Julia Gale
When I was five, I took my first ukulele lesson. I stumbled into a class after rushing to rescue my abandoned lunch box. I’d never heard a chorus of instruments playing in perfect synchronicity. The sound struck a chord in me, filling me with curiosity and an urge to be part of the enchanting ensemble. After expressing this to my dad, he surprised me with a ukulele, complete with a makeshift rainbow-yarn strap and colored chord stickers. Its light wooden frame was a touch too big for my baby-boned body. I began lessons the day after my birthday, first learning “Three Little Birds.” “Sunshine Symphony,” however, was the name of the first song I wrote on Ukulele.
When I was twelve, I attended Girls Rock Birmingham (GRB) camp. My band “The Goldies” and I wrote a song called “Stand Up, Be Strong,” and we rocked! The lights were blinding and my ears were ringing from the cacophony of instruments, but my smile spread as wide as the stage we all stood on together. A call within me was being answered: the supportive audience, the rhythm of my heartbeat, and the venue itself echoed my thoughts back to me, screaming, “You belong here! You belong.”
At fourteen, I attempted to write my first “real” song. My dad and I were living in a dinky apartment above a music shop in Mendoza, Argentina. Chimes from the xylophone floated through the floorboards, challenging us to the music equivalent of a dance-off. We accepted. The Two Of Us Beatles riff rang out our window. The verdict of the competition was never declared, but the result can be found in my first “real” song, Two Man Band. As a child, I struggled to interpret large emotions: they would engulf me and cloud the logical side of my brain. When I started writing songs, I realized the lyrics on the page perfectly explained my feelings. Now even when I’m at a complete loss to the meaning of my reactions, if I find the right melody, I find the answers. Songwriting has become the sotto voce of my soul.
When I turned fifteen, I showed my music to the world. In September, my dad and I recorded and released three singles from our makeshift studio. By 16, I’d scored a couple of gigs at local bars and coffee shops. At my third, I spotted a tall red-headed woman in the crowd: Susie Cousins, the new director of GRB. I became heavily involved with the organization thereafter, playing my first open mic at their Winter Fundraiser, playing my song Tempting Fate on the “She Show,” and representing GRB at the Birmingham Folk Festival. GRB escorted me down the windy staircase, debuting me to the Birmingham music scene. By virtue of the program, I found my voice as an independent artist.
In my seventeenth summer, I returned to GRB camp as a counselor with the goal of creating an environment akin to the one I’d participated in as a camper. The girls' outgoing spirits fueled their musical creativity. My job was simply to help direct their passions. Though counseling made me ache for the naivete of childhood, it offered a new perspective towards the musical mentors I’ve had throughout my life: Mrs. Toni’s ukulele lessons, my dad’s recording abilities, Susie, and every artistic instructor I’ve had the pleasure of working under.
Now at eighteen years old, I take a new stage: adulthood. As I prepare to perform for the “real world,” childhood images dance behind my eyelids while memories flash and wave at me from my past. I step up and take my rightful place in the world — my first instruments, songs, and mentors cheering me on from the audience. I feel the familiar warmth of the spotlight and hear comforting chatter and coughs from the crowd. Finally, with a deep breath and an assured smile, I begin.