“Mommmmmmmm, the police are here again! The neighbor is complaining and wants you to stop the music!”
Stop the music? That’s like asking Kris Carr to stop juicing! It’s blasphemy.
Four years ago, six of us crazy sexy forty-something suburban housewives went out on a limb, bucked convention, defied stereotypes and started our own rock ’n’ roll band. There was only one glitch. Not one of us could play an instrument. But that didn’t stop us. We bought guitars and a bass, replaced the couch and coffee table in the living room with drums, amps and a PA system, and hired Coldplay lead singer Chris Martin’s very talented and handsome doppelganger to teach us how to play.
Twice a week, we left the dishes and laundry behind, stealing a few precious moments away from our kids, husbands, “shoulds and ought to’s” to follow our soul and play some rock ’n’ roll. We practiced until we had blisters on top of blisters and that up-up-down-up pattern was ingrained in our brains. Our kids and hubbies thought we were nuts, but I know in my heart they loved our crazy sexy guts.
I am the one with the smile on my face in the picture above. Oh, wait, we are all smiling. That’s because we are having so much effing fun. I literally feel my endorphins kick in, the negativity leave my body and a sense of all is right with the world when belting out Blondie, KT Tunstall or Joan Jett. “I love rock ’n’ roll. Put another dime in the jukebox baby!”
In fact, not only does it bring me a sense of well-being and peace, I am certain that it has helped me stay sane in the midst of much insanity over these last few years, saving me thousands of dollars in therapy bills. Between the six of us, we could keep a psychologist employed full time trying to make sense of all the crap we have been dealt during our mid-life: financial difficulties, marital stress, parenting issues, job loss and cancer. But, rocking out with our band helps us keep perspective and stay strong.
It has been proven that music, whether playing it or listening to it, can help heal the body, relieve depression, accelerate the healing process, boost the immune system and lift ones spirits. William Congreve, a playwright from the 17th century brilliantly understood this as well. He wrote, “Music has charms to soothe a savage breast.” Funny, but I always thought this quote was “to soothe a savage beast.” Apparently it gets misquoted often. But just my luck, it is perfect for this blog. Sir Congreve was right. Music certainly helped sooth my savage breast.
Ten months ago, I was diagnosed with invasive breast cancer. After the initial shock, I refused to feel sorry for myself. I pulled myself up by my sexy bootstraps and got to work. I guzzled green juice, worked out at the gym, partook in dry rubs and daikon leaf baths, ate whole grains and huge organic salads, and took my omega-3s and vitamin D. And, last but not least, I kept on rock ’n.
The docs cut off my breast and the chemo took my hair, but the cancer did not take my spirit. When I was feeling down and out, our band gave me a reason to pick myself up, brush myself off and get my butt to practice. Next to veggies, rocking out with my girlfriends is the best medicine in the world. Like Bob Marley said, “One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain,” although that may have been the ganja.
According to Dr. Mike Miller, “Music gives us an overall feeling of good, well-being, a sense of euphoria in some cases … and may be one of the best de-stressors, either by playing or even listening to it.” He used high-tech imaging to measure the size of blood vessels while people listened to music. Not surprisingly, he found that “the inner lining of the blood vessel relaxed, opened up and produced chemicals that are protective to the heart.” That’s some powerful stuff. If music can do that for the heart, imagine what it can do for the soul. Plato once said, “Rhythm and harmony find their way into the inward places of the soul.”
Music surely found mine.
By the way, we call ourselves Daisy Chain. We liked the name because it represents women connected to each other through music. (It also has something to do with multiple female participants, but that is for another site.) Little did we know when we chose the name that daisies were widely used in homeopathic remedies. During the 15th century, it was believed that drinking crushed daisies infused with wine could cure insanity. So does a night rocking out with six beautiful strong women and a bottle or three of organic Pinot Noir.
Some moms like to shop, we like to rock. Some plan play dates, we book show dates. Some go to the spa, we bring the law. Some play “Farmville,” we play “Margaritaville.” Some believe we are disturbing the peace, we believe it brings us peace. Our band is living proof: In the midst of adversity, annoyed neighbors and cancer, we have found a creative connection to each other and to our own souls playing rock ’n’ roll.
We recently performed at our biggest show ever, “Cocktails for a Cure,” in honor of both breast cancer awareness month and six women who refused to let anything stop them!
The damn dishes can wait; my rock ’n’ roll soul is calling.
You can read more about Deanne’s greatest adventures kicking breast cancer’s ass and her all-girl band Daisy Chain in her blog www.theyesmom.com.
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer in August 2008, it seemed like a pretty good joke. ‘Cuz I wanted to die.
