The Story of Asher’s Birth

The Story of Asher’s Birth

Carmine and I have been home with Asher for five days now and are learning the ropes of parenthood the best we can. It’s a constant, delightful challenge and I feel truly fortunate to have such a wonderful partner by my side. 

Now that I’ve had some time to process the circumstances of Asher’s birth - I wanted to share them with you all, as I’ve done my best through this whole journey to be honest about the joys, as well as the sorrows we’ve encountered along the way.

BTW - this post contains words specific to human anatomy so if you’re sensitive to such matters you may want to stop here.

The original plan was that I was to be induced last Thursday, but when I went in Tuesday before last for another blood-pressure check, protein was found was in my urine and I was officially diagnosed with preeclampsia.

The doctors advised me to begin induction immediately and I was put on a Pitocin drip by the afternoon (the synthetic version of oxytocin, which causes contractions).

Knowing that induction was in my future, I had spent a few days reading about the process. When a woman goes into labor naturally, various physiological responses occur that allow her to deal with the pain (cue endorphin release). This is not the case with induction. From what I could gather, most women need an epidural when being induced, and/or they ride it out with the aid of nitrous oxide - which my hospital didn’t carry.

With all this in mind, I forgave myself ahead of time for perhaps needing the epidural, but resolved to make it as far as I could without one. Once the induction process began I rode out the contractions using the bath as well as the breathing exercises I’d learned in hypnobirthing until dilating to 4 cm. As soon as I started tensing from the contractions, as opposed to breathing my way through them, I knew it was time for the epidural.

Relief came quickly. And luckily - I was still able to feel the contractions (and employ my breathing techniques) I was able to make it to 10 cm a couple hours later back within my center.

The doctor then told me I could start pushing, and after a few attempts at the hypnobirthing ‘breathing the baby’ down method, she advised me to really bear down, and just a few pushes of that approach brought Asher an inch from crowning.

An air of celebration filled the room, the nurses wheeled in the portable bassinet and the doctor congratulated me on my soon-to-be, ‘beautiful vaginal birth’. She predicted that Asher would arrive within the hour.

Eight hours later - I was still pushing. Not gently, not with a calm center, but pushing desperately, violently, and with every hope that my baby would finally descend. At one point Carmine was in the bed with me, pushing my back as I threw my body forward with all my might.

By the seventh hour of active pushing, I was completely covered with sweat and shaking uncontrollably with adrenaline. I also hadn’t been told that I could top up the epidural myself, so the pain medications had worn off–leaving me in the throes of my most painful contractions without relief.

The new doctor on duty informed Carmine and I that we had reached a pivotal moment. My water had broken too long ago for the baby’s safety to be guaranteed. No one knew why he wouldn’t descend further, but cesarean was looking like our last and only option.

We agreed to try pushing for one more hour. We turned down the lights, I topped up the epidural and as Carmine took my hand, I cried, and cried and cried. With all that had come before, all the baggage I was carrying from infertility, and the endless slew of pregnancy complications - I felt as though I was facing a final, shattering defeat.

An hour later, Asher had once again barely budged.

The doctors prepared me for the OR and agreed that both Carmine and my wonderful doula Suzy could accompany me. We brought in our calming music, I wiped away the tears, and prepared to meet my baby in a manner as far-as-was-possible away from what we’d originally envisioned.

The cesarean itself was quick, and performed in the most thoughtful and respectful manner. Because Asher was so low in my pelvis, they had to get the surgeon with the smallest hands to pull him out. And there he was, lifted above the sheet, our long-awaited baby.

After a quick check of vitals - Asher was placed on my chest for skin-to-skin and and this chapter of our story with him at last, came to a close. All in readiness of a new beginning.

In terms of why Asher didn’t descend, the theory is that on his way out, he turned his head ever-so-slightly, getting lodged in my pelvis and staying there despite every effort to usher him downward.

I know there’s no answer as to the how and why these things happen, but I do know that despite having a healthy baby, which is of course, the most important thing of all - I also need to honor the loss of the birth I’d envisioned for him. There’s mourning to be had there and I expect it’s a sorrow I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

There’s also a massive amount of healing that needs to be done on my body - from both the cesarean as well as the eight hours of active pushing. Most women only experience one of these at a time - my body is now contending with the aftermath of both.

But all this being said, I’ll be the first to tell you that he is worth it. Worth every tear, every challenge, every attempt at trying again. He came to us beautifully made, sweet and even-tempered (so far!) and so very lovable.

He’s already bringing out the best in us, and I only hope that both Carmine and I continue to be worthy of calling him our son.

Thank you for reading, for caring, and for taking this journey with me.

I couldn’t be more grateful this chapter, at least - has finally come to an end.  

