Give Me Back My Wig

Maybe 14 years ago-- maybe more, I was in Chelsea where I often 'sit' for a friend's gallery... and lo and behold... the street was closed off, all kinds of black official vehicles lined up, complete with NYPD and massive security.. Could President Obama be looking at art? But apparently the small mob was entering our building... the Balenciaga store, pre-Hurricane Sandy, was one flight below.  Within minutes, I was being asked by a man with a walkie-talkie to allow some VIP to get dressed in the space where I sat, quietly... often alone.  Well, okay... we had a sort of relationship with the store personnel... 

So it turned out it was not the First Lady or some veiled Princess, but Beyoncé herself.  For her entourage, all street commerce had been stopped, gallery traffic disallowed.  My doors were locked and guarded, and the pop 'queen' (she did kindly nod her head at me in appreciation) herself began to disrobe in our unwindowed packing area.  No photos, they requested, as she was quite exposed in my makeshift dressing room.  I never even looked.  In less than an hour the street was returned to its normal state-- all signs of the visitation had disappeared.  Presumably Balenciaga was significantly compensated in sales.

I admit I was a fan of the Crazy-in-Love phase... how could you not admire those thighs and her dancing?  For a second there, she had the Tina Turner star power-- she could sing and dance.  But then there was the blonde thing... I mean, for young black girls-- is this the model we want to admire?  What happened to natural hair and loving one's color?  I'm old but recent years have blurred the lines between the Kardashians, the Beyoncés, the pop stars.  All the wigging and facial modifications-- the make-up and the image-creation... 

And all these celebrities crossing lines-- athletes who act-- models who sing, actors promoting everything from Bitcoin to life-insurance... Subway.  Aren't they well-paid enough?  Or does their hungry management advise them to take on these mega-contracts and endorsements?  Beyoncé... she and Jay Z have created a mega-fortune.  Do we have to see her on Super Bowl commercials literally raking in the massive additional dollars and wearing a small fortune while half the world starves?  

Art, they called her new album cover, where she is not very believably or even actually side-saddling a white horse.  White is the operative word here-- the horse, the hair, the culture.  Her explanations don't make sense; I don't particularly want to explore my personal patriotism by mingling with MAGA hat wearers.  Not that the country image hasn't evolved, and not that its traditionally all-white audience and deeply embedded racism haven't been updated... but Cowboy Carter seems more like a massive bad joke than an image.

It's  not that I am bitter or envious or hateful; I admit I haven't much listened to the last 20 years of Beyonce.  I'm already sick of the constant cameos in our culture-- inaugurations, award shows... twitter feeds; it's unavoidable.  Suffice it to say, besides Hank Williams I have never been a huge fan of country music.  Touring with rock bands, the fundamental Christian reluctance of certain audiences to embrace science, the backwater racist and sexist comments sort of reinforced this.  Many of my purist Nashville friends shun the current wave of country pop stars as inauthentic.  Still... who can resist Dolly Parton? Beyoncé could take a few lessons from her brand of authenticity, wigs, make-up and plastic surgery notwithstanding. 

I guess when I heard snippets of the new version of Jolene-- unavoidable here-- well, that put the proverbial stop on things.  And I'm sorry if I've ruined someone's Easter... but I've heard at least a dozen covers of this iconic and heart-wrenching song... and to say this new one does not do it justice is kind of an understatement.  Coupled with that cover, the inherent irony... what is cowboy about Beyoncé besides the styling?  And the photo more like a Jeff Koons version of ad-absurdum with a little Richard Prince tagline left hanging.  Dave La Chapelle Does Dallas?  Lady Godiva at least had a sort of platform. 

Give me Roy Rogers and Dale Evans... National Velvet... I don't know... I was a cynic back when Elton John released Tumbleweed Connection.  A gay English cowboy? It seemed so inauthentic.  But now the whole banned-book narrative, the Tennessee political atmosphere-- the bigotry, the Bible-toting hypocrisy-- while the world burns.  What can we expect next-- Beyoncé on the throne, scepter and crown... but she's already been 'Queened'?  What is the damn message here?  I don't want to read or hear another commentary.  Let someone else search the internet for the white-horse symbolism and mythology.  It's Easter; Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a damn donkey. I just want my music with a little less pomp and airbrushing and a little more circumstance and soul. Aretha, we miss you so terribly.

