Heather S. Ingemar's Blog, page 36

Fabulosity!

I think I had one of the best weekends EVER.

It started off with finding out a new book by my all-time favorite author just arrived at the library. *happy dance*
On Thursday, I ended up in both the Lewiston Morning Tribune AND the Clearwater Tribune; both advertising my upcoming performance.
On Saturday, at the Cafe Sage, I had one of the best performances I've done in a while. The crowd was AWESOME! I feel truly spoiled now… Most of the places I play are "sports bar" type venues: they're noisy because people come to talk, to drink, to watch the game — and I'm merely background entertainment that's there IF there happens to be someone interested in listening. Which is fine, I have no problem with that; it goes with the territory. But at this little Cafe? Bliss. Every soul in the establishment was there to watch and listen to an entertainer. (And the room acoustics were great!) They were so respectful! I truly enjoyed getting to play there, and left feeling energized.
I re-discovered hand embroidery. It's been pretty fun figuring out everything again. The last time I did any embroidery I was probably 10 years old, and while I enjoyed it, I just didn't have the patience for it. I've been doing little bits to be framed and hung on the wall and just having a blast with it.

Ah, what a great weekend.

This week I have two performances — I'll be at Roger's Bakery in College Place on Wednesday, from 5:30 to 7:30; and then I'll be at Mace Mead Works in Dayton on Saturday night from 8pm on. Maybe I'll see you there?

Shatterproof VI: Breakfast with a Side of Answers

[eggs in a pan image] So he made a mean dish of bacon and eggs.  I'll give him credit for that.  Not all delusions can whip up breakfast for you.

"What do they call you?" I asked.  I felt strange in this swanky apartment. Modern art tastefully graced stark white walls, and even the furniture had sharp modern angles. It was so different from my dad's house (stuck in the fifties). From the front room, the TV hummed some news broadcast.  Sounded like CNN, and it was oddly comforting.

"Collin."  He settled himself into the chair across from me, his shoes scuffing noisily over the linoleum.  Okay, maybe he wasn't a delusion.  In the warm morning light streaking through the windows, he looked pretty solid.

And if what I felt last night when he pinned me against the wall was any indication, he didn't just appear solid.

"You're not human, are you?" I asked, knowing what his answer would be.

"Not exactly."  He inched his chair back a fraction.

"That's a yes or no question."

He sighed, and his face was sad.  "I try to be – does that count?"

I had no answer, so we sat for a moment in silence.  I picked at the left-over ketchup on my plate with the end of my fork.

"Did your father ever say anything… about me?" he asked, uncertainly.

I blinked at him.  "No.  Why?"

He leaned back in his chair, frowning.  "Figures," he muttered.

"Figures?" I asked.  "What was I supposed to know?"

"Everything," he said, and the tone in which he said it made me feel ill again.  He went to lean forward, as if to brace his forearms on the table, then thought better of it, re-settling himself awkwardly in his chair.  Reaching out, he took a paper napkin from the holder, twisting the corner between his fingers.  "I made a promise to your father to look after you," he said, staring at the paper in his hands.

"Why?" I interrupted him before he could say more.

"He asked me to."  Collin began shredding the napkin into little chunks on the table-edge.

"I don't understand," I said. "I've never met you before in my life."

"It's… complicated." He sighed.  "He was wanted by Luce, and knew it; he didn't want you in the middle of the aftermath."  He gave me a wry smile.  "Unfortunately, you are in the middle of it, and that's why I'm here; to try and keep you safe until this all blows over."

"Who is this Luce?"  I asked.  "Did Dad owe him money or something?"

"Or something."  He shrugged.  I frowned, but he continued.  "Luce – that is to say, Lucifer – had a claim on your father.  What for, I'm not certain; but I do know this: that claim meant he could take anything of your father's – including you."

I stared at Collin for a few moments, stunned.  My jaw hung open, the tissues of my mouth drying.  He stared back at me, the evidence of truth written bare for me to see.

"Lucifer?"

He nodded.

"As in, the Lucifer? The Prince of Darkness?"

"The very one. But he prefers 'Lord of Evil.'"

"So you mean to tell me, I'm dealing with the Devil, here?" I said.

He nodded.

"Great," I said.  "Just, great."

* * *

(This piece is part of an ongoing serial story. You can catch up on the plot via the Serials page. If you liked this work, please consider purchasing one of my other stories, or some of my music for your collection. )

Cafe Sage, here I come!

Wow, it feels like it's been a long time since my last post… But I have an excuse!

I've been gearing up for my Cafe Sage performance this Saturday, November 12th at 7pm! In addition to being present for your listening pleasure, I'll have copies of "Fledgling" available.