Le gràdh & exhaustion,

Kyle (& Asher)

Our One Year ‘Un-niversary’

Good morning lovely friends - I hope 2021 is treating you very well so far.

So I’ve debated for a long time whether or not I should make a post as personal as this, but there’s a very important reason I feel as though I should, so here goes…

The close of January 2021 is a bittersweet time for myself and Carmine as it represents a full year that we have been trying to start a family. In ‘celebration’  of our ‘un-niversary’ I asked Carmine to take a picture of me with roughly half of the supplements, products and monitors I use in a single cycle to try to get pregnant. 

For most women, falling pregnant won’t be so complicated. For me there’s a reason why it is. 

As an adolescent I was diagnosed with a hormonal disorder–‘Polycystic Ovary Syndrome’ otherwise known as PCOS. At best, my cycles were irregular, at worst–nonexistent. 

The western medicine approach to PCOS is to put women on birth control, thus regulating their cycles without discovering a root cause or cure. And while I went along with this for a number of years–I intuitively felt that being on a synthetic hormone indefinitely wasn’t the answer for me, and was fortunately able to find an herb that finally regulated my cycles.

But–even if PCOS women are able to regulate, they still face an uphill battle in reduced egg quality and elongated follicular phases. 

Which brings me away from what infertility looks like and more towards what it feels like.

Aside from the monthly rollercoaster of vigilant monitoring, symptom spotting and crushed hope, there are so many invisible, more nuanced losses one must contend with along the way–the loss of building a family easily, joyfully, romantically, the loss off innocence that life is fundamentally good and that if you put your very best effort into something you will be rewarded justly.  

On my worst days I feel as though I’m trapped in some kind of diabolical waiting room. I can pick up a glossy magazine and flip through the photos of happy, smiling families, the loudspeaker pipes in the audio of laughing children, but all that surrounds me is the same grey-walled stasis. 

Studies have shown that women who are diagnosed with infertility suffer the same levels of depression and anxiety as cancer, heart disease and HIV+ patients. 

What’s more–due to health costs being what they are in the US, (and the fact that infertility is considered a boutique treatment) American women who fall outside of group health insurance plans find themselves having to make the impossible choice between baby or bankruptcy. 

Yet despite all the unique and myriad challenges–so many women choose to keep their journey a shameful secret. Which is why I’ve decided to make sure mine isn’t. 

If even just one woman reads this note today and feels a little bit less alone, a little less strange or stuck–I will consider my hesitation in posting this 110% worth it. 

Sometimes the magazine spreads are indeed too-good-to-be-true, sometimes the road forward is infinitely more rocky than anything you ever could have imagined. 

Perhaps the greatest comfort is knowing that you aren’t walking it alone.  

Thank you for walking it this morning with me. 

Le gràdh, 

Kyle

Dreams Alight

for Guillermo, and his extraordinary princesses Xenia and Aina

Fairytale to fable, once upon a dream, two headstrong sisters, reckoned with the sìth.*

Xenia said to Aina, the hour draws near, to lay aside our thimbles,* and steal away from here.

Chorus Golden spurs, for dancing heels. Chestnut steed, for carriage…

We’ll leave our silk and satin, muddied on the floor.* Crowns atop the mantel, slippers by the door.

Deep and shadowed forest, you and I will brave, with quivered bow and arrow,* to hunt the fae folk’s stag.*

Chorus Woven chain, for daisy springs. Hammered steel, for corset…

String of failed heroics, neither knight nor page, would brave one twilit hour, beyond the castle gates.

‘Till  Xenia chose the arrow, and Aina drew it near,   to strike withe steel conviction, the sìth’s enchanted deer.

Light broke through the treetops, antler gave to curl. Shank to silken kerchief, upon a throat of pearl.

Cursed to rut and ramble,* ‘till by woman felled. Two sisters freed the wood prince, from the fairy’s spell.

Chorus Make it known,* to your maidens all.   Dreams alight, where decorum falls.

*In both Irish Gaelic and Scottish Gaelic the sìth are the supernatural fairy folk who often meddle in the lives of humans.

*By using ‘thimble’ here I wanted to subtly refer to the wonderful shape-shifting Child Ballad ‘Tam Lin’, a song that also has a female heroine.

*This verse alludes to M.M. Kaye’s wonderful novel, ‘The Ordinary Princess’–one of my favorites as a child.

*This verse alludes to the child’s picture book ‘Young Guinevere’ by Robert D. San Souci, illustrated by Jamichael Henterly. As a young girl this was the most enchanting picture book I had ever seen.

* ‘Fae’ is another word for the ‘sìth’ or the fairy folk.

*A carefully chosen word to lend a little ‘Americana’ to a very Gaelic fairy tale.

