Recording Artist, Author, and Abuse Survivor Advocate
Welcome to the official website of Jennifer Greenberg (formerly Jennifer Grassman). A Recording Artist who has released three albums, Jennifer is currently finishing up her fourth album, Once Upon A Time. Her book, Those Who Weep, which chronicles the spiritual recovery process following abuse, is being submitted to literary agents and publishers. In addition, she sings on her husband, Jason Greenberg‘s, progressive metal projects.
“[Jennifer Greenberg] is unflappably sweet and good-natured in person, a chirpy sweetheart who loves to drink tea and cuddle with her cats. But it’s a striking contrast to the music on her disc: a swirl of lush arrangements and emotional, tumultuous lyrics. There are tempestuous pianos, crashing drums and velvety vocals … There’s a spiritual quality to several songs on Serpent Tales & Nightingales, but it’s not an overtly religious album. The music is artful and accessible. Red is whimsical and clever; The Search has a devious charm; and Praying to the Walls is anchored by searing guitar work (courtesy of Jason Greenberg, Jennifer’s husband).”
“One of the more intriguing albums I’ve heard in a while, Grassman’s 58-minute opus is a unique mix of bombastic prog rock, piano pop, and opera. The versatile Texan says she drew on 1930s influences such as Duke Ellington, Dinah Washington, and Frank Sinatra to write these songs, which she hopes will encourage listeners through the recession as those artists did during the Great Depression. A concept album laden with classical and theatrical flourishes, Serpent Tales progresses through songs of confusion and sadness ultimately arriving at joy and peace.
“A chilling melody plays around you, haunting lyrics drawing you into a story, pulling emotions from you, creating a vivid image of a world you somehow know. You’ve just heard a Jennifer Grassman song. Her musical prowess is surpassed by none. A genius in her own right, Jennifer has an uncanny ability to beautifully blend genres and styles that create a unique jazzy, pop, rock sound that stands far above anything heard on the radio these days. This kind of musician comes along once every 100 years and it’s our extreme luck to have her.”
I had hand-drawn cards from my kids, a bottle of wine and roses from my husband, but I felt I couldn’t fully appreciate them. Mother’s Day just wasn’t about me. There was an emptiness that could only be explained by the hole that was left by my mother.
Because, no matter how smart, strategic, or passionate you may be, you have been sent out as sheep among wolves.
I stole his gun. I hid it, unloaded and wrapped in a towel, in a box of chintzy craft supplies, knitting, and fashion accessories I’d accrued as a teenager. It was the last place he’d look. I left the ammo in his dresser drawer. It was my way of mocking him, as if to say, “I’ve taken your power, but left the bullets so you can play marbles with them.”
In a dramatic piece published by The New Yorker, author Rebecca Mead refers to, The Passion of Emma González, comparing the plucky teen girl to Joan of Arc, and by implication, Jesus Christ. While the writer no doubt intends the saintly veneration of González, she is contributing to the psychological crucifixion of these children.
These days, I don’t expect people to care. I don’t expect people to pay attention or comprehend a problem unless you rub their noses in it. Nevertheless, the level of apathy and negligence demonstrated by Broward County Sheriff’s Office shocked me.
