Liz Pappademas - Interview

So, en route to Roosevelt Hospital, we got to about 64th and Columbus--that's what it says on my birth
certificate-and I couldn't wait. My dad "caught" me, we went to the hospital, everything was fine. Later, my
parents tried to find the driver to thank him, but they were never able to track him down.

He probably quit that night.

When and where did you first learn to play the piano?
I was about five. I asked my parents for a piano. They obliged first with a Casio--just to see if I was really
interested. My mom says I'd had the thing a week and had already picked out ten songs. This was in San
Francisco. They got me a piano and I started lessons. I faked my way through that [until] I was about twelve,
mostly figuring out pieces by ear . . . a slippery slope. I still have the piano my parents bought for me.

I'm sitting next to it now. I love that little piano.

When did you decide to pursue music full-time?
I guess when I decided to go to Berklee [College of Music in Boston], I knew I was in it for good. But the
truth is, I was in it for good long before that.

From where do you draw inspiration?
Mainly from situations in my life that seem to need further examination. And time alone. That's a big one.
But also just anything that strikes me--movies, things I see on TV, stories I come across in the paper. And
living in L.A . . . wanting to continue to do that.

When your band Hurts to Purr disbanded, you moved back to San Francisco, then settled in Los
Angeles. How important are surroundings and environment to your creativity?
For years, people kept telling me that it doesn't matter where you live-that you can make music anywhere,
send files over the Internet, record in your bedroom, have people come to you, et cetera. This may work for
some, and if you can do what you want to do in Anytown, USA, then that's fine. And you're lucky because
living in New York or L.A. is hard and expensive.

But driving around on the same streets Tom Waits did, picturing Randy Newman writing alone in one of
those office buildings on Wilshire, being able to go see Jon Brion and Aimee Mann at Largo, playing Mr. T's
like Beck did … that means a lot to me. Maybe it shouldn't. But to me, it feels like the talent this city has
hosted is in the air, as is the challenge to rise to that level.

In Austin and San Francisco, I was a snake in a terrarium. Safe, warm, fed, no predators, half-awake too
often. It was good to be in this incubator of sorts and I'm glad I lived in both cities, but in L.A., I'm the same
snake in this enormous desert. It's scary and dangerous and I might die sooner, but I'm growing and learning
a hell of a lot more and enjoying myself in the process.

How do you craft a song? Can you describe your personal creative process?
Most of the time, it starts with a first line, which is usually the idea for the song. From that comes the
framework for the form, usually with a melody and chords, and then a filling in, making sure I'm saying what
I want to say with the right words. I write the bulk of the song and then re-work the lazy rhymes or verses. If
the song's giving me trouble, I'll work at it for a while, but if it's not hitting me, I'll throw it out and start over
completely, keeping the initial idea but writing it with a totally different spin. Simplifying, usually.

Your album 11 Songs is as stripped-down and honest as its title. The album's songs are beautiful,
sometimes stark vignettes. How personal are the songs you write?
Very. 11 Songs is non-fiction. I was writing it during a particularly isolated part of my life-no band to bounce
things off of; few friends around, even. All of the songs are autobiographical-"Desaturate It" and "Born
Again April Fool" excluded. Those two set me off on doing more narrative writing-fiction writing. But, even
then, I usually identify with the characters or their story in some way.

Do you write better alone, or do you find collaborating with others is just as fruitful?
Alone. Always.

The clever Hurts to Purr song "Mr. Atom" is about a child and her imaginary friend, a robot named
Mr. Atom. Where did this song come from?
I saw a picture in a magazine of an old 50's robot doll called Mr. Atom. I pulled some scenes from my own
childhood-playing behind the library, Styrofoam space stations. But this song's no more autobiographical
than that. I pictured Mr. Atom as a real toy, maybe something this kid is holding onto for too long... "The
Velveteen Rabbit" was always one of my favorite stories growing up.

What other musical avenues are you interested in exploring?
I just joined a 20-piece avant-jazz marching band called Killsonic. I play the accordion. It's sort of like Eric
Dolphy goes to Yugoslavia. The horn section is going to be a big part of my new project.

Do you enjoy performing live? Does it afford you the opportunity to change anything or play around
with your songs?
Playing live is a challenge for me right now. And working on it is hard, too, because I don't play out as much
as I'd like to. Singing to the dogs and the sofa is obviously not the same as a bar full of people with their
arms crossed.

There are certain songs--older songs that have stayed in the set, but yes, I'll often do ... I guess you could say,
covers of my own songs to keep things interesting for me and the crowd. I hate going to shows and the band
just plays the record verbatim. What's the point? I might as well have stayed home and listened with my
stereo turned up.

While "Soldier's Girls" isn't about war, the parallel is there. Where did the inspiration for this song
come from?
I was in relationship that was about to go long-distance. I'd heard stories, seen stuff on TV about the families
the soldiers in Iraq had left, and I was basically thinking: that's not me. I can't be that. I'm not that strong. It
was a song to all the actual soldier's girls and army wives telling them: God damn. I think living a few states
away is rough. You've got it a hell of a lot worse off than I do and you're hanging in there.

But it was more a song to tell my boyfriend that I'd miss him. And then, that I missed him. And was pissed
about it. For me, songwriting is about finding new ways to say very simple things-I love you, I miss you, stay,
go-it's all the same stuff with a different frame around it.

Songs like "Desaturate It" are subtly topical and seem to discuss the boundaries of acceptable art
in contemporary society. While I might be way off the mark there, are you drawn to topicality when
you write? Do you have messages you want to get across?
I never thought of it that way, and no, I don't feel like I have messages I want to get out, but I suppose it did
turn out to be a commentary on those issues. The boundaries of art versus censorship is certainly something
I find compelling, and if I can bring light to that topic, great, but really I was just heartbroken watching
Michael Chapman tell this incredible story on the Taxi Driver DVD and thought it'd make a good song.

You are well into writing a new album. What can you tell us about it?
It's a concept album based on a fictional game show called Who's Your Neighbor--basically a new version of
What's My Line?, with a Let's Make a Deal feel. It's playing out sort of like a collection of short stories, or
maybe an Altman movie: [an] ensemble cast connected in various ways to a central event and therefore, each
other. I'm having a good time working on it.

Thank you for doing this, Liz.
Thank you, Paul.

Hear more from Liz Pappademas at www.lizpappademas.com and www.myspace.com/lizpappademas.