Losing My Accent

It's been years since I watched a DVD on a television screen; my player is one of those VCR dual purpose machines that is no longer even patch-able into any viable system.  But recently I figured out how to connect my computer to TV, and as a test, I used an old video someone converted to digital.  So there I was, 30 years ago, puttering around a former apartment which in itself brought up a major nostalgia wave.  I loved my 'bachelorette' pad-- the compact but cool bi-level loft with the brick wall and the balcony where I'd hosted rockstars and journalists, wild parties, intimate candlelit dinners, rehearsals, recording sessions, baby showers and toddler play-dates.  Where I'd gone from vinyl to tape to cd, from Smith-Corona to Microsoft, from art consultant to bassist, historian to songwriter, 20's to 30's, single to married (and repeat...)...

Suddenly this woman who coyly shielded herself from the cameraman and then with candor dropped the charade was devastatingly familiar... and yet so far away.   I suppose since I've ignored the whole phone-culture, the selfie-obsession, the instant i-Movie phenomenon... I'm missing a couple of generations of self-documentation.  But thanks to the thoughtfulness of a visiting friend with a video-camera, a few 'slices' of my life-as-a-mother were recorded, along with some footage of me at the age of 9 playing Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz.  Where the little girl in the sailor dress seems like some random animated doll-puppet, the young mother at home with her baby-boy was this woman I wanted to know.  It was as though I suddenly understood what men found appealing all through those years-- this casual grace, an unstudied sense of style... black hair pulled back in a cheap barrette, strands of hair falling like a shadow across a face I recalled like an old actor in her prime movie.

I've never been a mirror-worshipper-- rather a mirror-avoider.  There is a time, however, in nearly every girl's life where she makes this leap from awkward adolescence to some kind of swan-hood-- a moment where her body makes sense-- whether it is in a dance-class, on a sports field, drawing a picture-- acting-- suddenly you are a coherent 'being'; your parts work, your brain works.  You cease to be a duckling and you are given a glimpse of your potential-- your power.  For some of us, the accident of physical beauty provides either a motivator or a hindrance.  For others, the confluence of emotion and intelligence and action just seem to synch up and suddenly we are 'real'.  A camera can either confirm or contradict this perception; of course now, there are so many digital manipulations available, one can't really trust a photo.  Sometimes it took that moment where we were chosen for a part-- a team-- a friendship.  That boy we crushed on suddenly looks at us as though he's seeing for the first time... or some amazing new girl in your class wants to be your BFF, with blood signatures and clothing exchanges and vows.  It feels good.  We are validated.

In the video I could feel that validation-- a confidence, a confirmation...  her smile, her speech-- the calmness... as though life was a slow river and we had all the time in the world in this lovely boat of love and relentless gifting.  Even the baby could feel it-- he was relaxed and easy, and the way mother and son touched one another was so lovely... with trust and a profound sense of family.  I was absolutely mesmerized; the idea this was my 'self' was both exhilarating and devastatingly poignant.

My friends and I have come so far.  So many have veered off the road-- passed away from illness or accident or suicide.  Many have dipped into the lowest emotional depths.  Aging is difficult. Personally, I do avoid mirrors but being a working musician, I see the photos-- the craggy shadows and lines I do not cover over.  I see myself as a tree in winter--- the same branch-arms that once were dressed in lush green are now craggy and stiffer.  They have yet to break off-- I find a kind of brittle strength in these years, but my old beauty is missing.

Looking at the video again, I remember I had two lovers at the time; one was tall and southern- -the other was young and slender and European-- a musician, like me.  The young musician moved in and for several years we maintained a kind of family... but this ended, and he returned to his home.  There were other lovers, other roommates... the southern man and I are still close friends although there have been distances between us.  I can remember his face-- he reminded me of a young Gregory Peck and it took my breath away.  Now he is nearly as craggy as I.  He often brings me lunch and we take trips together.  Today he mentioned how he hates his southern accent.  For me, it is part of what I love--what remains.  Every once in a while he slips up and says 'si-REEN' or 'GUItar' with the accent on the first syllable.

Recently I've been interviewing kids for my alma mater-- mostly young women and many of them recent immigrants.  They are altogether so anxious to 'lose' their accents and become fully integrated American girls.  I look back at the young woman I was 30 years ago and understand why my Mom nagged and nagged me to make better choices while I laughed and smiled and waved her warnings away... all these years later I see how she understood that the 'accent' of my womanhood was something I would eventually leave behind.  Time is on your side for oh-so-long... until it isn't.   Which is not all that bad, I will testify...  wishing a heartfelt 'carpe diem' to my readers.