Concert Review: Motorhead at The Eagles Ballroom; Milwaukee, Wisconsin
w/ support acts Clutch and Valient Thorr
Wednesday; February 17, 2011
Review written by Tom Wilmeth
“Motorhead? You are going to see Motorhead?”
“Hear them, more likely.”
“Why?”
“I’ll regret it if I don’t.”
“What was their big hit?
“They didn’t have one.”
[silence]
“‘Ace of Spades’ probably comes closest.”
“Never heard of it.”
And so the conversation was repeated with various people during the weeks before the concert.
“Who are you going with?”
“Can’t find anybody who wants to go.”
“And you’re going anyway?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
[See above . . . ]
Since starting to take really heavy metal more seriously a few years back, some bands went from being quasi-joke status to worth checking out. The single thing that had the greatest impact on my change of attitude was XM’s Liquid Metal station, and especially Ian Christie’s informative show Bloody Roots. I listen to this show and the Devil’s Dozen overview of new metal releases each week, learning quite a lot along the way.
Motorhead’s early 80’s live album No Sleep ‘til Hammersmith opened a world of rock that had largely been outside my experience. I knew some guys who were into Black Sabbath back in high school 40 years ago, but that was about it. Hearing Hammersmith – I was strangely impressed, but I certainly did not immediately embrace this genre. In fact, for a long time I thought of it in the same way I viewed the most avant-garde of jazz – as almost joke music. Not that the musicians weren’t deadly serious and dedicated to their vision, but I just found it more amusing than engaging. And preferably taken in very short doses.
I especially wanted to see Motorhead now, in part, because I knew they wouldn’t be around forever. I wanted to see this elder statesman Metal Band! This differs considerable from the elder statesman of Hard Rock. I’m not talking about the The Who or even Led Zeppelin. I’m talking about thrash metal. Clever lyrics, a la Pete Townshend? Why bother? A strong melody? What’s that? A vocalist like Robert Plant? Unimportant to this level of metal.
As I said to my wife upon returning from the concert –
“Remember Dylan’s performance at the Grammys?
Bob sounded like Jim Reeves compared to Motorhead’s Lemmy.”
Which recalls another friend’s astute summary –
“Some people can’t get past the fact that vocals can be used as a rhythm instrument.”
Good one. And he wasn’t talking about scat vocals. Lemmy was indeed singing lyrics, but I don’t think it mattered much. Still, the guy next to me apparently knew the words to every song. I think this because I could see his lips move. Lemmy introduced the various songs as being about certain things, so it’s clear they do have substance. But I don’t think many people in the large crowd were there for the lyrics, whether they could sing along or not.
But let’s start at the beginning.
I went to the 8 P.M. show quite early because it was a choice of waiting at home or waiting at the club. Limited street parking was available, so I showed-up about 45 minutes before the first band was suppose to start. I knew I had a substantial wait in front of me – rock time, after all. The venue is a beautiful old structure on Wisconsin Avenue, The Eagles Ballroom, built in 1926. Acts from Glenn Miller to Buddy Holly had played this hall in its younger days. I had been there a few times in my 20 years as a Milwaukee resident to see varying folks – Bob Dylan, Bela Fleck, Kenny Wayne Shepherd. But I hadn’t been back in several years.
Maybe it was because I scanned older than the target audience, but everybody working the place could not have been nicer. “Use the side door please, sir.” “Do you have a ticket or do you need a ticket?” Professional folks. And because I was early, there was not a mad crush to get in. I was thoroughly frisked by a large security guard at the entrance. He hit a solid mass in my coat pocket and looked at me quite surprised. “Binocs,” I said. He smiled and nodded. I was not the Droid they were after.
I wasn’t really sure how well Motorhead would draw. They are highly respected by the Metal community, but they had played Milwaukee just over a year ago, at this same venue. Part of the reason I felt comfortable in attending tonight’s show was a review of the previous appearance that stressed the aging nature of the audience. I expected a large motorcycle contingent of tough guys and lots of leather. There was some of each, but not nearly as much as I had seen at an Emerson, Lake, & Palmer concert in Milwaukee some years back. Now those boys draw a leather clad crowd!
I walked-in to a smallish bar in the building’s basement, where a quartet was playing hard. Bag of Balls was their name and I was pleased – at least there was some music from a live band to kick things off. The room was crowded and too warm, but not terrible on either front. I was, however, immediately glad that I had switched-out my heavy winter coat for my own leather jacket. After about their sixth largely interchangeable number, Bag of Balls’ singer said something about Motorhead playing in the adjacent room later in the night. That made sense – this was a pretty small stage for headliners.
I wandered over to the main room – it was the large cavernous area that made-up most of the building. This was the original, 25,000 square foot oval wooden dance floor, now a standing area for those wanting to be near the bands. Because I was there when the doors to the main room opened, I walked to the metal railing that separated the crowd from the stage. Between the two was a space for security and photographers. I was arguably too close, but at least I had a place to throw my jacket and (more importantly) I had something to lean on – both would become important as the evening progressed.
