To You, From a Songbird

I was riding home on the subway recently, sitting across from a *man-spreader with an iphone on his chest, blasting music from the speakers loud enough for the entire car to groove along to the beat. We’ll call him Chad. Next to him was a fellow with very straight posture and a short-sleeved button down shirt tucked into khaki pants. We’ll call him Arnold.

So, Arnold leaned over to Chad and said “Do you ever listen to music?” I thought this was a sarcastic way to say 'please turn it the eff down,' But I was wrong.

“Yeah,” said Chad.

“That’s not music. People make music, not robots. That’s robot noise,” said Arnold.

Chad was not impressed by the judgment, but Arnold carried on saying he’s a jazz musician, and that jazz is real music because it has heart.

Then Chad paused the "robot noise" and said, “These guys have hustle and that’s art. They were selling drugs on the street and they turned to this art to save their lives.”

And for the first time in six years of New York City life, I was impressed by the thoughtfulness of a manspreader. Because, really, what is it that makes something music? Is it heart or is it hustle? In my opinion, it’s neither. The only thing that really makes something music is the listener.

You know the age-old question, ‘If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?’ Well, it turns out it does not. Because, by definition, a sound is a vibration that travels through the air and is heard when it reaches an ear. It has to be received by someone, or it's just a noise.

I see music in the same way-- as a connection that must be received. It is not the instruments used to create that connection any more than a house is the tools used to build it.

For example, I’ve always been a lyric-obsessed music fan. To the point where I actually had an embarrassingly hard time understanding how anyone could possibly care about any piece of the song more than lyrics. Then I started talking to other musicians and songwriters about their favorite songs, and realized that most of them didn’t care about lyrics AT ALL! Some of them couldn’t even sing back the words to their favorite song!! Others even dared to love music in languages they couldn’t understand. I’m not proud of how closely I could relate to Arnold’s difficulty at distinguishing the tools from the house here. Just because the words were the tools that connected to me, didn't mean melodies, rhythms, chords, the artist’s story, or any other piece couldn’t do that for someone else.

Chad and Arnold each connected to their respective types of music because through them, they were reminded of truth. Of the search for something better. Of their own lives. And the fact that the sounds giving them that reminder were produced by wooden boxes or metal boxes was irrelevant.

Well, I’m sure you could see this coming, but Chad and Arnold did not end up coming to any sort of agreement. Their story ended when Arnold said, “Go listen to jazz and classical music. I’m always happy to help people in their choice of listening.” And then added, “Those guys should have stuck with drugs,” before getting off the train.

And with that, the robots resumed.

Love Love Love,

Kat

*Man-spreader (n): Dude who sits on the subway with his legs sprawling wide, taking up multiple seats, oblivious to the fact that there is a pregnant woman on crutches forced to stand right in front of him.

A friend of mine recently played a show that was flawlessly executed. People said many wonderful things after, and one of the many compliments I heard was “effortless.” Others were “comfortable,” “confident,” “awesome,” you name it. But there was one I never heard, and I think it’s the mother of them all-- PREPARED.

She was prepared. Her whole band was. They had mapped out this show before there was even a show to map. Then they rehearsed and rehearsed and rehearsed some more, so that when 150 people eventually showed up, they calmly presented their work with ease. As one of those 150 people, I can tell you, it was beautiful to watch.

I’m not sure who decided that “effortless” was going to be a compliment, but it’s a concept that is strangely glorified. It's as if you’re more authentically awesome when you don’t have to try. Well I’m sorry, but that's just not how it works. I don’t care how much god-given talent you have. Zeus could be your father and Hera your mother, but even Hercules had to prepare (yes, I use mythology as scientific evidence from time to time here at To You, From a Songbird). Talent is just the guiding light that sparks the ship, and the reason you get better when you put the work in.

“Effortless” is a word people have used to describe the way that I sing. WELL, here is a behind-the-scenes look at having an “effortless” voice:

30 minutes (minimum) of vocal exercises every single day for the past six and a half years. When I say every single day, I mean literally every single day of my life, no matter where I am, what I’m doing, or who I’m with. I have family members, neighbors, roommates, coworkers, and subway cars full of annoyed commuters who can attest to this.
Cutting out all caffeine 100% percent of the time.
Cutting out all alcohol mostly all the time. But definitely any time I am weeks within a show/recording session.
Daily yoga/exercise to build up lung capacity.
Walking around like Randy from A Christmas Story, with a scarf mummy-wrapped around my neck, mouth, and nose any time it’s remotely cold (which is much of the time here in NYC).
Not going to loud bars, or anywhere fun that I would require me to strain my voice.