*In this final verse I wanted to allude to the ’Come All Ye Maidens’ ballads, which often functioned as warnings to women on how to behave properly and avoid danger and/or a ruined reputation. By writing a feminist fairytale, I wanted to turn that tired old trope on its head.

An Audience With Uncle Sam

I like to think of myself as an optimist. After all, I grew up in a country as seeped in optimism as mint in a mojito. I was told at the liberal college I attended that the world was my tiki bar. When the economic crisis hit a year after graduation I paid it no heed. I had my sights set on being a folk artist, and if the folklore was true, the microcosm of my own economy was destined to be just that–micro. Like every good guitar strumming-hobo I was bound to struggle and roam.

I’ve since learned that a ‘glass half full’ mentality makes it all too easy to underestimate struggle. Eight years into my musical career and with three albums under my belt–I’m convinced that America is one of the most difficult developed countries in which to be a musician, one of the most difficult to be an artist of any kind. Were Townes Van Zandt vagabonding today–he’d do well to choose Wall Street over Music Row.

Let’s start from the beginning. When I was a starry-eyed folk hopeful in Ireland recording my first CD, I had no idea how the business end of the industry worked. The first piece of advice I received was from my producer, who told me to register my songs with RAAP–an Irish performance rights and royalty-collection agency. I merrily registered, was assigned ISRC codes (tracking codes), and at the end of my first press campaign, I saw European royalty figures in the four-digits land in my account. In America, however—despite that first album charting in the top ten for airplay on the Folk Music charts—my royalties rarely exceeded a handful of pennies.  

And then it was time for album number two, which was recorded in Scotland, outside the jurisdiction of RAAP. So I went through ASCAP to register my tracks and ensure my royalties were accounted for. ASCAP, however, charged me to register and charged me for setting up the necessary dual publishing account as both the author and performer of my songs. The American ISRC agency then charged me for codes—all services RAAP had provided for free.

The following year, when I embarked on one of my first American tours, ASCAP—alerted by the relatively generous royalty checks I was receiving from Europe, hopped onto my website and proceeded to terrorize my house concert hosts, threatening them with fees should they not register themselves as official performance venues—with ASCAP, of course. I can’t imagine that these kind hosts will be eager to ask me back.

The mention of which segways nicely into the all-important subject of performance revenue. With the death of the CD looming and the growth of streaming, performing artists have seen one of their main revenue streams dry to a trickle. Touring is now the main source of income, and in America the distances spanned are monumental. While in Europe and the UK, artists can return in a night or a day to their own families and communities, American musicians are more often than not faced with having to choose between a home or the road.

This choice becomes all the more stark when in the U.S. artists find little to no assistance from the government for touring or recording. In Canada, Ireland and the UK the government grants musicians monetary support for their albums, aids them on tour and heck–throws in healthcare while they’re at it, while in America–artists are left to fend for themselves–ignoring for yet another week that achy wrist and throbbing tooth.  

Optimist that I remain–I believe the wealthiest country in the world could do far better by its artists, by all those who live paycheck to paycheck—a number that accounts for eighty percent of us. It’s no surprise, year by year, that the U.S. continues to plummet in the International Happiness Report. It’s no surprise that my Italian husband woefully told me a few months after arriving on our shores that America seems to only work for the “already rich.” For those who aren’t, being American means living with a miasmatic anxiety that blots out any incandescent hope of opportunity.

Which leads me to the purpose of this piece, and the firm belief that there must be a better way forward for today’s performing artist. The age-old model of record, release, promote and tour no longer pays dividends, and in this gritty day and age I believe it’s up to musicians themselves (and more specifically American musicians) to find an alternative.

We’re a country of trailblazers, faced with unique challenges, and we can step off the hamster wheel should we so choose. For me, that better way is exploring the idea of performing in schools, at libraries and engaging with my fan base directly. For you it could be nursing homes, rehabilitation or hospice centers–places that might be close to home and dearly in need of the healing and transformative powers of music. They may not be ’trendy’ but, hey–neither was Townes in his time.

If Uncle Sam won’t grant you an audience, why not take the mic and fill the theater yourself? Personally, I can’t imagine anything more patriotic. And if worse really does come to worst you could always surrender your American citizenship and hope for the best, but be forewarned–that service ain’t free.

Evelyna

Evelyna

The wind, the rain’s undone in sorrow, the grey-shot sky won’t shine to blue, since she left on yesterday’s tomorrow, lantern flame a-light beneath the moon.

Dig my grave, wide and deep, Evelyna I won’t weep.

Not a word, no letter’s come from Jackson, whose twinkling lights she vowed to one day see. Send the wind to call my wayward love home, by tooth and nail I’ll set her caged heart free.

Dig my grave, wide and deep, Evelyna I won’t weep.