I saw that the guy next to me had his earplugs in place, so I thought I would follow suit. Mine did a fine job, but worked best if I kept my stocking cap on, to keep the plugs from expanding out of my ears. Before too long the first of the advertised groups took the stage. I was glad that they were at least pretending to be on time – with three bands, I knew this would be a long night. The group’s name was Valient Thorr. I thought at first it might be sort of a joke name, a band with a sense of humor – willing to gently mock the very genre they also embrace. After all, they seemed clueless about the correct spelling of their own name and claimed to come from Venus. Then I thought that with a name like Valient Thorr, they might be a gay metal band. That would be cool -- and something different! I’d welcome it. But I was wrong on that front, too. Everybody was very serious and starkly hetero about this music, Venusian or not.
These guys had the most stereotypical metal look of the night – very long, very greasy hair, prominent tattoos, and a flying V guitar! The standard line-up of two guitars, bass, drums, and vocalist. Valient Thorr looked the part of a metal band and sounded it, too. I was right in front of the lead guitarist, but the other guitar at the far end of the stage seemed to also be constantly soloing. The sound was loud, of course, but I was unable to distinguish what each instrument was doing. Lyrics were largely unintelligible, but before the last song, the band’s vocalist directed the audience’s attention to the banner hanging behind the stage. “That’s not just some band logo,” he shouted. “That design symbolizes ‘Peace through Rock & Roll’!” OK – his heart was in the right place, it seemed. This impressed me much more than the tough-guy Satan worshipping attitude that some metal bands claim to promote. I don’t know – will these bands be playing long sets in Hell some day? I can’t think that most of them really believe the Satanic crap that is often spewed forth in this genre. Copping an attitude, as we used to say. And maybe this is where a lack of intelligibility in the lyrics is an asset to the music.
As to musical genres and sub-genres, even the most popular of the so-called Alternative Country acts recently admitted that labels were immaterial – they were struggling bands just trying to get their music heard. Jeff Tweedy, now of Wilco, said that his seminal band Uncle Tupelo never billed itself as Alt Country, but they weren’t going to argue if this tag helped sell records and get people to their concerts. Ralph Stanley didn’t cal his own music bluegrass, but if you bought a ticket he wouldn’t dispute the point. Perhaps the same is true of some metal – if a band can sell records by implicitly riding the tail of Satan, what the hell (literally). Having said this, none of the three bands on this bill seemed especially interested in overtly promoting Satanic rituals to the crowd.
Valient Thorr’s front man seemed very appreciative of having the opening spot on this leg of the tour. More than once he said how nice it was to “play the big stage” and to be opening for Motorhead. He told us to hold tight for Clutch and then left to the same great enthusiasm which the crowd showed for their entire set. Even so, no chance of an encore with a tightly packed night such as this. That’s fine – I’d heard what they could do. The roadies were efficient – monitors and drums sets switched-out, the banner replaced at the rear of the stage. Mikes checked, and here we go!
Clutch sauntered into view looking more like well groomed construction workers than a metal band. Short hair, black t-shirts and black baseball caps, both without logos or demarcation -- normal attire that would have been considered conservative in its own audience that night. These guys came to play and they too were deadly serious about it. A quartet, Clutch ripped in to a 45 minute set that I enjoyed greatly. These guys were . . . well, if a metal band can be subtle, they sometimes were. Still positioned at the front of the stage, I noticed that this guitarist took interesting, even thoughtful solos on his Les Paul. That, and he was dripping sweat from beneath his baseball cap from song one.
Unlike most of his metal guitar contemporaries, Clutch’s Tim Sult had a very dark tone. Not dark like a Kenny Burrell fat-note jazz sound, but Sult played almost all of his solos down on the low E and A strings. This is very different from most guitarists who go screaming up past the high octave range on the B and high E strings. Refreshing. Restrained. Also, Sult was not speedily trying to play every note or every lick he knew on each solo – they were well paced, and I could actually hear what he was doing.
Clutch had a better mix than the first band. At least, it sounded better to me through my ear plugs and a wool cap. What an odd way to experience music. I felt badly for some of the folks around me who had no ear protection – live and learn. It took me a few days of ringing ears after several concerts in my youth to become convinced that ear safeguards might be worth the effort.
Speaking of which -- This concert was certainly among the loudest shows I have attended, but maybe not THE loudest. The top three on that front would belong to Grand Funk Railroad – Des Moines, Iowa; December 31, 1970. The Doobie Brothers in St. Paul, ca. 1982 in the first of their alleged Farewell Tours was pretty painful on the ears. But the dubious winner (surprisingly) must go to Earth, Wind, and Fire in Ames, Iowa, about 1977. That was a true soul review -- with The Emotions, The Brothers Johnson, and then Earth, Wind & Fire. I wanted to enjoy it, but my recollection equates that concert to ice picks being stabbed into my ears.
