The Voxe: A Girl and Her Music

*****

Greetings, gals and pals, Smokey here. Here's another story for you which distinguishes from my normal numbered stories in one of the ways the "Redefining Punishment"s do: it's narrated in first-person. And again from a lesbian ("lebbi," as I affectionately refer to them, as you may know) point of view. Specifically, one very special and particular chick, who's popped up in several Smokey Sagas (mostly the "Happy Endings" series) as a fictitious American rock star...named Velette. Hope you like it.

*****

I was not born remotely resembling the person I am today. Then again, few are.

Thirty-two years ago, I came into this world Velette Cora Vanderbilt from Cincinnati, Ohio. I was a perfectly garden-variety infant: sweet, precious, and a big innocent heart. Many formative ages to follow entailed the same. Cut to today, I am an international, multi-platinum, million-selling songwriter and recording artist, with the now household name Velette Voxe splashed across my record covers. As well as something of an icon in the lesbian community, closing my first decade in the public eye. I wouldn't put myself among the ranks of our late great Janis Joplin. Though I have, in the last nine years, been blessed with such honorifics as the Etheridge Kid Sister, Little Miss Chatelaine, the Lost Indigo Girl, and Jen Foster's Other Half. Hey Jenny, guess what: I didn't just kiss her either.

My childhood and upbringing were run-of-the-mill. My scholastic performance wound up just above average, fairly decent at best. I wasn't Class Clown, Most Likely To Succeed, any of that goofy shit. I didn't belong to any clubs or extracurriculars either. I liked sports, but only professional, and played by strong, athletic women. I was no cheerleader, nor did I go to dances, proms, or reunions. School pursuits just weren't my wheelhouse. Hell, at that age I didn't even have a wheelhouse. I had a few friends, that was about it—and some dates that went absolutely nowhere, for one obvious reason: they were with boys.

I'd encountered only inklings of my lesbianism since puberty. But by college, I was in full, intimate touch with my sexual identity. I knew there was some logical reason dating guys never worked. Coincidentally, the exact same year, I developed a huge appetite for composing music. Suddenly, I'd found my major and my minor. Pun intended.

My college "career" consisted of only a single semester, but provided me with two turning points nevertheless. As fortune would have it, these captured the essences of what would become my two most powerful passions: music and women. The former opportunity presented itself in 2004, in the form of a radio contest sponsored by Rainbow Records. The label was in heavy need of hot new acts to sign up. The contest entailed recording a selection of your own demos—original songs only—and sending them to the station.

So when we heard about the contest, it was actually my Dad, with whom I was hanging out that day, who suggested to me, "Hey, Letty, why don't you give it a try, sweetie? You love music, and you've got a terrific voice. I bet you'd be awesome at it!"

Now, my father'd always encouraged me to follow my heart. He'd never knowingly lead me astray. And admittedly, when he gave me this (eventually life-changing) advice, my first and only reaction was..."Oh, geez, Dad, I dunno...you really think so?"

"Absolutely," he nodded without a moment's hesitation. "You can excel at anything you put your mind to, Velette Vanderbilt. You have far more talent than you realize. Then again, why shouldn't you? You are my daughter, after all," he smiled with a wink.

Have I mentioned I love my Dad?

Entrants had a month to submit. You could record a digital or hard file of your song—intro and additional comments optional. After the deadline, submissions would be narrowed to ten artists, who'd then be contacted to visit the station and meet the record executives! Perhaps an unexpected spot to drop an exclamation point, but dammit, I was excited!

I grew only more enthusiastic as I read on. Dad had a point: I did love music. I collected albums, I took guitar lessons, and singing was super-fun...I just didn't know quite how good I was. But it was the label name that convinced me I had to audition: Rainbow Records! I'm a lesbian! How perfect was that?!

Now all I had to do was sit down and write a song. I could do this. I'd taken music theory courses, I played the guitar. Relatively easy, right?

Wrong. I may not have known a thing about the music business, but I knew I couldn't half-ass my way through this like I did school. This was the big time. The professional record biz. True, I had a one-in-ten shot, but I'd be going up against some real talent here. Artists who were serious about this opportunity. Suddenly, this seemed more intimidating than it had five minutes ago. I realized I'd better get pretty fucking serious about this myself.

