Reid - Ontario Contact Keynote 1

Reid - Ontario Contact Keynote 1

Kate Reid Keynote – Ontario Contact Conference
Changing Lives, Saving Lives: The Necessity of Socially Conscious Performance
Hello everyone. My name is Kate Reid and I welcome you all to Ontario Contact Conference 2014 here in beautiful Midland, Ontario. Before I begin, I would also like to extend a heartfelt thank-you to Cheryl Ewing and the folks of Ontario Contact who invited me to come and speak with you today. And thank you to all of you who have chosen to come to this talk. I know you have a busy weekend ahead of you so I appreciate that you have made time in your schedules to listen to what I have to say. It is my pleasure to be here, having traveled from Vancouver, BC, which is where I live, in order to talk with you about things that I am passionate about: risky programmingand socially conscious performance. I know that you all feel passionate about the performance arts, too, because you are here and you are doing thenecessary and often-times lifesaving work of bringing the arts into your communities and schools. But I will get to the life-saving part a bit later.
When I accepted the invitation to speak to all of you at this conference, a question kept circling around in my head: what could I possibly have to say about risky programming and socially conscious performance? By risky programming, I am speaking about taking the risk, as presenters and programmers, to book acts and performances thatchallenge conventions and norms,and decenter mainstream ideas. By socially conscious performance, I’m referring toperformances that address social justice issues.And so, I pondered this question for days when I realized that I would simply have to write about what I know best: me, and my own experience with specificmusicians, their performances and the profound impact these things have had on my life. So, in this talk, I am essentially going to tell you a story, my story, about the kind of art that influenced me so deeply. I am also going to share with you my thoughts on why risky programming and socially consciousperformances are vital and necessary.

Socially conscious music has had such an immense impact on my life that, not only do I sing for a living, I do activist work through my songs: in schools, at festivals, in live music venues, at conferences, at youth camps, and in people’s homes. I am so interested in public performance and activism that a year ago, I decided to go back to school. I am currently doing my Master’s Degree at University of British Columbia, where I am researching my own artistic practices as a songwriter and performer by investigating how public performance, activism, folk music and critical pedagogy intersect. Since I am a singer-songwriter by trade, I thought by way of introduction it would be most appropriate to tell you a little about who I am by singing you all a song. This song is called “Uncharted Territory”, and it speaks to the kind of territory one must navigate when one feels like an outsider. I wrote it in response to a couple of friends of mine who, after I released my first album, told me that they love my songs but that I sing too much about being a lesbian.
<sing Uncharted Territory
So, as I said earlier, I wrote this song in response to some folks who told me that while they really like my songs, they felt that I sing too much about being a lesbian. I wrote this song because I was pissed off. I was annoyed that someone could say something like that to me without thinking about what it actually meant: that it wasn’t ok with them that I named who I was and asserted my identity in a society that saw me and “my kind” as different from the norm, and perhaps even a little weird.I was pissed off because they were telling me, not so subtly, that it wasn’t ok for me to speak up, to “go against the grain” and make me and others like me, visible in this world. And I was really angry because it had taken me a tremendous amount of personal workto get to the place where I felt bold enough totake the risks to begin totell my story through song.I had finally arrived at the place where I was clear that it was my work to speak openly and publicly about gender and sexual diversity, and to address homophobia and heterosexism through the medium of song. Let me tell you, arriving at that place took me many years of internal struggle, fear and intense therapy, andI wasn’t about to have someone else try to shut me down becauseof their own prejudice and feelings of uncomfortability. I am telling you this because I want you to understand the magnitude of the terror that I was facing at the thought of singing my story, my truth: I knew very well that it was time to face my own internalized prejudices about what it meant to be gay as well as the very real potential ofhaving to face severe homophobic judgment from others. Thankfully, I knew enough to recognize my fear as a source of fuel, which I used to propel me into an artistic life.And I have faced that judgment from people. As artists and people, we all face judgment in some form or another. But the overwhelmingly positive responses I have received, and the heart-expanding experiences I have hadwith countless audience members have far outweighed the negative, and that is what keeps me going.
Another thing I struggled with when I sat down to write this talk was how to discuss the value of risky programming and socially conscious performancewithout having to take any risks myself. How could I get away withnot eliciting uncomfortable feelings in some of you,and in the process, also experiencing uncomfortable feelings myself?But I know that in the end, some of you may feel uncomfortable, and I will too: that is simply the nature of talking about prejudice, about sensitive and personal issues, social and political issues, and social justice in general. You see, in my artistic practice, that is what I do: I take risks to talk deeply and passionately, or rather, sing deeply and passionately, about subjects that are important to me:gender and sexual identities anddiversities; and homophobia;subjects that many people still don’t want to speakor even think deeply about, even though we have had marriage equality across Canada since 2005. Make no mistake: we are not yet done with this business of homophobia in this country. I know this with utter certainty from all of the people, young and old, with whom I have come across in my work as an artist. And, I know this also from personal experience.
Sure, I struggle with this idea of alienatingcertain members of my audiences when I sing. I make a concerted effort to not sound like I’m on some kind of “gay soap-box”:I often insert humour into my songwriting because I know very well that I have to do something that will help make the issues I sing about more palatable to whoever is listening to me or watching me perform. When I read parts of my first draft of this talk to my partner, she said, “you have to take out the stuff about being a lesbian and a feminist because you are going to alienate half your audience.”. Andshe is right: I acknowledge that I am taking a risk in my talk here today by telling you who I am and where my ideas and feelings come from. Certainly, people have said things to me like, “you would be so much more successful, if you didn’t sing about being queer”, or “I just think you should try and write a song that doesn’t identify your sexuality, it would have more mainstream appeal.” Maybe this is true. Maybe not.
A few years ago, I released my second album, and one of the reviews I received was by a reporter who wrote for the Kitchener Record. He said, “Smart, saucy and witty, Reid is an artist who happens to be lesbian rather than a lesbian artist with an agenda.” And in some ways, he was correct. I am an artist who happens to be a lesbian –who I chose as my life partner is not the only thing that defines me, that’s true. But in other ways, he was wrong. Not to out myself…again…but, I am proud to admit that I actually do have an agenda. It’s an agenda premised on social justice, equity and visibility, and I use music to further my agenda. Let’s be clear: we all have agendas in one way or another: it’s just that mine stands out because it’s not necessarily a “mainstream” agenda. It also stands out because it challenges the grand narrative that holds that heterosexuality is the “right” or “proper” sexuality and anything outside of that is deviant. But what’s wrong with having a social justice agenda as an artist or for that matter, as an artistic director or presenter anyway? In my humble opinion?Nothing. In fact, in this world where so many of us are marginalized because we don’t fit into the mainstream because of our class, our race, our ability, our gender, our age, the list goes on….we need agendas. And, my agenda is such that my artistic practice of songwriting is meant, not only to entertain but to also challenge my audience because through my songs, I speak both to those who are marginalized and also to those who do the marginalizing.

