“Underground Debutante” is my feminist anthem.

It’s one of my only songs for which I composed all the music before penning a single lyric.  (That’s rare for me, because my melody-moods are usually compelled by story elements and words.)  I sat on the back porch humming and strumming through chords on my guitar, with the help of wife—Amy Wray—who chimed in with cadence suggestions.

Out of the blue, the chorus lyrics came to me:  “Wake up tomorrow, feeling just the same/Wake up tomorrow, reset the game.”

I liked the lyric, but my wife said, “That’s kind of dismal and sad, and this song doesn’t sound dismal and sad.  And besides, you always go into this existential angst.”  She’s right; when bereft of ideas, that’s where I go.

So I knew that I had to be patient, waiting to complete this song until a specific and vivid character came to my imagination.

It turned out meaningful that Amy helped me with the music.  She had just decided to pursue acting, a distant dream from her youth.  This got me obsessing on a general social problem that has bothered me for a long time as private music teacher:  Everywhere you look, you see the bright futures of talented, ambitious young girls derailed as they grow up without encouragement and guidance.  It starts as soon as they discover boys, which is only natural.  But some of it is left over from pre-feminist days.  Put simply, boys were encouraged to pursue greatness; girls to become cheerleaders.

That was the grand idea on my mind, but not quite a songworthy one.  I don’t like songs with politically axes to grind, reading like essays put to music.  I like songs with characters and stories.   So I began to imagine this gifted woman, a poet with a bright future as a writer.  Her name, Frances Eve Mitchell, was actually the name of a customer at my day job at the time.

Somehow, Frances has lost her way, and her life has devolved into a cycle of attention-seeking and thrill-seeking behavior.  My song, “Underground Debutante,” both laments and celebrates this woman.  She is fascinating and everybody loves her in spite of her chaos.  She deserves the attention and thrills for which she struggles so mightily.  Having once shown so much promise, but un-mentored into some kind of purposeful craft, she makes her life itself a work of art.  The outward trappings—the tattoos and piercings, the journal, the indulgence—are cursory efforts, and mostly for show.

But none of it leaves her with any real sense of satisfaction.

I thought of all my woman friends and colleagues, and wondered if the struggles in their pursuits were different from mine and if it was due to gender.  In the long run, I no longer believe this to be so starkly true.  Things have changed, and you can’t blame society for screwing up Frances Eve Mitchell.  She is like the rest of us—male and female—trying to create meaning and drama in her life.

The feedback I get on this song is consistent.  My male colleagues think of it as a fine rock song—my best from the Blue Rebekah era, musically speaking. But my women friends absolutely love the Underground Debutante herself, because they are rooting for her.  They request it all the time.

 

UNDERGROUND DEBUTANTE

She wrote poetry when she was younger.
Now she’s the object of everyone’s hunger.
Frances Eve Mitchell came to life today.
The underground debutante is here to stay.

She carries her journal around like the bible.
She swears it’s the key to survival.
(She’s so tribal.)
Tattoos and piercings all over her skin,
Like a map of her world where nobody else has been (yet).

If she can’t paint her masterpiece, she’ll be one.
And bust into the gallery just to see one.

Wake up tomorrow feeling just the same.
Wake up tomorrow, reset the game.

She’s out with a new group of friends every season.
Lord, she’s so special, they just ease in.
(Put their keys in.)
Frances Eve Mitchell continues to thrive.
She’ll do anything twice just to prove she’s alive.

She finds the ice and the fire romantic,
Taking on lovers fierce and frantic.
Falling in love on trial-and-error basis,
Admiring the panic-stricken look on their faces.

And when she finally gets it right, it’s a masterpiece to her eye.
She’s like a human lava lamp, melting upwards into the sky

Wakes up tomorrow feeling just the same.
Wakes up tomorrow, reset the game.
Wakes up tomorrow feeling just the same.
Wakes up tomorrow, reset the game.