21 February 2002
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I stood in Amoeba Records on Sunset Boulevard holding Kasey Chambers’ sophomore release, Barricades and Brickwalls, debating on whether I really needed to buy it right then. It was $15, more than I’d pay back in Columbus, but then again, it was there, and I had it in my hand. I should just get it. I walked over to where he was browsing in the used CD section and announced: I’m going to get this. He looked at me strangely, probably wondering why I was tacitly asking his permission. But for some reason I put it back down before we left the store, on our way to a cheap, for L.A., movie. (And I have to say that Harry Potter doesn’t really stand up to a second viewing, especially after one has already seen Lord of the Rings. Let’s just say I actually fell asleep for a minute, more than once, in the most uncomfortable theater in the world. That place was like a high school auditorium. But it’s right on Hollywood and Vine, so you sort of have to give it points for ‘character.’) Yesterday morning when I got back into work B-Rad stopped by to see how my long weekend was and to catch up. He slipped something onto my desk and when I looked down I saw Kasey’s pierced, pouting face staring up at me it. He had the CD. I squealed and told him that I almost bought it and could I please burn it? Of course, he told me. I popped it into my iBook and loaded it onto my iTunes. I listened to nothing else yesterday. I really liked her first album, The Captain, but it didn’t get inside of me. Not like this. I think with me, it’s only partly the actual music, but mostly it’s what’s going on in my life when I first hear it. What I’m feeling at the exact moment the words seep out. Like with Lucinda, no matter what the song, her lyrics will always whip me back to Austin - to smoky music halls and eyes full of promise, to gripping fingertips and sideways glances. I know that the music-moment connection happens for a lot of people, but yesterday, yesterday Kasey was whispering the only secrets my broken heart wanted to hear. And I wanted to push my chair away from my desk, pick up the guitar I can’t play and sing back to her. Is that cheesy? I guess. But the truth is often cheesy. It makes us feel exposed and embarrassed. My friends had been talking about the initial radio release off B&B and her face has been all over Rolling Stone and No Depression magazines, but I hadn’t heard any of the new stuff yet. On Friday, as we drove down La Brea, “Not Pretty Enough” came on the radio. If I’d let myself accept what I already knew inside I would’ve had to turn it off. Because sitting there so close to him, barely separated by the bucket seats, listening to her beg and question: “Don’t I make you laugh? Should I try it harder? Why do you see right through me?” I would’ve had to jump out of the car. “I live. I breathe. I let it rain on me. I sleep. I wake. I try hard not to break. I crave. I love. I’ve waited long enough. I try as hard as I can.” – Not Pretty Enough And sometimes her youth is so transparent, like when she tells me that she’ll “cry a river of tears.” Sometimes I get embarrassed for her, her “drunk little girl voice” (courtesy the MOC) breaking and desperate. And I get angry that I can relate so well. I get angry that my youth is so transparent. That I understand why she’s asking about the pain of not being loved enough. Why wasn’t I spared that? Why does she have to come up in here and remind me of it? Why does she run after me, grab my arms and whirl me around, and force me to face it? “My hands are tied. My head is reeling. My eyes have cried a million tears from wishing you were here. All my life I’ve welcomed pain. I made up more excuses to bring it back again. Now I’m here and I’ll drink to the shame. I drink to the madness that made me this way.” - A Million Tears Maybe I’m not pretty enough. Maybe I’m too needy. Maybe I smother. But you can’t turn pink into red, like into love. No matter how badly you want to. “If I was free, I wouldn’t
be so keen to go. If I was strong, I would take it like a man.
If I was smart, I’d get out while I can. If I was broken,
I’d probably let it be. I was dying, I wouldn’t go out
quietly. If I was lost, my heart would feel the same. If I was
honest, I’d probably be ashamed. But if I were you, I would
notice me. If I were you, I would wait for me. If I were you,
I would easily hold me. And say, it’s all gonna be okay.”
– If I Were You The notify wants you. And the forum wants you too, fool.
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