The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: Live from Santa Barbara

Episode Date: October 3, 2023

A special live edition of The Moth brought to you from the Lobero Theater in Santa Barbara, California. An encounter in the Alaskan wilderness, an intergenerational connection through music, and a rockstar who feels out of touch. This episode is hosted by Dame Wilburn, with additional hosting by Jay Allison. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Storytellers: Monte Montepare finds himself at an emotional crossroads in rural Alaska. Christina Igaraividez connects to her grandmother through the violin. Drummer Patty Schemel finds herself on tour with millennials.

From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jay Ellison, producer of this show, and we're bringing you stories from a Moth main stage at the Lovero Theater in Santa Barbara, California. It was produced in partnership with the Public Radio Station KCRW. The poet and storyteller, Dame Wilburn, was the host of the night. The theme was beneath the armor. Here's Dame. Good evening Santa Barbara, how are you doing? Welcome to the month we are so happy, so excited to be here. Thank you KCRW for having us. Thank you so much for being here this evening. You look amazing, my reading glasses say that you look amazing. All right, so our theme tonight is beneath the armor.

And even though I'd like to have a conversation with you about beneath the armor, I, something more pressing, came up backstage and I had to talk to you about it. So this is my second time in Santa Barbara. And I am from Detroit, Michigan. And thank you. So I bring you greetings from Detroit by saying, what up, though? That's native Detroit in case you don't speak it.

But you are all spoiled. I don't know if you know it. I don't know if you know it. And I don't mean it as an insult. I'm jealous. There are lemons growing at your airport. Did you know that? Nothing grows at the Detroit airport but disdain.

I came off that plane and walked out of the Santa Barbara airport and said, are you kidding me right now? And they're potted. They're potted limitaries. They're not limitaries for slim and selling. These are decorative lemons. These aren't people lemons. These are just, these are, these lemons are simply to add a touch of yellow

to the sideboard. Also, as much as I think that you all, to add a touch of yellow to the sidewalk. Also, as much as I think that your city is beautiful, and it seems to be like there's a lot of money in this town, there was also somebody out front scalping moth tickets. Oh! Oh! Oh!

Oh! Like somehow, that means we've arrived? Like I don't know. You know, your scalp may take us to the mall. That's got to be the most Santa Barbara thing I've ever heard. That's the kind of thing that I will tell other cities about you besides the lemons. But again, thank you so much for having us I will tell other cities about you besides the lemons.

But again, thank you so much for having us. And we introduce our storytellers by asking them a question. And our question tonight is when was the last time you felt invincible? So I asked our first storyteller when was the last time you felt invincible. So I asked our first storyteller, when was the last time you felt invincible? And he said, writing my bike without using my hands. And I said, why does that make you feel invincible? And he says, because I do it in LA in the middle of the night. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Monty Montaparte. So I'm in my truck driving through the dark across Alaska.

If you haven't been to Alaska, it's big. And I'm heading toward McCarthy. McCarthy is a redneck hippie town at the end of a 60 mile dirt road in the middle of Wrangles St. Elias National Park, your country's largest national park, don't feel bad, nobody's heard of the place. And the population of McCarthy's like 200 people

and at least 100 dogs. And it's at the toe of McCarthy's like 200 people and at least 100 dogs. And it's at the toe of a gigantic glacier, the confluence of two rivers, the base of some of the most spectacular mountains you will ever see. It might be the most beautiful place on the planet. And I did not want to go back there. The night before I was on a couch in Anchorage, I was excited. I was there to celebrate my second wedding anniversary with my wife. We'd been living apart that summer. I was living in McCarthy taking people on adventures.

I was a wilderness guide for the last decade. And she was living in Anchorage pursuing her own professional goals. She was living with friends. We were sitting on their couch. It smelled like two kids and one dog. And that's where she turned to me and said, I cheated on you. Two years ago, right before our wedding in McCarthy. And it was not what I was expecting to get for my second wedding anniversary. I hear cotton is traditional. And the more that I found out the less that I felt like I could deal with it.

