Preparing for the COMPETITION SEASON

My Newsletter

Are you being bullied by the music business?

ARE YOU BEING BULLIED BY THE BUSINESS? BE THE BOSS!

Today’s Global music scene is a creative playground compared to earlier versions I have had the pleasure (and pain…) of knowing.  Particularly, Nashville.

I recall my first real experience with a much respected National Talent Agency. After being selected to join the group, I was scheduled to have a meeting the following Monday in Nashville, Tennessee. Home of Country Music, The Grand Ole Opry and home where most of my dreams lived.

In this meeting, I assumed we would discuss details of my career, maybe go over some of my original songs and basically get a plan together. Nope. The topic: Lose 30 pounds in 30 days.

I was the only female at a table with 8 or so men in suits who, in no uncertain terms, informed me losing weight was MANDATORY to any further action. So, I did. 28 pounds in 32 days. I looked great. But, this 28 pounds was barely acceptable to the “suits”. I was told I looked “sick” by my southern relatives. My family seemed disturbed that I had collar bones. This further prompted a brief confrontation by my parents and an ongoing intervention by my Pentecostal aunts to pray away any “drugs” that I may be on. Because, skinny people were on drugs or depressed as far as they were concerned. No, I wasn’t on drugs. In fact, the only “drug” I was on was “Nashville” and “making it in the business”. Which, in retrospect, actually should have had some F.D.A. regulations.

During this time in Nashville, I was groomed on what to wear, how to do my hair and makeup, what to say, and without my even realizing- WHO to be. Which was ANYONE- but, ME. I was discouraged from writing my own songs, encouraged to study other singers and basically led into the direction the agency saw a need for.

The music market had a domination on corporate advertising at that time. Super models were no longer the faces endorsing major products, it was singers and actors. Larger record labels were changing the look of Nashville. No longer did they want the back woods singers with something to say; the cute and sassy singer/songwriters ala Dolly Parton. They wanted super models that were decent singers (Enter 2001 Auto Tune) and preferably with a southern accent. A BELIEVABLE southern accent- because God forbid any one doubt your southern heritage. Even those who were from Canada.

Now, many years later Nashville has gotten more progressive. But, that philosophy continues in the Country market to a smaller degree. Now, however, the roles have reversed. The menare the ones getting the “Nashville Glossing”. Is it just me or does the following seem to be a prerequisite for male artists to get a good record deal in Nashville?

1. Tattoo’s  (and preferably a “tribal” art)

2. An assortment of shiny silver rings on non-traditional fingers (yes, pinkies, thumbs and what not…)

3. Facial hair -like you just don’t care (but, actually is in a determined design by a recognized stylist)

4. Songs about beer, beaches and broads. (written by everyone BUT the artist yet the artists name is on the credit as a writer- DUH…you MUST have “writing street cred” to be taken seriously in this town!)

5. Jeans that have “Be-Dazzled” pockets. (I refer to these as “Bitch- Britches”- pardon the language. Also, * I do reserve the rights on that name for possible future branding.)

Maybe it’s just me. But, probably not. By now I have offended a lot of my fellow Nash-villains. Yes, I spelled that correctly. Wink, wink.

But, now the music industry (as a whole) is not driven by the big record label machines. This is due to the ever growing successes of smaller and/or independent record labels. Thanks to social media, internet marketing and awareness, artists are able to put the music they want to into the ears of many. They are able to fund their own campaigns, albums and appearances while advertising in volume- for FREE.

Thus, exposing the world to some unique music and organic talent that may otherwise have been unnoticed. Recent studies show that listeners just might be tired of the over processed artists and over rotated radio songs. Listeners are embracing the non-mainstream. This has had a great effect financially on the “Big Bosses” and “Lords of Labels”.

Now, taking the lead in music sales are many artists that maintained their “brand”. the singer/songwriters that stayed true to their music and the message of their own choosing. It is raw, it is REAL and it is REFRESHING.

So, for all of artists that have been hindered from the business because you were told (or even thought) there was no market for your music- GOOD NEWS, there is.