I was a little concerned that if Clutch and Valient Thorr were this loud, then they may save the really high wattage for headlining Motorhead. And Lemmy’s band WAS loud, but they didn’t seem that much louder than the others. Of course maybe my ears were already numb. At one or two points I briefly removed an ear plug. Wow. The high end of the sound spectrum returned, but at what cost! So I lived with a muffled but tolerable sound level. I do wonder what the decibel level measurement would have been. Just as I wonder what the size of the crowd was – certainly a couple of thousand enthusiasts. At least. The place was packed.
Both of these opening bands were absolutely traditional in gear: Fender basses with 4 (not 5) strings, all cords plugged-in to amplifiers (no wireless connections), drum sets with a single bass drum, and the requisite Gibson Les Pauls. Yep – no doubting the pedigree of the equipment! The other thing that I liked was that the guitarists stayed on one instrument all night. They had racks of other axes sitting near-by, but each guy had a guitar he liked and played it throughout the set. No switching around for special sounds or alternate tunings. No need. I interpreted that (rightly or wrongly) as having few pretensions. Just play the damn thing. And while Les Paul guitars are a gold standard for many players, Marshall Amplifiers are the long-favored weapons of choice for assaulting a crowd with loud music. And this stage had stacks galore of Marshall amps. In fact, it seemed that each player in every band had his own double stack of Marshalls. Visually impressive. Aurally frightening.
The other, more important similarity between Valient Thorr and Clutch was that each group did hit some grooves at various points of their sets. They straddled the fence between Valient Thorr’s competence and some pretty accomplished musicianship, as exemplified by Clutch’s Tim Sult. Clutch was not a newcomer to the field, as I had supposed – they were on tour supporting their 9th studio release! Although quite stable in personnel make-up since 1991, they had just dropped their organist, returning to a 4-piece band and to their original guitar dominated sound. That was OK, really. The presence of keyboards at this show would likely have been too exotic for most of the crowd. Sort of like adding Steve Vai to a wind ensemble. (Although I’d listen to that.)
As with Valient Thorr, Clutch’s front man Neil Fallon indicated the group’s great pleasure in being on this tour. “When you wake-up every morning and realize that your band is going to play with Motorhead that night . . . it’s amazing!!” He may have dropped an F-bomb or two in there along the way – I just can’t recall. Clutch played its last song and were gone. Their set had actually sped-by for me.
The roadies again took the stage. This break was quite a bit longer and the crowd grew somewhat restless, but not terribly so. When I had initially entered the hall, I grabbed a place on the far side of the stage. This was unintentional but turned out to be fortuitous, as the center section had become a mosh pit of sorts, with some pretty fierce dancing / slamming starting to take place during Clutch’s set. Now between bands, with the recorded music on the sound system, the frenetic dancing continued. I didn’t mind watching it, but had no desire to participate.
One thing that was good about being so close to the stage was the lack of beer in my area of the hall. It was a long haul back to the bars, especially through the densely packed crowd. As such, drunks seemed few and nobody was spilling drinks on each other. That is, on me. There were photographers taking pictures of the excited and happy crowd. It was still a good, if intense vibe.
Huge security men positioned themselves in front of the stage – not so muscular as just plain large. Lights dimmed and Motorhead hit the stage. Yep – this was different. The cords were gone – this was a wireless outing all the way. The drums were on a highly raised pedestal – and this time it was a double bass drum set-up. Loud? Yes, but not that much different from the other bands. I was glad – it had been a loud enough night for me from note one. I don’t want to downplay the volume. Even though I became resigned to the expected stunning sound levels, I still couldn’t help but notice that my blue jeans felt at times as if they were being blown by a pretty stiff breeze around my ankles. Sounds waves & shock waves. Too damn much. Just as I had expected.
Lemmy’s bass guitar looked to be a modified Rickenbacker – a large, beautiful instrument that seemed to be wrapped in tooled cowhide – somewhat like country artist Hank Snow’s acoustic guitar. Very cool. Lemmy came to the microphone and announced, “We are Motorhead! And we play Rock & Roll!” The crowd screamed approval, and with that the trio roared into the anthem “We Are Motorhead!”
The thing that immediately stuck me was how healthy Lemmy appeared. I was expecting a road weary, bedraggled presence. But Lemmy looked great and was absolutely running the show with strength. The huge, thick sound of his bass carried the songs. The rest of the band also made their presence known, however. Unlike Clutch’s Sult, who stood still and played guitar with head bowed beneath his cap – Motohead’s guitarist Phil Campbell was a showman, striding the boards and repeatedly coming to the very lip of the stage to engage the crowd. In fact, I could have reached him if he and I had both stretched our hands toward each other. But I had no desire to touch him, and I’m also sure that the security guards would have taken exception to this. Campbell had the more traditional style of fast licks played high on the fret board. It wasn’t a Les Paul, but the design of this white guitar was similar. And, as with all of the guitars that night – the strings’ tuning pegs were where they were supposed to be – that is, at the visible end of the fret board. No weird, modern empty sticks for guitars. Not in the world of Metal, which is traditionally conservative in its own way – but they would cut me for saying that.