I was at the bitter end of a 2-year break-up, the kind that scrapes away at your self-esteem until you’re a shell, wishing only that your lover might finally pulverize you and (ideally) swallow you so you never have to part. Actually, I should give the dude some credit as he did find the lump in one of our final trysts. But by the time I was diagnosed, one month later, he was long gone. He loved booze and drugs more than me.
Just because I wanted to die didn’t mean that I relished the cancer diagnosis. Mostly it seemed like a giant pain in the ass. I faced dozens of doctor appointments, a debilitating surgery, and abject poverty as this meant my long, beloved career as a stripper was over. These were the facts. I’d already lost the love of my life. Now I’d lose my breast, my hair, my livelihood and maybe my house. But suddenly everybody around me was saying stuff like, “We’ll fight this together.” Fight? Why the hell would I want to fight?! The idea seemed absurd.
I have little patience for the Pollyanna outlook. I have a darker sense of humor. And after I got cancer, I preferred to be around the same — people like my guitar player, Kevin, who’s infamous on several continents for his foul mouth and hyperoffensive sense of humor. Kevin fronts the Spider Babies. And, for 12 years, has been pantomiming penetrating me with his Vox guitar in Coco Cobra and the Killers. I love Kevin.
As luck would have it (hellooooo, Universe! Or … Pollyanna?), Kevin and I decided to get the band back together after a three-year hiatus — just weeks before my diagnosis. I’d already contacted a local club and booked our reunion show for October 31, Halloween. People were stoked. The band is a frothy mix of crass, ass and (sorry this doesn’t rhyme) the Ramones. As Coco, I wear boots and a wig and very little else. It’s a foolproof formula: naked chick + Ramones = imminently likable.
I was not gonna let cancer get in the way of our reunion. But I had a lot of shit to take care of before I took the stage — shit I couldn’t exactly keep to myself. One of the biggest drags about having cancer is telling people that you have it. I hate to be the bearer of bad news. So mostly I did the chickenshit thing and texted people:
September 1, 2008
To: Kevin
From: Viva
“Bad news. Got a touch of the cancer. F’ that!! Still want to do the show. When’s practice?”
Kevin, in a rather un-Kevin-like moment, called me instantly and freaked out a bit. But then he said, “You know what, you’re gonna be fine. Want to practice Monday? I’ll call the boys. Why don’t you plan on coming over for dinner beforehand.”
And that, friends, changed everything. No longer was I dreading September 26, the date of my mastectomy. I was more concerned about remembering lyrics, distributing flyers, and what-the-hell Coco was gonna wear for Halloween.
The band’s first practice was a few days later. Jim and Andre, the bassist and drummer, both said they were sorry about my cancer. I shrugged and said, “Well, my health insurance pays for boobs and a free nipple tattoo. Maybe I’ll get a cobra. Or the Ramones crest.” Then we flipped on the amps, and I hollered ‘til my heart felt like a heart again — for the first time in two years.
September 26 came and went. I got a unilateral mastectomy and an “expander” where my breast tissue had been to stretch my skin in preparation for an implant. My left tit looked like a Halloween movie when I took off the bandages on September 30. But by Halloween, the skin had healed up enough for me to rock a see-through fishnet shirt. My breasts were different sizes, and one required its own bodyguard (Kevin) to protect it from Coco’s legion of fans. But breasts don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things; it’s what you do with them that does.
Coco Cobra and the Killers practiced every week throughout the winter and played a riotous show at least twice a month. I (quite literally) lived for these occasions. I’d do chemo on Monday and rock out on Friday. Sometimes I’d feel sorry for myself. I was nauseous, weak, angry, broke and still heartbroken, but all that dissipated when I walked in my 7-inch black leather platform boots from the car to the club.
Several times during a particularly sweaty show, my wig fell off my bald head (turns out it’s much harder to anchor a wig without hair). My more proper gal pals nearly fainted, certain that the embarrassment would do me in. But every time it happened, the crowd erupted into an even greater frenzy — so much so that I felt a little manipulative (though I swear it was an accident!).
By April I had two new boobs and even a bit of peach fuzz on my head when the unthinkable happened: my Dad called from Minnesota to tell me to “break a leg” before a show. He was never the biggest Coco Cobra fan (he prefers that I wear clothes), but he could see how nourished I was by doing something I loved. And that while some boys can shatter your soul and make you wish you had cancer, others of ‘em — the kind that “screw” you with their guitars — can put things in perspective again.
Cancer was no match for Coco and her Killers.
