THANK YOU FOR THE MUSIC

The sweet, little grey-haired lady reminds me of my Grandma as she smiles up at me while I sign her program.

“I remember you when you were first starting out,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Ginny said I just had to come to see you perform at the Springbrook Bandshell because you were releasing your first CD and all your classmates were coming out to support you. You remember Ginny, don’t you?”

I’m trying to conjure up a picture of Ginny, but after all, that was over 20 years, scores of shows, and hundreds of people ago if you include all the little house concerts, country music competitions, tribute shows, single gigs, duo gigs and most recently our trio performances.

“Of course, I do,” I fib. I can’t disappoint Ginny’s grandma. “How is Ginny these days? What’s she doing with her life?”

“Oh Ginny went on to get her Master's and has a successful accountancy practice,” Grandma tells me proudly. “She’s married now and has 2 little ones as well to keep her busy. Luckily, she can work from home. It’s probably so much less exciting than your life. But I mustn’t hold you up, dear, with all these folks waiting to say hello. I’ll tell Ginny you asked after her.”

‘It might be less exciting, but I bet she’s not in debt to the eyeballs’ I think to myself as Ginny’s grandma toddles off.

I catch the eye of the young reporter from the local entertainment rag patiently waiting to interview me. I kind of wish she’d decide it’s not worth the trouble as I’m still hot and sweaty from prancing back and forth across the stage for the last hour. I just want to get all the makeup off, give myself a quick washcloth wipe, change into my jeans and get the hell out of here. But first, there’s still a handful of people waiting to say hello and get a selfie with me. I can’t disappoint them either.

I turn on my smile for the next couple in line. The young mother is patting a 2-month-old’s back and as I ask the baby’s name, the baby hacks up a stream of undigested formula onto the mother’s shoulder. The sour smell hits me along with nausea from not having eaten anything since breakfast. There’s never time to eat on show days: we grab cold slices of dry pizza between setting up the stage, doing sound checks, organizing the merch tables, donning our outfits, and hours later, performing our set on near-empty stomachs. No long fancy tables with after-show delicacies for us to nibble on. We’re not famous enough to warrant that kind of expense. We’re just the best band to have lived in Nashville and now returned home to Springbrook in years.

After the last of the autographs are signed, I check to see if the reporter has hung around. She has.

“Mila, is it?” I ask as she heads over to me. “Thanks for being so patient. Do you mind if we do the interview backstage while I get out of this sweaty outfit and freshen up?”

“No problem! Where do we go?”

She follows me back through the auditorium. The venue aisles are littered with discarded plastic cups and greasy popcorn bags. Our small crew including my lead guitarist husband and the sound guy are still packing up the stage so we have time to talk.

“You’ll have to give me a minute to pee, Mila. My bladder is bursting! I don’t know how I lasted this long,” I apologize. 

I hear resignation in her voice as she again assures me it’s no problem.

Between thirsty gulps of cold water, I’m feeling dehydrated and exhausted. I peel away away the false eyelashes and wipe off the stage makeup, as I reply to her question about how old I was when I realized I wanted to be a singer. 

“I was 8. That was the first time I felt the rush that comes when a 1000 or so people were applauding and cheering my performance.”

“Eight? And you already had an audience of 1000 people? How did that happen?”

“That audience was made up of excited, proud parents who had come out for the year-end talent showcase,” I laugh, “but as far as I was concerned, they were all there for me. I knew from that moment on that music was my life.”

“Oh wow. I hope I’m not being rude, but that was a long time ago now, wasn’t it.”

‘It sure was’ I think to myself. Over 30 years, of broken dreams and lots of blood, sweat, and tears. What I could share with her would take all night to tell and I just want to get something to eat and hit the sack. Mila wisely lets her question go unanswered.

“Well, from what I’ve read about you, you did go on to do very well. I believe you wrote, produced, and toured England with your first CD when you were only 19 after winning several key contests. So did that tour catapult your career onto bigger things? I couldn’t find much information on what happened with you after that. It was like you dropped out of sight. Did you perhaps change your name or direction? Can you fill in the blanks for me, please?”

To fill in the blanks for her would take more time and patience than either of us has right now. My story is typical of the myriad of talented, driven, young singers who had to learn the hard way that making it in the music industry is 10% talent, 90% marketing...that it hinges on being lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time to catch the attention of someone with the clout and finances to make you the next big thing. Think Shania Twain; Avril Lavigne. And you have to be prepared to give up your ideas on what’s best for you and your music because the men in suits with deep pockets for you to fill know what’s “best” for you…and them. Not to mention that they pull all the strings. So if you aren’t prepared to play the puppet, just follow the exit signs back to where you came from. 

“So,” Mila asks, “what’s next for you guys on the music agenda? Tonight’s show was fabulous, by the way.”

How do I tell her tonight’s show was the last show for us as a trio? It was all I could do to get through the songs, knowing that one of the primary members is bailing. He’s fed up waiting for that big break. It’s all taken too long. In a way, I don’t blame him: the three of us have put ourselves and our devoted parents into massive debt trying to keep the trio afloat while we waited for dollars instead of pennies to drop. We can’t afford to sustain ourselves much longer. We’ve dried up our supply of positive thinking. The platitudes we’ve used to motivate ourselves like “winners never quit and quitters never win” aren’t working anymore. 

How do I tell her all that without sounding as bitter and broken as I feel? I won’t. So, to end this interview, I use the excuse that the night is getting late and suggest, with a wink, that she, like everyone else, just wait and see what happens next, okay?

“I understand. Well, one more quick question if you don’t mind?”

I do, but I acquiesce with a smile. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“At the beginning of this interview, you told me that music is your life. Do you still feel that way after all these years of performing? And do you have any regrets?”

I picture that baby upchucking on her mom’s shoulder earlier. Yes, it nauseated me, but what I’d give to have a baby to pick up from mom’s tonight. Is it too late now to start that family we put off year after year as we worked our way through the blood, sweat, and tears? Only time will tell.

As for the rest? Well, I feel like I’ve graduated from one of the toughest universities in the world. What I’ve learned is immeasurable. What I’ve achieved is invaluable. There are no more illusions. Reality is a bitch but regardless, music is, and always will be my life. 

And like Abba, I will always sing “Thank you for the Music”.