I didn’t recognize the types of drums that Mikkey Dee played – probably custom jobs. Dee was an energetic drummer who would have been more of a positive presence if we could have actually seen him play. But with such a huge drum set, he was largely hidden from view -- although the few glimpses I got of his face indicated that he was having a great time. A drummer who kept things surprisingly interesting and a hot guitarist who added energy and color to the set were both indispensable, but this was Lemmy’s band and Lemmy’s show all the way. He retained the crowd’s attention all night – the undeniable focal point of the stage.
I did not know any of the songs after the first one, but I assume that many were from the new CD that the band had released that very week, The World is Yours. Earlier in the night, I heard two guys quoting a recent interview with Lemmy about the new release: “Lemmy, why do all of Motorhead’s albums sound alike?” To which Lemmy answered, “It’s the same band.” Those two guys loved that response, as did I when they related the story. And this comment summed-up the evening. The songs were very similar, but also exciting and well executed.
At one point Lemmy announced, “Here is an old one. It’s from 1983 – before you were born!” A girl’s voice behind me protested that this did not apply to her. They played a tune I didn’t know, but I thought it was good that the back catalogue was being acknowledged. I took a pen with me and was planning to take a note or two, but there was no chance of having enough room to do this. I was pretty packed-in, increasingly pushed into the unyielding steel mesh fence. At one point I moved sideways from the fence so a young girl could throw her room key at Lemmy -- in hopes of a post show rendezvous. Witnessing that act was by far the creepiest part of the evening.
The crowd was changing. The mosh pit was expanding. I felt two hard blows. These were not accidental shoves, but some of the folks a few people away were starting to flail themselves recklessly into others. I was the indirect recipient of what was passing for dancing. I had already checked the exits, and it looked like it would be a slow road out of the hall. Having experienced uneasiness at the size of the departing crowds during last year’s Summerfest late one night, I had planned to make my exit before the encore. But now I thought that maybe 45 minutes of Lemmy would suffice for the evening. A couple more strong body blows and I was convinced – time to leave. I started to progress down the metal fence to the side of the crowd. There was a green Exit sign close to the edge of the stage. The crew behind the fence, although still very polite, pointed me away from this exit, around the periphery of the crowd to the far exits. OK -- Probably illegal and undoubtedly a fire department violation, but OK.
In fact, that exit strategy was fine. Being stage side for the whole night, I hadn’t the opportunity to do any people watching. So I slowly wound my way around the outer edge of the crowded, but not impassible ballroom. I was amazed that there was a coat check room in operation. I stopped at the merchandise alcoves for all 3 bands, but didn’t really see anything I wanted. I almost bought a Clutch CD, but they all looked pretty beat-up and road weary for being new copies. As is true at all such gatherings, there were quite a few people there just for the event and not to hear the band. I looked a little more in line with the age of some of these back-of-the-room folks at the bar and those just hanging around.
I wanted to get out before the set ended, so I kept moving. I knew I would miss “Ace of Spades,” which I did want to hear, but that would be near the very end of the show. And I was ready to go. I walked back to the side door where the same people who had initially welcomed me were still there. I told the woman that I had a fine time, but it was getting just a wee bit violent near the stage. She didn’t seem especially shocked at this, but was glad I had a good time, thanked me for coming to the show, and I was out the door. One thing that surprised me on the street was how little of the band sound leaked out of the hall. That was one solid building, now on the National Record of Historic Places. And that seemed appropriate to me as I drove home – after all, it was the historic nature of Motorhead that got me to come to this very “unWilmeth” type of gig, as good friend Pete proclaimed it.
I enjoyed the night; I was not above it; I wanted to be there. I was guilty of raising a fist in the air once or twice in pure excited metal joy and of occasionally pointing at the guitarists in admiration. As Motorhead’s set progressed I saw body surfing up-close and I almost became an unwilling member in a mosh pit. And I escaped unscathed. Who could ask for more?
The next morning, I woke-up feeling like I had been in a minor car wreck. My body ached. My head throbbed; I felt pretty hung over. What the hell? I knew that I had absolutely nothing to drink the previous evening. Ah yes – the Motorhead concert! Of course. My ears rang a bit, especially the left, but not terribly – similar to the aural after effects of a rough plane ride. I went to school to teach my classes. The few colleagues who knew of my plans were intrigued as to whether I really, actually went. I showed tangible evidence by taping the ticket stub to my office door.
“Well?”
“What?”
“So how was it?”
“What?”
“HOW WAS IT?”
“Oh. It was great – had a good time. Glad I went.”
“Do you plan to write something about it?”
“Probably not.”
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Best,
Tom Wilmeth
2/19/11
(262) 243-4218
thomas.wilmeth@cuw.edu
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Obituary (Charlie Louvin)
Charlie Louvin Obituary
Written by Tom Wilmeth
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Well foot. I’ve been trying to break away from writing obituaries and convince some folks that I can deal with the world of the living. But here’s one I can’t let go by. It may sound harsh, but Charlie Louvin was the lesser half of The Louvin Brothers, a close harmony duo that you have probably never heard of unless you study country music or are at least 60 years old. And even then, it would help greatly if you were from the South.
