The Origin of Grace Darling

In 1989, I placed an ad in an urban San Francisco newspaper for a “female vocal contortionist.” Along with the anticipated and obligatory stream of spandex-wearing, no-talent, starry-eyed rock "chics" that passed through my studio, there came a smattering of politically misguided California feminists -- apparently responding solely to take exception with my use of the word “contortionist” and to inform me that I was a misogynistic pervert praying on the hopes and aspirations of young girls and was not, myself, fit to live. Imagine my surprise, in the middle of auditioning this pile of pettiness, muck and mediocrity, when Val Martino walked sans-spandex into my studio, joked about my choice of the word "contortionist," then sang with a raw vocal talent most professionals could only dream of possessing. This was the voice.

I had previously decided not to compose any new material until I found a singer -- feeling it necessary to craft songs that would highlight the unique character and nuance of whatever vocalist I would eventually find. It was a noble, but in Val’s case, foolish goal – for there was nothing Val couldn't sing. We spent the remainder of 1989 experimenting in the studio and recording a widely diverse group of songs that crossed multiple genres. By the end of 1989, we had no real identity and had yet to form a cohesive musical vision. And, like most upstart bands, we were also void of a name.

Loathe to mass mail demo tapes to hundreds of record companies, I opted to send tapes to only those labels I most admired -- naively assuming that if I liked the artists on a label, then that label would like me. My demo mailing list contained just two companies: 4AD and C'est La Mort. To complicate matters, Val and I still couldn't settle on a name, so I chose to send each demo tape out under a completely different moniker. Somehow, this hopelessly misguided strategy worked.

Woodrow Dumas, owner of C'est La Mort Records, called me in early 1990 and said that his wife kept stealing our demo tapes for her car. Woodrow wasn't sold, but his wife was. I found out what songs Woodrow's wife liked best, then began to craft other songs I thought she'd like. This unabashed attempt to get signed by appealing to the label-owner's wife was the catalyst for the preponderance of "softer" songs that would later become synonymous with Grace Darling. As we recorded each new song, I would send it (under a different band name) to C'est La Mort and wait for Woodrow's wife to work her magic.

Fate, Destiny, and Dumb Luck

Woodrow was on the fence about us, so I decided to shift tactics and land a record deal by covering some old song that everyone knew but hadn’t heard in awhile. As I had recently been suffering from a Leslie Gore obsession, I started to work up a version of her 1963 hit, "You Don’t Own Me." Midway through this process, Woodrow called and said that C’est La Mort was planning a compilation CD of cover songs, and he had this strange idea that we should cover “You Don’t Own Me.” Fate? Destiny? Dumb Luck? Whatever… the band had made it to the inner circle of C'est La Mort.

Unfortunately, C'est La Mort never released that covers album, but they were releasing the next installment of their popular Doctor Death’s compilation series. The CD had already gone to press, but Woodrow requested use of “Sleep Knows No Melody” for the extended cassette release. Now all the band needed was a name.

Within days, I took a call from an excited Woodrow, breathlessly exclaiming, “We've got your name! We've got your name!” He then proceeded to tell how he and his wife were watching a documentary on famous lighthouse stories. One of the stories involved a British lighthouse keeper’s daughter who rescued some sailors from a shipwreck and became a legend. That girl’s name was Grace Darling. Woodrow said he and his wife turned to each other and simultaneously shouted, “That’s the name for that band!”

Val, before adopting an assumed name, thought it wise to read a biography about Grace Darling, so she borrowed a book from the library. On the cover of that book was a painting of Grace Darling in a row boat...

More Fate

For many years previous to these events, I was a regular fixture at the San Francisco Brewing Company in North Beach. If at all possible, I always sat at the same table – the one under what I frequently referred to as, “the painting of some chic in a rowboat.” Yes, it was the same painting. It was Grace Darling under whom I sat for those many years – never once knowing the identity of the “chic in the rowboat” or that she and I would become forever linked. Val and I went to the bar, toasted the painting of Grace Darling, and adopted her name.