See you there!

Shatterproof V: Unfortunately Sober

I felt ill.  My head throbbed, a tight ache pulsating in my temples.

"Ugh," I groaned, slowly levering my body into an upright position.  Squinting between my eyelids, I saw…

Not my bedroom.

I groaned, and flopped back among the pillows.  It had to be a dream, I told myself, snuggling back under the down comforter.  I must have gone out with some of my girlfriends, and they spiked my drink.  They spiked my drink for laughs even though I'm barely twenty.  They probably put me up here and had their cameras ready for when I freaked:

Leslie's Drunken Panic now on YouTube.

"How are you feeling?"

I lay very still, and felt a sinking sensation in my gut.  I squeezed my eyes shut, thinking NO with every ounce of brainpower I had.  Clutching the pillow, I shrank into the sheets.

He chuckled.  "That doesn't fool me," he said.

I groaned again.  "Go away."

"Not on your life."

"Why are you still here?  It was all just a bad dream.  A drunken hallucination."

"You wish."

Scowling, I sat bolt upright.  "Don't tell me that!"  He leaned on the wall near my head, a grin plastered on his face that would have made him, under different circumstances, rather handsome.  I folded my arms across my chest – belatedly remembering my sprained appendage; I had to re-shift everything so my arm didn't throb – and refused to look at him.

"Sounds like you're feeling rather well," he said.  "What would you like for breakfast?"

"Nothing," I said, pouting.

My stomach gave a ginormous growl that tapered off into an upset rumbling.  He grinned even wider.

"Okay, fine," I spat.  "Bacon and eggs."

A smug smile on his face, he strutted off toward the hotel suite kitchenette.

* * *

(This piece is part of an ongoing serial story. You can catch up on the plot via the Serials page. If you liked this work, please consider purchasing one of my other stories, or some of my music for your collection. )

Music video!

I am very excited. With a little help, luck, timing, and a knack for making my own adventures, I now have a music video for my song, "Leaves Blow," off my "Fledgling" E.P.

Crank your speakers and enjoy!

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A case for Sparrow

Now that my performance schedule has beefed up, it's no surprise I spend a lot of time on the road with the instruments and gear in tow. Normally, I love gig bags for hauling my uke or guitar around — they're light-weight, durable, and they don't cost a huge chunk of change to buy. But. When you're packing your precious music-makers into the backseat — along with the amp, merch table, stands, music stands, mic stands, cables, soundboard, etcetera…

I started to get nervous.

When I needed a tougher case for my tenor uke, it was easy to find and order. No sweat. Unfortunately, finding a hard case for a 3/4-size guitar — let alone a dreadnought-shaped one — is very hard. Apparently, there seems to be this idea that "real" guitar players don't play smaller instruments. Small guitars are for children. Small guitars are crap, so why bother with a decent transport system? (I could *so* go on a rant right here and now about how this "bigger is better" guitar marketing alienates capable, short, female musicians, but I won't.)

I realized if I was going to protect my investment, I'd have to take matters into my own hands:

Yes, that is an archer's bow and arrow transport case. Retails at about $25 at WalMart. I couldn't have asked for a better fit. The only issue is it's overkill on the width (widest part of my guitar is roughly four inches… the case is about eight…). I had some foam rubber stashed in the basement, and it took me only 45 minutes or so to carefully trace the body and headstock onto it, and make the cuts. I then sliced the cutouts in half to pad the bottoms of the holes, and raise the instrument so the neck would rest right on top:

[image error]I used the foam that came with the case to pad the lid, making the fit perfect. I had some scrap velour/velvet-type fabric from an old bed quilt that ripped, so I used it to cover the foam rubber since I didn't know if the foam would react with Sparrow's finish.

There's even enough space in each end for me to store my guitar toolkit, capo, picks, and other assorted musician goodies.

This musician DIY project all told:

Bow case from WalMart…. $25

Using up scrap foam and fabric…. necessary

An evening's worth of time…. doable

Not having to worry about whether the mic stand is going to punch a hole in your instrument…. priceless.

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Shatterproof IV: Demons

The beige industrial door slammed shut behind us, and the chill of early evening felt good after the stuffy air of the building.  My brain felt… stretched, and I followed the guy in silence as I tried to wrap my brain around… everything.

Something snarled from the landscaping to our left, a deep, rattling growl.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a set of red eyes glowing from between the foliage.  Gathering itself, the thing rolled forward into a charge.  Plants withered and died under its feet.

I opened my mouth to scream, but it was my odd kidnapper who made the noise.  "Run!" he hissed, seizing my hand and sprinting down the sidewalk.