Together, Charlie and Ira Louvin are without question the finest harmony singers Country Music has ever produced. I love the Delmores, the Stanleys, the Blue Sky Boys, the Carter Family, and many others. But for perfection of harmony nobody can touch The Louvin Brothers. They stand toe-to-toe with The Everly Brothers, who influenced the rock and pop world, beginning in importance with John & Paul. The Louvin Brothers impact, however, stopped at the country music border.
Perhaps two primary differences between these brother acts will help distinguish their place in American music. The Louvin Brothers emerged from a childhood rich with Southern Shape Note Singing, a choral effort which adds an unmistakably rigid element to the sound. The Everly Brothers had no such influence in their background. In fact, when I spoke with Don Everly some years ago, he had never heard of Shape Note Singing. Everly was also quick to correct a very common misnomer of influence. Because of the edge to much of the Louvins’ vocals and the absolute perfection of their harmonies, many view the Everlys’ smoother sound as a natural extension of the Louvins and see Ira & Charlie as key musical role models for the younger brothers. But Don insisted that this sort of direct-line approach was absolutely wrong. He told me that he and Phil really respected what the Louvins were doing, but that the Everlys already had their harmony sound solidly in place before they came to Nashville.
The other main difference between the groups is found in the content of the songs. Unlike Everly Brothers’ tales of teenage heartache, many of The Louvin Brothers’ greatest songs are original gospel numbers, penned primarily by Ira Louvin. “Just Rehearsing,” “Weapon of Prayer,” “Satan Lied to Me,” “The Great Atomic Power” – These songs merely touch the hem of the garment of Ira’s deep catalogue and remarkable talent as a songwriter. Porter Wagoner once observed, “Ira could write out the lyrics to a new song the way other people would write out a grocery list.”
The Louvin Brothers would finally cross over to the country charts in 1955 with Ira’s secular “When I Stop Dreaming,” but this was only after Capitol Records grudgingly let them try one (and only one) non-gospel number. Fortunately, it was a big hit, which then convinced Capitol to let them record what they pleased. This success also got the brothers an invitation to join the Grand Ol’ Opry, where they were well received and where Charlie Louvin had been performing regularly until his death this week from cancer, at age 83. Charlie had worked the Opry as a single for quite a long time – the brothers dissolved the act in 1963, and Ira died in a car accident two years later.
Let there be no doubt, Charlie had once been the solid lead vocal line to Ira’s aching tenor -- the anchor and an integral part of the harmony. But the man’s singing voice had been absolutely shot for decades. This may have had something to do with the chain smoking I witnessed over three days in 1995. But I can’t be sure. Charlie Louvin was not a difficult interview, but he seemed pretty unhappy that people always wanted to talk about The Louvin Brothers and not his solo career. “I’ve sold more records by myself than The Louvin Brothers ever did,” he insisted – not with pride but with irritation. That is a believable statistic, since the brothers had an important but relatively short career. Their last Top 10 Billboard Country Chart hit was in 1958.
Brother Ira’s volatile temperament never helped the group, nor did his ever increasing alcoholism. But Charlie was protective of his brother’s image to the end, demonstrating pride and frustration by turns during our conversations. “Ira could do a recitation as good as Hank Williams,” he told me. Big talk, but it was true. Of the 14 recitations Ira recorded, most are on the level of Luke the Drifter – the gold standard for country recitations.
When I left Charlie at his home in Bell Buckle, Tennessee that day in 1995 he was copying cassettes of Louvin Brothers songs to send out to various performers. He hoped to generate fresh recording interest in the back catalogue before his copyrights expired. He was simultaneously handing me several new solo CDs he had made for various small labels, such as Watermelon. Charlie was looking forward to recording a song about tour buses called “Silver Eagle,” thinking this one might get him back on the radio.
Before I left, I asked him about country peers and newcomers. “I know what goes into being a country artist,” he assured me. “I know who can make it and who can’t. And I know why!” He had the greatest respect for George Strait because he had a “man’s haircut” and Dwight Yoakam because Dwight had paid for a huge number of roses to decorate the entire Opry interior for Minnie Pearl when she was ailing. When I asked him for favorite songs by either performer, an embarrassing silence followed. But he knew that they were both the real deal. I thought he might be more comfortable in the past -- he told me Jim Reeves had the best voice in country music. He hated Webb Pierce and loved Ernest Tubb. “People in Nashville were just waiting for Webb Pierce to fail. But if anybody could help Ernest in any way, they’d do it!” He wondered how Bill Monroe could live with himself, and when I asked about Hank Snow, Charlie only smiled and laughed. Finally, Louvin didn’t see how anybody could consider Jimmie Rodgers to be the Father of Country Music, as he became surprisingly angry about Rodgers’ reputation. “Look here, now – he had a trumpet on one of his records. That ain’t country!”