During the next couple weeks, I threw myself into it obsessively. I hit the cyber-waves, doing research while I brushed up on my strum and re-callused my fingers. I listened extra close to some of my favorite old records, trying to get inside the stylings and hone my pitch. I did my best to piece together the elements which made the sounds so captivating. I was heavy into big famous pop/rock groups, solo legends, and some semi-obscurities. And of course my Sapphic idols from whom to draw inspiration.

Two and a half weeks later, I had a rough outline of the first song I'd ever write. A charming bittersweet little ditty I called "Never Be Yours." Turning my small apartment into a rehearsal space, I must've played those chords a zillion damn times, till even my guitar was sick of them. But I was really proud of the song, and wanted—no, needed—to get it just, exactly, perfect. I did a lot of fine-tuning on Sylvia (my beloved guitar) and my own voice. I had no clue if I'd anything close to decent pitch. But when I listened to the playback on my software, the results did not make me cringe. In fact, I was liking what I was hearing.

Wow, this is so cool! I remember thinking. How come I never tried this before??

At the same time, I tweaked the modest arrangement I'd built around the song. Again, I checked the output, trying to shut off consciousness that I was listening to myself...and was not displeased. Yet, I also became my own harshest critic. Sporadic points where I'd made the tiniest of mistakes, or hit one wrong note, robbed me of the satisfaction. And so I just kept working harder and harder.

Finally, by the time week three came to a close, the first demo of "Never Be Yours" was cut. August 4th, 2004. Just me and Sylvia. I'd seldom felt so proud of myself in my life. I'd toiled on this one single song for days, and achieved a result which met my early standards, and allowed me to listen without focus on the weak points. I had my song!

The only problem was, now, I couldn't get the damn melody out of my head. I stripped naked to grab a shower, trying to think about literally anything else, but the song kept barging its way right back in. I emerged from the bathroom determined to get it the hell off my mind. I did some channel hopping. I tuned my way through the radio dial. I jilled into a holy motherfucker of an orgasm. But no luck. The song stayed. It had been only hours since I'd recorded the final note, and now it wouldn't go away.

Then, out of nowhere, the brilliant solution appeared.

Write another song!

Why not? Why the hell not?? It wasn't like I didn't have time. There was still another entire week till the recording had to soldier off to the powers that be. And the entry rules said nothing about not including multiple songs in your submission. Maybe I could write an even better song, and record it on this Velette debut as well! Why not??!

I was starting to get so excited I had trouble sitting still. I began entertaining fantasies of visiting coffeeshops and open mike clubs, playing my songs. I knew each song had to be unique, with its own identity and vibe. For my second composition, I switched gears from the longing ballad I'd demonstrated on "Never Be Yours." I started thinking up-tempo, upbeat, more of a rock sound this time. And lyrics to match. Something hotter, more fun and passionate, lacking the vulnerability of a solemn ballad. A ballad which, I was quickly realizing, showed but one single side of me. The possibilities ignited me, fueling me with the prospect of what could one day become—oh my God, dare I dream?—dozens of songs! So many combinations of chord and prose, of tone and design!

Fortune was with me down this promising path. I worked at Best Buy, rife with some of the finest electronics available. Real top-of-the-line stuff. And if I was going to do this, I needed more equipment than little ol' Sylvia and some outdated computer software. Our employee discount was nothing to sneeze at. Next paycheck, I could have a field day!

One thing I definitely needed was sheet music paper. Or an application for the Dell to simulate it for me. I couldn't forget how to play "Never Be Yours" if I tried, but if I kept at it, that wouldn't be the case for long. I picked up Sylvia again and started noodling.

Going for a happier, more positive feel this time, I reversed the ratio of major to minor chords, and again found a raw arrangement I liked. I shut my eyes and let my hands do the walking, strumming these new chords again and again, letting lyrics come to mind. Forty-five minutes later, "Heart-Shaped Carnival" was born.

I was amazing myself. Two songs in full, in a single day! So far! I was on a roll! I played and sang "Heart-Shaped Carnival" to the computer, adding it to my files with "Never Be Yours." I took attentive care to ensure the auras in both songs were unique. I accelerated the tempo, played Sylvia with a looser, more carefree feel, and sang with playful vivacity.

