Outtakes

The people who photograph me are the most patient people in the world. I'm terrible behind the camera. I laugh. I wiggle. I start talking right when the shutter clicks. I want do-overs during which I can't keep a straight face.

See what I mean?

The ultra-talented, hot-voiced, artistic Ann Rosenquist Fee is one of those patient saints. She agreed, on Saturday, to come over on Sunday to shoot me. Because I needed shots in a hurry to make concert posters for my "Irish Pub" Harp Concert in a hurry and...yeah...welcome to Amy Kortuem's sometimes really excellent concert planning skills.

And so she took up my digital camera and began. Scene setting, hot whiskey, 300+ photos and lots of deep artistic talk and laughter later, we were done. I loved the results.

But of course, there were outtakes. And I'm going to share them because I think sometimes the process of a person's art is just as (if not more) fascinating than seeing the final product without knowing that process. (And because I think they're really, really, really funny.)

Here was that process. Enjoy.

Here it comes...

...wait for it...

...laugh attack.

Totally hopeless.

 Ann: "Amy. Give me back the camera. Now."

Much better. Look at those blurry fingers. I'm shredding it.

Wait, how are my shoes? (I'm distracted by shiny things.)

Leaning on it.

Seriously?

Wait, how's my hair?

Wait, I need more lip gloss. Chanel #158 - Braise.

What's that you say?

You say there's whiskey on the table behind me?

Why, yes there is! There IS whiskey on the table behind me!

However did that get there?

 Now we're getting somewhere.

And...it's a keeper.

Thanks, Ann. I owe you. Just imagine what we could do with really good cameras.

And I hope everyone can come and see me play in person. I promise, no giggles (riiiight).

I've had the flu. And I've been sad.

Cough. Cough-cough. Hack. Hack-hack. Nose blow, nose blow, nose blow...

Such has been my routine for almost two weeks now. The flu never comes at a good time. But it came at an especially bad time for this harpist-singer.

I had to play at a wedding last Friday. Everything was fine until I had a coughing fit during the psalm, but the guests sang on and I managed to play to the end. The sweet bride told me everything was still beautiful. Oh, how nice.

I had a booth at the Mankato Bridal Show last Saturday. Handed out hundreds of fliers and business cards to hundreds of brides, played Canon in D for hours on end.

And then, on Monday, I played at the funeral of my friend Lisa, who "went to Heaven" as her mother told me, last Wednesday. I was so worried that I'd not be able to sing How Great Thou Art and O Holy Night, as Lisa requested. I was terrorized by the memory of that coughing fit at that wedding last Friday. My voice had to hold out. I had to make it through, for Lisa and her family. I had to.

So I did lots of gentle practicing in the days leading up to the funeral. Got lots of rest, drank gallons and gallons of tea, took everything my wonderful pharmacist put in my cart.

Harry helped with the practicing. Oh, good kitty.

I decided I would be just fine. Everything would be fine. My voice would be fine, I would play just fine. And everything was coming along just...fine...

...until Lisa's mom brought this over to my house 

the day before the funeral.

It's a gift basket Lisa got for me at a benefit four days before she died. She'd texted me allllll day long about getting me one, I texted back with "no, you don't have to do that," she texted back with, "yes, I'm going to anyway." And she did. It wasn't even noon when Lisa's mom dropped it off. I popped the cork anyway and poured a glass to honor Lisa and to stop the tears that I knew would flow and stuff me up and cause a coughing fit. 

The funeral on Monday WAS fine. My voice did hold out. My harp sang and put forth that beauty and healing that only it can do. I felt it change the atmosphere in the church. I didn't cough. I didn't cry. I did my job. I did it. But I've been so sad ever since. At the loss of Lisa. At the loss of a friend. At the unfairness and ugliness of cancer. All of it. 

But Harry came to the rescue again. 

He flapped his tail right into my face the night of the funeral

and he kept it there for an hour. 

