Chapter 11

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KATHERINE'S P.O.V.

In the quiet of my bedroom I put the finishing touches on a poem about a girl who magically shrinks her inattentive boyfriend and puts him away in a bird cage. What would Sigmund Freud have made of that one? Ha! Then I turned to the task of composing a new song, something I had promised my sisters I would have ready for the band's next album. But my lyric ideas were blind alleys.

I went downstairs and heard Mom at the Yamaha grand piano playing Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto Number One. She paused after hitting a sour note. "Tough piece to play, eh? But it was sounding really smooth until that goof."

"Darn it, I always strike an F-sharp at that part, instead of the G."

"I'm having musical problems of my own. I am brainstorming lyrics, but not getting anything useful."

Mom thought about my problem. "Hmmm. You know I learned to dance the sideways pony by listening to a song. It was once a fad to write songs that give instructions on how to do a dance. Why don't you give that a try? You've got quite the repertoire of original dances."

I grabbed a bag of Gummi Bears from the pantry and headed back up to my room, putting on my reading glasses—or my "writing glasses" as I liked to call them. For inspiration I reread an old newspaper clipping in which a music reviewer told about her experience attending our Pomona concert. Under a photo of us performing on stage, she had written—

These six sisters stairstep from five feet to six feet in heels. In keeping with such variety in height, they dress individually rather than in matching costumes. They are a visual treat, each sister with her own style for fashion, hair and jewelry. Advice and philosophy are dispensed between songs—no extra charge! The camaraderie among the sisters inspires bonding among their fans. Watching Cimorelli perform is like watching a violinist reaching for the notes that hold the drama. The sisters alternate between grabbing their fans' souls, driving them out of their seats to scream and shout, and tearing their hearts out. This band will not soon be forgotten by those fortunate enough to be in attendance. Was I one of the many crying by the end of their performance? I'm not telling.

The writer couldn't have known this, but we gave "The Stairsteps" consideration as our name when we first put the band together. Some strangers assumed I was the oldest sister because I was the tallest from age twelve on. When I wear really tall heels I describe myself as "five feet, twelve inches."

Drawing on Mom's idea for the basic point of my song lyrics, I put pen to paper and rapidly came up with three verses—

I've got a dance I call the tea kettle

Left hand like this on your hip

Imagine being all made of metal

Right hand a spout, what the rip

To be properly executed

Make yourself look electrocuted


I've got another I call the robot

Elbow attached to a string

Now to work up the crowd like a big shot

Give your crooked arm a swing

Other hand slaps it with the right force

Sending it on a circular course


Sometimes at a dance this can play a part

Commence it with some strolling

Hands forward on an unseen shopping cart

Gotta keep that cart rolling

It could be fun to give it a stab

Keep those hands active, grab, grab, grab, grab

I would need to add a chorus, probably about the carefree airiness dancing can induce in a person, but I had the lyrical direction under control, and coupled to the chord progression I had already picked out, I figured I would run with it.

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