Socio, an album by Suzie Chism on Spotify
If you have not yet heard it, this is my current single, Socio out now on all platforms. This is a really exciting track for me, as it is a change of pace from the rock music I have been writing/performing for the last 8 years, and is one of my first production projects. Although it skews pop, I was inspired by hip hop from the 80s and 90s when selecting synth and guitar tones (both performed by me,) and was obsessing over the simple, yet thoughtful percussion in old Snoop Dogg and Dre songs. I had full creative control over this sucker, as it was recorded mostly in my home in Nashville (back ground vocals and percussion added at my next-but-previous home in East LA a few months later.) The song is a series of mishaps gone right, from the horrendous topic of a Sociopath itself, to the fact that my shoulder had recently become dislocated when I wrote it leaving me unable to write on my usual instrument. In fact, I had one arm in a sling most of the time then, and could not work at all; I borrowed a friends old Juno out of boredom. His Juno had keys that did not work, which decided the progression of chords. I was incredibly blessed to have Chuck Bartels of the Sturgill Simpson band come in to play bass on the track, and it took him about ten minutes total. -He is a super funky Detroit cat, and I paid him in tacos for the session. The engineer on this song, Paul Cossette, did not particularly like concept of sound I was going for, but was supportive in connecting the dots for my wild ideas, including our attempt to rope in Frank Romano on guitar. -Frank currently plays for Rob Thomas, but was ideal for this song because he played the ever-iconic intro riff on P. Diddy’s “I Need a Girl Pt. 2″ I was SO pumped, but he was ultimately unable to be a part of the project, and I took over the responsibility of guitar. The whistle sound was the first time I recorded my new Behringer D, a Model D clone that is accessible in price. The song was mixed by F. Reid Shippen (Robot Lemon) and mastered by Dan Bacigalupi at Infrasonic Sound. The song has been marked “explicit” on Spotify, although the lyric in question says “take me home and fun me, make me think I’m lucky.”
This is an interesting write for me, because it is lyrically very matter-of-fact, rather than my usual hemorrhaging of emotion. I was very detached from the subject, likely due to the trauma involved in having been manipulated by someone with sociopathic behavior. The song really tells the story, but does not even begin to touch the layers of intricate, impressive, detailed deception (and ueventually harassment) that was involved in dating a sociopath. -The term “web of lies” COULD NOT BE more accurate. In retrospect, dismissing the millions (not an exaggerated estimate) of red flags that lined the road I was too-far down was a direct correlation to my lack of self-respect/love, but it was in no way my fault. I loved this man as much as I was capable of loving another human at that time in my life, and thought loving him despite his transgressions was a sign of love itself. In fact, he seemed to have a knack for finding women who doubted themselves; victims by definition, absolutely. He told me many times “I love that you are hot and you don't know it!” Later I realized that is what he is looking for, people who don’t see in themselves what other people perhaps do. I dated him for 5 of the 8 years that I lived in Nashville, and can count 11 people off the top of my head that reached out to me during that time to inform me that they were also dating my boyfriend. I found out later I was not the main squeeze, as he had been with someone from his home town since high school or shortly after. I was convinced that we lived together; he came and went 3-4/7 (sometimes more) days a week, sighting out of town rehearsals/shows and late night radio gigs as explanation for the remaining time we were apart. He was on another lease at an apartment, and had set up an extended-stay rate at a motel he used frequently as well. Because most of the women who contacted me were from WILDLY opposite walks of life than the world of music he and I had in common, or they were too young for the story to even be comprehendible for me, he talked his way out of any and everything. It wasn't until I faced him in a court room and saw the knee-jerk, untrue pathological responses in real time that I understood just how good this manipulator was. He was protecting his empire of bullshit.