Oh, good kitty.

Oh, goodbye, Lisa. I'll miss you, my friend.

My real work with the harp

In this first post of the new year, I could write about all the brightly lit Christmas parties I performed at in December. The warm and beautiful Christmas Eve services filled with carols and candlelight. The New Year's Eve dinner at Naniboujou Lodge in Grand Marais.

But the most meaningful, important holiday "gig" I played for this year was in my own house for my dear friend Lisa.

Lisa has cancer. This may be her last Christmas.

I've known Lisa since 7th grade. I remember walking into Wellcome Memorial High School on the first day of school and seeing her smiling face and her sparkling brown eyes and liking her immediately. And when gymnastics season started in November of that year, Lisa and I got to spend lots of time together, practicing aerial cartwheels and balance beam routines and complaining about leotards riding up our behinds and helping each other into contortionist positions to stretch out our sore muscles. She had the most beautiful back handspring you've ever seen - so arched and graceful and so perfectly rhythmic. She could do them around the gym without stopping. Everyone would quit what they were doing to watch her.

As I got to know her better, I loved making her laugh - a laugh that came from the very bottom of her soul and bubbled up and out in a way I've never, ever heard another person laugh before and may not ever again. We laughed so hard we were shushed and frowned at and had sore stomach muscles the next day. There were slumber parties, gymnastics meets, school dances. All filled with memories of the fun only Lisa could create.

Lisa left Wellcome Memorial in 9th grade to go to school in Mankato. I missed her. Our lives took different paths, different friends. But there were phone calls when we'd make each other laugh practicing our German (me) and French (her) counting: eins, zwei, drei...un, deux, troi. We gossiped about people we knew. And then we lost contact.

Until I looked out into the crowd at one of my earliest holiday concerts and saw her smiling face. She was painfully thin and obviously not well. Afterward, she came up to hug me and I felt her bones under her clothing. She told me then that she had cancer. Cancer she'd fought and beat, fought and beat. But her smile was the same, her pointy little eye teeth poking out over her bottom lip, her sparkling eyes were still bright. It became an annual meeting - the hugs after my concerts.

And then this year I got a text message from her (long, detailed, 5-part text messages are her specialty). Her cancer was back. There was no fighting anymore. She was stopping treatment, getting things in order, seeing all the people she wanted to see. Would I meet her for a drink? Would I play and sing at her funeral? Of course I would. But I made her promise to come over and hear me play anything she wanted, for as long as she wanted, before the funeral came. 

And so she did. Fragile, weak, swollen from medication, but still smiling. I played and sang "O Holy Night" for her. "How Great Thou Art". "Silent Night". I played and played and played and sang, anything she wanted. As long as she wanted.

And in between, we talked. I thought we'd talk about big things - life, death, how she was coping, her medication, her faith, her thoughts about it all. But what we talked about were the very same things we've ever talked about - boys and boobs and makeup and hair. We talked about back handsprings and aerial cartwheels and how much we missed being able to do them without suffering major pain or major injury at our advanced ages. We talked about the gymnastics coach who wouldn't let us use a certain springboard for the vault if we weighed a pound over 120 - and who would announce our weight to us in front of our friends (crazy how that both scarred us for so long). We talked about what we were baking for Christmas: candy, cookies, breads and fudge (her)...nothing (me). We laughed, and I could hear hers bubbling up from the very bottom of her soul still, coming up and shaking her shoulders and making her pointy little eye teeth poke out over her bottom lip.

And then I could see she was fading. It was time for her mom to take her home to rest. But we made plans and promises to see each other again. After Christmas. After the holidays. After things have settled down. Of course, I said. Of course. Anytime.

And we grinned like idiots for the camera.

I watched her mom help her down the icy sidewalk and into the car. She gave a wave and they drove off. I made it back into the house, into the kitchen, before I completely broke down and put my head down on the counter and sobbed. My own mom and our friend Wanda had come over that day, too. We collapsed into a heap for a few minutes and then we decided Lisa would probably kick our asses if she saw us crying. So I poured us shots of my home brew rose liqueur and we toasted friendship, life, all goodness.

