Juliette Miranda

    I have a secret. More people than I’d care to admit are probably in on it already, which is unfortunate, seeing as how I generally prefer to not come off as an idiot. But the truth is, I wear my stupidity proudly. On my ankle.

Phrases like, “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” dance through my skull from time to time, but all the rationalization in the world won’t soothe the fact that a combination of alcohol and ignorance have lead to a constant source of ridicule. It’s especially bruising for me, the chick who claims to inherently know all things music. Sadly, my inherent knowledge has a few gaps.

All I wanted was a simple tattoo. My life in Los Angeles at the time was hovering somewhere just short of destitute. I had gone to LA looking for music and for life, and all I had to show for it after five years was my cat and the pity dollar a beggar onVentura Boulevard gave me. My return to Chicago was imminent, and I was crushed.But despite all the grief and turmoil I’d experienced in that town, I still wanted to take a part of it back with me. I needed something distinctly my own to carry, something to show for the time I’d spent in tireless pursuit of a dream. I needed a tattoo.

But LA has a funny way of taking even the most pure and heartfelt aspirations and twisting them into something else entirely, and in hindsight, considering just how bad my luck ran in that town, I really should have seen this coming. Because only in LA would I happen to down enough vodka to float a whale. And only in LA would I grab a completely non-musically inclined girlfriend to accompany me to the only tattoo parlor in the city where a non-musician would be available to tattoo a music note onto my ankle.

To his credit, he was a sweet guy and a talented tattoo artist. He was extremely reassuring to a tattoo virgin and showed a great deal of concern about placing the tattoo I’d selected in the most artistically appropriate place. “I think you’ll be most happy with it if we place it like this,” he said, transferring the note outline to a new place on my ankle. He was right: the note seemed to curve around my ankle and flowed better with my skin.

My no-music-knowledge friend clapped her hands and agreed. I smiled, gave him the go-ahead, and let him drive a permanent memento of Los Angeles into my skin. Too bad the music note was backwards.

It wasn’t long before this charming, for-the-rest-of-my-life error was pointed out to me by a helpful musician who had to choke himself to reign in his laughter. I did the only thing I could: I laughed, too.

To this day, some six-plus years later, I frequently lie and tell people that the tattoo is of a 16th note. It’s a load of crap of course, no music note in the history of music looks anything like what I’ve got on my ankle, but most people don’t know that. And those who do just point and laugh. I’m used to it by now.

That silly backwards music note serves as a constant reminder of the silly, backwards life I lived in LA. Neither is perfect, but I’m starting to accept that both are a part of me.

Post script: I’ve since successfully gotten two more tattoos. A treble clef, and, as of last night, a bass clef. My thanks go to Dil, for his hand: to hold, and in ensuring that the bass clef without a doubt faces in the right direction.

“Come on, it’s just two notes. Sing them!”

Had I not an audience of one staring at me intently, I might have been more inclined to belt out the requested notes. I’ve certainly sung the backing “whoa oahs” to Bon Jovi’s “Livin on a Prayer” so many times that the notes are burned into my ear drums.

Of course, the majority of my singing is done in the shower, where my optimistically off-pitch renditions offend only my own better senses. If I was going to summon the courage to sing solo for a friend, and a musician no less, it was going to take a whole lot more encouragement. And whiskey.

Fortunately, I’ve had plenty of both recently.

Having just come home from my own personal Almost Famous tour of sorts, I’m finding that my long-overdue return to the music scene has more benefits that I would have thought. It’s a surprising revelation for a girl who, nine months ago, essentially swore off people in general and refused to leave her living room.

But recovery comes in unusual places. My own just happened to be the result of a thoughtful suggestion from a girlfriend who is likely wishing she’d never opened her mouth in the first place. Part of me can’t blame her: rock and roll is not for everyone.

However, had she not encouraged me to venture outside the odd little world I’d built for myself, you’d likely be seeing my picture on police station bulletin boards right now. Much as I love my seclusion, I know it’s getting to be too much when I’ve alphabetized my CDs by producer and can have a conversation with my cat and think I understand what she squawks out in reply.

It is a relief to see the similarities between myself and David Berkowitz dissipating. A few may argue that my subsequent renewed passion for the music scene is potentially as dangerous, but the truth is, few things mean more to me or feel more like home than music.

I admit that despite my best efforts I tend to take my interest to Yoko-like levels. It’s an impulse I just can’t control: if I can’t actually be in the band, I want to be as with it as possible. Maybe it’s the geek in me, or maybe I really am a groupie who tries way too hard to mask her musical adoration with technical know-how, but I find I am happiest when I am allowed access to music beyond just listening.

This does make me the ultimate nuisance to bands, seeing as how they practically have to rip their gear from my helpful little fingers. The day is not far off I’m sure when I will be sent way out into left field during sound check with the stated purpose of “checking the low end by the beer tent” when what I’m really being sent on is a pointless errand to get me as far from the stage as possible.

My own ridiculousness is not lost on me. Still, my biggest thrill this past weekend came from being entrusted to string a bass guitar before a show. Pulling those strings into place gave me more satisfaction that that band will ever know, not just for the small part it gave me in their music, but for the way it brought me back to myself.

I was reminded of this as I sat with my friend Dil recently. His request for an impromptu vocal demonstration had thrown me off balance because it came with a genuine suggestion that I join the band on stage to do backing vocals for a song one night.

The blood rushed to my face as he sat waiting for me to produce two stupid notes. You’d think a chick who knows more about music than many of the bands she runs with would have no hesitation in demonstrating her skills.

Dil smiled warmly. He’s been more supportive of my talents and interests than I could ever have asked; that he would give me the ultimate opportunity to step into a new role for a few minutes had my head reeling.

I saw the stage I could stand on, the lights that might happen to fall close enough to me that I wouldn’t be completely in the dark, and realized that I was finally moving out of my living room and into a place where I feel like the person I know I am.

And so I sang.

It may take a bit of warming up, but I will always hit my notes.