It is a large, mass market and by the looks of things it is still waiting on YOU. You do not have to change yourself anymore. You do NOT need to compromise like some of us had to yesteryear. Yep, a whole big world of listeners are waiting to LIKE you! So, keep writing what YOU write. BE YOU and GET HEARD. The music market is YOURS now- just one “share” click away. Right there at your finger tips! No silver rings required.

xoxo,

Missy

The Ghost of the Hungry Farmer

The Ghost of the Hungry Farmer

The summer of the barren draught, brought suffering for all around.

The farmer’s tears the only water, crying for his only daughter.

Whom he can’t feed, whom he can’t feed.

The hungry farmer prayed for days, watching the people waste away.

He would give up anything, for even just a little rain.

To plant a seed, this he would plead.

In the wind he called the storm, the sky got gray- the breeze was warm.

Take anything that I own he cried! As the people starved and died.

So he prayed. Until that day.

He saw the storm clouds drawing near, his answered prayers, his only fear.

For this rain what is the barter? He could not find his only daughter.

The wind would howl. Can’t trade back now.

Once empty fields now flourished plains. Only he knew the cost of grain.

Underneath the food he’d grown, were seeds of evil he must sew.

With a haunted plow, a haunted plow.  

The people said we are the “blessed of men”…and “fairer days are here again…”

Their belly’s fat from the ample crop, they bragged on how the rain won’t stop!

“No end in sight”, ... and they were right.

Where once was dust now bottomless mud. The withered levee gone to flood.

Water for miles takes the corn from the land. Even the scarecrows all have drown.

Angry rain falls day and night, no end in sight.

Blood on the harvest, ghost in the grain.

His only daughter, the price for rain.

Even the sparrow won’t eat from the land,

The farmer plowed with blood stained hands.

But through the thunder you hear the farmer,

Drowning in tears cried from his daughter.

The autumn of the dreadful rain,

That perished a town, never quite the same.

By Missy Shackelford (c) 2014

Memphis, I still believe

Memphis (I still believe): https://youtu.be/Brrrsc35LGk

DARWIN WOULD DIE!

DARWIN WOULD DIE!

By Missy Shackelford (c) 2015

What does Intelligence look like...? Maybe it is not what it seems.

People exist in all sorts of packaging. Often, this “packaging” is an individual who resorts to the unspoken wardrobe of a stereotype. They fight against it all the while embracing it. 

I have found as a professional in the entertainment business, this is most prevalent.

When I first began my journey in this business, I was in a theater crowd.

 It actually was there that I began searching myself, for myself.

I noticed that I stood out a bit. I still had the smell of a main stream popular kid.
As a habitual traditionalist, fueled by teenage insecurity, I preferred to blend into the status quo. However, in this new theater crowd, I noticed there was no real standard of which I could scale my normalcy. 

This was all too confusing to me. Until I realized there indeed was a scale!
 It just weighed differently.

My initial assessment was that the convention of this particular group was to be the exact opposite of everything I had considered the standard.

In fact, to be exceptionally the opposite of the standard, was the goal.

The definitive objective would be achieved by being so exceptionally opposite of the preconceived “normal” that it was obvious you were a “theater kid”.

In other words, your conformity to eccentricity concluded that you were unconventionally unique.

“HUH?”

I just couldn't wrap my brain around that until time caused me to be transformed by osmosis. It was such a gradual and unconscious process that I was unaware I had become one of the “theater kids”.

 It wasn't until I was no longer around them that I noticed my “packaging” no longer fit into my new Nashville songwriting crowd.

Damn.

I would have to exchange my combat boots for cowboy boots.

Many years later, I am disappointed to declare that nothing has changed.

Even after college, life experiences, education, awareness and AGE; this packaging issue remains.

My social circle has changed. Definitely CHANGED more than EVOLVED.

I still am in the entertainment business but, most of my colleagues are richly educated and creative. 

This is a very powerful combination.

I find that I am privileged to have friends that engage in conversations about physics and psychological predispositions to politics and social apathy, 

all swirled into co-discussions of creative genius.
They are fascinating and intellectually stimulating.

Yes, I consider myself an intellectual. 

In all of my social circles.

I may not be the most brilliant but, I  can competently hold my own in most conversations. I enjoy deep thinkers and the language of the conversation.

Yet, still at my age and influence, I find the pressure to “be”.

