Storm Large's Blog
February 17, 2012
My crazy job.
So many people think being a singer is a fun job. So fun, in fact, that it can't really be called a 'job' at all. They say things like, "GOD. You are so LUCKY you just get to sing." When I started out, they said things like, "You have such a great voice, I hope when you get a real job, you can still keep doing it." They also poo poo my complaints of exhaustion, loneliness and frustration at my whacked out, ever changing and never ending schedule. "What are YOU complaining about? You just have to put on a pretty dress, sing and have fun on stage."
Now, the "They" of whom I speak, are the THEY from Planet THEM, according to my friend Marc Acito. So I know how much gravity to give these opinion laden comments. Well meaning as they may seem, THEY should dab their mouths with toilet paper after spewing them, as it is just utter crap.
Singing, along with most every other art form, is desperately difficult work. Not difficult in the trench digging, grunt soldier, pediatric neurosurgeon variety....but it's a dirty, crazy business. Plenty of people are creative, sure, and gifted enough to be celebrated, successful and paid handsomely for their craft. So why don't more talented folks find lucrative work in their chosen profession? Because it is heart breaking, bone crunching-ly hard and damn near impossible to make an honest living doing it.
People used to get "discovered", they still do, but not quite like they used to. Nowadays, if you discover a new artist, chances are they have been killing themselves for years, slogging through gritty little clubs, throwing themselves at people who may or may not give a shit about music at all. They have hustled their friends and neighbors with endless flyers and emails to get bodies to come hear them play, hoping they like what they hear, so more people come next time. They have begged to get on bills with bigger bands, tours, radio shows, big parties, anything to get seen/heard/loved. They have possibly solicited agencies of the booking and or management variety, only to STILL end up booking and hustling themselves, only now with the esteemed honor to pay some dick 10 or 15% for doing doodle-y squat.
If they can stick it out, starving and pushing, they may start to enjoy micro dribs and drabs of success, ie getting paid with money instead of beer, or "a great exposure gig!" What happens next? Limos full of cocaine and blowjobs? Nope. They STILL have to keep hustling, keep pushing, pimping, whoring, rocking and rolling. You release a record, by any means necessary, and go out on a tour as far and wide as you can spreading yourself completely invisible. You do absolutely any and every gig, appearance and college radio show if you're lucky and do not take a single day off. You sing your throat into hot dog food trying to make gas money to get to your friend's moms house in Flagstaff so you all can take a shower and raid her fridge. After a month or so, you come back to your hometown and hopefully play a well attended "conquering hero" gig. After a few dozen of those trips, you have a bit of a following. And hey! Here comes More success....people are talking....they like you they REALLY...Oh wait. You're now a sellout, a poseur, everything has been handed to you and you sleep with everyone to get what you want. Oh...yeah, and PS, you SUCK, SUCK, SUCK.
Despite my blue collar bravado in this blog, I'll admit I AM lucky to do what I do. I can now say that I am making a decent living singing, performing and writing. But remember, the big brave woman you see on stage, with her mouth cranked open and her boobs haughtily thrust forward in some clingy thing, ate shit for about twelve years before she started to make this decent living. Twelve years. If I took the time to do the math, what I'm making now divided by all the hours I've clocked in this business, the resulting rate would be as if I had worked at Jamba Juice without promotion and zero bennies.
That being said (or ranted about) I wouldn't change a thing. I LOVE this uncertain, crazy, gut busting business. Sure I bitch about being tired, lonely, and sick and someone should go call me a whaaa-mbulance. But I am super grateful I get to do what I do. But don't, for one second, think this gig is easy. Yes, it is a fun job, but it is definitely still a job.
AS I write this, my voice is gone, my neck is kinked and my head is spun off like a cartoon tornado. And tomorrow I am leaving on the first vacation I've taken in ten years. I pray when I get back I am fresh and can be excited again for my next crazy year.
