Over and Over

By Katy Vernon

Whenever someone asks what led me to become a songwriter, I tell them that from an early age I realized it was easier to sing about my feelings than talk about them.

Some really sad and difficult events happened during my childhood (my mum died when I was 12; my dad died 5 years later), and I found that really difficult to discuss with others. As a child, if I tried to open up about grieving my parents  I would often find myself consoling others instead of feeling supported myself. I was craving connection and reassurance but instead found myself in these awkward and upsetting situations. So I learned to keep my feelings inside—to not tell my stories.

In search of an outlet, I began to pour my thoughts and feelings into songs. To a certain extent, I found I could share my feelings of grief, loss and longing in this way. I was singing pretty melodies, and my voice was attractive enough that people paid attention. I finally felt heard. However, there were still many things I didn’t think I’d ever speak or sing about.

One is the story I’m about to share. It seemed almost too personal, but when I learned I would be part of a showcase called Morningside After Dark: Moving Pictures — a special public event Dissonance is sponsoring on Monday, Feb. 27, 2023, in Edina, MN — I was inspired to capture it in music.

Once Upon a Time on National TV

On the evening of Nov. 9, 1981, Juliet Vernon was a guest on the long running BBC political program ‘Panorama.’ The discussion that night was about the rights of children with disabilities and their family caretakers. Juliet’s oldest child Peter had been born not breathing. 

“It was 23 minutes before he breathed, and during his first 3 or 4 days of life he stopped breathing for periods of up to 5 to 10 minutes over and over and over again,” she said.

Each desperate lifesaving effort further contributed to the severe disabilities he would live with for the rest of his life. Not only was Juliet not made aware of the extent of these medical repercussions, but she was sent home from the hospital told only that Peter might have slight issues with the function of his left arm. In the months and years to come, it became clear that his left arm was actually the only part of his body he had any modicum of control over. 

Juliet Vernon was my motheR.

My mum dedicated her life to caring for Peter. He lived at home until 1980, when at the age of 15 he was too heavy to be physically cared for full-time solely by my parents. He still came home every weekend and accompanied us on every family road trip. My mother made sure his care was central to our family's life. He was and still is greatly loved.

That evening, it was very exciting to know she was going to be on live TV. We didn’t have a VCR yet and YouTube was many years away, so as my Dad accompanied her to the BBC Lime Grove Studios, we were dropped off at a neighbor’s house so we could stay up late and tune in. It wasn’t the kind of show I normally would have watched as a child, but I knew it was popular and serious and that everyone we knew was going to tune in.

Juliet and Katy Vernon

Juliet died just three years after that appearance.

What she said that night wasn’t heard again until September 2018. For over 34 years, I didn’t hear my mother’s voice. I had forgotten what she sounded like. Her light southern Welsh accent, with it’s sing-song cadence brimming with warmth and kindness.  After years of wondering if video of this episode existed, I reached out to the still-running program via social media. I didn’t know the exact year and date that it was filmed. All I could provide was her name and a loose description of the subject matter.

Less than 24 hours later, a little notification on my phone alerted me that my deep-rooted curiosity would finally be satisfied. I had to wait for a few months, but eventually a nearly-3-minute video arrived in my inbox—a modern miracle beaming from London to Minnesota. It had been so long, from 1981 to 2018. Finally, a chance to peer back in time and see and hear my mother once again.

I set myself the challenge of writing a song about this. The only moving pictures I will ever have of my mother made such an impact. What felt lost forever now sits on my phone. At any time, I can click and watch and hear her. The real her. Emotional, fierce, vulnerable, kind. For most of my life she felt like some ethereal perfection that I would never really know. This short video brings back a connection and reminds me of the real woman.

Juliet and Katy Vernon

That’s a lot to try and capture in a song.

After the first and second verses came to me almost complete, it took me two more weeks to finish.—painstakingly revisiting every word to try and make it all make sense. 

I don’t usually write literal story songs. This one had to have a clear narrative: what’s it about, why does it matter, how does it progress, what does that mean, how does it resolve—all questions I never usually ask myself when writing.

