It's funny how life sneaks up on you. Last Saturday, I stood on a stage in front of 40-ish people, making sure my mic was at the right angle. I didn't exactly see my younger self in the crowd — the stage was in the wrong place — but everywhere, I saw ghosts from lost Friday and Saturday nights, all culminating in the Rainbow Rodeo Live! show at Branded Saloon in Brooklyn on March 7, the same venue where I first attended a Queer Country Monthly show, curated by Karen Pittelman of Karen and the Sorrows, 14 years ago.
At the time, I thought I was the weird one — the only queer woman at all these alt-country shows with a bunch of bearded white guys screaming Occupy-inflected lyrics. (White guys whose music I still hold dear.) And here was a whole room of odd people out, just like me, sitting quietly, listening to music. I hoped that, one day, maybe I could get some people together, write a few songs, and play up there.
From the stage, I thought about that first date I went on with someone whom I would stand at the altar with as a bridesperson, rather than the bride. (It's cool; she was in my wedding party as well.) Then there was that one time I matched with someone I had seen at Queer Country Monthly shows and whom I also knew through lefty teaching circles, while one of my best friends — who attended the show without telling me beforehand, because she assumed I'd be there — raised an eyebrow at me from the corner. (She was right to do it. It didn't last more than two dates.) And there were the song sketches I wrote on the hour-long train rides home, usually with some infusion of alcohol. And the time I worked the door for a Queer Country Monthly show on Labor Day Weekend, and struggled to make change for Toshi Reagon. She was there to catch an up-and-coming singer out of Tennessee who was performing in New York City for the first time: Amythyst Kiah.