Money was a recurring topic. Charlie Louvin clearly felt he had not received his share. “If we could have gotten Elvis Presley to record just one of our songs . . .” It was clear that Charlie firmly believed that he would now be on permanent easy street from royalty income. But Elvis never did, in spite of his reportedly high regard for the duo and the fact that they were the favorite gospel group of Elvis’ mother. Of course, it may not have helped when Ira went off on Presley at an early gig during a package tour. The infamous story summarized: Elvis was playing gospel music on a backstage piano between shows; Ira took exception, calling him a “white nigger.” I asked Charlie his thoughts on Elvis. “Very professional; night-in and night-out,” he said thoughtfully. “I had no problem with Elvis or his act; but Ira was having none of it.” Charlie then sort of snapped back to attention, as if he had forgotten something. “But we were headlining that tour. Make no mistake! Elvis was opening for us!”
Since he was trying to get newer artists to record his and Ira’s songs, I thought Charlie might have done well financially with The Byrds’ 1968 recording of The Louvin Brothers original “The Christian Life.” There was an awkward silence, and I then hesitantly asked if he had liked the Sweetheart of the Rodeo album. Charlie took a long drag on his cigarette and just stared at me. I tried again – any thoughts on Gram Parsons, and how he had been partly responsible for bringing a younger audience to country music? Another long pause and another long drag. And then, very deliberately, he said, “I have never understood how one man can be sexually attracted to another man. I just can’t understand it!” I was dumbstruck. And this time it was I who was silent.
Charlie Louvin talked with me for three days in 1995 because he thought I could help promote him as a solo artist – he encouraged me to do a separate book about his solo career when I finished with my Louvin Brothers project. And maybe I should have; but I didn’t. I spoke with Charlie out of a deep love for his music with Ira, but also because I thought writing about him could help my reputation and potential career as a writer. I guess we both came up short, but that’s OK. Charlie Louvin did just fine – although he had no further chart action, he remained a respected elder statesman of Country Music, even being inducted with his brother into the Country Music Hall of Fame a few years after our visit. I too was very fortunate – none of my writings about The Louvin Brothers got much attention, but my interaction with Charlie Louvin opened my eyes to fascinating sides of the music business I never knew existed.
Best,
Tom Wilmeth 1,552 words
thomas.wilmeth@cuw.edu
http://wilmethway.blogspot.com/
(262) 243-4218
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Tom Wilmeth wrote the liner notes to the Grammy winning CD Songs of The Louvin Brothers, a various artists tribute CD including one of the very last recordings made by Johnny Cash.
Wilmeth has also published the book The Music of The Louvin Brothers: Heaven’s Own Harmony.
He will probably post it all on his blog one of these days when he gets around to it.
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Addenda – Letter to a Friend, who wondered about the Bill Monroe and Gram Parsons references in the Charlie Louvin obituary
So -- Bill Monroe, the acknowledged Father of Bluegrass -- he took the sound from String Band to Bluegrass. And that a large difference. Charlie Louvin was down on Bill Monroe for not taking care of his own brother, Charlie Monroe, who lived in the area but was doing poorly economically and health-wise. Bill and Charlie Monroe had once been an act as the Monroe Brothers, then Bill made it big on his own -- I think Charlie was in the military at this point. Anyway, Bill became huge (but was still very much eclipsed for decades by his own former sidemen Flatt & Scruggs) while brother Charlie Monroe couldn't get a gig. That's a simplified version -- but you get the idea.
How did I get into country music? Well, I was never truly opposed to it, but had almost no time for it EXCEPT for Hank Williams, who I felt was the Alpha and Omega -- I discovered him in the late Cedar Falls days. When I got to Texas, my new friends said, Yeah Tom, Hank is the man. But how about checking-out some of this other stuff? And so I was introduced to country old and new, such as -- Dwight Yoakam, George Strait (then new) and Louvin Brothers and Bill Monroe (old).
Gram Pasons -- not gay. I almost left that exchange out of there, but the reason I left it in -- Because every time I relate that story to someone who knows about Parsons, they are stunned that Charlie Louvin thought that -- cuz Parsons was NOT gay. As I say, judgment call. And I started to explain it in the obit, but it took the focus off of the dead Louvin.
Hope this helps -- I'll say it again: you are now only one of two to ask me for clarification on these points. Nobody ripping on me, so that's good.
Hey -- better run. Stay in touch and thanks for reading this stuff.
TW
Written by Tom Wilmeth
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Well foot. I’ve been trying to break away from writing obituaries and convince some folks that I can deal with the world of the living. But here’s one I can’t let go by. It may sound harsh, but Charlie Louvin was the lesser half of The Louvin Brothers, a close harmony duo that you have probably never heard of unless you study country music or are at least 60 years old. And even then, it would help greatly if you were from the South.
Together, Charlie and Ira Louvin are without question the finest harmony singers Country Music has ever produced. I love the Delmores, the Stanleys, the Blue Sky Boys, the Carter Family, and many others. But for perfection of harmony nobody can touch The Louvin Brothers. They stand toe-to-toe with The Everly Brothers, who influenced the rock and pop world, beginning in importance with John & Paul. The Louvin Brothers impact, however, stopped at the country music border.
