism, it is a direct, precise hit to the political nervous system. That this phenomenon has precedent tells us how swiftly and reliably any stirrings of radical feminist action bubbling to the surface can be rendered mute and ineffective through commercial co-optation. As Sut Jhally has been saying for decades, advertising has completely permeated every aspect of our lives; our politics being fed back to us as products shouldn’t really surprise us.

In the same sense that we cannot transform gender and its norms through the capitalist system, which specifically insists upon gender as a central organizing tenet, we cannot expect the marketplace to transform or empower us. That is a job we can only do for ourselves and with one another.

Perhaps in music culture what we can all begin to aim for is the vision of the poet Chase Twichell, the rider and the horse. The rider is the human, the musician, and their music and their soul is the horse. Perhaps we can all muster the generosity and imagination to treat our music first as expressions of our soul, and only secondarily with regard to gender. Gender is only one detail that informs the music’s context, but does not define the maker or the music. Maybe this is what music really wants, and what our souls are often really after.

This piece is dedicated to the memory of Roslyn Farrington, a visionary feminist teacher and leader who inspired zillions at Portland State University.

Piano Nerd-Out Time: The Journey of Refurbishing & Regulating a Vintage Piano

In my life I have loved many a piano. But none so much as the vintage Baldwin grand I met and became betrothed to about six years ago. And like shorter term relationships that “prepare” you for a more significant investment, there were many educational pianos along the way before I found her.

There were the pianos I grew up playing; a Baldwin spinet with a squeaky, orange velvet-covered bench, and later, a Krakauer baby grand that my mom inherited after my grandfather passed away. It was the piano my mom and her sister grew up playing, and after being shipped across the country, the movers had to haul the piano–legs removed, kidney-shaped body wrapped in quilted blankets–all the way up the sharp incline of our driveway, an ordeal that took an entire afternoon. Once it was inside I couldn’t stop playing it.

The roommate who came with me to each new apartment, along with my cat.
The roommate who came with me to each new apartment, along with my cat.

Then there was my first piano of my very own, an old grand upright with ornately carved legs, rose vines hand-painted on the interior soundboard, and enough chips in its surface you could see decades of past paint colors. (Honeydew green was the most interesting shade that peeked out; I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have a melon green piano in the living room with me).

After that, I had a Wurlitzer spinet around for a while, with a sound as loud and metallic as a brass band. (I sold that one to a piano student). Then, I replaced it with an electric piano with settings for historical tunings (interesting and useful for a time because I’m drawn to microtonality, but that board, too, was ultimately also sold to yet another student). Thus I was back to my upright, which was showing its years with each move into every humidity-variable room or basement apartment I asked it to survive in.

In the backdrop of all these temporary fixes, I had other fleeting loves. On the second floor of the piano store where I used to teach lessons, I would take advantage of breaks between students to get away from the studio keyboard and practice on the three rooms of used for sale pianos. It was vintage pianos wall to wall, row after row, like aging maidens waiting to be asked to dance. There were the many Steinway uprights, which almost always had a red SOLD tag on them, and notes about the final work to be completed before they were to be shipped to their new owner. And the regal, crystalline tone of the Chickering grands, or the perfectly even action and balanced sound of the Yamahas.

My studio where I taught piano lessons and practiced and composed, with the Chickering console.
My studio where I taught piano lessons and practiced and composed, with the Chickering console.

These were all out of my price range, so for my home studio piano, I found a black Chickering console with unusually high pedals, which I always had to wear heels to play; it made me feel like Tori Amos. But like my previous spinets and consoles, I needed something better for regular practice and composing.

For a few years I regularly visited every piano shop that I knew of with a good used piano selection. I routinely scoured Craigslist: “Pianos>Used>Any.” And then finally, after a long, desperate, demoralizing search, after only ever seeming to be feel an attraction to pianos that were way to expensive for me, finally, I found her:

A 1912 Baldwin 7′ grand piano. An oldie but goodie. The first few decades of the 20th century was the best era for the Baldwin piano company, with a sound like nothing else I had played; a symphony in a case. The first day I found her, in a shop called the Piano Technology School for the Blind, in Vancouver, Washington, I just sat there, smitten.