I am usually more instinctive and free-flowing, but with this song the stakes felt high to get it right and do the story justice. This type of rulemaking with writing typically inhibits my creativity, but I pushed through the pressure. It was all self-imposed anyway, and that was a good reminder to just keep trying.

What I have now is a tribute to my mum, and hopefully it does the story justice and brings me some peace. I hope it helps inspire other people or brings them comfort.

Also, a piece of advice that I would like to pass along in relation to this experience: make the time to film and record your loved ones while you can.

Katy Vernon is a professional musician , a mom and spouse, and a Dissonance board member .

Performing Over and Over.

Over and Over lyrics

Staring at a photograph

Wishing I could I hear you laugh

Chasing an echo of a whisper

The voice that read to me each night

Was part of you that first took flight

Been racing time to remember

in my mirror I still see your face

In the smiles of my girls you left a trace

After all these years without a sound 

I felt so lost until I found

40 seconds of film 

After 34 years of silence

A way to reel you in

Pull you  back from the distance 

So much of my life 

I never had a choice

Never gave up hope  

That I’d hear my mothers voice

I’d get to hear your voice   

Over and over again 

I put  you on a pedestal 

It only made you feel less real

Someone I could not live up to

But now I see and hear you speak

It makes you seem so close to me 

I found a way to be with you 

in my mirror I still see your face

In the smiles of my girls you left a trace

After all these years without a sound 

I felt so lost until I found

40 seconds of film 

After 34 years of silence

A way to reel you in

Pull you  back from the distance 

So much of my life 

I never had a choice

But I Never gave up hope  

That I’d hear my mothers voice

I’d get to hear your voice again   

Over and over again 

Over and over again

Over and over 

Juliet Vernon

Juliet and Katy Vernon

Different Choices, New Results

(Banner photo by Darin Back)

By Chris Koza

Musicians know well the time-honored cycle of releasing new music: write, record, release, promote, tour, etc. This cycle is to be repeated in perpetuity until something breaks - either one’s freedom from relative obscurity or one’s will to continue. Everyone is familiar with the textbook definition of insanity - to expect a different result while continuing to make the same choices. For a musician trapped in this rut and unable to perceive a way out, the approach forward can begin to feel pointless and uninspired. Just “going through the motions” is no way to feel fulfilled in creativity, with relationships, or in life. 

“Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage,” snarls Billy Corgan of the Smashing Pumpkins from the song Bullet With Butterfly Wings. This lyric could apply to so many who knowingly or unknowingly identify themselves as feeling victimized by their situation. For the musician who feels stuck in this cycle of write-record-release-repeat, the cage is the parameters of the music industry. The rat is the dehumanization that occurs with the commodification of one’s memories, emotions and life experience. Going beyond music or creative purusits, what if this cage is one’s perceptions of reality in general, and the rat is one’s own mind/body?

Several months ago I realized that I had fallen into a well of negativity where the walls were too mossy and slick for me to climb out. It didn’t feel that deep or far away from the ground above - I could still hear the conversations and the laughter - but I had the sense I was noticeably removed from the action; there but also not there. This feeling is one I’ve known for most of my life and it has always lingered and receded to varying degrees. As a kid, I would feel excited to go to a birthday party at the roller skating rink and see all of my friends, but once there, I’d just retreat to the arcade by myself to pump quarters into Spy Hunter and Arkanoid. Or in high school, I’d finally work up the nerve to ask a crush to the dance, but once there I would feel hollow knowing that this moment was fleeting and that real life was everything that came after. 

Chris Koza (third from right) with the Dissonance crew following an intimate house show (concert + conversation) held on May 22, 2022, in St. Paul. (L to R) Jacob Robinson, Jeremiah Gardner, Sarah Souder Johnson, Katy Vernon, Chris Koza, Hyedi Nelson and Jason Chaffee.