Where at one time the pressure was to look like you were MORE than you actually were- now everyone wants to look like LESS. No sparkles, no Name Brands. The aesthetic embodiment of "I don't care how I look".

The New Non-Conformists.  
However, it is a very calculated design. It does NOT come natural to wake up and look like you have left the set of a granola bar commercial. 
Yes, even the New Non-Conformists shop. They do not weave their own clothing, though some may lead you to believe this.
So, YES. THEY SHOP AND BUY CERTAIN OUTFITS.

Some of my friends have never been on African Safari’s but, look as though they are fresh off the boat. 

Some of my friends have never lived in the rain forest or hiked mountains but, physically appear as they have a backpack ready.

 (Some actually DO have a back pack ready which still throws me off…)
None of my friends are Amish yet look like they hand stitched every shoe they wear. Shoes that, by the way, cost as much as the average American earn in a week. AND NOT SAFARI ready.

Some of my super human cerebral friends have never dug ditches for the under privileged but, one glance at their hands and one would assume.

Yet, THEY poke fun at ME for my current season Vera Bradley purse and that I have on lip gloss!

Some unfamiliar people in my crowds even assume I am the “wife” of someone in the group. 

I have found ultimate judgment at events and gatherings where I sit at the “intelligent” table. Where I am eager and ready to insert my ten cents.

Yes, I said “ten-cents”.

Yes, I have a Southern accent with a sassier verbiage, I wear makeup and my nails are polished and YES I can discuss any topic and do so on YOUR level.
No, I don't want a Soybean Tea- I want a strong coffee.
No, I didn't make these earrings. I bought them. From Target, too. Not even at a cute locally owned boutique. However, that doesn't make me a "capitalist" or lessen my IQ.
Yes, I still am SMART.

Hell, I AM INTELLIGENT!

Yes! I AM an INTELLECTUAL. 

I swear to God.

I am not here to BLEND in.

 I am not here to impress you by under impressing you.

I don’t use my lack of grooming to scale my capacity of intellect or aptitude.

AND I AM NO ONES WIFE! 
...OR NANNY EITHER, for that matter.

Yet still, just like high-school, the same unspoken rule remains: 

you will be adjudicated by your appearance.

I know a man. 

He has a long beard and long hair.

 He wears the same t-shirt almost regularly with his too-loose and rarely washed jeans. 

His best accessory is his “Organic Tea” that is ever present. 

He is quiet and seems reflective. 

Many assume he is a savant of some sort.

He is not.

I know him.

He has accomplished nothing outside of cashing his grandfather’s inheritance and finding the perfect blend of Starbucks to accommodate his marijuana dry mouth. 

He is quiet and seems "reflective" only because he is high.

No poetry involved. 

Yet, to some he is the “mysterious philosopher and potential creative mastermind” that makes the Mid-Town coffee rounds.

All because he is dirty and consults his “Hipster” board on Pintrest.
His deepest thought is if one side of his beard is longer than the other.
Yet, his opinions are welcomed and he gets all the unspoken respect that I FREAKING DESERVE but, am too clean to receive. 

 I can write a critically acclaimed article about “Creative Brains” based on my research in neurology and psychology and still be demeaned because of my purse selection. Assumed to be someones wife because I have on heels.
He barely wipes and is assumed to be genius because of it!
Go figure.

I can’t help but wonder what Charles Darwin would be packaged in. 

Some of this seasons skinny jeans, converse and a cave man hipster beard? 

Maybe some throw back Birkenstocks?

Maybe he would throw us all off and be decorated in camouflage and have his own television series. 

Certainly, even an intellectual of that echelon would succumb to at least some of today’s social conventions?

At least a Facebook or Twitter.

Facebook Status:

 “feeling superior” 

Or Twitter: 

#thesebrains #damnevolution

I could go on…

But, I will stop here:

 Imagine Darwin taking a “selfie”.

Ahh, the irony of THAT thought.

Basically, I don’t know what Darwin would do. 

I can see what everyone is doing around me; I just DON’T CARE.

I am me; with all of my flaws, thoughts, opinions and tastes.

I like what I like. I am who I am.

I bathe. Sorry.

…and I am SMART.

Pinky Promise.