See you back stateside in two weeks!
xoxoStorm
Now, the "They" of whom I speak, are the THEY from Planet THEM, according to my friend Marc Acito. So I know how much gravity to give these opinion laden comments. Well meaning as they may seem, THEY should dab their mouths with toilet paper after spewing them, as it is just utter crap.
Singing, along with most every other art form, is desperately difficult work. Not difficult in the trench digging, grunt soldier, pediatric neurosurgeon variety....but it's a dirty, crazy business. Plenty of people are creative, sure, and gifted enough to be celebrated, successful and paid handsomely for their craft. So why don't more talented folks find lucrative work in their chosen profession? Because it is heart breaking, bone crunching-ly hard and damn near impossible to make an honest living doing it.
People used to get "discovered", they still do, but not quite like they used to. Nowadays, if you discover a new artist, chances are they have been killing themselves for years, slogging through gritty little clubs, throwing themselves at people who may or may not give a shit about music at all. They have hustled their friends and neighbors with endless flyers and emails to get bodies to come hear them play, hoping they like what they hear, so more people come next time. They have begged to get on bills with bigger bands, tours, radio shows, big parties, anything to get seen/heard/loved. They have possibly solicited agencies of the booking and or management variety, only to STILL end up booking and hustling themselves, only now with the esteemed honor to pay some dick 10 or 15% for doing doodle-y squat.
If they can stick it out, starving and pushing, they may start to enjoy micro dribs and drabs of success, ie getting paid with money instead of beer, or "a great exposure gig!" What happens next? Limos full of cocaine and blowjobs? Nope. They STILL have to keep hustling, keep pushing, pimping, whoring, rocking and rolling. You release a record, by any means necessary, and go out on a tour as far and wide as you can spreading yourself completely invisible. You do absolutely any and every gig, appearance and college radio show if you're lucky and do not take a single day off. You sing your throat into hot dog food trying to make gas money to get to your friend's moms house in Flagstaff so you all can take a shower and raid her fridge. After a month or so, you come back to your hometown and hopefully play a well attended "conquering hero" gig. After a few dozen of those trips, you have a bit of a following. And hey! Here comes More success....people are talking....they like you they REALLY...Oh wait. You're now a sellout, a poseur, everything has been handed to you and you sleep with everyone to get what you want. Oh...yeah, and PS, you SUCK, SUCK, SUCK.
Despite my blue collar bravado in this blog, I'll admit I AM lucky to do what I do. I can now say that I am making a decent living singing, performing and writing. But remember, the big brave woman you see on stage, with her mouth cranked open and her boobs haughtily thrust forward in some clingy thing, ate shit for about twelve years before she started to make this decent living. Twelve years. If I took the time to do the math, what I'm making now divided by all the hours I've clocked in this business, the resulting rate would be as if I had worked at Jamba Juice without promotion and zero bennies.
That being said (or ranted about) I wouldn't change a thing. I LOVE this uncertain, crazy, gut busting business. Sure I bitch about being tired, lonely, and sick and someone should go call me a whaaa-mbulance. But I am super grateful I get to do what I do. But don't, for one second, think this gig is easy. Yes, it is a fun job, but it is definitely still a job.
AS I write this, my voice is gone, my neck is kinked and my head is spun off like a cartoon tornado. And tomorrow I am leaving on the first vacation I've taken in ten years. I pray when I get back I am fresh and can be excited again for my next crazy year.
See you back stateside in two weeks!
xoxoStorm
February 14, 2012
Happy Valentine's Day!
Happy Valentine's Day!!!
Oh Baby, here it is! Dressed in crinkling red cellophane with its bloated, chocolate dipped expectations…and its grim disappointments.
