By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
He's right, of course, but Storey doesn't look the part. She presents herself with a casual air that catches the uninitiated off guard. Wearing a cotton tank top with Gap anonymity and old gray sneakers sans socks, she smiles sweetly, allowing her strawberry-blond hair to fall where it may. She seems poised to wash the car, not rock the house. But when showtime arrives, she looks at the empty space between the seated crowd and the tent overhead, and then proceeds to fill it. Her arms at her sides, fingers spread, head back, eyes closed, she shoots for the rafters and reaches them easily via sweltering vocals that leave the audience with a collective question: How could such an effervescent person release such righteous blues hollering?
There are no easy answers to this particular puzzle. Storey may sing with the blazing bravado that is her birthright as a redheaded woman, but she was raised in Colorado and California under clear skies bereft of the fretful humidity that breeds soulful bayou crankiness. As a result, the origins of her gifts are a mystery even to Storey herself. "Music is a conduit to share the secrets inside of me," she says. "It's not my job to prove to people that I come from whatever place, and that gives me the right to sing in a certain way. I just sing honestly."
Such forthrightness has earned Storey a loyal following in Colorado and beyond. But although she regularly plays to packed houses and adoring audiences these days, it hasn't always been that way. "A few years ago we were on a European tour--one where we were performing on a lot of military bases, and we were misadvertised as a country band," she recalls. "When they heard us play, it wasn't pleasant. You don't mess with serious country fans. And this happened repeatedly. We'd hit another city and the same thing would happen. We kept saying, 'Fix this!' But then we'd go out there and see the crowd and think, 'Oh God, it's going to be another hellacious night.'" Though Storey never resorted to endless reprises of "Rawhide" and "Stand by Your Man," a la the Blues Brothers, she admits, "There were a few nights when I wanted a fence between me and the crowd."
Fortunately, Storey understands the ups and downs of show business. Her mother, Jan Storey, is a singer and producer in her own right, and her father, Bill Storey, is a studio mainstay with an impressive resume.
"Because Bill was a sound engineer from the time she was very young, working with Manilow and Sinatra, she's used to the whole touring lifestyle," Jan says. "The only thing I did was to ask her if she wanted to sing. You can't make somebody get up and do that. I did back-up vocals for her once on a tour, and it was such a frightening thing. You definitely have to have the makeup to get up in front of people and do that. It's something you're born with."
Family connections didn't hurt, either; they helped get Storey's career started before she was out of her teens. "I was working on a project at MCA with Leon Ware, and he needed somebody to do scratch vocals for the real artist," Jan notes. "I told them that my daughter sang. She was fifteen at the time, and they were like, 'Yeah, yeah, here we go with the daughter thing.' But they gave her a chance, and when she came in, they were blown away." Shortly thereafter, Storey recorded her debut disc, a five-song EP. After moving to Boulder to attend the University of Colorado, she formed the group Lost Generation and appeared at clubs throughout the state. She subsequently issued two long-players, 1993's Guilt and Honey and 1994's Bootleg, as the leader of the Nina Storey Band before going solo with the 1997 CD Shades, issued by the clan's Red Lady Records imprint.
Storey began writing many of the songs that wound up on this last effort while driving on the freeway--"It's not a safe thing," she concedes. Perhaps as a result, the lyrics are very Aretha: They spotlight a strong woman taking a stand against the untold legions of cheatin', schemin', lyin', leavin', dangerously attractive no-good men. The conclusion of "No Man" is typical: "I don't need no man," Storey asserts, "and I don't need no lovin'." According to Storey, expressing sentiments like these "is cathartic, especially if I've had a bad romantic experience. The unrequited-love thing seems to come up a lot. I'm more expressive through my music about those things than I am in daily life. I don't know if those songs are a reflection of my personality or my inability to hold down a relationship or what."