XOXO,

Missy :)

“Given a long enough period of time, the descendant populations of an ancestor species will differ enough to be classified as different species, a process capable of indefinite iteration. There are, in addition, forces that encourage divergence among descendant populations, and the elimination of intermediate varieties.”

40

40

By Missy Shackelford

I am very aware of the fact that I am not a person of great accolade. I have not had a respectful Ivy League Education. I was not born into inheritance of wealth or prestige and do not really have a desire for it either.

I do, however, like to pay a bill or two without having to cash in my children’s change collection.

You could say that I have found a way of living by surviving.

If my banker would accept hope and dreams for deposits, I would be rich on my 1.3% interest.

I don’t blame the government, my parents, my poor choices, bad relationships, bad luck or God for any lack of success. I don’t even blame myself!

There is no blame to be distributed; it just is what it is because I am who I am.

I have been this person for many years. I have boldly approached life with an innocent faith in human kind, joy in the storm and a wonderful/unhealthy denial, which I have found cozy and comfortable. Being a writer, if all goes wrong- I just write a song about it and glamorize the suffering. Easy. I have generally liked myself, in spite of myself.

 Yes, I have actually been satisfied with my life- …UNTIL I start analyzing it.

Only recently have I started this evaluation, due to a very significant birthday approaching.

As this date draws closer, I find I am becoming more aware of all of my mistakes, shortcomings and lack of achievement. I am beginning to feel a race for time only so that I can feel some sense of accomplishment before the big day arrives. I have read that this “assessment” is not uncommon for many women approaching this milestone birthday. This is the birthday that most 29 year old women, like myself, will approach with dread; turning 40.

There I said it. Yes, I will be turning 40.

Dear God, even as I see it on paper I am a little disturbed! A big bold 4 and then a 0, sitting there in Times New Roman like a permanent, bloody red wine stain on the paper! Suddenly, I feel a little anxiety as reality becomes sobering.

My GOD. OH.MY.GOD.

Now, I know every 40+ woman right now is rolling their eyes. But, for ME this number is more significant than 30, 50, 60 and so on.

I was totally okay with 30. So far it was my favorite. I was old enough to know better and still too young to care. I lost my fear of confrontation, my co-dependant tendency and my baby weight. I found my OWN opinion and independence- I was unstoppable at 30!

But, 40? Honestly, I have dreaded this one for a while now.

Why? Because by this age, I thought I would have accomplished substantially more than I have. I am not discrediting what I HAVE accomplished at all. I just feel like I have disappointed myself with my lack of achievements. I have never been focused on wealth, career success, or even being the Grammy Award winner that I was certain I would have been by now. I have come to terms that Tom Cruise will not be pursuing me like I dreamed of in my 30’s; looking back I am so thankful he didn’t!  I don’t really know WHAT I expected to have accomplished by now, but it feels like something more than this.

For one, I was certain I would be remarried by now. I have spent the majority of my life practicing being the perfect wife. The countless hours of self help studies, learning to balance the fine line of domesticated diva and ferocious femme fatale.  Now, that I feel like I have mastered the art of wifery, it seems less interesting to me now. Sometimes not interesting at all.

Two, I had a strong confidence that all of the years I have written songs, performed various places and was such a dynamic personality- I would maybe, I don’t know, at least have my own talk show?!  The closest I have come to that is my MOBILE “make-shift” talk show that I have with strangers.  I am not only the star, but the Director, Producer, Sponsor and staff.

I conduct this show with everyone, but especially strangers. This happens all over town. I offer advice, commentaries and information to many people everyday. Some are willing audience members and some are my social captives until the check out is complete at my local Kroger. So, I guess that counts, in a way.?!?

Lastly (although many more exist), I wish that I could look at my children and be proud of all of the wonderful parenting I have given them as a single mother. Thankfully, they have grown into quite well adjusted young people- in spite of ME more so than BECAUSE of me.

 In my mind and in my memories, I have worn an apron their entire childhood and have always had a freshly baked batch of cookies ready for our nightly bible reading.

I am sure that in their minds and in their memories, I am a ticking time bomb that exists under yesterday’s t-shirt and always have a fresh batch of promises for a wonderful tomorrow- that they are still waiting on. They don’t have a private school education, a lot of clothes and cool stuff, but they are appreciative and genuine. They, despite every struggle, find joy and contentment in simple things. They approach every opposition with a blossoming hope, an unexpected humor and a determined will- that is about the only thing I have given them.

