Andrea Sharp

Just Call Her Annie

She never expected to “be a songwriter when she grew up.” But one long, hard year, she found out she was. “I was struggling a lot, under a lot of pressure. And found myself thinking in rhyme, writing a bunch of what you might describe as country blues folk ballads. Folk scat is what somebody called it.”

She took them to coffee houses and clubs around L.A. People liked them. So she kept going back, worked on her performance until she shook off seething stage fright. Somebody recommended her to the Roxy, which was booking select L.A. acoustic acts to play in between rock-band performances. A Hollywood recording studio let her do some recording for free. Musicians helped work out arrangements for more instruments, and offered to back her up. People started calling her Ginny Buffet and Kristie Kristopherson, but the sound, the voice, was more bluesy and scatsy than folk and country.

We might have had this artist's "folk-scat" sooner. But right about when things started warming up for her, she “had to go make a movie,” that took all the time and attention she'd need to get out there with her songs.

You could listen to her bio in the lyrics of one of her songs, Tumbleweed. It’s a gently rolling country-western piece about growing up in the hot, sandy desert city of San Bernardino.

And even though that song shines a bit of light on this singer-songwriter’s roots, it doesn’t say much about her songwriting career.

What’s required material for a songwriter’s history, anyway? Lists of signed deals? She has none. High-budget products? None. Smash hits? None.

Not too many people have heard of her or her songs. It’s simple home-brew. A solo singer with a guitar. But the songs are fresh, and they sound like old standards.

Influences?

Her father, a trial lawyer who admired great poetry and art. Native of Kansas. She says of him, “He had better taste in country western music than anybody I know. If it weren’t for him, I might not truly appreciate the brilliance of Jim Reed, Merle Haggard, or Patsy Cline. Dad’s favorites seem to be made for singing while driving across America in old Fords and Chevys, which is something our family did about every other summer on our way to visit relatives in Minnesota and Wisconsin, Kansas and Texas.”

Her mother. “I have the kind of mom those old-fashioned television shows were based on. Midwestern by birth, she grew up going to church every Sunday in a town of 400. Taught me early pioneer traditions—how to make butter and bread, embroider, knit, and sew. She worked hard as a full-time mother, kindergarten teacher, and school principal. Hundreds of people have her to thank for their ability to read. And for such excellent advice as, ‘If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.’ My brothers and I used to huddle around the piano to sing with her while she played hit songs from movies, stage musicals, and big band orchestras.”

And there was somebody named Virginia Buggs. “What a blessing and stroke of luck. When I was six weeks old, she came into our family and so lovingly, so wisely cared for my brothers and me. And sometimes every kid in the whole neighborhood. I’m told I used to spend weekends with Virginia and her family until I was about three. She taught me the first songs I ever knew—great American classics like Jimmy Crack Corn and He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands.

“My world was made up of people like this. People who gave their lives to the children, to the future. That’s the foundation I stand on. The voices, songs, and poetry I grew up hearing. The music lessons they patiently gave to classrooms full of noisy, excited kids. The humor. The morals of the stories.”

She took those gifts with her when she went out into the world. Words. Music. Rhythm. Starting with an old, almost untunable, hand-me-down guitar.

Songwriting, she says, came unexpectedly, and without an invitation. “I was in L.A., lonely, living in a studio apartment with a mattress on the floor and no furniture, scared, broke—no, beyond broke; in debt—working full- and part-time low-paying jobs, making short films and videos, struggling harder than I can now even imagine, trying to forge some kind of creative career. It was like crawling through a jungle in search of an oasis on a moonless night, blindfolded, without a map. And you actually believe, you have to believe, you will some day be rewarded for trading peace and security for a dream. Anyway, I was struggling, and I sure didn’t have time for song writing. Didn’t know going in that what was going to pull me through was my guitar and singing. These songs came after me. I started hearing them while I was writing. Running. Trying to read. In the middle of the night, trying to sleep. They wouldn’t go