Notes

Leave me a note and tell me what you think about my music!


“A rock album up there with the very best of them. Every song packed with emotion, story and pure grit. And don’t get me started on those melodies and that voice. A true Canadian classic.”

– Ezra Soiferman || Filmmaker, photographer & inaugural Tweed Artist-in-Residence


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Jon Epworth from Victoria August 5, 2017 at 10:13 pm:
I sat and listened to the whole thing from top to bottom, and was floored by how sincere, lyrical, and moving it is. Strong melodies, honest lyrics and some heavy compositions - you've really put something special together.
I sat and listened to the whole thing from top to bottom, and was floored by how sincere, lyrical, and moving it is. Strong melodies, honest lyrics and some heavy compositions - you've really put something special together.
Daniel from Sherbrooke July 16, 2017 at 3:57 pm:
Kat, you were always awesome, but this concept album, "The Workingman's Blues", reaches a new level. It shows a musician in supreme command of her art, telling a compelling story with self-assurance and sophistication. And with killer singing chops!
Kat, you were always awesome, but this concept album, "The Workingman's Blues", reaches a new level. It shows a musician in supreme command of her art, telling a compelling story with self-assurance and sophistication. And with killer singing chops!
James from Toronto July 4, 2017 at 6:27 pm:
First of all, I love Kat's music. Second of all, I had the opportunity to hear a pre-release copy of her new album, The Workingman's Blues. I think it's her most accomplished work to date. Her existing fans will love it and hopefully it will attract new fans. I wish all the best for Kat and her new album.
First of all, I love Kat's music. Second of all, I had the opportunity to hear a pre-release copy of her new album, The Workingman's Blues. I think it's her most accomplished work to date. Her existing fans will love it and hopefully it will attract new fans. I wish all the best for Kat and her new album.
kat goldman from Toronto July 4, 2017 at 4:14 pm:
Hey Jude 😉 Thanks so much for your inquiry. I actually don't have any sheet music for either song, but I can tell you a bit here about how I play them. For Annabel, I usually capo at the fifth fret. The first chord I play then is EM, then C, then G... then, G, F/G, G, EM climb to G, back to Em, C, G, Em, C, G. You can play around with all those chords for the song,... Read more
Hey Jude 😉
Thanks so much for your inquiry. I actually don't have any sheet music for either song, but I can tell you a bit here about how I play them. For Annabel, I usually capo at the fifth fret. The first chord I play then is EM, then C, then G...
then, G, F/G, G, EM climb to G, back to Em, C, G, Em, C, G. You can play around with all those chords for the song, sometimes I play versions of those chords to make it more interesting, but it's quite simple, really, and just a repeat of those same chords in each verse.
OK- Weight of the World: I think I play with the capo at the 6th fret, but you can choose whichever fret works well for your voice. C, version of F/C, C, AM, C, F/C, F, G, C, F/C, C, AM, C, F, G , C.
Does this help? I hope so!!!!! Best, Kat
kat goldman from Toronto July 3, 2017 at 3:50 pm:
For The Fans, From Kat: “I found an old photograph. That’s me, sitting on the Workingman’s car, an old beat up, black Buick, with a dirty ashtray and a bunch of empty Dunkin’ Doughnut trays in the back seat. That car was always breaking down on his drives from the South Shore and back from Boston, coming home to me, and the dog. That night I was playing a gig in Cambridge at T.T. The Bears. It was a happy... Read more
For The Fans, From Kat:

“I found an old photograph. That’s me, sitting on the Workingman’s car, an old beat up, black Buick, with a dirty ashtray and a bunch of empty Dunkin’ Doughnut trays in the back seat. That car was always breaking down on his drives from the South Shore and back from Boston, coming home to me, and the dog.

That night I was playing a gig in Cambridge at T.T. The Bears. It was a happy time for us. I was still wearing those cotton consignment store dresses for summer, and he would carry my guitar. The summers were pleasantly hot, humid, and salty in Boston.

His gigantic father with the big belly used to tell him:

“Remember not to tailgate,” and I remember the times when I hung on for dear life to my seat handle, on our rides along the Mass Pike going back to Boston, as he sped ahead of Sunday drivers coming back from The Cape.

My mother always told me that how a man drives is always telling of his character. Still, I loved him, and I loved him unconditionally, for quite some many years, despite his reckless driving habit. “And for a time, he was good to me, oh, and we would listen to Zeppelin on the radio,” and he’d come home every night and we’d eat steak tip dinners with peas, leaving enough leftovers on a plate for the dog.


Three years later The Workingman finally left, snapping his plastic bags, filling them with all his stuff, and slamming the door behind him for the last time.

After that, our home never felt the same. It was as if there were “ghosts in the apartment.” Sometimes, I think, even the dog never recovered.

So I left, for Canada, and then I returned, and then I left again, saying goodbye to America, and not “knowing where I was bound.”

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The Workingman eventually replaced the black Buick with a new, used, and smaller dark green car. I can’t remember the make, because I never paid attention to those things. In a similar way, I never paid attention to what was his favorite doughnut, which got me into trouble later on:

“That’s not his favorite doughnut,“ his best friend said, when I brought them beers and a box of dozen doughnuts for guys’ night in the man cave.

His friends never liked me, and this would never change. I would never be able to understand his “world that was made of tin,” or what it was like to grow up with his mother gone when he came home from school, because she was working the night shift at Walmart, and so when his father came home angry and tired there was no one to defend him. I would never understand what it was like to have both uncles dead, gun violence, shot by jealous lovers, his sister, single, again, and with a toddler, living on food stamps in Louisiana, his “boss keeping him late again,” and despite a late and terrible paycheck, leaving our apartment each morning at 5 am, to go and sweep chimneys, or to fix coffee makers all through the State, or to haul furniture for customers who didn’t understand that it’s their tips that buy the food, gas and cigarettes at the end of the day.

I remember The Workingman, kissing “me and the dog” on our foreheads and turning to us just before closing the door each morning, would say:

“My family,” and then he would smile a smaller version of his killer smile, and walk out the door.


“ Go be the stronger woman I knew when I first met you, “ he told me, in his low, gruff voice, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, during what was our last goodbye.

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For a while, I think, we got to live in our own Garden of Eden, and we were the “fortunate ones.” Often I still wish that I could go back to that time in winter, when I’d look out the living room windows at The Workingman in the garden, shoveling the snow, for hours, on one of those “Nor Eastuh” nights, with the dog lying by his side, loyally, on top of a small snowdrift.

He’d wave through the window and I’d wave back, and then he’d smile that killer movie star smile with the dimples on both cheeks, he’d smile back with his stubbly beard, that time, a good time, when he’d smile back, with that killer smile.

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My new album, “THE WORKINGMAN’S BLUES,” is coming this month!

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