And when I found out that it wasn't once, it was an affair that went on that summer, I gave her a hug and I left. And I didn't know where to go. I called my parents in Colorado. I thought about going all the way home. And in all the years of exploratory river trips, 21-day mountaineering expeditions, calling them with frostbite from some glacier

that they can't even pronounce the name of, I had never heard my parents so concerned for my well-being. I was devastated. But I had to go back to McCarthy, because that's where my dogs were. I remember the first day that I got to McCarthy. I moved to Alaska when I was 20 years old in my truck, and I rolled into this town, and it's all dirt roads, and you have to walk across a bridge across a river to get there And it felt like I found Colorado in 1970 as my parents had always described it and I fell in love immediately

And I tell people for the next 10 years that I came for the mountains But I stayed for the town and I did I got addicted to that community It was so small and tight-knit. And I worked hard. I treated people with respect. I shared the place with the woman that I loved. And I felt protected there. Like as long as I was respected in McCarthy and my wife loved me, nothing else mattered. And as I rolled back into town, I did not feel either of those things. I felt like I knew that people had known the whole time. I felt like everybody knew.

I felt like I was the last one to find out my own secret. I felt like I wanted, I needed to hide. I didn't want to face anybody. I couldn't face my cab and so I went and stayed with my best friend Chris and his wife. Chris and I had moved to Alaska in that truck when we were 20 years old together. We'd known each other since preschool. And now he cared for me because I was incapable of doing so for myself. I've never felt an emotional pain that caused so much physical agony. I could barely eat, I could barely sleep, hours felt

like forever, the first couple days felt like an eternity, and if this was life, I wasn't sure if I wanted to keep doing it. And after a couple of days of that, I wanted to give Chris and Karen a break because living in a one-room cabin with your partner off the grid is complicated enough without having your heart broken buddy occupying your living room, slash dining room, slash only room. So when my buddy Chester asked me if I would crash at his house for a night I took him up on the offer. I met Chester that first day that I ever got to McCarthy, ten years before, and we bonded over punk rock music. Our dogs are sisters. So I followed Chester through the woods

in the dark to his cabin. Chris and Chester live in the same subdivision, but I feel like that word might be a little misleading in this usage. Think less suburbia and more a collection of cabins, shanties, trailers, and permanently parked school buses connected by a dirt road ripped through the woods. So I followed Chester to his house and we proceed to pull an all-night heart to heart. And I tell him that this whole thing feels like the last act of some bizarre Greek tragedy

that's been custom designed to wield my own inner demons as the means of my own destruction. I tell him how I've always struggled with my masculinity and how I feel completely emasculated. I tell him that I've always worried so much about what other people think about me to the point of trying to control people's perceptions, and now the thing that I would like to be the most hidden is the most public. I tell him I am angry, but I'm afraid to let myself be the one who's trying to be the most hidden is the most public. I tell him I am angry, but I'm afraid to let myself feel it, because it feels so intense and I don't know what to do with it. I wake up in the morning with my 80-pound husky dog lying on my chest. In her most demanding version yet of, maybe you'd feel a little

bit better if you'd been a big furry dog. And Chester and I drink coffee which I do and smoke cigarettes which I don't do but that morning it felt like I should. And I smoked the shit out of some cigarettes. And then I went to leave and my phone died and I realized I forgot my sweeping bag. I go back in Chester's, I grab my sweeping bag, I put it over my shoulder and Chester stops me and he puts his hand on my chest. And he says, you have an unlimited will of power inside of you. Which if you new Chester, you'd know that's a very Chester thing to say.

And I leave. I walk into the woods alone, because my dogs bailed on me to go back to Chris' for breakfast. And I feel lost in the world. I feel like my marriage was a lie. I feel like my life was a lie. I feel like I died on that couch. And then I realized that I'm actually lost. I am lost in the woods.

I don't know. And I know, right, I'm a wilderness guy, lost. lost in the woods. I don't know. And I know, right, I'm a wilderness guide, lost. In my buddies backyard. Because I'm killing it. But I am, I'm disoriented, trying to get my bearings. I take a step forward, a twig snaps under my foot. I look to the left, and I'm staring at a 750-pound grizzly bear 20 yards away from me. And I've had a decent amount of bearing counters in my life, some with grizzly bears, and I've

been mock-charged by a grizzly bear, which is when they charge you, it's their form of pounding their chest, trying to scare you off. I've never had any animal look at me the way that this bear looked at me, roared and immediately charged. This is worst case scenario. I just scared a bear in the bushes. This is not a mock situation. I'm under attack. And I turn my head to run for one instant, which is not what you're supposed to do. But when you're presented with something that terrifying, it can be a difficult