Now I was getting really proud. Two demos recorded! I gave my beloved Sylvie a smooch, right on the side of her beautiful body, unable to believe I'd let her sit around in her case so long. I couldn't wait to write more with her.

Unfortunately, it was getting late. My mind was jazzed, but my own body was totally wiped. I didn't know how I'd possibly get to sleep tonight, or concentrate on work tomorrow. I got in my jammies and climbed in bed, petting Little Letty inside my bottoms, willing myself to fall asleep, get up, get through the next day, come back home and write more songs.

Though with only a hint of it at the time, now that I'd had a taste...

...I'd found exactly what I wanted to do for the rest of my natural life. And to think if my father hadn't spoken up that day in the car, I might never have even given it a shot.

Have I mentioned I love my Dad?

*****

I raced home after work the next day and wrote five—count 'em—FIVE, more, songs. In seven hours! I just couldn't stop; the ideas kept coming, one after another after another. And right along with them, accompanying guitar figures and melodies. How I even stopped there, I couldn't tell you. I guess...hell, I guess I just wore myself out again.

Still, though exhausted once more, my mind was blown. Forty-eight hours ago, I had no original compositions, nothing whatsoever to call my own. And furthermore, I thought zero of it. Zero songs, zero ideas, zero outlines, zero desires.

Cut to a day and a half later: seven original tunes laid down in digital form on my computer, occupying seven equally gratifying drive megabytes. I was officially obsessed. Hell, I still am. When it comes to our own lives and pursuits, we do tend to get a little self-centered. Well, I don't know about you—I get self-centered, and that's what I wanna talk about. Let's just focus on me for a minute here. Hello, my name is Velette, and I'm a songwriting-holic. It has been twelve minutes since my last composition. Here I go again.

But that's okay. Believe me, this is one business that doesn't just welcome obsession, it demands it. You have to be obsessed to survive and thrive in this business. Manufacturing industry's in trouble in this digital age, but music itself isn't going anywhere. Human beings need it for their own sanity, comfort and happiness. It's a necessity of life.

These things in mind, I continued along my merry path. My abilities were limited with just Sylvie by my side. Not to make her feel less special, but there're only so many things she can do. So a few days later, I concluded work with a magnificent purchase. I bought a bell- and whistle-loaded synthesizer. This thing was a beaut. I wasn't as skilled at playing keyboards, but that was okay. Right now, I mainly wanted sequencing to back up Sylvia and myself. And how difficult could it be to meet someone who could rock this snazzy-ass synth-machine, and join me on one or two or twenty-seven jam sessions??

I had to clear a lot of space to squeeze in Sylvia's new sibling Synthia (c'mon, I had to) and connect her to my computer, but I did it. Now where was that instruction manual...oh, my God. What is this, War And Fucking Peace? The thing had a bazillion pages. All I wanted to do was find some cool beats, not split nuclear atoms.

Hell with that! I found the on switch and started pushing buttons instead. So I wouldn't get a lot of writing done tonight, big deal. I started to really enjoy playing with this thing. And hey, I realized, sequencing beats play as fast and as long as you want! So once I figure this out, I can re-record my existing songs with some wicked enhancement.

Whew! Okay, Dear Reader, in the interest of hopefully not boring you to tears, I'll skip ahead. Long story short, I created a miniature album. I made eight electronically charged versions of my best songs so far, tweaked to my early, unlofty standards, and I was set. With one day to spare. Double whew!

The only step left was to compile the submission, and kick it on in. I added a little intro to tell them about myself, that there were a lot of songs here—hope that's okay—and how important this had become to me. And that I hoped it showed in my efforts.

Okay, I won't lie to you: the first couple days, my hopes were high. I knew it wasn't wise to let them skyrocket, but I really did have such confidence in my work. So much, in fact, that even should Rainbow turn me down, I couldn't just give up. I knew how tough a business this was, that even the most gifted artists often struggled like hell before they made it, if at all. I may not have known everything, but I'd fallen heels over head in love with the craft. I couldn't yet imagine writing songs for someone else, either. I'd given birth to a dozen and a half babies, and I didn't wanna put a single one up for adoption. I had, however, just applied eight of them to one of the finer "academies," so to speak.