I got (5-part) text message from Lisa yesterday. She had a wonderful Christmas. She wondered if I'd gotten the cookie Christmas tree she'd dropped off in my mailbox (so that's who it was from!). She wondered when we can get together again. 

Anytime. Any, any, anytime my friend.

This, people. This is the most important work I do.

The birthday "harpy" hour was wonderful!

Truly, it was. After a flurry of texting my Mom and my fashion guru Ann Rosenquist Fee photos of options, I finally decided what to wear a mere 3 minutes before I had to leave the house with the harp.

Black skirt, sheer split-shoulder top...

...and these shoes. Spectator stilettos given to me by my

wonderful friend-neighbor Nicole Helget.

As I quickly found out, the shoes are meant for sitting and not for walking. There's a term for shoes like this. I learned it from a woman who owns a shoe boutique in Dingle, Ireland: "car-to-bar" shoes. As in, your date drives the car right up to the entrance to the bar, you hobble in and perch on the nearest barstool with your legs crossed so your fabulous shoes are on view, you drink and eat, you make merry, and then you hobble out to the car that your date has pulled up the curb when the night's over. "Car-to-bar." Beautiful.

The very tall heels of these beauties did make it easier for my little feet to reach the harp's pedals, though...

 It was a great evening. The bar was packed. 

Lots of friends showed up, and some cousins, too. 

And bunches of people I don't know.

All of whom sang "Happy Birthday" to me in quite spectacular fashion.

 I was mobbed by fans.

(OK, not really. This groups was just leaving all at once...)

Santa even stopped by to hear me play. With his fianceé, Carol.

(Don't tell Mrs. Claus.)

 I played all my favorite carols and songs.

Loudly. My fingers were very sore. I kept playing...

...with periodic breaks to sip prosecco.

Mmmm, prosecco.

Note to harpists: This is NOT the proper way to sit

when you're playing the harp.

(But after two glasses of prosecco, you won't care...)

 And then there was cake. 

Red velvet chocolate cake made by my Mom.

She makes it for me every single birthday.

I looooooove the red velvet chocolate cake.

(Especially with the champagne...)

And this was the scene on my porch the next morning:

Cake carnage and stilettos dropped at the entrance

and totally forgotten for the night.

 

Birthday "Harpy" Hour

Wednesday is my birthday. And I couldn't imagine sitting home drinking little bottles of (very cheap, very crappy but they do the trick) champagne in a fog of holiday performing exhaustion. In my sweats. And reading glasses. Knitting. Covered in cats.

Yeah. So I concocted a gig. A swanky, classy gig. One at which only the sexiest high heels will be worn. And I needed a new photo for the poster.

Enter my friend, neighbor, famous author and awesome photographer Nicole Helget. She came over with her camera on a Friday afternoon and made me smile, laugh, snuggle the harp, look sultry and act alternately professional, sexy and totally inappropriate.

Here's the final result.

Join me if you're in town. Come to town if you're out of town.

Shoes will be checked at the door to see if they meet sassy standards.

And yes, there were outtakes. Some are unfit for public viewing. But others - OK, I'll share them. I always get the giggles during photo shoots.

Especially when little bottles of (very cheap, very crappy but they do the trick) champagne 

are cracked open at 3:00 in the afternoon.

Is it hot in here, or is it just my shoes?

Yep, it's my shoes.

If anybody else put their foot on my harp like this, I'd break their leg.

I'm dreaming of a non-icy Christmas so it's easier to load the harp in cute shoes...

la la la laaaa...

I'm so funny. I crack myself up.

Jingle Belle loves cute shoes. (I should have used a lint roller on those pants, I realize now...)

I love my harp. I love champagne.