instinct to quell. And in that moment that my head's turned, I know exactly where my fire arm is. And it's six miles away in my cabin on my bedside table. And I scan the area looking for maybe a tree to climb or somewhere to hide which there isn't because there never is in Alaska. And Grizzly bears run 40 miles an hour. So I know if I try and run for one more second, this bear is going to be on top of me. What you are supposed to do if you're attacked by a grizzly bear is play dead. You're supposed to lie on the ground on your belly to protect your organs, put your hands behind your neck and only if the attack persists. Then do you fight for your life.

Well, what this bear didn't know is that I'd felt half dead for the past four days. I'd felt like I'd been being attacked from all angles, and it had persisted long enough. I knew this bear wasn't going to stop, nobody was going to save me. I turned around, and I looked, and I saw this bear bearling at me through the bushes. And I planted my feet and I put my teal and lime green sleeping bag over my head and I took all of that confusion and pain and directionless anger, and I unleashed it in a vain popping eye bulging primal scream, and the bear stopped.

Right? But now the bear was very close. So close that this time when it roared, I could see spit-all shoot off of its lips and feel its hot breath billow through the cold morning air. But now I was committed. I wasn't want to die. So I look the bear directly in the eyes, which you are also not supposed to do. And I dig down deep, deep inside past the burst bubble of McCarthy and the shards of my broken heart, down to a place that is not broken, to a place that cannot be destroyed.

And from there, I roar, and then I charge the bear. And I don't think that's what the bear was expecting to do. Because it looked at me, huffed, and ran into the woods. Many long-time Alaskans would tell you that the moral of this story is very simple. Carry your bare gun, you stupid hippie But to me it felt much more profound I knew that this experience was gonna summon all of my own personal demons and their most violent intense forms And if I tried to run or hide from them it was going to kill me

If I was gonna survive I was gonna need to be brave I tried to run or hide from them, it was going to kill me. If I was going to survive, I was going to need to be brave. I was going to need to stand my ground and look them right in the eye. Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, Monty Montepard. You can say a lot of stuff about Detroit, but we ain't got bears. It's going to be our city motto. Welcome to Detroit, Michigan. No bears. Monty Montibars spends part of his time in the mountains of Alaska, working as a wilderness

guide and taking people on adventures of a lifetime. And the rest of the time you can find him in Los Angeles pursuing his new passion, comedy. You can find out more about Monty and see pictures of him, his dog, and the Alaskan wilderness when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. whole Massachusetts and presented by PRX. You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jay Allison, producer of this show, and today we're bringing you a live event from the Lobero Theater in Santa Barbara, California.

The theme is beneath the armor. Here's your host from the evening, Dane Wilburn. When I asked our next storyteller, when was the last time you felt invincible? She said, I went for an entire flight without using the bathroom. I said, how long was the flight? She said, one hour. Ladies and gentlemen, please love a Christina and God of Venus. So I said, how long was a flight? She said, one hour. Ladies and gentlemen, please love a Christina and God of Venus.

So I said, how long was a flight? She said, one hour. Ladies and gentlemen, please love a Christina and God of Venus. So I said, how long was a flight? She said, one hour. Ladies and gentlemen, please love a Christina and God of Venus. So I said, how long was a flight? She said, one hour.

Ladies and gentlemen, please love a Christina and God of Venus. So I said, how long was a flight? She said, one hour. Ladies and gentlemen, please love a Christina and God of Venus. So I said, how long was a flight? She said, one hour. Ladies and gentlemen, please love a Christina and God of Venus. As an only child, I grew up being raised by my single working mom and my grandparents. But if I'm honest, I was raised by my grandma. And my grandma and I were like two peas in a pod, everywhere she went I went to. And I loved listening to her sayings and stories. Some would be old adages in Spanish that I'm sure she brought back from Mexico like, which means put on a sweater. That she would say,

an even 90 degree weather. Well, others were meant to teach you a lesson like, no, and then it's called me, which means, oh, you don't want to eat this? Well, then you could eat shit.

