The Truth About Me + My Guitar.

It is a Saturday morning and I just finished playing guitar in the empty rooms of my house. For some reason, I feel like "Speed of the Sound of Loneliness" was meant to be played in my empty dining room in pajamas and knee-high socks on a rainy Saturday on an old Takamine with a worn down neck. I love the neck of that guitar. The indentions are where my thumb has rested since I was twelve years old.

I write a lot on this small blog about the music I love. I tell you what I'm listening to, the history behind why I love it, and sometimes the history of the music itself. But I never really share the part of me that enjoys playing songs for myself. I have purposefully left this part out. In fact, I hate playing in front of people. I don't know if it is because singing folk songs to myself is my coping mechanism, my vessel for self-soothing, or is a result of years of practicing locked in my bedroom plunking out songs and trying to find a way to reconcile my folk sensibilities with my happy suburban Tennessee upbringing. I guess I felt that in order to be a folk singer, you had to be a tortured soul. I was never a tortured soul. I was well provided for and loved, despite my ability to lean into a dark mood. Yet, somehow I was identifying with these singer/songwriters who were very dark, talented, holy souls. I always wanted to be more tortured than I was. As an adult, I am grateful that I am not. Although, I'm not a songwriter. And I still wish I was. It's not too late for that.

Playing in front of people strikes in me great anxiety. As an adolescent, my mother would have to force me to get out of our family car for my yearly guitar recital. I won't even play in front of friends without the lubrication of wine or bourbon. Unless it is with my sweet friend, Luisa, who can bring out of me things that I never imagined and who's big, soulful voice somehow blends magically with my tiny folksy one. For me to play at our wedding was an act that struck sheer terror in me and I was in a room full of people who love me deeply.  For some reason, playing in front of loved ones is harder for me. I want the people who love me to think I'm good. I could care less about strangers.

me, circa 2007.

Playing alone offers me some comfort. If I'm doing particularly well, I don't feel silly thinking, "Wow, Lauren, you sounded REALLY great." And if I don't hit a note? WHO CARES? No one can hear me. Except that's not really true now. I play in those empty front rooms because they are all reverb-y and empty and warm at the same time. And our yellow house isn't very big. William can hear me singing Townes or Bob or even at times Nirvana. And he never says anything. He just lets me do it without praise or criticism. Because he knows that's what I need.

In 2004, I was still a college student. It was a warm spring night, and I sang three songs in MTSU's studio B. I was barefooted and wearing jeans and a hoodie. I am grateful to have these recordings and cannot deny their sweetness. So in an effort for me to be bold, brave, and conquer a fear I hold deep, I share this with you. Only a few people have heard it including my family, my husband, and Liz, who encouraged this blog post. Be kind, internets. Even though I am not a tortured soul, I am a sensitive one.

Catch the Wind by Naurnie by naurnie