By Isa Jones
By Mary Willson
By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
When she was growing up in Rapid City, South Dakota, Angie's life was far from idyllic. In fact, her life reads like a Larry Clark screenplay. Her parents split when she was five, and Angie -- the youngest of four -- was a latchkey kid. To support the family, her mom held down three jobs, leaving Angie more or less to raise herself. "I had a lot more freedom than a lot of people did," Angie admits today. "I was hanging out with older people by the time I was twelve. I was learning about things that I probably shouldn't have learned about, smoking pot and drinking."
And even when her mother was around, things weren't much better. Angie's father had quickly remarried, sending her mother into a downward spiral of alcoholism. "She'd be drunk a lot," remembers Angie. "She'd come home, pass out on the couch, lights would be on, guys would be there, clothes would be strung all over. I'd have to make sure she got to bed and tell the guys to go home. It was just something where I was constantly taking care of her. The cops brought her home one time in just her nylons."
And then, when he was sixteen, Angie's brother Steve was injured in a motorcycle accident. Paralyzed in one leg, he was confined to a wheelchair. A few years later, he suffered third-degree burns on his other leg when he tried to test the bath water at a local hotel. "He sued the company and became a millionaire," Angie says. "With his money, he bought pot, guitars, and he would sit and write and sing. He was never in a band, but he was a huge music lover. He was so depressed because he was in a wheelchair that he felt like he could never do anything because of that."
He could be a big brother, though. Steve would reach out to Angie and her best friend, Gina Reynolds, inviting them over to watch movies and paying them to clean his house. But Steve's depression eventually overcame him, and he overdosed on morphine prescribed for pain connected to his paralysis. Angie vividly remembers the moment she found out he was gone.
"I came home from basketball practice," she recounts, "walked in the door and saw my mom. She was on the phone, screaming, wasted. I looked at the mirror and there was all these pictures and something written in lipstick, but I couldn't really read it. I was so frazzled; I knew something was going on. My mom grabbed me. I said, 'What's wrong? What's going on?' She hung up the phone and took me over and turned up 'Like a Rock' on the stereo and started dancing with me, with tears in her eyes. I said, 'Mom, what's wrong? Is it Dad?' She said, 'No, it's Steve.' I just collapsed, then got up and got on my bike and went to Gina's."
That chilling scene is memorialized on "Skyline Drive," one of three poignant cuts from Angie's two exceptional new discs, Stand Up Girl 1 & 2, that deal with Steve's death. Angie was just eleven when he killed himself, and she was devastated. He'd been more than just a brother; he'd been the one bright spot in a dark life filled with turmoil. The loss was profound, but it took some time for it to sink in.
"Since I had been spending so much time taking care of my mom," Angie says, "I didn't really have any time to deal with it. When I was older, it really started to hit me."
A year after Steve died, Angie and her mother packed up and moved to Fargo, North Dakota. But the change of scenery didn't cure Angie's mom, and officials there intervened, sending her to rehab for a month while Angie was placed in foster care.
"There was talk about sending me back to my dad's," Angie remembers. "I had the option of either going back to my dad's or staying and going to a foster home. I wanted to stay, because I wanted to be with my mom. Even through all the bullshit, I was very close to her, and I felt like I needed to take care of her." She also felt alienated from her father, who'd become extremely religious.
But then a friend's parents overheard Angie talking about killing herself, and she wound up hospitalized. "When you've lived a really terrible life," she notes, "and bad things keep happening to you, you start to feel like it's because of me -- it's like, 'Poor me, poor me. What's the point of living?'"
Although she was only in the hospital for seven days, the time away helped Angie put things in perspective. "When I got out, I realized there was so many other people who had gone through stuff like that," she says.