Yeah, I learned a lot of my life lessons from grandma. I mean she taught me my first language, how to drive, and even got me out of middle school fist fights because she just had to be there. I mean who wants to kick your ass when your grandma's standing right next to you. But out of all her sayings and stories, one always sticks out from the rest. We were always a very musical family, so I remember my grandma being in the kitchen, washing dishes and humming a little song and saying,

go moment, gante de violin, how I love the sound of the violin. And I don't remember whatever prompted this, but I do remember in the fourth grade, our music teacher asked us what instrument we all wanted to play, and around the room I heard kids saying, flute, clarinet, flute, and when she came to me, I said, I wanted to play the violin. And I was so excited because I knew grandma always

kept talking about how much she loved it, and I wanted to make her proud. And I ended up falling in love with it, too. By the time I was in sixth grade, I could play any song by ear. And by seventh, I was so good that our music teacher at our school on the far south side of Chicago had taught me all that she could. Instead, my music teacher sent me to take classes at the All City Orchestra in downtown Chicago.

And All City was this place that attracted kids from all different backgrounds and neighborhoods, all equally is talented. And once I got through that audition, I couldn't wait to be just like them. But I was also 11 years old. So when that first practice early Saturday morning came along and my alarm went off, I'm like, do I really want to do this? But just as I started complaining,

my grandma got in my face and pumped her fist at me and said, et chale gana, give it to her all, like a coach and a boxing ring. And that's all I needed to keep me going every Saturday morning. And she would drive me at first every weekend. But it was also around this time that her driving became a bit erratic. She started getting into these frequent fender benders

and lost her way to a store nearby. So just to be safe, my mom had my grandpa take over the driving from then on. And he drove me 10 miles each way, which may not seem far to some, but for me, going to all city was like this whole other world. And it was my secret, too, because to my friends back home playing the violin wasn't cool. See where I came from, it wasn't the worst neighborhood but I definitely knew what streets not to walk through or not to talk to that kid down the block who always smelled like weed. And it wasn't uncommon for a friend sister to end up pregnant at 16. But practicing for my first big show with all city at Orchistra Hall took me away from all that. And I remember

the night of the big show was finally here, and I'm wearing my nice black pants and white shirt, and I get up on that stage and there are these bright lights in my face, and I'm thinking this must have been what Selena felt like. So I'm squinting, looking for my family, filing into their seats, and I see my mom, my grandpa, my grandma, my aunts, my uncles, my cousins, because you know us Latinos travel in packs. I'm fairly certain I want a prize for selling out the most seats. So we get started and I'm playing my little heart out and so hard that the horse hairs

on my bowstring are falling off and what doesn doesn't matter. And every time we get a pause, I'm looking out into the audience, looking for my grandma's sign of approval. And it's easy to see her, because she's the only one in the audience bopping her head to a Bach concerto. Yeah. And when it's all over, I remember thinking,

now that I knew there was so much more to explore outside of my hood, I wanted to go further. And then I also remember grandma being overly exhausted, so we had to cut our celebrations early. I went through with my plans of going further, and at 13, I chose the furthest high school I could.

It was called Whitney Young Magnet School, and it was where all the cool kids from all city went to. It was where you had to take a test to get in, and later I found out it was where Michelle Obama went to high school. Yeah. But my mom was like, going to all city was one thing, but going to school that far? No.

But with my determination and mostly the help of my grandparents, we convinced her. And before I knew it, I was a student I went in a young. And this time, I proudly brag to my friends, I go to Whitney Young. Sorry, I can't hang out tonight. And I was still a part of the orchestra at school. And at one point, I realized the violin had opened up this new confidence in me

and opened up doors for me that I never thought I could walk through because I wasn't just playing the violin. I was pushing myself hard and taking honors physics and AP English and math. And I had that voice in my head for my grandma just saying, et chale gana, give it your all. But I also noticed that I wasn't coming home as often. And one time when I was home, I was sitting in my room, and I remember hearing my mom talking in my grandma downstairs, and in mid conversation,

my mom asked her, tell me your name. Repeat your phone number. And I just picked up the phone to call my friend and ignored I ever heard anything. And that happened pretty often, me ignoring anything off with her. And sometimes I felt guilty, but I didn't feel guilty when I chose to stay in the city to go to college, because I'd be close enough in case my mom really needed me,

but still far away because I chose to live on campus. But every time I did come home, I started to notice grandma's sayings and conversation became less frequent. And in turn, I started speaking to her less and less to avoid her repeatedly asking me the same questions over and over again. But one time when I was home,

I noticed she wasn't there at all. And I asked my mom, where's grandma? And she was like, I thought she was with you. And so we both go downstairs and we see the back door wide open. So we get in the car and drive around the block and we see her sitting on some stranger's front stoop. And my mom gets out the car and starts yelling at her immediately. Not that loud guys don't leave us.

