Erika
Posts by Erika
A Coney Island Tale – Volunteering in Sandy’s Aftermath
Our friend, Julie – (and the partner of Little Silver’s bass and keyboard player, David), wrote a stark and beautiful depiction of her volunteer effort this weekend in Coney Island. It’s been living under my skin ever since I read it, so I’m linking it here.
Too Much Joy?
So I had that last night, too much joy. Steve and I went with our friends Sean and Eric to see Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band at the Meadowlands (if that’s still what it’s called) last night. It was an emotional roller coaster of a show, and we rode it. Along with 60,000 others, I suppose.
A few things, quick-like. Yes, I’m from New Jersey. It wasn’t cool when I was growing up to like this man’s music. Or at least, boys I found very difficult to relate to in high school,who grunted out one-word sentences, etc., liked Bruce Springsteen’s music. Girls thought he was cute. It was all lost on me. Then I heard Nebraska as an early 20 something. I think this story is many people’s story. So it goes, I loved the man, the songwriting, the depth, all of it. I met him a few times, which solidified my love. Plus he’s gotten even better looking with age, which has solidified that further. We’re solid, me and Bruce.
Do I think it’s cheesy? Sure. Do I love it for its pure abandon? Indeed I do. Do I dance and scream? Guess. As he’s getting older, he’s diving deeper into the spiritual side of things, as if the man’s spirit throughout his career hasn’t been bigger than life, bigger than the man himself, all along. But it’s almost like feeling that much joy, for me… well, it hurts. I think it’s in the same family of love I feel for our daughter. Just so much love, it makes me ache. It’s not just pure joy, it’s knowing that pure joy is transient, I guess. I found myself wishing I knew them personally, the Springsteens, so I could have this feeling again and again (read = totally unrealistic, not to mention ridiculous to imagine that their everyday is like that show). Mostly my ache came from the fact that at some point, Bruce Springsteen will die and there will not be this opportunity to be part of his congregation anymore. Because there is nothing like it.
Today was grey and cloudy. I’m overtired from getting home at 2am and spending my day on a toddler’s schedule. I mean, overtired is a joke. I’m long-term sleep deprived and all I want is more, more … and more music.
Go West, Young Man
Be sure to honk and wave when you spot us out there on Route 1 in early June! Little Silver hits LA, San Francisco, Portland, Seattle and Bellingham. Check back as we’ll be adding dates throughout the month.
“Stolen Souvenir” video premieres on IFC website
Nina Frenkel and Peter Hamlin‘s brand-spankin’ new animation for “Stolen Souvenir” is up on the Independent Film Channel’s site this week! Next week we’ll have it available on our site as well, so stay tuned :)
Lost Letters
In 1995, I went to look at an apartment on the far west side of Hoboken, which at that time was a sketchy area. I had just landed a job at NBA Entertainment as a transcriber of sports interviews, and I needed a place to live that was close to (but Lord, not in) Secaucus, NJ. My salary was meager, and I had to work with it.
I walked into the railroad apartment and waited for my roommate to show up. For the very imaginative, it was a 2 bedroom place – and cost $700/month. And though I did not expect this, it was absolutely beautiful. Exposed brick, rich, grainy, wide planked dark wood floors, clean, updated kitchen. A woman and man, both older than me by about 5 years, sat at a kitchen table. I said I wanted the apt., and they said okay. I don’t remember the guy at all, but the woman’s name was Pam. She was kind and easy, yet not ingratiating – the sort of person you’d feel good about about. I signed the lease that sat on her table and moved in a month later.
About two months into living there, a letter arrived in the mailbox, addressed to her. An oblong envelope with green stamped designs on the back, it bore the mark of a writer who had taken the time for herself to really craft something. Not an obligatory letter; this writer had made it an evening’s activity to write this letter to her friend Pam.
I put it aside and the next morning, went downstairs to ask the landlord, a kindly, older Egyptian man who owned the building and manned his convenience store on the first floor – if he had a forwarding address for Pam. He didn’t. I looked her up in the phone book, and she was unlisted. Short of hiring a private investigator, I didn’t know how to find her.
I held onto the letter, unopened for three months, wondering if she’d get in touch with me – maybe her friend would tell her about the letter, and she’d come back to claim it. She didn’t. Finally, one night, I sat in my room on the floor and opened the letter and read the sometimes uneven, and always enigmatic, hammered type.
Pam’s friend was hanging out in her room the night of the letter. I had a perfect image; she’d lit a candle and set up her typewriter. Among her news bits, she reported that she’d finally ended a relationship with “xxxx” – she didn’t know what she’d been thinking to be with him – and she was seeing someone new, for the “nooky”. It was nice. She had a way with words, Pam’s friend. And the letter was decorated with various stamps and drawings, some with dialogue bubbles. I really liked Pam’s friend, and of course, Pam – for effortlessly earning such a friend just by being her cool-ass self.