Perhaps two primary differences between these brother acts will help distinguish their place in American music. The Louvin Brothers emerged from a childhood rich with Southern Shape Note Singing, a choral effort which adds an unmistakably rigid element to the sound. The Everly Brothers had no such influence in their background. In fact, when I spoke with Don Everly some years ago, he had never heard of Shape Note Singing. Everly was also quick to correct a very common misnomer of influence. Because of the edge to much of the Louvins’ vocals and the absolute perfection of their harmonies, many view the Everlys’ smoother sound as a natural extension of the Louvins and see Ira & Charlie as key musical role models for the younger brothers. But Don insisted that this sort of direct-line approach was absolutely wrong. He told me that he and Phil really respected what the Louvins were doing, but that the Everlys already had their harmony sound solidly in place before they came to Nashville.
The other main difference between the groups is found in the content of the songs. Unlike Everly Brothers’ tales of teenage heartache, many of The Louvin Brothers’ greatest songs are original gospel numbers, penned primarily by Ira Louvin. “Just Rehearsing,” “Weapon of Prayer,” “Satan Lied to Me,” “The Great Atomic Power” – These songs merely touch the hem of the garment of Ira’s deep catalogue and remarkable talent as a songwriter. Porter Wagoner once observed, “Ira could write out the lyrics to a new song the way other people would write out a grocery list.”
The Louvin Brothers would finally cross over to the country charts in 1955 with Ira’s secular “When I Stop Dreaming,” but this was only after Capitol Records grudgingly let them try one (and only one) non-gospel number. Fortunately, it was a big hit, which then convinced Capitol to let them record what they pleased. This success also got the brothers an invitation to join the Grand Ol’ Opry, where they were well received and where Charlie Louvin had been performing regularly until his death this week from cancer, at age 83. Charlie had worked the Opry as a single for quite a long time – the brothers dissolved the act in 1963, and Ira died in a car accident two years later.
Let there be no doubt, Charlie had once been the solid lead vocal line to Ira’s aching tenor -- the anchor and an integral part of the harmony. But the man’s singing voice had been absolutely shot for decades. This may have had something to do with the chain smoking I witnessed over three days in 1995. But I can’t be sure. Charlie Louvin was not a difficult interview, but he seemed pretty unhappy that people always wanted to talk about The Louvin Brothers and not his solo career. “I’ve sold more records by myself than The Louvin Brothers ever did,” he insisted – not with pride but with irritation. That is a believable statistic, since the brothers had an important but relatively short career. Their last Top 10 Billboard Country Chart hit was in 1958.
Brother Ira’s volatile temperament never helped the group, nor did his ever increasing alcoholism. But Charlie was protective of his brother’s image to the end, demonstrating pride and frustration by turns during our conversations. “Ira could do a recitation as good as Hank Williams,” he told me. Big talk, but it was true. Of the 14 recitations Ira recorded, most are on the level of Luke the Drifter – the gold standard for country recitations.
When I left Charlie at his home in Bell Buckle, Tennessee that day in 1995 he was copying cassettes of Louvin Brothers songs to send out to various performers. He hoped to generate fresh recording interest in the back catalogue before his copyrights expired. He was simultaneously handing me several new solo CDs he had made for various small labels, such as Watermelon. Charlie was looking forward to recording a song about tour buses called “Silver Eagle,” thinking this one might get him back on the radio.
Before I left, I asked him about country peers and newcomers. “I know what goes into being a country artist,” he assured me. “I know who can make it and who can’t. And I know why!” He had the greatest respect for George Strait because he had a “man’s haircut” and Dwight Yoakam because Dwight had paid for a huge number of roses to decorate the entire Opry interior for Minnie Pearl when she was ailing. When I asked him for favorite songs by either performer, an embarrassing silence followed. But he knew that they were both the real deal. I thought he might be more comfortable in the past -- he told me Jim Reeves had the best voice in country music. He hated Webb Pierce and loved Ernest Tubb. “People in Nashville were just waiting for Webb Pierce to fail. But if anybody could help Ernest in any way, they’d do it!” He wondered how Bill Monroe could live with himself, and when I asked about Hank Snow, Charlie only smiled and laughed. Finally, Louvin didn’t see how anybody could consider Jimmie Rodgers to be the Father of Country Music, as he became surprisingly angry about Rodgers’ reputation. “Look here, now – he had a trumpet on one of his records. That ain’t country!”
Money was a recurring topic. Charlie Louvin clearly felt he had not received his share. “If we could have gotten Elvis Presley to record just one of our songs . . .” It was clear that Charlie firmly believed that he would now be on permanent easy street from royalty income. But Elvis never did, in spite of his reportedly high regard for the duo and the fact that they were the favorite gospel group of Elvis’ mother. Of course, it may not have helped when Ira went off on Presley at an early gig during a package tour. The infamous story summarized: Elvis was playing gospel music on a backstage piano between shows; Ira took exception, calling him a “white nigger.” I asked Charlie his thoughts on Elvis. “Very professional; night-in and night-out,” he said thoughtfully. “I had no problem with Elvis or his act; but Ira was having none of it.” Charlie then sort of snapped back to attention, as if he had forgotten something. “But we were headlining that tour. Make no mistake! Elvis was opening for us!”