You get the idea. It’s work to be effortless. It's this work that keeps us from going up on stage screaming, crying, and, worst of all, apologizing for being unprepared. So let’s redefine this word for the sake of creative work.

Effortless: Being completely drained of effort. If each project requires a certain amount of effort to complete, then after the approximate 30 zillion hours you put in, there will be literally zero left in your tank. Hence, you are effort-less.

I saw the same friend play shows five years ago, before she had put in 30 zillion hours, and no one was calling her effortless then. And I was singing five years ago, and no one was saying that about me either. I suppose people are quick to forget. And I suppose that’s not the worst thing in the world...

Love Love Love,

Kat

I recently received a message that went like this: “Hi, I’m Blah Blah... I live in LA and am doing what everyone else is doing here...” There was other stuff too, but I won't include it, because you're probably already asleep.

Wake up!!!

I have not yet responded, but this is what I would like to say to her (but won't, don't worry):

Dear Blah Blah,

Mind if I call you Blah Blah? The way you started your email makes you about as interesting as the grown-ups in Charlie Brown. You are a creative person and you were brave enough to move to LA to live out your dream. Therefore, I KNOW you are a fascinating person. So, please, lose the boring intro. Tell me who you are! Because, as you so blatantly reminded me, there are lots of people I could be working with in LA. And the only reason I would want to work with YOU, is because YOU are different. So... how are you different?

What do you love about what you do? Why do you love it? Who inspired you to start? What inspires you to keep going? What are your goals? What are you doing this weekend? I don’t care which exciting details you choose to share, I just want to know who you are, so tell me anything that only you could say. Make me love your story!

As someone who moved to a big city and is working as a creative, I know how overwhelming it is to look around see so many other people seemingly going after one little prize. But then I realized that it was just an optical illusion. In reality, no one else was going after what I was going after. Because we were all trying to be the CEOs of our own little superstar businesses. And no one can run Blah Blah, Inc. besides you! So if you actually apply for it (and work your butt off), you will get the job. Isn't that awesome news??

So look around at all those other people and see that you are one IN a million! Not one OF a million. You are the only YOU in a sea of unique little businesses. Those other million singers aren’t your competition, they’re your PEEPS! Your best friends and your collaborators. It doesn't have to be scary and intimidating. It could be exciting that you have so many people to work with, if you choose to see it that way! So enjoy it, and go out and meet them!

Also, please send me a new email, because I'm dying to learn your real name.

Love Love Love,

Kat

Does this look like someone who was ready to be making important decisions?

Recently, I was speaking with a friend about her next career move. She was offered a job doing something she doesn’t like at all, and wanted to know if she should take it. This seemed like a trick question, but I took a gamble. “Uhhh… no, I don’t think you should,” I said.

“But, it’s really good experience to help prepare me for what I really want to do later on,” she explained.

“Do you absolutely need this experience to get to the next job?”

“No, but it will make it a lot easier when I do get there,” she insisted.

“So you’ll learn this job that you hate, and then you will go to your next job that you love, and will have to learn how to do that one?" It still seemed like a trick.

“Yes, but it will be easier to learn!”

“DON’T TAKE LATIN!!” I shouted. Which seemed like a pretty unhelpful response, but in my head, it made perfect sense.

In sixth grade I chose a foreign language to study in school. The choices were French, Spanish, and Latin. I desperately wanted to learn Spanish, so naturally, I signed up for Latin. Why did I do this? Honestly, because my friends were taking Latin and the school board shouldn’t let you make life-changing decisions when you’re 12. But also because so many people** told me how much Latin would help me learn Spanish later on. WELL! Let me explain what I learned by following that advice... learning Latin doesn’t help you learn Spanish. Learning Spanish helps you learn Spanish!!!

Of course I figured this out after spending seven years of my life learning a language that allowed me to do none of the things I love about language-- read it, speak it, or listen to it. I don’t even think it helped me with my SATs (the other scam people tell kids to convince them to take it). I didn't love Latin, so I didn’t learn it. And here I am, ten years later, talking to a friend about business jobs and STILL the first thing I think is "don’t take Latin." A simple three-word sentence I don’t even know how to say in Latin.