For the record, not all of my songs are about gender and sexual diversity. But lots of them are: because like many singer-songwriters, I write about myself, and the interesting people I meet in my travels who tell me interesting stories about themselves. What can I say? When you’re a queer folksinger, people tell you a lot of stories about their own struggles and journeys with sexual identity. And, I think people are fascinating. I also think that everyone has an important story to tell. And it’s the telling and sharing of all of our stories that brings us together as human beings. I want to sing you a story about an interesting character I met in a sleazy bar in the city ofNanaimo, BC, while I was on tour for my second album. This particular evening, I was on a double-bill with a loud, grungy, surfer punk band that had a transgender woman for a lead singer. There was this regular,everyday-looking joe-guy in the audience who was pretty damn enthusiastic throughout my performance. Afterwards, he approached me and told me this great story about himself and I couldn’t resist turning it into a song.
<sing Captain Cupcake and the Cambie Hotel
People have written me telling me that my music inspired them to come out of the closet and empowered them to be who they need to be in the world. Other folks have thanked me for singing about queer lives because they don’t get to hear that on the radio or at festivals.Highschool students have followed me to my car after a performance and come out to me, in secret, about being gay and how hard it is to be different at their school; lesbian moms have told me about their kids singing along with my songs in the back seat of the car, and then overhearing them explain to their friends how it is possible that they have two moms; another parent told me that my music helped their daughter get through a horrific year of bullying at school and a close-call suicide attempt.These are just some of the stories I have encountered in my work. So, I try to pay more attention to those folks who understand and appreciate what I do, and give less energy to those who want to change me and my artistic practice,or who think I’m too outspoken.Becausebesides worrying about alienating my audience, I also struggle with the idea of betraying myself bynot saying exactly what I think needs to be said at certain times, in certain situations. And, honestly, when it comes down to it, I don’t give a shit about mainstream appeal if it means I can’t sing about what’s important to me and to the people who listen to my music. So, in the instances when I feel the need to be really direct and honest, I just go for the jugular.
<sing Ain’t No Drama Queen