But, mainly they love me, their wild card mother, for who and whatever I am that day.

In my honest thoughts on age, I TRULY feel like I am in my twenties still. By that, I mean self-searching, exploring and wondering what I will be and what I will do when I ‘grow-up’. Someone told me the other day that 40 is the new 30. I think I will hold on to that philosophy. However, someone also said “orange is the new black” and I will certainly PASS on that.

But, everyday I am still thankful that I wake up. I am grateful somehow the Lord provides me with a roof and lights on. I am blessed for what I HAVE and often what I HAVE NOT. I have NOT a disease, have NOT a daily physical challenge and I have NOT anything that cripples me from progress; except myself.

Yeah, I put on a few pounds. Yes, there are a few wrinkles. Okay, I admit I have spotted an odd color hair strand a time or two and yes my breasts are not worth flashing anymore. Well, one is. One, actually, is an amazing super star that has held on to its youth like a champ.

Her twin, not so much. So, I guess I could, if need be, I could flash ONE. PROUDLY.

But, as I approach this birthday, I will see my glass of Vitamin enriched protein juice for aging women, half FULL.

I will try and embrace the fact that I am still dreaming, living and growing. I will still bake a fresh batch of promises of a wonderful tomorrow and maybe even deliver this upcoming year!

I vow that I will quit lying about my age and tell everyone the truth.

 I will own the years I have earned. I will say my age bravely- I AM 30.

I mean I am, eh-hem….

Damn it, I AM 40.

Missy

xoxo

Henhouses

HENHOUSES

By Missy

 I have spent my fair share of time in many salons; and in many career positions there.

But, no matter where the salon or what position I am working, one thing is very similar- the henhouse.

The “hen house” is what I call the kitchen area of a salon.

Because behind those classy kitchen doors, is a whole secret world- where not only color gets mixed- but a whole lot of talking does too!

When the hen cackling is through, at least one hen will have put another hen on the chopping block. I can’t tell you how many times I have walked into a hen-house conversation where every whisper got silent and was replaced with a simultaneous assortment of fake smiles.

I would feel the air so thick I could see my name, or someone else’s, in a big cloud of thick, gossipy fog. Then for some reason, I would find myself nervous and awkwardly skidding out.

I would spend the remainder of the day contemplating if I was the one on the chopping block- and WHY? Those moments had the power to ruin my day, and fuel my inner hen.

Then there were times when some of my co-workers would graciously invite me in and begin a conversation about someone. It was like being asked to sit at the “cool table” in school.

It was very hard to resist the urge to be involved and before I knew it, I became a bloody butcher in the slaughter house. I was sharpening my knife sacrificing a co-hen for the block. All because I felt a sense of camaraderie.  My participation was also a personal insurance that if I were the butcher- I couldn’t be the hen.

For THAT day, anyhow…

In most creative fields I have worked in, from the Nashville music circuit to the posh Memphis salons, and all types of professional creative circles- there is such a raunchy cutthroat spirit at times. Not just women, A LOT of men as well! I have seen individuals who claim to even be “best” friends aggressively scheme and plot behind one another’s backs like highly trained double agents!  I, myself, have been lied to, misrepresented, stolen from, manipulated, and downright ran out of a job and career before.

 All of this from” friends” who were so gifted at self-denial, their vicious duplicity allowed them little to no remorse. Confronting them would be of no service as they would have a quick justification and reason for any behavior that was scandalous. Of course, it was always someone else’s fault or a “misunderstanding”.

Then, I met a lady that would impact my life more than she or I would ever know.

She had been in the hair business a very long time and hired me to work in her very successful and celebrated salon in a prominent position. She was smart, savvy, funny, confident and harshly frank. Initially meeting her, I interpreted her direct and plain-spoken demeanor as “mean”.

I considered her forthrightness to be offensive. I was not accustomed to someone who did not assume the sugar- sweet pretense that seemed to be a requirement for the initial stages of introduction. It almost felt “un-southern” and well, RUDE. I was intimidated.