You know how I finally learned Spanish? I took Spanish One during the summer at a local community college with the other cool kids who just wanted to learn. I actually did this two summers in a row, because, naturally, I forgot everything I had learned by the time summer rolled around again. Then the following summer, I travelled to Spain and spoke to people exclusively in the present tense. Ex-- Polite Spaniard: “What did you do today, Kat?” Latin Whiz: “I am at the beach!” when I was not. My knowledge was so limited that I didn't even know how to apologize when I woke up from a particularly deep train nap to discover I was laying across a perfect stranger. So I just sat up, turned away, and said nothing. You see.. learning Spanish isn't easy just because you took Latin! It's exhausting.

Latin was not the path to Spanish. It was a distraction from it. So, for my friend choosing her next job, and for all of you out there, choosing your next adventure-- just do what you love. Do it today and you will get there much faster than if you do it tomorrow.

Love Love Love,

Kat

**So many people = my friends who wanted me to take Latin with them. Always check your sources.

Trashio [Trah-shee-oh] Noun. A two by eight foot semi-enclosed slab of concrete where apartment-dwellers put their trash.

I made this word up. Trash Patio was too long.

My apartment in Queens has a Trashio. Ten tenants and a few scavenging critters share this glamorous front yard.

Last week we got a new neighbor. Move-in night, I got back to the apartment to find his friend smoking in the trashio, leaning against the brick façade, his legs angled outward to accommodate a stack of empty cardboard boxes below his knees. “It’s so great that you have this space!” he called through the open window. “You should have a Halloween party!” I wasn’t sure what the connection between the trashio and Halloween was exactly. Maybe he likes to dress up as smelly garbage? I wondered about this for a while.

One week later, I realized a terrifying truth-- I never once wondered why on Earth anyone would think it’s great that we have this space.

That’s how desensitized to privacy and property I am living in New York. I didn’t think, it’s really not that great to have a rectangle of concrete filled with piles of trash. I think I may have even thought, yes, we are lucky. Maybe this weekend I’ll take a book and a cup of tea out here and sit on that overflowing garbage can, next to that nice skunk.

Because there are eight million people in this city. Factor in tourists, and that number quadruples. At least in my made-up, eyeballed estimation it does. To be fair, I decided on this number while walking through Time Square on Saturday; it sure felt like 32 million people to me. Across all boroughs, there are approximately 30,000 people per square mile. That's 120,000 people after my eyeballed tourist influx.

Therefore, space has become the most valuable thing in New York City. More than what is inside that space, or what you can see from it, just to have a chunk of city that is yours alone, is what we pay for here. And to have a space that is outdoors is a straight-up luxury.

Continuing with the theme of me making things up and calling them fact, here a few real-life comparisons I have come up with to help non-New Yorkers understand just how difficult it is to have a place you can sit outside without being asked to leave or to give someone money...

A shared balcony with an intrusive neighbor who sneaks his hands through the separation bars and swipes beers from your cooler when you aren't looking = a front lawn, back lawn and two-car driveway.

A walled-off balcony where you can sit and read the paper, or just sit back and listen to the sweet sound of a farther-away (but still very close) neighbor crunching tortilla chips = a pool with a water slide and diving board.

Any sort of grass at all no matter how secluded = several acres of forest with a bubbling brook.

A secluded terrace = An actual castle. In the clouds. With a zen garden. And fairies. And rainbows. And a magical fountain of eternal youth.

Outdoor space has become such a symbol of extravagance that even a trashio is just cause for a party.

Because it can be exhausting to be on all the time, surrounded by millions of people, and not have a place to just be home. To put down your day. To peel off the mask. AHA! I get it!! The connection between the trashio and Halloween! I feel much better now.

Love Love Love,

Kat

“Home isn’t where you’re from, it’s where you find light when all grows dark.” - Pierce Brown, Golden Son
__________________________________________________________________

My first apartment in New York City sat atop five flights of stairs in the Queens neighborhood of Astoria. There were three bedrooms, four official roommates, and several more unofficial roommates scattered on couches and spare planks of floor at any given time. One block away was an above-ground subway station. At night, I would leave my window open and fall asleep to the steady sound of train on track. Or I wouldn’t fall asleep, and I'd take comfort in the cry of someone else awake.