I loved this letter, and simultaneously harbored some sadness over it as well. It had really been a divine evening, as you could read, that had provided the opening to create it. Had I written that letter, I would’ve lamented its having been lost in the mail or otherwise not received by my friend. It was un-recreate-able. It was a mood, a vibe, a misty life between the cracks of work, family and social life, etc. I still have that letter to this day, and though it was never meant for me, it’s one of the best I’ve ever received.
I was witness to life being lived, and this completely voyeuristic approach to letter reading was new to me. Everyone who knows me knows I LOVE writing and receiving letters. In the age of email and immediate immediateness, it’s a lost art form that I’m desperate not to lose. I’ve written and received many letters in my lifetime, and none gave me the feeling that I got from reading Pam’s letter from her friend. And it got me thinking… what if I were to write some letters, to whomever I wanted, and from me, but sent to someone else? That reading-once-removed, that feeling, was so delicious that I want to pass it on.
If you’re reading this and interested, send your address (or someone else’s) to erika@littlesilvermusic.com, and I’ll send a letter – crafted by me and meant for someone else – to that person. Like the local radio station, I’ll take the first three callers. I’m only committing to three, because let’s face it – I have a baby now and and frankly, you’ve got to have a divine night for this kind of creation. I’m being optimistic to think there are three of those in my near future, but I’m giving myself to the end of this year to send out the three. So write me.
Little Silver, NJ
I have struggled to write something about this town that won’t sound indulgent and precious. It’s hard.
We have a baby now, and she is brand-new. The littlest silver. And if I didn’t romanticize my hometown before – the nature and the nights, full with sea-air, mist, exploration and imagination – I do now.
I called a friend the other night that I’ve been out of touch with for four years. He and I spent hours as kids driving through the lush, still roads to the ocean, through farmland, to each others’ houses – listening to the same cassette tapes over and over again, drinking coffees we hadn’t yet developed the palate for, me singing, and him listening or playing guitar. And for all of this clichéd teenage-dom, we lived like the world wanted us, like we were part of it.
I asked him if he felt, as I have expressed now in my loony post-partum state, that where we grew up was extra-special. After a slightly terrifying-to-me pause, he said quietly, “Yes. I’ve found it difficult to explain to people.”
Here’s the thing: everything was innocent, as it is when you are young, forming an identity that you aren’t even aware you’re forming. Even the most debaucherous, most hurtful, or most shameful things you can do at that age are fueled by an innocence that is of a time, and by default, a place. I’ve wondered if anything sets my town apart from any other small town in America – and I’m not sure. I recall it for the ocean and the country roads, and though environment is huge and evocative, ultimately I suspect that this is just how one feels about where they grew up. It is that innocence that I romanticize, and
that I associate with Little Silver.
Here is a pic that our friend Mauricio snapped from the train as he was passing through only last week.
News Flash: New York is still weird.
When I was 16, I occasionally cut school to take the train into the city with my friends. These jaunts entailed various adventures around the east village in carefully-selected outfits we considered cutting edge, though I’m sure they clearly illustrated to the city at large that we were from the suburbs. I recall knocking on the door of a Bleecker St. basement apartment, above which read the sign ‘Psychic Palm Reader’. A small, attractive woman opened the door. Facing us from the back of the dark room was a sea of neon-blue emanating from a wall-sized aquarium. In front of it was the only furniture in the room, a king-sized bed in which lay two sleeping sumo-wrestler sized men, and a small crumpled dent in the middle where she had been 20 seconds prior. She asked me to hold on a second, and when she shut the door, my two friends and I ran.
We ended up down the block at CBGB, and back then the front of the store was a record store. As I was flipping through some LPs, I happened upon a dead mouse. The dude working there walked over, picked it up by the tail, opened the door and threw it out on the sidewalk.
In the past 16 years that I’ve been living here, common complaints are that the city is no longer interesting, too safe, Disneyland, etc. So imagine my delight the other day, when, having to kill an hour in midtown-east of all boring places, I saw a large man walking two expensive, pure-bred looking dogs. In the middle of a Park Avenue traffic lane, one of the dogs was busy doing his business while its owner and the other dog waited patiently amidst hysterical, swerving, screaming, honking cars. When the squatting dog was finished, it politely took a seat next to the other one, while the owner/walker guy responsibly pulled out a bag, scooped up the mess and tossed it in a trash can.