And when she gets in the car, I start yelling too. Look at the pasta, what are you doing? And she kept escaping and forgetting things and losing almost everything. And each time my mom and I would yell at her for different reasons. My mom out of frustration from being her caretaker and me, yelling at her as if yelling at her would force her to change her behavior. And one of the last times she escaped, when we all got home, I think to calm all of us down, my mom put on Pandora to one of these old Mexican stations.

And it was like magic instantly. My five-foot grandma jumps high from her seat and starts dancing and belting out every word to these old Bolero songs and in that moment it was like she was never gone at all. I knew she was sick, but I just never wanted to fully accept it because she had been so strong her whole life I thought maybe she could just get over this too and I thought, maybe she could just get over this too. And sometime later on, I was driving my mom and my grandma to one of grandma's many doctors appointments, and I'm sitting there in the waiting room of the neurology department

and this feeling of uncertainty and fear and guilt just overwhelmed me to the point where I just couldn't take it anymore. So when my mom came out of the room, I finally asked her what's wrong with her. And she turned to me and told me in a way like it was just another day. He just prescribed her another pill for Alzheimer's treatment. And it wasn't until then that I finally accepted it. And when I did, I felt angry and useless. I was so angry that I had wasted so much time not speaking to her that I had forgotten what it was really like to be with her.

Because during this whole time, I kept pushing myself further and I was no longer a violin player, but I went after Annie and all of my dreams of acting and writing and traveling and moving to places like New York San Francisco and now LA. But as my world was expanding her world was diminishing and Who knew how long it would be until she would forget who we all were? until she would forget who we all were. So the last time I went back home to Chicago, I decided I had to tell her all the things that I wish she knew.

And so we're sitting on our couch one night me and my mom and my grandma and my grandpa. And grandma starts talking, like, saying real sentences. And instead of our usual, tell me your name, repeat your phone number. I'm looking through my grandparents, 50th wedding anniversary album. And I point to my grandpa next to me, and I ask her, do you know who he is? And with this big smile on her face and this confident tone in her voice, she says,

Boise, of course I know. This man is my friend. And without missing a beat, my grandpa just says, well, maybe one day you'll let me take you out on a date. And everyone's laughing while I'm sitting there holding back tears, wishing that I could tell her That I got my bravery from her That I got my determination from her and that her words and her sayings help shape the entire course of my life But I didn't think she would understand any of this

So instead I just turned to my mom and I said, I miss her. And I'd like to still think though, that whenever she hears the sound of the violins in her favorite mariachi song, she still thinks of me. Thank you. Ladies and gentlemen, Christina and God of Vides. Christina and God of Vides is a writer and comedian based in Los Angeles. Christina says she feels fortunate to still have her grandmother close.

And in moments of clarity, her jokes and sayings continue to bring Christina inspiration. The song you're hearing now is one of her grandmother's favorite songs. It's included in the playlist that Christina put together for her grandmother. You can see pictures of Christina and Pilar and listen to the entire playlist at our website TheMoth.org. Coming up, our final story from this live show in Santa Barbara, California, when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, prx.org. You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jay Allison. We're bringing you stories from a moth main stage we held at the L'Obero Theater in Santa Barbara, California, the theme of the evening beneath the armor. And our last story comes from Patty Shemmel,

former drummer of the band, Whole, noted for being one of the most commercially successful female fronted rock bands of all time. Here's your host for the evening, Dane Wilburn. When I asked our next storyteller, when was the last time you felt invincible? She said, I found a parking spot at the Trader Joe's

in Silver Lake. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Patty Shummel. It was 2014 and I had just started a six week tour with my new band and we passed a sign that said Grand Canyon. And I said, you guys remember that Brady Bunch episode where they go to the Grand Canyon? And Bobby puts the beans in the flashlight. And there was silence, crickets. And then I thought, you know, Nicole or bass player did say that Blink 182 was her favorite band when she was

in junior high school. And then it hit me. I was a 47 year old married, mother of a four year old, and I was in a pop punk band with three girls under the age of 30. I was on a six-week tour with millennials. The last time I'd been on a tour of this length, this long was when I was in a band called Whole. And we toured the world in played Madison Square Garden, cover the Rolling Stone.

