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"It seems that for success in science
or art, a dash of autism is essential." Down a gravel road lined with blackberry bushes that devour discarded soda cans, no trespassing signs and the occasional old car, lives a woman who thinks in pictures and sound and would prefer not to meet you. Musician TR Kelley might like to know you, but the initial meeting might cause her to convulse, rock and crane her neck to avoid eye contact. She doesn't know how to take a phone message, but she can play along with a Thelonious Monk record. "I mainly stay away from society," she says. "I always have a pen and paper in case I get flustered." Kelley is not shy, but she does have Asperger's syndrome, a form of high-functioning autism that in her case is characterized by social awkwardness, obsessive tendencies, hyperactive senses and an IQ greater than 140. She's also a musical savant. A well-known figure on the local music scene in the 1990s, Kelley in recent years has stayed away from nightclubs, choosing to do a select few gigs where people come to hear the music because she no longer has to support herself through performing. advertisement She was a member of Babes With Axes, played in Laura Kemp's band and has released three solo CDs. She is now ready to release her most upfront work about her brain's wiring, "Starstruck Enterprise," a sophomore effort from the Raventones, her band with her life and music partner of nine years: drummer Randy Hamme. "I got drunk and dialed your number," she says, citing a line from the song "Supernova." "See? I'm not so odd, am I?" she says with irony, referring to the song. "It's a question of degree and how much you can control it. I can't cry at a funeral. I'll show my feeling when I get my guitar." Diagnosis finally came Until three years ago, Kelley thought she was just (to paraphrase) messed up, that she could overcome her perceived social and emotional short- comings if she read enough self-help books. Her diagnosis finally came at age 41, after Hamme read a magazine article about autism and thought its symptoms described Kelley. Before then, her life had been shaded by anger, isolation and various depths of depression. She self-medicated with alcohol and many tattoos, the pain from which she found soothing. Music was one way she had, and still has, of lifting the fog. But her inability to perform mundane tasks that others handled with ease, such as driving, can still trigger meltdowns - or "foaming" as she refers to it. Her depression, she says, is less senseless now, but she still struggles with anxiety. Having an explanation helps her navigate the world better and learn ways to cope. Today, she uses music to venture out into the terrifying world of activism, seeking to help improve the quality of life for other autistic people. She calls it "autistic-culture edu- tainment." When she has a guitar strapped across her torso, her speech is clearer and she tells her story with and between songs. As someone who had spent his career around music, Hamme was initially drawn to Kelley's talent and later fell in love with her because she is caring, appreciative and, he says, "always tells the truth." Kelley and Hamme have created an estate called LeisureLand - a constellation of vintage trailers, a tool barn, a ramshackle house and a thriving garden on five acres in Swisshome near the Siuslaw River. Dogs and cats roam and other people with autism - "aspies," as those within the community shorten it - visit, free to roam. When Kelley needs to be alone to create music, or for any other reason, a 1955 Rainbow trailer is her refuge. "This is where I hatch all my nefarious plans," she says with a grin, looking up and to the right, rocking from one bare foot to the other. Appetite for knowledge Music has always been central to Kelley's identity. "As soon as I could reach my dad's guitars, that was like, `This is my existence,' " she says. "I wouldn't leave them alone." A working class rural kid, she was an anomaly in her family not only for her musical talent, but also because she had a large appetite for knowledge To her peers, she was annoying and strange and sometimes didn't smell very good. No one thought to take her to a doctor for her odd behavior, mainly because she could speak. "At the time autism was caused by bad parenting," she says of the ignorance about the condition in the past. Teachers assigned her to help other students learn to read and when that backfired they sent her to the library to read alone - a development that made her happy. "I always knew I was really different, but I didn't know why," she says. "I was the bullied kid. Poor, couldn't defend myself, clueless. ... My goal became to be invisible. I didn't want to fit in as much as I wanted to be left alone." When her dad left the family around the time she was 8, she "fell through the chasms" and retreated further into her