Novelette is the new project of NJ/NY based songwriter Cara Salimando. Over the course of a little over a year, Novelette began recording a record in Denver and finished it in Brooklyn. The recently released debut LP "Everything Is Happening Now" is technically 21 year old Salimando's first full length release after performing during her teen years as a solo artist tied up in label politics and spending the other half of her time as a contracted songwriter for Glassnote Records/ Insieme Publishing. Novelette is currently working on an EP expected to be released in spring 2014.
Vocals / Lyrics / Keys
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I covered my favorite Drake song, “Furthest Thing”, before going out in West Hollywood with friends and it actually turned out alright. What do you think? xxx
yo FYI just because people don’t immediately recognize you or pat you on the back for your creative work does NOT mean that it isn’t good. and besides, creating is for YOU, if others like it, great, but the point isn’t to receive accolades, it’s to put something into the world. third party discovery/recognition is secondary to self fulfillment, WORD.
This just hit Earmilk so it’s pretty much guaranteed some level of notoriety. What’s even more interesting is that Cara Salimando showed her some love on her Facebook feed. Now THAT got my attention.
As far as first impressions go, Sizzy Rocket’s definitely got mine. Powerful, in your face but still accessible. The production on this is especially noteworthy. It’s definitely got the hallmarks of a rock track but there’s more than a hint of hip-hop as well (watch out for the hi-hats in the chorus).
This is the right kind of fuel for rage.
YEEEEEE SIZZYYYYYY THE SIZZY VIRUS IS SPREADIN GURLI Wanna Rob
this has been a really fucking shitty week. aside from all the good work i’ve been doing, someone i thought was my best friend totally (whether they understand they did or not) threw me out as a friend and creative partner via email. i’m hurt. i’ve put so many fucking years into my music, i finally get the sound i want, and now it’s gone. what the fuck do i do? and like, will anyone ever even give a shit about me as an artist in the future anyway? i’m kind of afraid of being a songwriter for other people for the rest of my life. i hope i can get my shit together and make it better. cause right now i want to quit.
the stars, live
younger hands live at pianos on 1.17.14
Deceiver, live at Pianos. This is my favorite song to play live.
bookmark live at pianos 1.17.14
When you were born you looked up at the molasses glazed world through orbs of complete understanding, glowing with warmth and undulating waves of lovely light into the room around you. An infant. We outgrow the knowledge that there is nothing to know, really. And that’s what makes us all so pure at birth. We are already the answer we will spend the rest of our existences seeking. The secrets of the universe are nothing at all.
This is where we are. Swaddled in ice cream colored covers beneath our loving mothers gaze. The world is a gauzey rose toned cocoon, crib and cradle, the swinging pendulum of the pendant around your mothers neck. We are warm, for awhile.
You turned twelve in 1999. You still couldn’t tie your shoes and sometimes you forgot how to tell apart your left and right. You couldn’t spell “spaghetti” but it would be the epidemic of the spelling bee, anyway, eliminating kid after kid after kid, knocked ‘em all down like bowling pins, no loss on that one.
You turned twelve the first time you tasted disappointment. You got on the schoolbus, same corner as always after school. Trudging up the slush and salt streaked steps into the humid chlorine-seasoned metal husk full of clamoring kids. Assumed your normal window seat in the 2nd row from the back, next to no one, looking out into suburbia. Trees swelling into Monet blues and greens, blurring like brush strokes behind the rain droplets traversing the expanse of the glass.
611 Reade Street, that was you. The bus stop was in front of your house. The neighborhood kids liked you some, but that winter an eighth grader thought it would be hilarious to build a snow-dick in your front yard. Even now in April, you can still see the flaccid snow-dick melting out of existence. Everyone snickered at the “dick house”, til you would shuffle out the front door each morning… you cringed, hoping they didn’t think of you as “the dick house kid”. Anyway. Back to now. Bound off the bus and up the front steps, your screen door clatters behind you. You’re pouring a glass of milk in the kitchen when you hear them at first, through the shitty air vents that make your house a place so impossible to get away with anything. You’re pulling out the Frosted Flakes, hearing what you don’t know is the muffled love making of your father and his best friend’s new girlfriend, hearing what you don’t know is the strangled sound of your belief in love choking off before you can ever feel it bloom. You are one minute and thirteen seconds away from climbing the stairs of your childhood home and life providing you with enough evidence to back you up.
Your mother threw out all the pictures of him, at first. Your mother, caramel colored and green-eyed beauty, never understood what it was she couldn’t give. You held her up, her eyes always seemed spellbound, distressed by some ghost of whatever memory dancing in front of her while you rolled up your sleeves and convinced her it was time to go. You inherited a slew of curse-words the weeks leading up to the move, packing boxes by yourself while she laid silently on the loveseat they bought when they first moved in together in college, until eventually your lives were packed into the back of a car.
You picked your new hometown by throwing darts at a map you pinned to the wall of your hotel room you checked into after she spent the whole day driving. Your mother tied a blindfold around your head and spun you in circles, you both dizzy with laughter. She steadied your shoulders, you rose your arm and threw. You struck somewhere between Phoenix and Flagstaff, Arizona. Your mother spent the whole night recounting the summer she spent as a girl in Sedona, the sun shattering in kaleidoscopic shards over the red rocks, the queer gypsies who would follow her with crystals, the sudden rainstorms that would break the day in half, send the lizards swimming down little rivers in the streets. So you compromised, and set out for Sedona the next morning.
i want to go on tour so much. until then, here’s a live video of me and billy libby performing “runaway” last month at piano’s.