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Nashville, TN. 

Tristen takes traditional singer-songwriter stylings with a bit of retro flair and injects it with intelligent lyrics and a little bit of venom. Her latest album Sneaker Waves was released this summer. Be sure to catch Tristen on tour with Jenny O. with a stop in Kansas City on Saturday, Sept. 30 at Riot Room.

Sound Man

Women drink free from 6-8 on Tuesdays, yet men greatly outnumbered the women in the bar. No windows and the world knows no fury like that of a Sound Man.

He was waiting for me, as I loaded my gear onto the stage. It was his moment to shine; he salivated as I approached. After all, I was the opener.

“No one puts their microphone like that,” he scolded. “If I give you a stereo DI, and your tracks are hard panned, they will come out only on one side,” he reminded me.

The microphone feeds back. I request delay on my vocal. He smirked, “I’ll do the mixing.”

I play to the rhythm of screaming conversations just before the burlesque show. The microphone feeds back. I cover Blowin in the Wind in the style of John Wesley Harding and it clears the room. Outside an older couple sings of patriotism, “This land is my land, this land is my land, this land is my land, this land is my land, this land is my, this land is miiiiiiiiiiiiy land, this land was made for me and me.”

What’s a narcissist’s favorite vocal warmup?

By the end of the show, I have fully entered beast mode, forgotten where I am, and I’m finally singing, letting my body go, falling to the floor. The microphone feeds back.

By this time, the Sound Man was closely monitoring in disbelief. He did not understand it. He had long forgotten the days when music left him with a feeling. Besides, this was not in his language.

He ran to the front of the stage, iPad in hand, furiously pushing aside the few people in the crowd that had meandered to the front,

“Stop,” he screamed, “it’s feeding back!”

I know, I’m thinking. But I half-cupped my ear, feigning deafness, luring my prey.

“What? I can’t hear you,” I said into the microphone and I pointed my new best friend, the squealing 58 briefly at the monitor, partially deafening myself with my new magic revenge.

He drew nearer, entering the den.

He repeated himself loudly in front of the crowd, to my delight, and I held that microphone directly towards the monitor one last lengthy time, while staring coldly into his blank, dead eyes.

He retreated.

A narcissist’s favorite vocal warmup is “mi mi mi mi.”







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