Every year I go through the same maddening inner dialogue, it starts out defiant; “Man, SCREW Valentines Day! I don't need a blinking DAY to tell ME how to LOVE!" Then, as it gets closer, I get a little defensive... “I should do SOMETHING…get him some flowers, write him a nice card...strip club? Dinner? Shit. Why do I have to do anything? I ALWAYS do stuff." Then, around the 12th of February, I start to hate my boyfriend.” Fucker, he isn't going to do anything, I KNOW it. He NEVER does. I do so much for him and he just takes takes TAKES ... I should just leave." The awful day comes and goes with an awkward exchange of half-assed written drug store cards, a flower he stole, and probably an argument after our "nice romantic, 'specially for him to show off how much better I am at being thoughtful, you fuck" dinner .
Nice. Nice freakin' Holiday.
Valentine's day, if you believe the hype, is about flowers, lingerie and sex. In essence , it's about proving your love by spending scads of money. However, the real story of Valentine's day, the reason for it's significance, is way bloodier and much more serious than anything one can express with vanilla pillar candles, a box of chocolates and lacy underthings.
According to legend, Valentine was a catholic priest under Claudius II. Somewhere in a two digit AD year in Roman history, war was raging, and Claudius, one of the more rape-y pillage-y emperors, realized that the men who were married weren't so quick to go out and fight for him. When they had a nice soft body waiting for them at home, they weren’t as hip to the whole expanding the empire business. So Claudius made marriage illegal, punishable by death.
Valentine was pissed, but knowing there was to be no rationalizing with Emperor Rapingus Maximus, he rebelled. Our hero continued to marry people. The services were held at night, in secret locations. Barns, basements, the woods…lit by candle light, vows and blessings had to be whispered….It all sounds super romantic, save for the ever looming threat of death.
Now we all know, to become a saint, heinous and outrageously violent things have to happen to your person. Valentine was, of course, caught and sentenced to be jailed until his scheduled execution ... drum roll….February 14th. The significance of the 14th was the feast of Lupercalia. A big messy pagan event that comes at the end of the "Month Of Marriage" which ran from the middle of January to the middle of February. Lupercalia was kind of like a bat mitzvah, or debutante party, only Roman style. Virgins painted themselves with dog and or goats blood and were chased through the streets…wine soaked orgies, animals got sliced apart publicly…and there was cake.
Valentine’s date of execution was kind of a big "fuck you" from Claudius II.
The months leading up to his death, Valentine fell in love with the jailer’s son. Some say it was a young girl, but, seriously, what jailer would send his baby girl out to bring water and gruel to a bunch of convicts? Girls were worth cash money in those days….I say it was a boy. Anyway, the boy brought food and water to Valentine, and they would talk. They were probably very happy to know one another, and a great comfort in those tough and scary pages of human history. So when I say they fell in love, I don’t mean it in any cheeky dirty, ‘Catholic priest meets little boy’ joke, I mean they were probably both a micro bright spot to each other in some dark days.
February14th arrives and Valentine gets led out to be executed. Beforehand, though, he leaves a note for the little boy, and signs it; "Love, your Valentine."
He was beheaded, his entrails fed to dogs, his body burned, and there was cake. Claudius made sure that Valentine’s death was very public, a highlight to the other Lupercallian festivities, thus sending a strong message to any fool who may have thoughts of matrimonial rebellion.
Thank GOD those days are over, and we are finally such an advanced society that we find it primitive and ignorant to stand in loves way, no longer making laws to keep loving adults from joining in the bonds of marriage. Umm ...anyway.
Like all holidays, Valentine's Day has become a way to sell us all a bunch of useless crap. It's an advertising orgy that ought to be ignored. I think it's far more appropriate, in honor of Valentine's day, to stand up to what you think is wrong. Stick it to the man, right wrongs and rage against social injustice. Turn off your TV and don't buy squat until the 15th. I love you, and I know you love me. Save the chocolate for Mother's Day.
xoS
Oh Baby, here it is! Dressed in crinkling red cellophane with its bloated, chocolate dipped expectations…and its grim disappointments.