Once upon a time Viva Las Vegas thought breast cancer would prevent her from stripping again. She was wrong. Her second book, “The Gospel According to Viva Las Vegas,” is out this month. Her first book, “Magic Gardens: The Memoirs of Viva Las Vegas,” is available here. Check out Coco Cobra and the Killers here.
1.Betabrand Cornucopia Bag: Check out this redonkulously cool Farmers Market Backpack! The geniuses at Betabrand sent me one of these bio-fabulous bags and I must say – it’s damn useful. Back in my NYC food shopping days I would have killed a carrot for one of nifty veggie toters. This bag is better than Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. And speaking of chambers, inner pockets galore keep your treasured foodie delights separate and secure. There’s even a wee pocket for cash-o-la. Two thumbs up Betabrand.
PS. That gorgeous woman in the picture is my little sis!
2. Viva Las Vegans: Many moons ago, I visited Las Vegas while burning a trail through the South on a gambling and fast-food fueled roadtrip. It was messy. My luck ran out and so did my green (and I don’t mean juice). I swore off the place, until now! Turns out at least one casino is wising up and offering vegan options. Next time you’re in Sin City check it out. Maybe that slutty lady luck will be on your veggie fueled side.
3. The Tea House: If Vegas isn’t your scene, then trot on over to my happy place, New Mexico. I nearly moved to Santa Fe in 2004 and I visit there every year. In fact, I think I got married on a mountain in Taos once. But that’s another story for another time. Oh, and let’s keep that between us, shall we? Back to SF. If you love tea as much as I do, check out The Tea House of Canyon road. The food, wine, beer, colorful locals and south west flare are soul soothingly sexy.
4. Peaceful Posters: It’s never too early to plan a trip to Woodstock, NY for the Woodstock Film Festival! This is hands down one of my most favorite times of year. The town is a non-stop super disco of cinema, stars and soirees. Did I mention that the fall foliage will blow your mind? The 2010 Film Fest poster‘s peace-powered design makes me swoon. Join me and pick one up, ’cause nonprofit arts organizations need our support. It’s good karma!
5.The Daily Love: What could be more perfect for my love list than a website that sends you daily love notes? Kipp Mastin created The Daily Love website after embarking on a personal journey to discover how to manifest his best potential. As he researched others who have shared a similar goal throughout history, he discovered a plethora of inspiring quotes. If you want a daily love boost each morning, be sure to sign up!
6. Grace Potter and The Nocturnals: Ok, I’ve always wanted to say what I’m about to say… Ladies, grab your crotch! Grace’s music makes me feel like a total ass kicking rockstar super wench with fiery hair and an intoxicating growl. Lately I’ve been adding a dose of lip sinking and air guitar (air drumming tambien) to my daily regime. Hello liberation, it’s me Kris, Rrrrr! Their latest album rocks but I must say, I am partial to “This is Somewhere”. Jam on sister sledge!
7. Vertigo: When you’re done spinning with saucy sexuality thanks to Grace and the gang, check out the Vertigo thread on my Facebook fan page. I get vertigo from time to time and when I put it out to my peeps damn did the comments and advice pour in. You people are wicked smart! So many of the recommendations helped me. Sooo if you’re an occasional dizzy blond like moi click here and read baby read.
Last week I launched my Love List series. Well, amen, hipshake, cause sooo many people wrote their own and tweeted and FB’d it. There’s even a Love List group on myCSL (go join it hot pants). Love Lists heal. They are fun and funky and free. Love Lists remind you that life is deliciously sweet, like a big drippy emotional ice cream cone (sans the glycemic spike). Tune in every Wednesday for my new list and please share the love. Meaning: Write your list! Hey, speaking of sharing, why not tap on that cute little share button at the end of this blog post? Spread the Love through the cyber soup!
1.I love taking pictures of Lola wearing hats. This week I didn’t have a hat so she’s wearing my bra. I think she looks like an old fashioned pilot, don’t you? Like Amelia Earhart. A hint about pet photography: hold a treat at the edge of the lens. I think she secretly loves our shoots because I’m like a walking cookie jar.
2. Earth Cafe raw cheesecake. OMG. These awesome folks sent us a few samples some months back and Corinne and I fastened our seatbelts, donned bibs and went to town. When I was a dairy guzzler I loved me some rich and creamy cheesecake. Now as a mostly raw vegan I can visit my ole friend again. Hi cheesecake, it’s me Kris, welcome home!
3. Flea Markets. Last weekend we went to the Elephant’s Trunk Flea Market near my folk’s house in CT. This flea is not to be missed. I got a silver cocktail dress from the sixties and this awesomely ugly Mt. Rushmore lamp (which used to be a whiskey bottle). What could be better? Answer: nothing. Wondering how I took these pictures? Check out #4.
