(Il'–suh–bee)

I was born in Berlin (Germany) in 1965. A year later, my father landed an opportunity to study medicine in the US, so off we went, eventually finding ourselves in Topeka, Kansas, where I grew up. We were subjected to a lot of classical music at home, yet – weirdly – my parents' record collection also included the soundtrack to Hair! and an enticing album by Petula Clark called "Just Pet!" At the age of about six, my mother gave me a violin for Christmas, which I considered a big rip-off, knowing she was going to make me play anyway (plus the instrument was rented). This little gift-wrapped stunt appeared under the tree in lieu of gawd-knows-what other great crap by Mattel I could have received. I'm still bitter, but, speaking of great crap, my brother Tobias and I found quite enough of that in the alley behind our house, including access to the top-40 hits through a radio we'd dug out the neighbor's garbage (along with a half bottle of tasty orange Crush!).

Everything else growing up was pretty much normal. Except for the things that weren't.

Encouraged by my stepfather and the Smith-Corona he put at my disposal, I wrote poems and short stories early on. But eventually writing went the way of the violin, until after college, while living in Germany, I bought an old flea market guitar and wrote a few songs (including the first version of Old Konstanz for a little girl I was helping take care of at the time). I imagined becoming a street performer like Steve Forbert in "Grand Central Station," "howling out words, banging out chords" to the satisfaction and thrill of passers-by. I knew only basic chords -- the missionary positions, as they say -- but there's really quite a bit you can get out of those. A bigger problem was wanting to do the thing I knew I didn't have the guts for.

Days crawled by. Then years. Then cockroaches. I didn't mind those run-down apartments so much, as long as I was listening to music by the likes of Nanci Griffith, John Hiatt, Ricky Lee Jones, Lucinda Williams, Cock Robin, an Irish band called Planxty (and assorted others off assorted cassette tapes mixed together for me by assorted love interests).

Back in the US, I turned to the visual arts and earned a Masters degree in art history. I met my husband, artist Mitch O'Connell, in Chicago and began working with him out of our house. Soon (what the. . .?!) we were tripping over a couple of children, which we quickly caught, tagged as "Leo" and "Kieran," and released into the wilderness and clutter we call home. They are delightful creatures.

In 2000, I decided to own a guitar again, took some classes at the Old Town School of Folk Music and wrote a couple more songs ("Pity Party" and "The Dollar Store"). I then stood up in front of an audience at our church coffeehouse to perform the latter, along with a Richard Thompson tune called "How Will I Ever Be Simple Again." It was in this small, safe, warm petrie dish of a venue that I stirred up the first bit of courage to sing in public. I next discovered open mics, where I launched a series of truly awful performances, each with potential.