TO GIRLS, WITH LOVE?

When I heard that someone was planning a Southern Girls Rock Camp for middle Tennessee this past summer, I felt a surge of enthusiasm.  I’d heard of a similar one in Portland, but kids up there are naturally cool.  I loved the idea of Southern girls, with their breeding, grooming and zombie-like use of the word “Ma’am,” being deprogrammed and sent forth with messy hair, clumsy self-expression and loud guitars.  Obviously delusional, I volunteered to teach a songwriting course.  I pictured myself sort of like Sidney Poitier in reverse, effortlessly turning well-mannered Barbie dolls into hoodlums.

Two things I didn’t count on:  how well teenage girls’ basic insecurities echo my own, and the fact that I’ve never taught a class in my life.  I knew it wasn’t going to be easy when I had a hell of a time trying to organize a lesson plan.  Songwriting seems the most natural thing in the world if you know how to do it.   I studied and researched, looking at every book I could get my hands on, but even the best of them confused me.  Most how-to books seem focused on creating “hit” songs, something I’m convinced I’ve done at least a dozen times but unfortunately the masses have refused to support that belief.  Thinking I could at least infuse the girls with an enthusiasm for the artistic side of writing, I sought help from friends who’d taught workshops before, looking for a few simple exercises we could try.  Mercifully my daughter Hazel, who’d be attending the week-long camp, said she’d rather not sign up for my class.  “That wouldn’t be good for any of us,” she claimed.

I got a little worried when I saw myself described on the camp website as a “Nashville songwriter,” surely something to be reviled rather than trusted.  And when I came in to set up the day before camp began, I immediately felt twice as old as everyone – and this was only the other instructors!  “My minivan has never transported a soccer player,” I reminded myself. “I’ve logged more than my share of tour miles, slept on countless cat hair-covered sofas.  Courtney Love dissed my band in a dressing room once!”   I resolved to be comfortable in my role as mature rock chick and embrace my expertise as “Nashville Songwriter.”  Kelley the camp director was full of energy and enthusiasm, the rented and borrowed amps and P.A.’s were being wheeled in, and cute black and pink camp t-shirts were being distributed. 

In my dual role as instructor/mother I drove with Hazel to camp the first day, reassuring her that it probably wouldn’t suck while trying to convince myself of the same thing.  The registration line looked like a casting call for “Olsen Twins: The Punk Rock Movie,” with fresh-faced girls in plaid trousers, black t-shirts, torn jeans and the occasional unnatural hair color mingling with emo enthusiasts (ironic t-shirts, witty vintage skirts and trousers) and modified goths.  Not surprisingly, almost every camper was wearing Chuck Taylors.

When my songwriting group gathered, I wanted so badly to be able to share something useful with them.  But I felt in over my head immediately, not knowing how to get self-conscious teenagers to talk in front of each other.  The joking, ironic tone that helps me feel comfortable speaking in public was particularly ineffective with most of the girls, and saying anything self-effacing seemed to confuse them – wasn’t I supposed to be in charge?

Thankfully Richie and Anna, two MTSU students, were there to help teach.  We took turns playing songs and I noticed the girls suddenly pay close attention at anything resembling a reference to sex.  The best day was when everyone took turns playing songs from their favorite CDs for the class.  Of course, my CD player kept malfunctioning.  “Let this be a lesson to you, campers!”  I shrieked in exasperation.  “Follow the path of rock and you’ll never own anything decent to listen to music on.” 

The cliché of the teacher being the one who gets taught actually rang a little bit true for me that week.  Here are a few of the things I learned:

Two hours is too long for any class.

We should despise the British for their cunning appropriation of rock and roll. Every teenager seems to know The        Beatles, Led Zeppelin & Black Sabbath – few have heard of Chuck Berry or Buddy Holly.

People who want to write, write.  There’s no point in trying to convince someone who doesn’t that they should.

Thankfully, I was able to relax after a few days when I realized the girls just wanted to get ready for their concert on Saturday.   On the first day of camp each girl was responsible for joining or forming a band, and at the final event all the bands had to perform a song for parents and friends.  When the big show rolled around, the only natural thing to do was revert to being Hazel’s mother, and the mixture of awe and giddiness I felt when her trio rocked, screamed and fell to the floor in prom dresses and eye makeup was the most satisfaction I felt all week.