flawless
As I'm working through choosing the songs for this album so we can make some final cuts ... I keep flashing back to the first one. It came out when I was 26. Adryana was still a toddler and Jason was on-again-off-again clean and I was so stoked because Rolling Stone gave me a review. Until I read the review. "Sasha Martin is a born-again Janis Joplin" they said. And I squealed and cried. Until I read the rest of the review. In 150 words they just turned me into a groupie mess with no sense of self, a pet of Marc Gadling, who was going to be dead by 27. But, they warned, I wouldn't be in any kind of special club. I just wasn't going to implode. Girls like me, we don't survive.
Well I did.
For my 28th birthday, we all stayed up til sunrise. Jason was in rehab, and so we all came together at Mike and Jaz's and we smoked and drank and were dumb all night. They got me a cake and all the kids got cupcakes and then a babysitter kept them occupied so the adults could be stupid. And I remember, as the sun came up, I pulled out that review - I kept it. I kept it with me all the time. And I poured a shot of whiskey and I stuffed the review into the glass and I lit the whole damn thing on fire.
Fuck them.
I made it past 27. I'm 39 and my kids aren't too feral and my husband is clean if not sober and I'm still making music. I've stopped caring if Rolling Stone gives a damn. That club? It's not that great anyway. I mean, they all could have done a hell of a lot more with their lives if they'd lived just a little bit longer.
That's what's boiling though, as I finish up this album. As I make final edits and cuts. As my producer makes me cry and my band has to deal with my issues. I'm remembering being told that not only wouldn't I live to see 28, but I wasn't good enough to even try. That I'd only be pretty when I was high.
I'm here. And I'm frigging flawless inside all of my flaws. And my only regret - at least today - is that I don't have a copy of that review to burn all over again.
Well I did.
For my 28th birthday, we all stayed up til sunrise. Jason was in rehab, and so we all came together at Mike and Jaz's and we smoked and drank and were dumb all night. They got me a cake and all the kids got cupcakes and then a babysitter kept them occupied so the adults could be stupid. And I remember, as the sun came up, I pulled out that review - I kept it. I kept it with me all the time. And I poured a shot of whiskey and I stuffed the review into the glass and I lit the whole damn thing on fire.
Fuck them.
I made it past 27. I'm 39 and my kids aren't too feral and my husband is clean if not sober and I'm still making music. I've stopped caring if Rolling Stone gives a damn. That club? It's not that great anyway. I mean, they all could have done a hell of a lot more with their lives if they'd lived just a little bit longer.
That's what's boiling though, as I finish up this album. As I make final edits and cuts. As my producer makes me cry and my band has to deal with my issues. I'm remembering being told that not only wouldn't I live to see 28, but I wasn't good enough to even try. That I'd only be pretty when I was high.
I'm here. And I'm frigging flawless inside all of my flaws. And my only regret - at least today - is that I don't have a copy of that review to burn all over again.