The Stanford Daily
Alumna takes on NYC folk scene by Michael Baer
Jennifer Lindsay, Stanford Class of 2001, is currently back on-campus for Art Affair. After graduating, she made herself a part of the New York City folk singer scene. She performed at the CoHo on Wednesday night and, tonight (Friday), will be performing at Art Affair at 8 pm and the Donner residence at 10. Since many readers may not have heard of this singer/songwriter, I asked her a few questions to let Stanford circa 2002 know what she's all about.
Intermission: What is the first thing people should know about you?
Jenn Lindsay: The first thing is that my music has been described by myself and others as percussive folk with a political edge. I think that as a folk singer it is important to me, the more I go out into the world, to try to broaden my material. I think there's so much more to write about than emotional experiences, and the folk singer's roll is to be a storyteller and a communicator with audiences. I think that maybe it's a luxury to really connect with someone on a really intense or personal level. But I think as a performer, it's important to be communicating, being personal and sincere and open.
I: When you're with an audience, though, it may be difficult to perceive how you're connecting; how do you deal with that?
JL: I talk a lot with people about what it's like to be in front of an audience that's giving back, or what I'm getting back from an audience, and usually it comes down to a simple matter of presence. I feel there's so much stigma about openness; I think that, potentially everyone has the same story, everyone has the same fears and the same dangers about them. As a performer it's my responsibility to put that stuff on the table and hope that people respond. If they don't then it's just a matter of me committing to myself onstage and being there for myself. That's scary, but that's part of the deal, because you never know whether people will be with you or not.
I: So, of the things you sing about, what do you think holds the biggest stigma?
JL: I address domestic violence quite a bit, and I think that makes a lot of people uncomfortable, as I write about not only myself, but about friends I have or people that I've met. But often I find that if I sit down with someone and say, "Hey this is my story," I will find that they have the same story and that's a point of connection.
I: Do you have any big influences, that a person would think, "Hmm, she sounds a lot like...."
JL: ...Ani DiFranco?
I: Yeah, that's a stereotype of a lot of indie folk women.
JL: Yeah, I've heard of lot of "sounds a combo between Ani DiFranco and Joni Mitchell," "Ani DiFranco and Sarah McLachlan," "Ani DiFranco and Jewel." I think people see a strong, politically-inclined woman on stage and that's the immediate association. All this and the leftist angle cause people to compare me to Ani DiFranco, but I think we sound super-different. I've got a brighter voice, for one. But I've really tried to let everything be an influence, even comments in public places and such.
People laud originality so much, but I don't know if it's even a possibility anymore to be truly original, so it's important to have to be open to influences. You have to learn what works in others' storytelling and sounds. As long as you're coming from an honest place from within yourself, I think it's valid. I think most people's problems are universal, with their own specific context, but there's an incredible potential for people to respond "me too," so if you're honest, writing for yourself will work for others.
I: What do you identify as?
JL: First, I write as a woman. Gender informs one's entire experience, but my music in particular. I grew up in a conservative family, and, as someone of different opinions, I needed to assert myself. And I'm a feminist and I take that seriously, but you have to able to joke about stuff; people take themselves too seriously. I have some funnier songs. Folk singers can be really goofy, even sloppy.
I: What area of New York are you in?
JL: I'm in Brooklyn and I had a steady gig in Manhattan, but that building doesn't exist anymore, so I've had to start over. The East Village is where I mostly play, in a wonderful scene called "Antifolk," which resides at the Sidewalk Cafe. I think living in New York is a huge compromise between paying enormous rent for a place you rarely visit, and the exposure and growth you encounter in New York. Every day you meet someone who humbles you. It's perfect for a young ambitious artist type. It's also a matter of community. I've been super-lucky to have supportive fans and crew at Stanford, and the support I've garnered here gives me hope that I might be able to build something sustainable in NYC.
In some ways, though, I've felt Stanford is very frustrating, that people sacrifice themselves for themselves. But the people here are so creative and bright and impress me. Most places, there are people who get it and some people who don't. Here, most do.
Still, I've been recognizing that on the Stanford campus there is a case of myopic liberalism where people start thinking that liberal is the only way to be. I found my very first rejection of that when I got back from New York at the beginning of October after seeing crazy shit, like I saw a finger on the ground and people crying on the subways and people just terrified. New York is so changed now. After being in the middle of that, I came back here where the kids from the co-op were protesting, saying, "Make love, not war." And I have been with those kids all the time, out there shouting, "Peace!" but suddenly I just felt there was no sense of the privilege of being able to be out in the California sunshine and this beautiful weather and saying, "Make love, not war." If they had been breathing in ashes and human bodies, would they be saying that? I think it's really complicated and we can't reduce it to "Make love, not war."
I saw some crazy stuff in New York and it's really been in my head and I'm trying to work it out on paper because that's the way I work out things. I wrote a ballad about what went on there. I'm lucky to have it on a new compilation CD, done by Educators for Social Justice in NYC. The song itself exlores the them that there aren't any words for what happened in NYC. "Not a Sound," is the title. How quiet it was in the days afterward. How can I put creation upon destruction?
I: For some people, tragedy shuts off instead of inspires.
JL: It is really crippling. How can I help people by getting up and singing? But I think now more than ever people are searching for answers and for different perspectives. While I feel that nationalism doesn't necessarily mean supporting George Bush, it does mean trying to get in touch with the original ideals of the country, notions of freedom and solidarity and personal pursuit. I do the best I can, but I don't pretend to be an authoritative perspective.