I'm serious, people. Come to Number 4 Wednesday night to celebrate with me.

10th Anniversary Concert - it was beautiful

Driving the Cold Winter Away, for the 10th year in a row.

(photo: Mark Braun)

It was beautiful. Perfect, really. I couldn't have wished for or planned for or dreamed of a better anniversary concert.

Despite the fact that the temperature had dropped 40+ degrees in less than 24 hours. Despite the fact that the Tuesday before the concert I was diagnosed with "bronchitis that would have been pneumonia if you'd waited a day". Despite the fact that, as a result of the diagnosis and the loss of 4 pre-concert productive days, I had to cut two songs from the set list and forgot to arrange for an official photographer and nearly forgot to arrange for a videographer (videos coming soon) and forgot to arrange for ticket takers and CD sellers. Despite the fact that the dress I wanted to wear hadn't arrived by the Wednesday before the concert and I had not even a clue about shoes yet...

Yes, inspite of allll this, I'm so happy with how everything turned out.  The weather was frightfully blustery outside, but inside, the church was warm and cozy. The antibiotics worked in record time (so did all the over-the-counter remedies recommended by my wonderful pharmacist and the hot whiskey prescribed by my mother). No one noticed the two missing songs - in fact, the concert probably would have been too long with them. My friend Tim saved the day with the video, my Mom and Dad and friends stepped in to sell tickets and CDs (Dad would like you to know he sold FOUR CDs, all by himself), some audience members snapped iPhone photos and shared them with me.

The Second Half Dress. I hear it looked like a disco ball when I moved.

Awesome.

(photo: Freddy Madrigal) 

And my dress - it arrived and Mom altered it in record time. It was the first time a dress I wore at a concert got applause of its own. In the first half of the concert, I wore the legendary red ruffled dress that's featured on the cover of my All Hayle to the Days album to represent where I've been, all that I'd dreamed of, who I was when I started. And then after intermission, I changed into a short, silver-sequined, ultra-shiny number (with matching silver shoes, yes indeed) to say: "This is who I am now, and I'm loving being me!" People gasped when I walked out - applauded like they normally do, but then sparked up the applause just for the dress.

I haven't even talked about the music yet because, miraculously, every single song went off perfectly, without a hitch, without a vocal waver or a missed note or a missed cue or a slipped pedal (silver shoes = yay!). I have no idea how I did it, how my voice rang out so strong and clear, how my band followed me in my half-sick state, but we did it. And it was magical to be there performing and experiencing it all myself, to follow that path from the very beginnings, to perform the songs that meant "holiday concert" to me, many of which ended up on my All Hayle to the Days album. To move into my new compositions, to tell of my travels to Ireland, and Paris, then Ireland, Paris and Ireland and how they inspired the new me, the new music and art I make.

My good friends Ann and Sara, out of hiatus as Prima Vox.

On my "Fire & Ice" - oh, Paris memories.

Oh, those girls and our voices...

 

I'm a very happy harpist, a very grateful girl, grateful to everyone who performed with me, helped me, hauled harps and CDs and candelabra and music stands and harp benches and music bags and candles for me, made things happen behind the scenes, set up sound for me (Ann Rosenquist Fee, that would be you)...thank you.

Happy, happy, warm start to the winter season!

Holiday Concert Retrospective

As I've been preparing for the holiday concert on Saturday night, I've been going through the photo, video and recording archives from holiday concerts past. A 10th anniversary is a big deal, I've come to realize even more. That a fairly small community has embraced a strange and unique instrument like a harp, and a musician who's absolutely determined to do things herself, and her own way - it's a wonderful thing. I'm overwhelmed by the support and what it has meant to my artistic life.

Here are some of the images I found:

Holiday concert 2006. 

St. Peter and Paul's Catholic Church, Mankato.

I'd gone to Ireland for the first time that May, so the concert had me delving into 

Irish and Celtic Christmas carols and holiday music. Megan danced up there on that platform

 to "Christmas Day I'da Morning" and to the "Mistletoe Waltz" by Kathleen Loughnane.