Far away, the porch lamps glint like diamonds, glasses clink, embers glow and fade. My love laughs, sweet and light as birdsong, come evening’s end I’ll know not where she lays.

Dig my grave, wide and deep, Evelyna I won’t weep.

Yes, dig my grave, wide and deep, Evelyna I won’t weep.

Dear friends - with great joy and excitement I would like to announce the launch of the Kickstarter campaign for my new album 'The Art of Forgetting'. I hope you will consider making a pledge - and joining me on this exciting journey of creation. Many thanks and please spread the word! Project Links -

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/kylecarey/the-art-of-forgetting-kyle-careys-new-album

http://kck.st/2evLZcc

Endless Fields of Verdigris

One could argue that there’s no place quite as beautiful as the Isle of Skye in the springtime. The sun makes what’s usually its rare cameo a more regular appearance, and the hills, forests, and hollows along the edges of the roads lie carpeted with blue bells as rich in verdigris as the ocean - flashes of foam and wave that glisten like turquoise set in silver upon the shore. It’s the end of May and I’ve just finished touring Europe and the UK for six weeks. I have a final show in London, but on this afternoon that’s the farthest thing from my mind. I’m on a walk (and quite possibly a date!) with a devastatingly handsome young Italian Gaelic speaker. Coming up to Skye for an annual visit has become a regular occurrence during the inevitable ‘down times’ of my UK tours. A collection of days off is a wonderful reason to re-connect with the Gaelic community - to speak again a language I love. Nearly every spring for the past five years though, I’ve visited and left Skye to very little effect. I come and go with a slight sense of nostalgia, but also with a reaffirmation that my own journeying is not through. That I’m not done bringing my music (and the language) to different parts of the world. And so the first day upon the island that I meet a boy, from a seaside town in Italy, who has similarly fallen under the spell of selfsame Celtic tongue - I think little of that as well. I’m tired, travel-weary, career focused and all too comfortable in my role as the ‘artistic single friend’. A wandering minstrel whose (albeit limitless) love is already portioned out to her music, her audiences and the solitude that has grown as familiar to her as a worn and beloved dress. And yet it’s no secret to anyone who holds a pen, reads a line, bears witness to the beauty of the world - that ‘love moves in mysterious ways’ and so on a sunny May afternoon, in a field of blue bells on the Isle of Skye, that long absent stranger love sat down beside me - and compelled me to take a boy’s hand. What followed was nothing less than a rearrangement of the internal landscape, the recognition that from one small moment had come something significant - and the necessity to see it through. And so I write to you this evening from my little apartment in Brooklyn, with my bags packed and my ticket bought to return to him for a month. This is the first trip I’ve taken solely on behalf of the heart, and should I not take it - I doubt she would forgive me. But of course - that’s not to say I’ll forget my other keeper. I’ll also be using the time on Skye to source Gaelic songs, plan my Kickstarter campaign and finishing penning the handful or remaining songs for my third album. The Kickstarter for ‘The Art of Forgetting’ will launch in October, and that same month I’m delighted to share that I’ll be participating in a very special event back in Manhattan with actor Graham McTavish of the famed ‘Outlander’ series. The evening, to benefit the Action for Children's Charity, will be held at St. Andrew’s restaurant and tickets can be purchased here. Then it will be time to record, create and bring you new music for next fall. But until then and beforehand - I wish each and every one of you all the very best, a wonderful remainder of the summer, and endless fields of verdigris when it comes to your own matters of the heart. Le gràdh, Kyle

A Riot of Spring

Belgium and Holland wear the springtime as gaily as a young girl with a flower crown. Despite a rainy couple of weeks, May has arrived in the lowlands of Europe with a burst of sunlight, a sparkle of joy.

Brooklyn’s cold, slow start to spring seems a near lifetime ago as I travel to Belgium for a sold-out concert in the rustic beamed home of my new friends Dirk and Inga.  

Driving through row upon row of blushing tulips, and still, ornate windmills – all seems caught in the riot of May. The glowing fields, the laughing children, and the warm audience that greets us.

Ronnie, Nikki and I perform in front of a picture window, framed by a small garden of blooming dogwood and slender vines. At intermission there is local beer, tart wine and a pungent wheel of speckled cheese.

At the end of the night, Dirk and his young daughter join us on stage for Kate Wolf’s ‘Across the Great Divide’, and it strikes me, not for the first time – that music’s greatest gift is its very ability to bridge divides, to create camaraderie despite differences in language, culture, and continent.

In a country still recovering from its own shock of violence, tonight’s union feels particularly poignant. And despite the recent dangers, the remaining high-alert and risk of counter, the Belgian people are unfalteringly optimistic, unflinchingly brave and welcoming to a fault.