I would confuse her assertiveness as aggressiveness towards me. This would cause me to put up my defenses. Inevitably, that would soon lend itself to a passive-aggressive melt down. Unfortunately, these were the melt downs that always showcased my white trash tendency far too well.  Soon enough, the moment came.

After allowing various co-workers in the “hen house” fuel my hostility by telling me stories of her callous behavior, and even a few fabricated stories of things she had said about me, I was ready to tell her off! Being a self-appointed ambassador for bitches, I was ready to “straighten her out”.

I proceeded to her office and began letting her know what a heinous person she was and how I was not going to put up with it any longer!

 Startled by my comments, she displayed a visible motion of being taken back by my slander. However, she did not respond with name calling in return or to the invitation I extended of handling this “in the yard”. Instead, she “strongly suggested I go home and assess myself and return tomorrow with an apology”.  In my last act of classy unravel, I extended to her a well-polished middle finger and exited her office.

I was a little shocked. That did not go as I had planned.

I was NOT expecting her to be rational! I thought for sure we would yell, curse and engage in a battle of “just who is the biggest bitch”…!

But, noooo she had to make me look like a damn idiot!

Yeah, that stung a bit.

I drove home feeling like the biggest redneck straight off of the Mason-Dixon line.

 I might as well had left that salon parking lot on a tractor, with a “my kid beat up your honor roll student” bumper sticker on the back. I was so humiliated.

The saddest part was, in my reflections later, she was right! I was mad for no good reason. She had not treated me badly; she just was not- FAKE- or Phony.

Hmmm….that was exactly it!  Suddenly, I felt so aware, like scales had dropped off of my fake eyelashes.

The next day at work, I humbly apologized and then told her thank you for the revelation she unknowingly gave me. I told her every single thing I thought and felt. I even told her about the henhouse. I imagined she would be stunned and appalled by the hens. But, she wasn’t. She didn’t even seem surprised.

Instead, she informed me how very aware of the henhouse she was.

But, I finally understood her when she said; the entire world was a henhouse and only the ROOSTERS survive.  It was clear. I was only used to hens. She was so right. In that moment, I realized I genuinely liked her and truly respected her as well.

 After the longest, best conversation of my life we hugged and I got ready to get to work. As I was leaving her office she said, “By the way, I actually am from a small town and was raised by brothers”. She began to take off her diamond encrusted Rolex, winked and continued, “I still can rumble if need be.”  She winked and we both laughed.

We became the best of friends. Her honesty was contagious. There is just something about an HONEST person that enables you to want to be honest as well. I mean the kind of honesty that sometimes is so REAL and uncontained that it makes you a little nervous- but FREE. I had been fake most of my life.

Never one to “hurt someone’s feelings” so I would just say what needed to be said BEHIND their back. Somehow, that felt more, polite and well… Christian.

That was more safe and comfortable. But, I realized it actually wasn’t SAFE and definitely not comfortable after all. I did not want to be a hen any longer.

She eventually got out of the hair business, as did I, but we remained friends.

Sometimes she will call me after seeing a picture on Facebook or after watching one of my shows and will remind me that I have gained weight, my hair color is dull, or my absolute favorite- “I remember you when you were just a little white trash over-processed Blonde and full of so much crap….”

I just laugh and love her for that. Most of the time, she usually is right.

 *Note: After years of her powerful suggestion, I am a brunette now, but not AS full of crap*

I know that her honesty is rare and it is real.

I have tried to emulate her over the years. I refuse to sit in a hen house putting ANYONE on the chopping block. I take pride that if anyone is saying I am less than honest, it is they who are being less than honest. Genuine people are becoming harder and harder to find. I am thankful for knowing her and allowing her influence to inspire me. Hopefully, I am following her example and setting a standard others find refreshing and follow suit.

It still is competitive in my professional world- and sometimes even my personal world.

I still see a lot of my colleagues and “friends” blatantly go behind their “friends” backs as well as my own. I still experience fake-ness on a daily basis and often by the very people who claim to be real. They are still in self-denial, sitting around laying eggs.

I still stumble upon a “hen house” in various places around town. Sometimes, sadly, even at CHURCH.

But, I won’t be around when the feathers go flying.

I know who I am.

But, more importantly- I know WHAT I am.

….Cock-a-doodle-do.

-Missy

Xoxo