And by the end of my five years in the band, I ended up addicted to drugs and alcohol. But in the 20 years since then I got clean and sober. Fall in love, got married and had my daughter. And my days of private jets and tour buses had been replaced with taking care of my daughter. You know, play dates, school drop off and pick up. And the old days were kind of a galaxy away. I grew up in a small town in North of Seattle, and I never really felt like I fit in there until it was all kind of farms and football. I started to feel comfortable and fit in when I discovered the drums at 11 years old.

The physical act of playing the drums put me into my body and helped me connect with the world. It was my way of expressing myself and my way of being heard loudly. When I discovered punk rock, I wanted to start my own band, which is pretty easy. You just come up with a cool band name like Cat Butt or Green Apple Quickstep or Blister Fest.

And then you ask your friends to join. So our first show was like the high school cafeteria. And then friends, neighbors, backyard party. And then you know like friends neighbors back yard party and then you graduate to the Alex Lodge and then the teen rec center. So you know as a group I started playing music around Seattle and opening up for bands like you know Soundgarden, Madhoney, and Nirvana. And that was right before I joined whole. But in this new version of myself, this new, you know, grown-up version, I still have the desire to play drums. I still have the desire to create music and play live.

One day I got a message on Twitter from my friend, Ali Kohler, and Ali and I were friends on the internet, not friends in real life or IRL. She messaged me and she said she was starting a new band and she wanted to know if I wanted to play drums in it and I said sure, I'll do that. And that's how our band upset got started. It wasn't like from an ad in a local free weekly or a sign in a coffee shop that said drummer wanted. It was a tweet.

Imagine if, you know, like the Ramones started like that or Jimmy Hendrix. Like, think about Joey Ramone tweeting. So we found Nicole our bass player, and Lauren, our guitar player, and we played some shows around L.A. and we recorded a record, and then we booked a six-week tour to promote the record. Now this is a van tour. This is like us loading our equipment into the van.

There's no roadies, buses, our gear every night, and move on to every city and drive everywhere. So I packed a small suitcase and a sleeping bag and six small hand sanitizers. And we headed out to Tempiae, Arizona, for our first show. So our rules of the road are, you know, the person driving gets to pick the music. So Nicole, our bass player's driving.

She plugs her phone into the stereo, and turns on a playlist of music, and a Cheryl Krossant comes on. And then I kind of look up and I see Ali, our guitar player in the passenger seat, wean over and go, I love this song, and then high five Nicole. And then I heard Lauren, our guitar player

in the back seat, start singing along to it. And then they all started singing along. My punk rock bandmates were having a moment about Cheryl Crow. And I mean, apparently this song spoke to them when they were six years old when it came out. So the goal, also, I noticed that they were really, some serious, into some serious multitasking. Like, I watched Ali on her phone, you know, like buying dresses, and then, you know, using her phone's front-facing camera

as a mirror to apply lipstick and listening to Pearl Jam all at the same time. Where I can't even, I cannot even text and have a conversation at the same time, which they clearly noticed. Because any time I was texting, they'd always go, shh, shh, shh, shh, shh, patty's texting.

LAUGHTER For the whole entire six weeks, nobody ever touched a map. It's all GPS. We booked shows and confirmed shows through our phones and email. And also, our goal is to play as many shows as possible, which meant some pretty unconventional places. We played a pizza pit and Boise Idaho and and and some kids garage in