Sure, she had some prominent scratches and nicks on her case, including many tiny, weird etchings into the wood above the keys. I imagined a Liberace type with fistfuls of ruby- and emerald-encrusted gold rings, scratching away at the wood on the key cover over the years. But for me, the point wasn’t to have a perfectly smooth, glossy case; it’ was the sound.

I was so mesmerized by the sound, in fact, that I didn’t pause long enough notice the Baldwin’s considerable quirks. She had suffered a hard couple of decades in her century of longevity: partial refurbishings, objects being dropped or slammed on the keys, parts warping, and the general malaise of never being in any one technicians’ care for long enough to get a full refurbishing. But I was swept away by her sound. I sat there on the bench, in a Glenn Gould hunch, face close to the keys, playing one at a time, mesmerized by the gradually, softly decaying overtones.

For a while I was content to get lost in the Baldwin’s endless chambers of resonance and overtones. I wrote all the songs on my first record on her, including “Theory of Survival,” for which I used prepared piano techniques to create sonic layers:

But the Baldwin’s actual playability was another matter. For a while, I couldn’t practice for more than twenty minutes without my arms getting sore. I was also worried about the impact on my technique because the piano had such limited aftertouch and heavy key weight.

Even finding a piano technician who was willing to work on this old gal was a process; in fact, one practically hang up on me when I told her I had a partially-refurbished grand piano on my hands.

“I don’t touch a grand piano that’s had unknown hands working on it,” she said flatly.

Piano action. Grand pianos have between 15,000 and 20,000 moving parts.
Piano action. Grand pianos have between 15,000 and 20,000 moving parts.

Finally, I found master piano technician John Rhodes. He was passionate about pianists having good instruments to play, and keeping the tradition of quality, acoustic pianos alive–he felt so strongly, in fact, that he was willing to donate his time to come by and do an assessment to figure out exactly what was wrong.

He came over to my house and we ate cupcakes and talked about cats and pianos and pianists all afternoon. John said he would take on the project–pro bono, all I would have to pay for was parts–but it would mean the piano would need to be in his shop for a while, and he wouldn’t be able to promise a completion date.

During a nearly year-long field trip away from home, the Baldwin’s action was lovingly, meticulously reworked. John kept extensive records on each stage of the entire process.

Upon returning home the Baldwin was definitely in a much-improved state, but even with all that work, there remained the final leg of the restoration: regulation. I had to wait yet again until it was in the budget, and in the stars, to have it done. Then, on a soggy Portland night in October 2013, after a Piano. Push. Play. event, under the eaves of the smoky outdoor patio at Roadside Attraction on SE 12th St., I met piano technician Alvin Alghrim. After hearing about my piano Alvin said he had to come “meet” it, and after playing it once, he, like most people, fell in love with it too and proclaimed it one of his favorite pianos. He said he wanted to work on it.

Le grande dame of my living room.
Le grande dame of my living room.

Before launching into the project, Alvin did intensive research over the next few months going over John’s extensive notes, absorbing John’s process up to that point, and factoring in how that would influence his approach to the regulation. Once Alvin decided he had everything he needed to figure out how to approach the regulation, and he whipped it together in two afternoons. The result:

I’M IN PIANO HEAVEN. I didn’t realize that one of the bonuses of a regulation job is that it actually improves the sound, too. (As if the old girl’s sound could get any better).

xoxoxoxo
xoxoxoxo

At times I am a little bewildered to have such a special instrument, just sitting there waiting to be played, in my daily life. Lest I forget how lucky I am after this long journey, I am reminded by each pianist who comes over and gets to share in this special little slice of acoustical heaven, as they sit down and play and gaze off into dreamland.

I remember an opera singer friend once told me that every singer has to go through some type of profound illness that prevents them from singing for a while; it’s part of the spiritual journey of opening up your voice. Maybe instrumentalists go through a similar thing, that manifests in our instruments?

At any rate, the journey of getting to know and rework an old instrument yields just as much as the attainment of the improved working instrument itself, as through that process we develop an appreciation for sound, how it works, and come to better understand how we respond to it. The oldie-but-goodie instruments might be a bit work, but they are most definitely worth the trouble.