4. Hipstamatic’s hot iphone camera app. Corinne turned me onto it. She uses it on her blog all the time. It makes your snaps look like sexy, distressed art. Ps. In addition to being our blog editor and my everything, Corinne is an awesome writer. You might really like her blog too. :)
5. Speaking of awesome blogs, um, yeah, we love Susannah Conway. She’s a rockin’ creative goddess with some juicy e-courses that will shake up your photo-journaling world. Unravel with Susannah and you just might tap into some immense joy.
6. The new Klean Kanteen wide insulated sippy-wonder. Purrrfect for my tea breaks. They keep your bev so hot you might need protective hand gear. Love ‘em. Thanks Kleen Kanteen!
7. Gasland. This documentary is not to be missed. It opened my eyes about the use of fracking in the natural gas industry. You don’t want this to happen to a town near you folks. Me and the hubs are getting active about protecting the Catskills (NY’s water supply – ours too!). You might want to as well. Love this film. Hate fracking.
8. Daily Juice. I miss Austin and sure as heck hope to go back during my book tour. When in the great city that likes to keep it “weird” we always head to Daily Juice. Put it on your radar and swing by if you’re in the area. Your cells will thank ya’ll. Yee haw!
9. Spiritual jewels by Satya. I just love this store. I feel like their earrings bring me one step closer to enlightenment.
10. Listening to old records. I have an amazing collection thanks to a dear family member that passed away. I can no longer speak to him but the music plays on…
What’s on your Love List?
Peace and hearts,
Kris
PS- My girl Rory Freedman inspired me and a whole lotta readers to kick the TV habit this week in her blog! Join the “No TV for 30 Days” challenge with me on Twitter by using the #NoTVfor30Days hashtag. Tubes off, brains and spirits on.
Why do we dance? We dance because it’s the fastest, most direct route to the truth—not some big truth that belongs to everybody, but the get-down-and-personal kind; the what’s-happening-in-me-right-now kind of truth. This is not always easy for us to access—we have to navigate some very deep past, as well as the probable futures we drum up to feed the fear that drives us around the same circles, day in and day out. We dance to hook up to the true genius lurking behind all that bullshit—to seek refuge in our originality and our power to reinvent ourselves; to shed the past, forget the future, and fall into the moment feet first. Do you remember being fifteen, possessed by the beat, by the thrill of music pumping loud enough to drown out everything you’d ever known? Of course you do.
We dance to reclaim our brilliant ability to disappear in something bigger, something safe, a space without a critic or a judge or an analyst. The beat is a lover that never disappoints and, like all lovers, it demands 100% surrender. It has the power to seduce moves we couldn’t dream. It grabs us by the belly, turns us inside out and leaves us abruptly begging for more. The beat is bad, wicked, sick—whatever the word is now.
We dance to fall in love with the spirit in all things, to wipe out memory or transform it into moves that nobody else can make because they didn’t live it. It’s a sacred thing, the beat. We love beats that move faster than we can think, beats that drive us ever deeper inside, that rock our worlds, break down walls and make us sweat our prayers.
We dance to survive, and the beat offers a yellow brick road to make it through the chaos that is the tempo of our times. Chaos is the way of the mind when it is freestyling, winding its way back to an instinctive, intuitive intelligence, the kind we need to survive—not only the real shit going down, but the massive amount of stuff we insist on making up to ensure our suffering. God provides and god don’t need no help. God is the dance, the dance is the way to freedom, and freedom is our holy work.
So get down and find out what your hands, your shoulders, your elbows, knees and, most importantly, your hips and feet have to say about it. Close the door, pull down the shades, pick out a passionate piece of music, and turn it up real loud. Now, lie down on the floor and let your body become a speaker. Listen to the music with your whole body. Listen with your head, your shoulders, your elbows, your hands, your spine, your belly, your thighs, your knees, your calves, your feet. Let the music pass through you. Feel the vibration of the music in each part of you. Which part feels the bass, the treble? What instrument tugs at your heart, your hips?
Play it again. This time, move your body—dance with this new awareness of the music.
There is a dance only you can do, that exists only in you, here and now, always changing, always true. Are you willing to listen with fascination? If you are, it will deliver you unto the self you have always dreamed you could be. This is a promise.
Gabrielle Roth, world-renowned theater director, movement innovator, and recording artist, is the best-selling author of MAPS TO ECSTASY, SWEAT YOUR PRAYERS, and CONNECTIONS. For more than 30 years, she has worked to heal the deadening split between spirit and flesh though her own form of ecstatic dance, the 5Rhythms®. Photo Credit: Lane Diko