With the write-record-release-repeat cycle, I’ve always felt tremendous during the writing part and just prior to the release part. Recording is complicated - being both amazing and also a bit of a slog. The release part seems like a gusty swirl of autumn leaves getting in the way of a clear path forward and you have no idea where you’ll be once the wind settles. Inexplicably, once the new music is released into the world I’ve typically felt more a sense of sadness than excitement. Sure, I’m glad to be sharing life’s work with anyone who is willing to give the time of day, but I can’t steer my thoughts away from about how if this particular cycle doesn’t “break” me, then it’s back to the same beginning of the same road I’ve known for so long.

This sense of self-victimization is unhelpful when trying to nurture a positive mindset that celebrates and nurtures one’s passions instead of seeing them through the lens of burden. Additionally, this idea of “things-happen-to-me” as a way of framing the narrative has been one of the roots of the kudzu of negativity that at times has completely grown over my mind. So, it was when I realized that I was no longer slipping into this well of negativity, but was firmly stuck there, that I decided to do something I had never done before - talk to my general practitioner about these feelings of depression and ask if there was an option for medication.

I’ve done talk therapy before (and will undoubtedly return to it again) which has been instrumental in helping me get back on track while teaching me some ongoing tools on how to consider my relationships with myself and others. In the same ways I’ve had to dissolve any latent stigma I had about talk therapy, I had to set aside any prideful reservations I had about taking medication to address an emotional and chemical imbalance. I had preconceived notions of how the medicine would affect me that I needed to set aside. My GP prescribed me a basic dose of Sertraline (Zoloft) and said, unless something was very, very wrong, she’d like to see me take it for at least 6-12 months, stressing that it wasn’t something like an ibuprofen that one takes only when the pain flares up. 

I was worried that taking medication would compromise my creative identity - that I would become an emotional robot who could no longer express original thoughts or ideas. And there are some types of medication and anti-psychotics that do have profound effects on personality and overall energy and engagement levels. One can easily go down the rabbit holes of reddit threads or facebook posts, which of course I did, but I felt relieved from the majority of anecdotes I read.

Those first few weeks, I didn’t notice a whole lot - maybe that I tended to sway back and forth more instead of standing still, or that my appetite for alcohol had been reduced. Knowing what I was hoping to accomplish with this medication - feeling less like a rat in a cage - I also began to consciously try and shift some other ruts in terms of ways-of-thinking I had developed over time. 

I began by saying “yes” to opportunities I would normally not pursue. I tried to consider disagreement and conflict as speed-bumps of communication and not as roadblocks to connection. I considered some core stresses in my life and began to reduce my exposure to as many as I could. That 24/7 news cycle? Goodbye. Trying to keep up with the volatile state of the global economy? Not anymore. Feeling slighted for myself instead of celebratory for my peers and colleagues? Instead, I am finding joy and gratitude for others and accepting that the vast majority of what happens in this life isn’t about me at all. Why take so much so personally? Where is that balance between an overbearing and a healthy ego? How can a pill be responsible for addressing so much?

At this point I’ve been on Sertraline for 11 months. I am grateful that this medicine and so many other options are out there for people who need it. Individually, the effects have been subtle but noticeable. Overall the change has been a measurable improvement. I don’t worry about any stigma anymore when it comes to mental health. Everyone has a different chemical makeup and perspective. What is right for someone might not be for someone else, but I think laying everything out on the table can be a valuable place to start. While I don’t believe that a pill alone can solve all problems for everyone, medication can be a vital component when addressing mental and emotional health. But like that “diet pill” doesn’t really make you healthy on its own, that “happy pill” doesn’t make you happy all by itself. There is still work to do - there is still an active, present, aware and engaged self to help out of the well. 

I needed some new results and I made some different choices. I challenged some narratives I’ve had about medication. I had conversations with others about their experiences and with my health professional about my options. Being the long-time DIY artist, asking others for help continues to be a challenge. But maybe now, there is a way of seeing creative work happen beyond the write-record-release-repeat cycle, or at least if it’s still a part of that cycle, to embrace it for what it is - a choice I am making about the life I am living.

Chris Koza is a composer and performer based in Minneapolis, Minnesota.