El Paso. And then the fun zone in Santa Barbara, it was batting cages and mini golf, right? Yeah, there. And also, the bands, it seems today don't make a lot of money from royalties like we used to. It's mostly streaming and corporations will reach out to bands with the high follower influencers, with a high follower account on their social, and exchange for free stuff and hotel accommodations. And back in the 90s, that being connected to a corporation was not punk rock, it's not cool. Kurt Cobain wrote corporate magazines suck in Sharpie

on his shirt on the cover of the Rolling Stone. I mean, can you imagine like, smart water presents sound garden, or, you know, Oasis brought to you by Stance.com. So when we got back to the West Coast, our first show on the West Coast was Seattle, which is my old hometown, and it was good to be there and to play a live show again. And also it meant being on the West Coast meant it's a

almost home. And I'd realize that I was really missing being at home. I missed my daughter. I missed the simplicity of our life together. You know, the routine, our rhythm, you know, bath, books in bed. And that just a few days away from her was really hard for me. And I couldn't find myself, you know,

in another line for a bathroom at some club in Williamsburg listening to two girls argue about the real meaning of the eggplant emoji. So just missed it, you know. And so I, you know, we moved our stuff into this club and, you, and it was like a warehouse space, and the band started coming in, and the show started, and we pushed our stuff up against the wall, and I started to head out to go get a cup of coffee and take a walk. And this girl came up to me and said, you know, and her deuce herself, and said that she was excited to come to the show and see me play, because she started playing drums when

she saw me play. And she was looking forward to the show. And it meant a lot to me to hear that something I did inspired somebody else, that maybe changed their life and gave her this sort of direction, which she was explaining. And so I went out and I grabbed my coffee and when I came back in, it was time for us to play. So I went back to my drums and I sat down at my drum kit. And this is a view I've seen so many times. And I thought about it, from the 70,000 kids and at a festival in the English countryside to 10 kids at some club in LA pointing their phones at me.

And I thought, I can't stop playing music now. Even though, you know, I'm realizing I can't really support my family like this anymore. And I missed my family, and it was a lot different for me now. But I couldn't stop playing because this is still my voice. And it was a lot different for me now. But I couldn't stop playing because this is still my voice. This is still the way I express myself. And to be visible is important. I thought about the kids on tour.

I thought about all the girls I'd seen on the past tour and what was happening in our world today and what these kids were doing and organizing and playing shows and creating art. And these were the women, these girls were the women that are going to lead the way for girls like my daughter. So you know I kind of had this affection for them and they're need to you know have Snapchat and flashmobbs and they might use you know annoying phrases like self-care and adulting but in the words of the great Cheryl Crow, if it makes you happy, it can't be that bad. Thanks. There's a Dylan Patishamal. I feel like I should, this is a great place to tell true, so I want to let you know. I'm taking one of them limits back to Detroit.

You all have a good night. You say, go have a good night. You say good night Eddie Shemmel is known for being the former drummer of the platinum selling band whole But she's also a songwriter teacher and author of the memoir hit so hard She currently performs with the band's upset, an object as subject, and is on the board of the Rock and Roll camp for girls, a nonprofit that teaches girls all over the world. It's okay to be loud. By the way, Patty suggested we play this song by Cheryl Crow to take us out. As we wrap up this live hour from Santa Barbara I want to remind you of something, at the

Moth the storytellers don't come from backstage, they walk up from the audience. The Moth is all of us. You just have to raise your hand or put your name in the hat and tell us your story. That's what our pitch line is for. It's the most direct and invitational way we have to find you. And here's how it works.

You either call 877-799-Moth, one more time, 877-799-6684, or just go to the website, TheMoth.org, and make your pitch right through your computer to the site, and it'll come to us. We listen to every single one of these pitches, and we often find storytellers and work with them, and bring them to our stages all around the world. So remember, when you wonder where we find our storytellers, right here on the pitchline, 877-799-Maw, or right on the web at themawth.org. So that's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour.

We hope you'll join us next time and that's the story from the Moth. Your host for this live hour from Santa Barbara was Dean Wilburn. Dame is a poet, storyteller and writer from Detroit. The stories in the show were directed by Sarah Austin-Jones and Meg Bulls. The rest of the most direct-toil staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman and Jennifer Hickson, production support from Nadine Todd Gross, Emily Couch and Timothy Lovie. Most stories are true, is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift, other music in this hour from Thomas Leib, 80 Gourmet and Los Pancos, and Cheryl Crow. You can find links to all the music we use at our website. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allison, with Vicki Merrick at Atlantic Public

Media and Woods Hole Massachusetts. This hour is produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is presented by PRX. For more about our podcast for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, TheMoth.org.