In the one block between my apartment and the train were a few things that captured the essence of the neighborhood for me. There was an international supermarket filled with memories of my Chilean past, like strawberry-flavored cookies and queso fresco. Alongside this market, at all hours of the day and night, were men sitting on crates; the kind of crates I had never seen used for anything other than to teach kids how to ice skate. These men didn’t seem to be associated with the market at all. In fact, I am fairly sure they were actually trolls guarding some sort of magical treasure, although I never found any definite proof of this.

Across the street from the market was the Athens Grill, proudly serving “Authentic Mexican Food.” And next to that was my favorite Astoria spot: Number One Chinese. This restaurant had everything I loved-- good prices, late hours, and lo mein. Life was good.

Then I moved.

Wontons no longer outweighed the cost of life at the youth hostel (my apartment), so my friend and I tied our mattresses to my car and moved them seven blocks south. Just far enough away so that Number One Chinese could no longer be our life blood.

But never fear. This is New York City, where one is never far from a cheap Chinese restaurant. I’m not sure how or if these restaurants are related to each other, but many of them seem to have the exact same menu. And the exact same pictures on the walls. So when we found a nearly identical Chinese restaurant on the corner of our new street, we were thrilled. It had the same menu, but also had less accommodating hours, and, in my biased opinion, slightly less incredible food. We never bothered to learn the name of this place, we just called it Number Two Chinese.

So, into my phone the number for Number Two Chinese went. Because sometimes the only nightcap that will satisfy a long day of city life is egg drop soup with a side of scallion pancakes. And God forbid I have to wait the two minutes it would take to scoop out the soup and wrap up the pancakes, so I call from the train and give them a two-minute warning of my arrival. I’ve done that once or twice. Maybe a hundred times. I don’t know. I don’t keep track of these things.

The same is not true for my phone.

A week ago I upgraded to the iPhoneSE, which, among many new features, has an updated Siri. She can do several new things apparently, but the most noticeable update I have found is her sassy new attitude.

New Siri, at least the one who lives on my phone, seems to see every chance to speak as an opportunity to voice an unsolicited opinion. For example, if I say “Hey Siri, what time is it?” She doesn't just state the time like the obedient robot she most definitely is not, she says “Late… 11:20pm.” Which I take to mean, “I was sleeping. Business hours are 9am-5pm, Monday through Friday. Please try back then.”

Last Saturday I dared make a simple request. “Hey Siri, call home,” I said. To which she responded, “Which Home?” And then listed the numbers for Home, Mom, and NUMBER TWO CHINESE. It appears New Siri has a sense of humor.

Or maybe she just has a more advanced understanding of Home than I do.

Love Love Love,

Kat

Make something the world does not yet know it needs.

That is the quest of the artist. It’s what instigates the artistic journey. And it’s what instigates the artistic career.

An artistic career starts by making something nobody asked for. By making lots and lots of somethings, and then sharing them with people who never asked for them. Although the drive to make something totally unrequested is what pulled us onto this path in the first place, amidst a busy life, it can be hard to find the time and validation to create something just because.

I have discussed this idea before HERE. But it is so important, I'm going to say it again in all caps: YOUR WORK IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE URGENT CRAP CLUTTERING YOUR CALENDAR!!! So...

Put it on your calendar.

Prioritize it.

Follow through.

This is absolutely essential for an artistic career. Making something no one has asked for is the ‘sending out job applications’ of conventional careers, except without any of the rational process or immediate results (lucky us). No one will know you want the job if you don’t apply. And no one will know they need someone to do that job until you apply.

I have been making things and sharing them for five years now. Most of them are covered in cobwebs. But once in a while, one will connect to someone and lead us both somewhere unexpected. When this happens, it has me very grateful to have spent the past five years sending out applications for jobs that didn't exist. (That's a sentence they don't teach you to say in school.)

Pre-existing jobs are lovely for many reasons, one of which is that they hold you accountable for getting work done. Since artistic jobs don't fall into this category, if you want a career in the arts, you need to be self-accountable. If this isn’t your strong suit, pretend. Have an imaginary boss. Let me know if you need help with this-- I’d be happy to send you periodic, passive-aggressive emails inquiring the status of your project. Whatever it takes.

Act like someone is waiting for it. Because someone is waiting for it.

They just don’t know it yet.

Love Love Love,

Kat

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Heart vs. Hustle: As (over)Heard on the Subway

Effort-less

Blah Blah, Inc.

DON'T TAKE LATIN!!!

Trashio

Which Home?

Make Something the World Does Not Yet Know it Needs