Dirk thanks us for the concert at night’s end and launches into a local folk tune, complete with an English translation that professes his, and the audience’s undying love and devotion. Maybe it’s the springtime, the wine, and the candle-lit faces of the kind audience that makes me believe that at least for tonight – love can be as easily won, and effortlessly sustained as a song.

It’s that feeling, and these songs that will sustain me for another month on the road. For the last week of performances here in the Netherlands with a wonderful band, and then on my own for four weeks in the UK, through the photo shoot for my next album, and throughout the summer as I pen the final handful of songs for ‘The Art of Forgetting’ – my third CD.

I’m looking forward immensely to a quiet few months of writing, Henry-snuggling and visits with friends, but would also like to let said friends know that I’ll be performing on June 24th in Old Saybrook, CT at the beautiful Katharine Hepburn Theatre in a rare solo show.

I would love to see some of my New England pals there, and if you’re so inclined, tickets can be purchased here.

Otherwise I’ll be teaching Gaelic, enjoying Brooklyn, and preparing for a Kickstarter launch in the fall. Until then, and before, I wish you all the very best, and a joyous, sparkling spring wherever you may be.

Much love, happy May, and thank you so much for continuing to share this journey with me.

Le gràdh (from Holland),

Kyle

On Valentines Day & The Grammys

The coming and going of both Valentine’s Day and the Grammys have had me deep in thought this week. An odd combination – I know. Let me explain. Last month in Glasgow I had an intimate conversation with a beautiful woman by the name of Abigail Washburn. As women tend to do, even when first meeting – we got down to the nitty gritty right away.

I told Abby that the combination of Chinese and Appalachian music she made had inspired me for years, that I had wanted to do the same thing with Americana and Scottish Gaelic, and that in the midst of the packing, unpacking, planning and decompressing that is my life that – ‘I haven’t had time for a relationship.'

'No’, she told me gently – ‘you just don’t have time for the wrong relationship. Someday you’re going to meet someone who loves everything that you do, and it’s going to click. It’s going to be easy.'

Her words resonated with me in a deep, palpable way, and on Monday night – I watched said beautiful woman accept a Grammy for ‘Best Folk Album of the Year.' I think single women in particular need to be reminded sometimes that there’s nothing wrong with being so. There’s nothing wrong with prioritizing your career, your girlfriends, or even your dog over club-nights and E-dates. And of course – there’s nothing wrong with the latter.

The most important thing is that the narrative of your life be true to your dreams and your spirit. Abigail Washburn reminded me of that, in her acceptance speech Taylor Swift reminded me of that, and countless women in between have done the same.

I have an infinite of amount of love within, and perhaps someday I’ll find someone to give it to, but in the meantime – I’m going to let go of the guilt, and sometimes even the shame that comes with being single, and by doing so – hope that I can help someone else do the same. Happy (belated) ‘Galentine’s Day’ and may you all find love, in its myriad forms – to fulfill and sustain you.

Grist for the Soul

In Illinois and Indiana, the sky and the land seem to mingle together as effortlessly as the shore and sea. Driving through their vast fields of corn can be an almost disconcerting experience. At night - the illusion is only amplified.  

By all rational means the stars should end at the stalk-tops, but every once in a while, a fleeting glimmer, be it firefly or celestial body - unites earth and sky once more.

One could argue there’s nothing like it - that heaven lays its riches out on display here like no where else. And when you’re on the road - driving from one show to the next in the early hours of morning - it’s a treasure trove reserved only for fellow itinerants.

It’s mid November and I’ve been touring the Heartland for the past week with two other singers - one from New England, the other Ireland. Going under the name of ‘Trì Scealta’ or ‘Three Stories’ we carry songs of both the Old World and New from Illinois, to Indiana, and then back to Ohio.

I fall asleep en route listening to Mai and Nancy sing ballads in the early hours, we pause at gas stations where sleeping trucks stand sentinel - ticking softly in the cooling night air, and when we wake in the morning - sun-ripened fields, and more miles await us.

The people we sing for are warm, hospitable, and deeply proud of their communities - towns that were once the arteries and pulse of an up-start nation. Today, many of the factories lie silent, the once-grand houses, boarded up - are slowly being reclaimed by chickweed and crabgrass.

Still, something brings them back - resourceful, passionate people - who carry the same enterprising genes as their forefathers.

Perhaps it’s a little of that same grit and ingenuity that ensures Nancy and I make it home for Thanksgiving - sixteen hours straight, until we see dale give way to hill, hill to peak, and peak to rocky summit.

But sure and quick as a conveyer belt - Christmas itself has now come and gone, and I write to you this evening from my families’ home in snowy New England.