Every year I go through the same maddening inner dialogue, it starts out defiant; “Man, SCREW Valentines Day! I don't need a blinking DAY to tell ME how to LOVE!" Then, as it gets closer, I get a little defensive... “I should do SOMETHING…get him some flowers, write him a nice card...strip club? Dinner? Shit. Why do I have to do anything? I ALWAYS do stuff." Then, around the 12th of February, I start to hate my boyfriend.” Fucker, he isn't going to do anything, I KNOW it. He NEVER does. I do so much for him and he just takes takes TAKES ... I should just leave." The awful day comes and goes with an awkward exchange of half-assed written drug store cards, a flower he stole, and probably an argument after our "nice romantic, 'specially for him to show off how much better I am at being thoughtful, you fuck" dinner .
Nice. Nice freakin' Holiday.
Valentine's day, if you believe the hype, is about flowers, lingerie and sex. In essence , it's about proving your love by spending scads of money. However, the real story of Valentine's day, the reason for it's significance, is way bloodier and much more serious than anything one can express with vanilla pillar candles, a box of chocolates and lacy underthings.
According to legend, Valentine was a catholic priest under Claudius II. Somewhere in a two digit AD year in Roman history, war was raging, and Claudius, one of the more rape-y pillage-y emperors, realized that the men who were married weren't so quick to go out and fight for him. When they had a nice soft body waiting for them at home, they weren’t as hip to the whole expanding the empire business. So Claudius made marriage illegal, punishable by death.
Valentine was pissed, but knowing there was to be no rationalizing with Emperor Rapingus Maximus, he rebelled. Our hero continued to marry people. The services were held at night, in secret locations. Barns, basements, the woods…lit by candle light, vows and blessings had to be whispered….It all sounds super romantic, save for the ever looming threat of death.
Now we all know, to become a saint, heinous and outrageously violent things have to happen to your person. Valentine was, of course, caught and sentenced to be jailed until his scheduled execution ... drum roll….February 14th. The significance of the 14th was the feast of Lupercalia. A big messy pagan event that comes at the end of the "Month Of Marriage" which ran from the middle of January to the middle of February. Lupercalia was kind of like a bat mitzvah, or debutante party, only Roman style. Virgins painted themselves with dog and or goats blood and were chased through the streets…wine soaked orgies, animals got sliced apart publicly…and there was cake.
Valentine’s date of execution was kind of a big "fuck you" from Claudius II.
The months leading up to his death, Valentine fell in love with the jailer’s son. Some say it was a young girl, but, seriously, what jailer would send his baby girl out to bring water and gruel to a bunch of convicts? Girls were worth cash money in those days….I say it was a boy. Anyway, the boy brought food and water to Valentine, and they would talk. They were probably very happy to know one another, and a great comfort in those tough and scary pages of human history. So when I say they fell in love, I don’t mean it in any cheeky dirty, ‘Catholic priest meets little boy’ joke, I mean they were probably both a micro bright spot to each other in some dark days.
February14th arrives and Valentine gets led out to be executed. Beforehand, though, he leaves a note for the little boy, and signs it; "Love, your Valentine."
He was beheaded, his entrails fed to dogs, his body burned, and there was cake. Claudius made sure that Valentine’s death was very public, a highlight to the other Lupercallian festivities, thus sending a strong message to any fool who may have thoughts of matrimonial rebellion.
Thank GOD those days are over, and we are finally such an advanced society that we find it primitive and ignorant to stand in loves way, no longer making laws to keep loving adults from joining in the bonds of marriage. Umm ...anyway.
Like all holidays, Valentine's Day has become a way to sell us all a bunch of useless crap. It's an advertising orgy that ought to be ignored. I think it's far more appropriate, in honor of Valentine's day, to stand up to what you think is wrong. Stick it to the man, right wrongs and rage against social injustice. Turn off your TV and don't buy squat until the 15th. I love you, and I know you love me. Save the chocolate for Mother's Day.
xoS