I didn't know how long to wait to hear back, so I did my best to focus on normal activities, a big chunk of which now consisted of songwriting. I was hooked. I'd found a drug more intoxicating than I imagined any narcotic—which holds true to this day. For this reason, I've never used drugs; I don't need them. And I'm a musician!

It was in the middle of a particular shit day—Monday, September 27th, '04, to be precise—when the life of Cincinnati's little 21-year-old Velette Vanderbilt would be forever changed. It was one of those days where nothing really big happens, but so many annoying little things gang up, you feel like if one more thing goes the slightest bit wrong, you'll do something unthinkable. Fortunately, I did no such thing.

After another thankless day of retail, serving my ass up for the superiors to chow down, I drearily trolleyed home and unceremoniously slunk the car into an open space. When I checked the mail, I was in for a surprise. Three envelopes waited. A bill, a bank statement...and a note of correspondence from Universal Music Distribution.

My system accelerated. Universal Music was Rainbow Records' parent corporation. They must've received my submission, listened, and...liked what they heard? Truth be told, I was nervous to open it. The way this day was going, I wasn't sure I wanted to find out. But I had to, or my imagination would torture me. And my mood had no influence over what'd been printed in this letter. I got inside, tossed the other two items anywhere, sat, and opened it. My heart was pounding. I didn't want any buzz words—good or bad—to leap out before I was ready, so I unfolded and perused carefully.

"'Dear Miss Vanderbilt,'" I squinted, not wanting my eyes to jump down prematurely. "'We would like to thank you very much for your submi'—...so and so and s—"

GASP. My heart flipped. I had to read the following sentence five straight times to make sure my eyes and brain weren't playing tricks on me. My tone increased with every word.

"...'After reviewing your very generous compilation of material, we are pleased to inform you that between your varied song stylings, we feel your work sufficiently reflects the promise and potential to prove an asset to the Rainbow Records family'!!" They'd chosen me as one of their winners! "OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!!"

I grabbed the phone and frantically dialed.

"Dad? Dad!! Guess what?! You are never gonna believe this!"

He wasn't in shock or disbelief at all. His exact words to me were, and I do quote—

"Knew you could do it, babe. I am so proud of you."

Have I mentioned I love my Dad?

Fast-forward two years, I would cut, produce and release my first major-label album, and officially land on the pop scene map.

But not before I met Lisa-Anne.

*****

Lisa-Anne Lucy Brockton was and is a gift sent from fate, for which I can never repay. She was there the first day I met the Rainbow executives, and has since remained my agent, manager, professional and personal partner...and one hell of a lover. And for you detractors who feel a dual business and romance is an essential recipe for disaster, four words: Lily Tomlin, Jane Wagner. Over forty years working together, happily married.

Now, Reader, that I've shared with you the discovery of my life's work, my beloved career, the awesome privilege of entertaining the world with my music...so shall I do with my other sublime passion: women.

When I began college after having come out—but before Lisa-Anne Brockton came along, to whom I'll return after this next chunk of my story—campus was a magical place for a young lesbian. Beautiful girls everywhere. I was like a kid in a candy store. A candy store with no shortage of tasty goodies to be found at every turn. The question was, would the tasty goodies in question find me alluring and pleasing as well?

Now, I have always enjoyed being a lesbian (particularly of the lipstick persuasion). The issue lay in whether the heterocentric world felt the same way about me. Much fun as scoping college babes was at first, I hardly ran across a single, solitary gay-be or may-be in the entire lot. What was more, not until I began hanging with the "het" girls did I realize that straight as they claimed to be, they didn't appear to like guys very much. At all. All they seemed to do was whine about all the stupid, douchey things they did. Being the andro-clueless lesbi, all I could do was quote Suzie Westenhoefer.

"Well, I'm...I'm sure he didn't mean it..."

After the umpteenth one confided in me, bitching about how awful and horrible they were, I had a couple questions. For one, just who was the lesbian here again? I hated being asked repeatedly why I didn't date guys. And maybe it was equally narrow-minded of me to wonder this, but curiosity was nagging at me. So I took an individual poll of them.