Every morning he would crouch on the ground near the side of the bed and watch me sleep a while before kissing me goodbye, and would tell me I am his favorite girl; I didn't realize what he meant. What an asshole. I can’t remember quite how he phrased it, which is an incredible sign of healing, but the last-straw girl showed me a screenshot of their conversation in which he used this cutesy inside joke of ours to greet her. He was caught. Does he get sociopath bonus points for using the love I taught him on other people, or did he forget which girl receives which script? My long-term band Moseley had recently disbanded (lol get it?) and I had rehearsals for my FIRST show for my new band that day. I circled the house like a fishing bobber in an old cartoon, the tunnel closing in on my vision but my legs increasing in speed, pacing. When my bassist arrived, I had no words and was shaking uncontrollably. I didn’t have to tell him (but of course I did,) he just knew; everybody knew. -those damned snake eyes gave him away to everyone but me, where I just saw pain. The culprit was conveniently tucked away at a camp ground performing at Forecastle Festival with his band. I didn't think there was any chance I would get through my first performance with SUP, but it is the only technically perfect show I have ever played, to date. A scorned bitch is her most radiant.
I made it abundantly clear that I was not to be contacted, but Jabroni found a different phone to call from every day. EVERY day. He left voicemails to the tune of “call me back when you’re done whoring around East Nashville, you dumb cunt,” and “you’re so fucking stupid, if you believe this child over me,” “you’re so stupid no one will marry you,” he flooded my emails and texts messages. Occasionally I would write back some poetic, winded essay about the minutes within the hours within the days within the months that this had been going on and draining me of my everything, hoping it would make the man feel something for once and that he would stop the torture. He did not hear me. He sat outside my house regularly, where I could not stay unless I knew his band was on the road, for months and months. My dog sitter saw him looking in my windows. He left notes on my door. He threatened to disrupt me at work, so I found a new job immediately. There were trinkets (like drum keys, -he is a drummer) that I would find, strategically so that I knew he had been there. There were burner phones purchased, and bands being paid in radio time to do his dirty work for him. I was not the only woman being treated this way. Ultimately, this person damn-near rewired my brain to think up was down, and he most definitely ruined the next relationship I attempted. He loved to let me know he knew where I had eaten that day, or who I had been with. I used to have a recurring dream that I would sit down to eat in my kitchen, and that my foot would kick human flesh under the table, where he was hiding in the fetal position silently. I got bangs for the first time in twenty years as camouflage.
My temporary restraining order ended when he, in court, told the judge that I had been calling him and begging him to come over, that I wanted to get back together. That restraining order would have prevented this post, and this song, from existing. I remember watching the judge browse lunch menus on her computer while I gave my testimony, about forty minutes before she shamed me for my “dishonesty” and wasting the court’s time. He told all of Nashville he took me to court for blackmailing him. I don't think about him hardly ever, his memory replaced by someone capable of having my best interest at heart, -a concept so foreign to me that I thrash like a caged animal when presented with it. I thought of him while reading the Ryan Adams expose (his hero in all things, oddly enough,) THE SIMILARITIES ARE UNCANNY. I thought of him recently as I booked a trip to visit Nashville, when it flashed across my mind like a news ticker that HE STILL LIVES THERE! and that I did not want him to know the dates I would be traveling, or that I was coming at all!, for fear he could look up the flight schedules from LA-->BNA and it would all begin again. This is not normal, and this is not okay.
I wrote this song for the other women affected by this man or anyone like him, in retribution for the millions of times I am sure he denied my existence. I EXISTED. WE HAPPENED. HE CANNOT TALK HIS WAY OUT OF WHAT I LIVED THROUGH; I WAS THERE. One of my favorite lyrics I have ever written is in this song: “I kept hoping you would trust my love, enough to tell the truth if just for once.” One sentence to explain it all. As more truths have been uncovered, it is a bit bizarre how many of my songs predicted details that I had no way of knowing at the time; the female intuition is an earthly superpower that cannot be paralleled and should be trusted at all costs. How someone treats you is not a reflection of YOUR ability to love, and as big as you can dream, I hope you dream of love and never stop chasing your dreams.