own world. She never made a friend in school and preferred the company of adults. At age 14, her dad provided some child support money for braces, but she persuaded her mom to buy her a bass instead. The first time she saw "that look," she was 15 and her mom took her to a bar, put her in front of a group of men and said, "I want you all to hear my girl play bass." Today, at age 44, Kelley still gets that look. Like she's an alien. "I can hear something and play it back," she says. "I hear it. I absorb it. Microlistening. It's almost like telepathy." Soon after Kelley saw those dumbstruck looks in the bar, she realized she could make money playing in country and Dixieland bands. She marveled that she could make $50 a week doing something she enjoyed. The bands she played in performed at lodges and smoky bars, and sang sexist, hurtful lyrics. "It was the only skill I had," she says, of her joyless role as a pickup bass player. "You can't make a choice unless you realize there's a choice." Three local singer-song- writers saw Kelley's talent and offered her a spot in Babes With Axes, an act that frequently won "best band" honors from Eugene's WOW Hall patrons in its heyday in the '90s. Folk singer Kemp, one of the those guitar-toting babes, remembers liking Kelley right away. "It was always kind of a joke: TR doesn't like to hug. Hug her anyway," Kemp says. "I didn't think anything of it; everybody kind of has their quirks and stuff. "TR. She is who she is." There have been tense episodes, like the time Kelley arrived late for a Portland gig, upset about a fender-bender accident and drove back home without performing. "I've never really been angry with her - just 'come on, pull it together,' " Kemp says. "Knowing she's autistic really helps me understand. "She doesn't put herself through that anymore. ... It just makes life so much easier just understanding it, for every- body." Became an advocate After the initial anger about her diagnosis, Kelley knew she wanted to be an advocate for other people with autism. Her personal growth has been rapid and intense and has helped heal those close to her, including her mother and two teenagers from a previous relationship who live with her part time. "The finality of the diagnosis was very depressing," she says. "But then I started reading other people's stories, especially my generation's, and I realized there are more of us." Much of her outreach is informal. Carrying information cards, she haunts libraries - "autistic palaces of love," she calls them - and slips the information to people. "I can spot them," she says. "It's very much like gaydar." After a year of processing her diagnosis by attending support groups and reading everything she could about the condition, Kelley set out to "find those other little kids who communicate with saxophones." Kelley and Hamme just got back from a national "Neuro-diversity Tour," where they played sets followed by question-and-answer sessions. She keeps a blog on raventones .com, where her gift for language shines as she describes experiences growing up as a bullied, poor, straight-A student. Since "coming out" as autistic, people have started to e-mail her with questions. They've asked her to write a book, speak at conventions and perform at an autism retreat this weekend near Florence. The event is organized by KindTree Productions, a local organization that supports people with autism through art, education and recreation. "People wanted my perspective," she says. "It was a little scary to have responsibility." Mary-Minn Sirag, president of KindTree, says the retreat has featured live music before but never by a fellow aspie - until the Raventones played last year. "It's uplifting to hear her humorous and insightful take on being autistic rather than the usual cheatin' heart crooning," Sirag says via e-mail. "She puts glamour into autism with her patter, autistic animal sounds and eye-contact headdress." "There are retreat participants who want to become rock stars just like her." No eye contact Back at LeisureLand, Hamme rearranges the living room furniture and sets up gear for an impromptu concert. Kelley walks onto the "stage" and puts on her eyeball hat - a colander she has outfitted with little drawings of eyes attached to springy wires. "I don't make eye contact," she said. "It's like looking in the sun: too much information." Hamme takes a seat behind a drum set, Kelley picks up a turquoise guitar. They play "Walk With Me," from the first Raventones release, "Odd Birds." Kelley's face relaxes into a satisfied smile and she closes her eyes, rocks out of time with the beat and occasionally glances back at Hamme. "You're the foundation for my fundamental freakiness," she sings. "A willing ride who takes in stride this crazy gig I do the best." You can phone Serena Markstrom at 338-2371 or e-mail her at smarkstrom@guardnet.com.
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