I stumbled, bumped into him, stepped on his heels in my haste.  My toe caught on a crack in the concrete, snagging across the sharp edge and throwing me into his back.  Together, we toppled face-first onto the pavement.  Sharp pain streaked up my arm as it gave under the weight of my fall.  Rolling onto my back, I cradled the throbbing appendage against my chest.  Beside me, he shoved himself upright with a grunt.

The red-eyed thing bounded across the green, making a strange sort of guttural laugh in its throat.  It left a trail of dead and rotting greenery in its wake.  Panic seized my guts; I scrabbled on the pavement like a broken bird, wiggling and pushing myself away from its advance.

I heard a scrape behind me, and everything happened fast.  My kidnapper was up on his feet as the unnatural thing barreled toward him.  He grasped one of the decorative cement planters from the landscaping at the edge.  His muscles bulged like springs as he heaved it toward the black creature.  The planter caught the creature in the jaw, sending it spinning.  The concrete piece continued moving, carrying the creature off course. Cement exploded as it came into contact with the steel handicap railing, dust and shards flying.  The thing lay, oddly smoking, in a heap.

"Get up, get to the car," my strange savior said, grasping me under my shoulders and heaving me to my feet.  He walked with me, his hand in the middle of my back as he guided me to a sporty, sedan in grey.  Keys jingled as he pulled them from his pocket. The car lights flashed as he pressed the unlock button.

I threw open the door with my good hand and leapt inside.  He followed.  Across the parking lot I watched the dark thing stir.

"It's not dead," I muttered around the shooting headache and pain in my arm.

My savior-kidnapper jammed the key into the ignition and the engine flared to life, the tires screeching.  "Nope," he said, the road turning out before us.  He stepped on the gas.  "Demons don't die so easy."  His face looked grim, the streetlight glow flashing over his pale skin.

I felt dizzy, and then the world blurred, swirling away into blackness.

* * *

(This piece is part of an ongoing serial story. You can catch up on the plot via the Serials page. If you liked this work, please consider purchasing one of my other stories, or some of my music for your collection. )

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"Wait for You" on YouTube!

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The single-mic approach

So, I am debating about my live sound setup.

When I first got back into performing at the start of this year, I did the "single mic" approach (one mic for instrument and vocals, a la bluegrass bands), however I had serious issues getting it to work for me. Part of the problem was I hadn't yet invested in a soundboard (I have a Behringer Xenyx now). At the time, I couldn't boost the sensitivity enough to pick me up at a good volume for output.

But I've been reading a lot in the last few days about the single mic approach, and I'm seriously considering going back to it. It feels comfortable — look at my YouTube videos and you'll see. All my life I've been strictly an acoustic musician — concert band, jazz band, concert choir, quartet, Irish trad bands… we never used microphones. When I performed solely on the Irish flute, I did use a microphone occasionally, but for the most part, it was all acoustic. It's easier to play with just one microphone in your face as opposed to mics everywhere, pinning you to your stool…

My last gig at the Laht Neppur Ale House, my husband and I set up with two mics, one for my vocals and one for the guitar. He's a pretty good soundboard operator, so we were able to avoid the feedback issues, but I still had to fight it on a couple of songs I capoed high up. Now, I do have a Duncan Maverick soundhole pickup that I use, but the first one I had failed after only four weeks of use, even despite my efforts to treat it gently, and now I'm a little leary of using it as my main method of guitar amplification. (That, and it put a ding on the edge of Sparrow's soundhole.)

So I'm reconsidering the single mic approach. I guess bluegrass players use it religiously because it accurately approximates true acoustic playing. (When we acoustic musicians practice, we don't do it in front of our microphone — we play and adjust how things sound right at the source: our vocals and intensity of playing.) I also found out they use condenser microphones because — I'm guessing — they have a better, more sensitive pickup pattern to dynamic microphones…

I'm seriously considering it. My main issue is that most of the gigs I play are in noisy environs. Bars, alcohol-serving restaurants… They're noisy. People talk, and I'm just background music — which I don't specifically have an issue with, it's just if I go to the single mic setup and I get drowned out, then I'm not exactly background music then, am I?

So, all ye minstrels who are reading this: what's your preference? Single mic? Dedicated mics for instruments and vocals? Mics plus pickups? I'd like to know, so please give me your opinions in the comments.

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Unfamiliar Territory

I posted a blog this a.m. over on my lovely editor's blog about unfamiliar territory of the creative kind.

Unfamiliar Territory By Heather Stearns (also known as Heather S. Ingemar).

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