I believe we do our audiences a disservice if we don’t find a way to present performance that speaks about difficult issues, issues that have the potential to make us feel uncomfortable. If we make a decision to not book an act because we believe that our audience can’t handle the message in the artist’s work, or that they won’t like it, or that they may feel uncomfortable, then, we effectively pre-empt or forestall the potential for our audience to experience a performance that may have a profound impact on them, based on our own fears and assumptions.As programmers and presenters, you know that people who are inspired and impacted by a performance often take that with them out into the world, and that has a positive affect on the people around them. Inspirational performances, though-provoking performances, socially conscious performances have that kind of a ripple effect.
I began listening to music at a young age. I remember being so in love with, well, maybe also inspired by, the music of Shawn Cassidy that I felt compelled to write him a fan letter when I was 5 or 6 years old, telling him just how amazing I thought he was. The jerk never wrote me back, but I eventually got over it. My very first vinyl record was Linda Rhonstadt’s Living in the USA. I used to play that record on my red andyellow plasticFisher-Price turntable in my bedroom when I was a kid.My parents took my sisters and I to our first rock concert: it was Roy Orbison at the Centre in the Square in Kitchener, Ontario. I was around 7 years old at the time. I didn’t remember a whole lot from the concert because I fell in and out of sleep throughout the whole show. But I do remember understandingthat I was witnessing someone of significance, this man who had had a huge impact in helping shape a genre of music that had been and continues to be, so immensely important to countless numbers of people, myself included. Then, there were the seemingly endless hours of classical, opera and choral music we listened to on our way to school in the morning: I remember groaning in the car on the way to school, “please dad, no more CBC! Can’t we listen to Q107? Ever?” and the concerts at Roy Thompson Hall in Toronto, including Handel’s Messiah nearly every Christmas, all of which has given me, in my adult life, a great appreciation and love for the heart-wrenching sounds of the violin, viola, cello and piano. Both of my parents loved to sing, and my father played guitar. We also had a piano in the house, which my sisters and I fiddled around on after being forced to take piano lessons for a number of years. Even though we weren’t the perfect family by any stretch of the imagination, we did sing a lot, even at the dinner table while we were eating.And, I loved listening to the radio. CHYM radio in Kitchener was my station of choice when I was a kid and a couple of my favourite songs were“Sailing” by Christopher Cross, “Little Jeanie” by Elton John, and Pete Townsend’s “Let my Love Open the Door”. And while I never was a Beatles fan, my parents were and I remember hearing the radio announcement while getting ready for school on the morning of December 9th, 1980, that John Lennon had been shot and killed the previous night in New York City. I ran downstairs to tell my parents, knowing that this was a momentous piece of news. I was nine years old at the time.
While all of this music was happening around me, I was growing up as bit of a tomboy. I ran around mostly barefoot when I was younger, and,until I couldn’t get away with it anymore, shirtless, too. I worked alongside my father in the barn and in the fields and when I played with my friends, I played all the male roles. As I grew a little older, I knew I was a little different from the girls I was friends with in highschool. I certainly dated boys and behaved in ways congruent with my gender, but I also knew that, unlike my female friends, I didn’t want to get married to a man and have children. That simply did not appeal to me. But I saw around me no other examples of how one’s life could be lived any differently.I had no queer role models and no words for sexuality and gender identities that were different from the norm. I barely knew lesbians even existed, except in the derogatory comments I would hear about dykes and fags throughout my elementary and secondary school experience. The idea of being a lesbian wasn’t even on my radar back then, it simply wasn’t an option. And so unconsciously, I conformed.
<sing When I was a Little Boy
So, needless to say, I wasn’t your typical young woman. In my own head, I was definitely a bit of an outsider, and quite unaware of how different I was in terms of my sexuality and gender identity. So when I discovered the music of three female acts in particular, my life started to crack open. I was in the third year of my undergraduate degree at University of Guelph and waslistening to a range of music that was beginning to shape who I would later become as a artist, activist and educator. Having already discovered artists like Bob Dylan, Neil Young and various rock bands and folk artists while I was in highschool, I was nowalmost exclusively listening to femaleneo-folksingers: I was like a sponge for their voices and the stories they were telling in their songs. I became completely enamored with my new favourite duo, Indigo Girls. My hip, younger sister introduced me to Indigo Girls by giving me their second album, Closer to Fine.I remember listening to it while driving my car toGuelphnearly every day, being inspired by their beautiful harmonies and socially conscious lyrics, and simultaneously uncomfortable, knowing that when they sang about love and relationships,these two women were singing about loving women.
Then one day, a friend of minebegan raving to me about this radical, fiercely independent folksinger who sang about things like feminism, bisexuality, sexism, corporate power, abortions and menstruation. In case you haven’t already figured it out, I’m talking about Ani Difranco, and specifically, her 3rd album called Puddle Dive. My friend lent me a cassette tape saying, “you’ve got to hear this! Check out the song Blood in the Boardroom.” What came blasting out of the speakers of my incense-infused and bumperstickered little silver hatchbackcar that spring dayfelt like a revelation! Here was a feisty woman armed only with a weird, loud, yodely voice and an acoustic guitar, singing about the power of women’s bodies and the significance of bleeding every month. I mean, who the hell sings about stuff like that anyway? Difranco named women’s bodiesas the most fundamentally powerful in the world: bodies that have the power to give life. As a burgeoning feminist, I was utterly transfixed. I remember seeing her perform for the first time in a small bar in Waterloo called Phil’s Gransons. It’s was 12 bucks to get in and it was packed with long-haired,pseudo-hippie chicks (like me), shaved-headed, Doc Martin-wearing queer grrls, and a sprinkling of guys, one of which was my boyfriend at the time. We were all jammed in there, squished up against one another like sardines, sitting crosslegged on the floor, eyes and hearts glued to the stage. I remember this feeling of community, this sense that all of us were there for a common purpose:to witnessthis 5 foot 2,hairy armpitted woman with a crazy hair-do, a big voice and an even bigger personality, sing about our lives: our hopes and dreams, our curiosities, our outrages, our loves. I had afelt sense of being transported into a different time and place through Difranco’s performance and also from the energy that was present in the room. The entire evening was punctuated with these sparks of connection between audience and performer. It was magical.