I met Kathleen on my grant trip to Ireland in 2010, and she was thrilled that I'd been playing her song.

(Though that white jacket I wore made me kinda look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man...)

Holiday Concert 2008.

First Presbyterian Church, Mankato.

After holding concerts in the big and gorgeous Good Counsel Chapel and large spaces 

like St. Peter and Paul's church, I was looking for a more intimate environment.

I found it in First Presbyterian Church. The wooden interior, the rounded sanctuary, the domed ceiling

- they all brought the audience and the sound closer to me. 

That year, we performed Christmas lullabies - including one I composed, 

which you'll hear on Saturday night.

Holiday Concert 2009.

I'd just come back from Paris. I was reeling from all the art and inspiration and beauty and richness of the experience. I'd composed "Fire & Ice" while I was in Paris for harp and women's voices 

- my voice, Sara Buechmann's voice and Ann Fee's voice, to be specific.

This concert was the world premiere of that piece.

Since then, it's been performed by other choirs, which thrills me beyond thrilled.

Holiday Concert 2011.

It was a performance of the music from my very first recording, The Light and the Lady.

I wrote all about that experience here...

Revisiting that music was a beautiful experience, and the concert was as well.

Now, on to this year. My 10th anniversary concert. My band is ready, the special musical guests are prepped, the prizes are waiting for their recipients. The harps are sitting in the corner of the living room right now, under the lit evergreen garland, soaking in the quiet and the the unusual warmth of this day, sure to ring out in their beautiful way on Saturday night.

I hope to see you all there!

Now to figure out what I'm going to wear, once and for all...

To Drive the Cold Winter Away - a 10 year celebration

I really, really hope you can join me!

10 years ago, I had this crazy idea. 

It was August 2003. I'd just given a CD release concert for my album "The Harp Her Soul Required." I'd never given a concert before. 800 people came. And many of them said, "Do this again at Christmas - please!"

 So I did. 

 November 2003. Standing ovation.

I gathered up my favorite holiday music, researched some new pieces, arranged them all in Amy ways, invited my good friend Martha Lindberg and my new friend Sam Lawrence to perform with me, and set the date: the Saturday after Thanksgiving to create a warm welcome to the season. To avoid the Christmas music deluge that begins December 1. To set a feeling of calm, beauty and thoughtfulness in peoples' minds early, in hopes that it would linger and sustain them throughout the rest of the holidays.

I called it "To Drive the Cold Winter Away" after a traditional old song of that title. The lyrics are wonderful and hilarious and they talk about creating warmth for and with each other, being neighborly, being forgiving, making merry. That song became the centerpiece for each concert. 

And the theme inspired me to create warmth in other ways. Every year I've held free will offerings and given a portion of the proceeds to VINE Faith in Action. It's an organization close to my heart. Pam Determan, the organization's founder, was my religion teacher in junior high. And VINE helps people like my beloved neighbor Ethel remain independent in their homes. 

Now, 10 years later, I'm looking back on all those concerts. All that music, all that art, all that warmth. An addition to the band: Marti Ryan. Such good memories. And from the comments and emails and letters and calls I receive from people who have attended, I know that using my talents in this way is making a real difference to people.

And this is the year I'm celebrating it all. With favorite music from each year, special guests performing with me, accompaniment from my fearless (and patient and good-humored and adventurous) band, my original music. And some brand new music I'm putting the finishing touches on. A world premiere, for my 10th year.

There will be drawings for prizes, too. It'll be fun! Check out all the details on my website (click here.)

Stay tuned for more updates, more memories. And please mark your calendars. I so hope you can celebrate with me.

And I want to hear YOUR memories, too! Leave them in a comment to this post along with your email address, and I'll send you a never-before released MP3 of a song I've recorded. And I might even share your memory during the concert...