It’s been a wonderful respite with loved ones, but the quiet times never seem to last long, and the New Year will see me performing at my beloved Caffe Lena - on January 3rd to be exact, in Saratoga Springs, NY once more.

Soon after, I’ll be flying to Glasgow to perform at this year’s Celtic Connections festival with singer Gillebride MacMillan for a night of ‘Gaelic meets Gaelic Americana’ and come mid April - I’ll be back in Europe to tour for six weeks with dear friends Ron Janssen and Amy Merrill.

But before I head off once more - I would like to share with my newsletter subscribers a bit of exciting news. I’m in the early planning stages for my next album ‘The Art of Forgetting’, due out in 2017, and I’m delighted to share that Dirk Powell has been confirmed as its producer.

Aside from being a multi-talented instrumentalist, and sought-after producer, Dirk has been touring steadily with Joan Baez for the past five years and owns a studio in the Bayou country of Louisiana called the ‘Cypress House’ - which has born more than one Grammy-nominated album.

Dirk’s own ingenuity and expertise are a wonderful fit for my sound - and I can’t wait to get started on this new project, and bring new music to you. Your support and generosity are, for lack of a better phrase - grist for the soul.

But until then I wish you all the very best and a restful remainder to your holidays. Be well, travel safe, and I look forward to seeing you in the New Year.

Le gràdh,

Kyle

Written by Kyle Carey 

Directed by Adrian Garber, shot & edited by Dan Kennedy

The Celtic Mediterranean

Cornwall isn’t a place you pass through. You make the decision to go, rent a car, and prepare to drive the six hours plus from wherever you are to reach the far-flung peninsula.

I made the choice myself on a bright evening in April—found an Airbnb room in Penzance, and picked up my car the next afternoon in Nottingham. I didn’t reach the peninsula until close to midnight. A head-light lit sign welcomed me to the county—written in English and the strange hieroglyphics of language that echos a more familiar Celtic tongue.  

My hostess showed me to my room. Up three flights of stairs—a bay window opened in the morning to an azure-blue sea framed by palm trees. The gulf stream runs over and graces Cornwall with a surprising display of flora and fauna. On a warm summer’s day—you could be in the Mediterranean.

In this interim between shows on my U.K. tour I’m not sure what has drawn me to Penzance. While my interest in Celtic music and culture is no secret—Cornwall isn’t what many would describe as an overtly-Celtic nation.

Still, the people are fiercely proud of what’s theirs—of a place of unparalleled beauty and a peninsula with more stone circles and neolithic sites than anywhere else in England. I visit one of these the next day—a circle of nineteen granites called the ‘Merry Maidens’. Turned to stone by a vengeful witch one Sunday--across the road, two larger boulders—the ‘fiddler and piper’ stand in morose silence over their shared fate.

I get lost nearly five times in search of the site. But the locals come to my aid, and what’s more—they all know the legend—it’s as alive in their social consciousness as the day it transpired.

In the evening I drive to the seaside town of Mouse Hole and wander through its cobbled streets. The Celtic Sea pounds the shore fiercely here, and down one of these steep lanes—the sound of the waves a crescendo in my ears, I stumble across a small plaque—‘Here lived Dolly Pentreath, one of the last speakers of the Cornish language as her native tongue’.  Somehow, in this small and sea-battered outpost—I’ve found what I’m looking for.

And now, after two months of traveling and touring abroad, I write to you this evening from my new hometown of Brooklyn—with a Brooklyn summer before me. And while I’m thankful for the downtime—for the opportunity to write and prepare my third album—I know it will be short lived.

In August I’ll be filming a music video for ‘Let Them Be All Reprise’—complete with a director, costume designer, seamstress and slew of extras in white dresses. I’ll return to Europe and the U.K. again next spring to tour with mandolinist Ron Janssen and fiddler Amy Merrill, and in the interim, I’ll be booking a tour next summer of theaters in the U.S. with Gaelic singers Gillebride MacMillan and Joy Dunlop. I’ll also be resuming my on-line Gaelic lessons.

But I’d also like to fill up my calendar with state-side with shows, and while opportunity has brought me abroad these past couple years—I’d love to perform more often in my own country. So, if you are in the U.S. and would like me to come to your theater, home or arts centre, please feel free to respond to this newsletter directly.

The same goes for our Dutch & German friends who would like to welcome our trio next spring. I’m all ears and full to the heart with the success of our European performances--and from the critical acclaim that ‘North Star’ has met.

In the meantime, I wish you all the very best and a most wonderful summer. Enjoy the sun, sea, and mountains or valleys of wherever you may be.

Le gràdh,

Kyle  

All That Glitters

In Nevada City California, the past and present are separated by nothing more than a thin veil, a breeze tinged with pollen that causes me to sneeze as I pull into my friend Laurie’s house. I’ve just driven up from San Francisco and I’ll be playing a concert in her home this evening.