While I was busy speculating on the ‘why in the middle of the lane?’ aspect of this scenario, a man walked past me pushing a hand truck with a single pork roast on it.
So you see, NYC can still be weird.
New York shows – January
We’re playing a couple of shows in New York City this next week. Tuesday the 18th at Cake Shop is the main one to know about. We’ll also be contributing a song or two to the wild and wooly Motherlodge fundraiser at Joe’s Pub on Monday the 17th. Info for both on our Shows page. Come!
Harry Smith Festival
It’s been a couple of weeks since we returned from the Harry Smith Festival – a weekend in Millheim, PA – (Amish-land) and this is the first chance we’ve had to write about it.
To be honest, I haven’t quite known HOW to write about it, so I’ll start with the history here.
For anyone unfamiliar (as I was, before we were invited to this two years ago, and then again this year-) Harry Smith was a kooky artist and ethnographer, credited with basically kickstarting the 60s folk-revival, when he released a bunch of old recordings from the 1920s and 30s on what was basically a big unauthorized mixtape called the Anthology of American Folk Music. These recordings are RAW – and full of gems. Kai Schafft, of the awesomely sweaty and enthusiastic old-time group The Chicken Tractor Deluxe – said “Why don’t we get a bunch of people here to drive out to the middle of PA and play some of this stuff?” Let me tell you, it was a grand idea.
There are so many bands I was introduced to this weekend that I absolutely loved. First of all, our Brooklynite buddies Chris Moore & Sons drove out and back in one day to perform six songs together with Curtis Eller. Watching Eller was kind of like watching a weirder Sid Vicious on the banjo – and they brought the house down. There were the KC Rounders, who were more of the straight ahead traditional style (stand up bass, banjo, guitar and mandolin) and then Marah. There were only two of them. Christine played about every instrument known to man – and well; guitarist Dave was such a compelling player – it was really refreshing to hear these old songs performed by a bona-fide rock and roll band. Catherine Irwin from Louisville, KY was one of the headliners, and she has that real traditional, haunting and somewhat matter-of-fact vocal style that is really how these songs were meant to be heard.
I could go on… and on… but instead, I’ll just say one more thing – the venue, the Elk Creek Cafe – in Millheim, brews all their own beers. And they’re GOOD. So from 2 – 11pm we were transfixed by band after band – and yes, we performed somewhere in there too (with special guest Ben Shapiro on drums! Ray was marooned in Louisville and couldn’t fit in the trunk of Ms. Irwin’s car) – while we drank microbrews and ate food sourced from the local farms (and when I say local, I mean 3 miles away-). And horses and buggies clopped by all the livelong day.
New Hampshire and The Nauga
The Nauga Cake
Every October Steve and I head up to our friend’s house on Lake Winnipesaukee. These extended weekends are full of canoeing, hiking, mad music-making, fires in the various fireplaces, saunas, walks, tons of cooking/eating – and general hanging out and talking about how awesome everything is.
This year, the weekend we picked was our friend Andy’s birthday. So naturally, we celebrated with a Nauga Cake.
Andy is to be credited with having introduced us to The Naugahyde Monster, the most positive of creatures. The Nauga is the mascot, so to speak, of UniRoyal – who manufactured Naugahyde couches in the 70s. I STRONGLY encourage you to visit this link to read The Nauga’s bio. It’s long and full of fascinating facts I’ll bet you didn’t know about this sweet, sweet monster. There are also many drawings depicting Nauga history, such as a prehistoric Nauga, as well as my favorite -Naugas coming to America through Ellis Island.
Here’s a small excerpt (albeit a little corporate-speak) to whet your whistle:
“The small chameleon-like animals known as Naugas™ have long been known as the source of beautiful and durable fabrics that look like fine, soft leather. And since Naugas shed their hydes without harm to themselves, the fabrics they help make came to be known as Naugahyde®, The Cruelty Free Fabric™.”
Side note: I was told that ‘the shedding of their skins’ was added when PETA initially reacted to the original idea that thousands of these darling little creatures had to die for the couches. Fair enough. It goes on to cite history’s many famous Naugas and their achievements, and what an inspiring bunch! From their altruistic nature to their innovative genius to their athletic prowess, there’s much to admire about The Nauga.
Winnipesaukee Steve
We forced our accomplice, Steve Bag, to take a walk in the pouring rain with Andy to get him out of the house while we decorated this cake. Thank you Bag, for risking pneumonia for the glory of The Nauga Cake!
On another note, here’s a shot of Winnipesaukee Steve bonin’ up on a bunch of old-time folk songs, to be performed by us at this weekend’s Harry Smith Festival in Millheim, PA.