She shows me to my room, (or should I say cabin)—a sweet school-house style dwelling that stands on what was once the location of Nevada City’s one-room school.  Contrary to its name—Nevada City is little more than a small town, albeit chock-full of charm, endearment and a thriving arts-scene. The community radio station I play at the following morning is delightfully cluttered and cozy. The town itself seems to have changed little from its intrepid gold-rush days.

And although the flinty, hard-scrabble pioneers have been replaced with dreadlocked artisans and car-hart sporting craftsman, an air of adventure and possibility still lingers—lingers amidst the crooked buildings and steep streets, where if you squint in just the right way—you can almost see a worn gold-rusher shaking the mine dust from his boots.

I’ve caught the edge of hope and traveled out to California for a week and a half to visit with my friend Ella in her tiny one-room house on wheels, and to perform in Nevada City and Santa Cruz.

The sun shines golden in the day, come dusk—the sand shimmers silver, and in every moment--I am drunk on summer. But reality re-visited, and I soon returned to Brooklyn. In these snowy grey streets—my week in California seems like little more than a honey-colored dream.

Still, I’m glad to be home, if only for a brief time, to enjoy the vibrancy of NYC mid-winter before I head off at the beginning of March to tour Europe and the UK for two months. I’ll be joined by a group of treasured and lovely friends including mandolin player Ron Janssen, fiddlers Rachel Davis, Amy Merrill and Zowy Bahnen, as well as a dear cousin once-removed. If you’re in the neighborhood and would like to come out—all the dates can be found on my website.

In other news, ’North Star’ has been out for five months now and has met with much acclaim. The album made 17 ‘Best of 2014’ lists and has yet to be released in the UK and Europe.

To read some of the reviews, please visit my press page, and do stay tuned for news of the international releases. In the meantime—I wish you longer days, warmer evenings, and the distinct hope of meeting down the road again soon.

Le gràdh,

Kyle

In Search of Boo Radley

In Search of Boo Radley

Little has ever been known of the personal life of Harper Lee. After the publication of her sensational debut novel, To Kill A Mockingbird, Lee declined offer after offer to stand at the head of auditoriums to speak of the book that would be hailed by many as the ‘greatest novel of the century’. Little is known of Harper Lee today, aside from the fact that she is now eighty-six and continues to decline invitations for public appearances.

A close friend of Lee’s, the Reverend Dr. Thomas Lane Butts tells us that the seminal author is now residing in an assisted-living facility, wheelchair bound and partially deaf, slowly losing the same memory that brought us the timeless, charming, and partially autobiographical character of Scout Finch.

But Lee was young when her debut novel was formed. How did so much promise fail to produce more literature? Lee answers that question herself in a quoted response to Butts: ‘Two reasons: one, I wouldn’t go through the publicity or pressure I went through with To Kill a Mockingbird for any amount of money. Second, I have said what I wanted to say and will not say it again.’

Now don’t get me wrong, in no way am I comparing ‘Monongah’ to To Kill A Mockingbird, but similarly to Lee, my debut release garnered a hefty dose of critical acclaim, and the problems that can arise from ‘success’ are universal.

In my case, quite suddenly, the songs that had always been for no one other than myself were the property of the larger world. And worse than that, the larger world seemed to appreciate them.

This is what I struggled with during the entire month of February while on my ‘Escape to Create Artist’s Retreat’ in Florida. There I was in beautiful Seaside, with its marble-white beaches and turquoise water, on the very same residency that fostered Rebecca Well’s Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood, and wouldn’t you know it, my own songwriting process was proving to be as elusive and mysterious as Boo Radley.

I wrote, erased, sweated, erased, went for a walk, played my guitar, strolled on the beach, made a smoothie, erased, did some yoga, cleaned my apartment, and in essence: did everything but write a single lyric I felt proud of.

Finally, two weeks in and at the end of my tether, I made a desperate phone call home to my father who also happens to be a creative writing teacher. ‘I can’t write anymore,’ I blurted.

‘Ah…you had a good run of it’, he replied.

All joking aside, he told me that my only problem was that I’d set the bar, and in the process, become my own worst enemy. He suggested I do something called ‘vomit drafting’, which is to suspend one’s critical judgment and write freely. So that’s exactly what I did, and like a present tucked up in the branches of a tree, I found, miraculously, that my songs were waiting for me.

Now whether or not what I wrote on residency is any good, I have yet to say, only time will tell. The most important thing to me is that I re-discovered the process of writing, and with it, the realization that I haven’t yet said all I have to say, not even close.

Written by Kyle Carey--from the album 'North Star'. Featuring Dirk Powell on banjo, Ben Walker on guitar, Chris Stout on fiddle, Chico Huff on bass, and Pauline Scanlon & Eamon McElholm on harmony vocals. Song & album produced by Seamus Egan. Video filmed & edited by Dan Kennedy, makeup by Kim Maurice. Song inspired by Mickey MacConnell and Sigerson Clifford's, 'Ballad of the Tinkerman's Daughter', Emmylou Harris' 'Red Dirt Girl' and Bob Dylan's 'Boots of Spanish Leather'.

The Road To Skye

In wintertime the road between Glasgow and Skye is precarious at best, impassable at worst. Still, that didn’t stop me from driving up to Skye three nights ago—the clamor of the city echoing in my ears as I left it behind. Slowly—two lane roads gave way to one, concrete walls to rocky inclines and steep slopes--the chorus of cars horns to the crying of the wind. 

I passed through Raithneach Mòr, its pools reflecting the ghostly outline of highland soldiers—ever on watch. The rain pattered on my windshield as the dark closed in early on a place more than one writer has called—‘the loneliest on earth’. Suddenly—a swift gasp, screeching of brakes--a stag crossed the road, raised its head, then disappeared into the bushes as swiftly as it came. Surprisingly, I felt no fear. I learned long ago that fear is an unpredictable at best, and unreasonable at worst. That being said, fear has woken me more than once in the night these past few months. I was flying across the ocean—to make an album with a producer who I never dreamed would take me on, with a cast of musicians who include some of my most admired. In the space between learning that Seamus Egan was going to produce my next album, and to our time in the studio last week I learned to live with my fear—until a day and a half into recording, blessedly—it gave way to excitement, and left as swiftly as it came. Last week in Glasgow Seamus, special guestsJosienne Clarke and Ben Walker, our sound engineer Kevin Burleigh, and my Dutch comrade in music Ron Janssen and I recorded the 12 basic tracks for my Kickstarter supported new album ‘North Star’--due out this summer. In the next few weeks Seamus will be sending the tracks to some of the other musicians who will be joining us on the project—Dirk Powell, Chris Stout, James MacKintosh, Kathleen MacInnes, Katie McNally, Maeve MacKinnon, and Trevor Hutchinson. In a few months time, it will be out in the world, and I hope—in the hearts and homes of each of you.

What Dreams May Come

On April 11, 2009 the world changed dramatically for a woman named Susan Boyle. A choir member and Karaoke legend in her small village of Blackburn, Scotland, Boyle auditioned for the UK’s beloved ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ program on a lark—and won.

The night of her debut, following a knock-out performance of ‘I Dreamed a Dream’—she became an overnight sensation. From anonymity to world-wide fame, charity case to record-breaker, Susan managed, in one fell swoop— to turn the mainstream music industry on its head. But what then ensues? What price do we pay for ultimate validation? These were only a few things I considered myself, mixing my album in April, one room over from Susan at Gorbals Sound Studio in Glasgow. The first morning I met my producer, stepping outside for a quick word, we ran smack into Boyle and her entourage. ‘Was that!?’ I asked turning to Seamus in disbelief, ‘yeah’ he shrugged disinterestedly. For the remainder of the week strains of Susan’s next blowout drifted beneath our doorway, seeming to blend, in near perfect synchronicity, with the understated sounds of my own CD— ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ to my ‘Casey Jones Whistle Blow’, U2’s ‘Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For’ to my ’Northern Lights’.

Susan’s green room was packed with Londoners, the smell of their designer perfume lingered in the hallway, their BMWs clogged the parking lot, and one morning—her vocal warmup in the ladies lavatory became the stuff of instant staff legend. Still—the Susan that barked a gruff greeting to me each afternoon seemed far from a mega-star. She was down to earth with an easy charm, uncomfortable with her still fresh fame as one might be in a new pair of shoes. Working in such close proximity with someone like Susan made me consider the marketability and purpose of my own music. I was making a ‘bigger’ album than ‘Monongah’, one that could ideally ‘go farther’ but keeping I hope, the authenticity and simplicity I value most. It was, after all—authenticity that won Susan fans the world over. And now I’ve returned home with a collection that may or may not change things for me, an album that will be released this summer and that many of you who receive this newsletter—will have backed with your Kickstarter pledges. 'Marketability' aside, it’s a project I’m proud of, and I’m humbled and eternally grateful that so many of you are a part of it. Pre-orders for ‘North Star’ are now up on mywebsite, and we’ll be celebrating the CD on July 5th in North Sandwich, NH at the Dragonfly Yoga Barn. Tickets for the event can be purchased here, and I can’t imagine a better or more beautiful place, framed by the mountains in the town I grew up in—to celebrate this launch. Thanks for seeing me through this to the end. Thanks for helping me reach my ‘North Star’.