Since he was trying to get newer artists to record his and Ira’s songs, I thought Charlie might have done well financially with The Byrds’ 1968 recording of The Louvin Brothers original “The Christian Life.” There was an awkward silence, and I then hesitantly asked if he had liked the Sweetheart of the Rodeo album. Charlie took a long drag on his cigarette and just stared at me. I tried again – any thoughts on Gram Parsons, and how he had been partly responsible for bringing a younger audience to country music? Another long pause and another long drag. And then, very deliberately, he said, “I have never understood how one man can be sexually attracted to another man. I just can’t understand it!” I was dumbstruck. And this time it was I who was silent.
Charlie Louvin talked with me for three days in 1995 because he thought I could help promote him as a solo artist – he encouraged me to do a separate book about his solo career when I finished with my Louvin Brothers project. And maybe I should have; but I didn’t. I spoke with Charlie out of a deep love for his music with Ira, but also because I thought writing about him could help my reputation and potential career as a writer. I guess we both came up short, but that’s OK. Charlie Louvin did just fine – although he had no further chart action, he remained a respected elder statesman of Country Music, even being inducted with his brother into the Country Music Hall of Fame a few years after our visit. I too was very fortunate – none of my writings about The Louvin Brothers got much attention, but my interaction with Charlie Louvin opened my eyes to fascinating sides of the music business I never knew existed.
Best,
Tom Wilmeth 1,552 words
thomas.wilmeth@cuw.edu
http://wilmethway.blogspot.com/
(262) 243-4218
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Tom Wilmeth wrote the liner notes to the Grammy winning CD Songs of The Louvin Brothers, a various artists tribute CD including one of the very last recordings made by Johnny Cash.
Wilmeth has also published the book The Music of The Louvin Brothers: Heaven’s Own Harmony.
He will probably post it all on his blog one of these days when he gets around to it.
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Addenda – Letter to a Friend, who wondered about the Bill Monroe and Gram Parsons references in the Charlie Louvin obituary
So -- Bill Monroe, the acknowledged Father of Bluegrass -- he took the sound from String Band to Bluegrass. And that a large difference. Charlie Louvin was down on Bill Monroe for not taking care of his own brother, Charlie Monroe, who lived in the area but was doing poorly economically and health-wise. Bill and Charlie Monroe had once been an act as the Monroe Brothers, then Bill made it big on his own -- I think Charlie was in the military at this point. Anyway, Bill became huge (but was still very much eclipsed for decades by his own former sidemen Flatt & Scruggs) while brother Charlie Monroe couldn't get a gig. That's a simplified version -- but you get the idea.
How did I get into country music? Well, I was never truly opposed to it, but had almost no time for it EXCEPT for Hank Williams, who I felt was the Alpha and Omega -- I discovered him in the late Cedar Falls days. When I got to Texas, my new friends said, Yeah Tom, Hank is the man. But how about checking-out some of this other stuff? And so I was introduced to country old and new, such as -- Dwight Yoakam, George Strait (then new) and Louvin Brothers and Bill Monroe (old).
Gram Pasons -- not gay. I almost left that exchange out of there, but the reason I left it in -- Because every time I relate that story to someone who knows about Parsons, they are stunned that Charlie Louvin thought that -- cuz Parsons was NOT gay. As I say, judgment call. And I started to explain it in the obit, but it took the focus off of the dead Louvin.
Hope this helps -- I'll say it again: you are now only one of two to ask me for clarification on these points. Nobody ripping on me, so that's good.
Hey -- better run. Stay in touch and thanks for reading this stuff.
TW
Monday, January 24, 2011
Essay: "Futher Thoughts on Bob Dylan's 'Last Thoughts'"
“Further Thoughts on Bob Dylan’s ‘Last Thoughts ’”
Essay written by Tom Wilmeth
23 January 2011
I have not written much about Bob Dylan in a long time. It got to the point where I figured, What’s the use? There was such a flood – nay, glut – of writings about Dylan being produced. It was the birth of the Internet that started to make me question whether I was really a Dylan fan any longer or not – a question which always makes my two grown children howl with laughter. True, I have all of Dylan’s officially released materials. Over the past decades I have faithfully purchased the spate of soundtrack and various artists CDs to get his individual tracks, going so far as to buy a 3 CD Joan Baez box to acquire the elusive “Troubled and I Don’t Know Why” duet. I still go see him when he comes to town, as I have since the 1974 tour, and I chose XM Radio over Sirius because XM carried Bob’s Theme Time Radio program
On the Internet, however, the Dylan world became an ever expanding universe, and what had been a lot of fun quickly seemed to turn into an often mean-spirited competition of territorialism. Or so it appeared to me. And so I walked away for a while – not from the music, but from the community of Dylan commentators. I write the following because a question floats to my frontal lobes with surprising regularity, and (although I could have easily have missed it) I have not seen this specific topic discussed.
There was a high quality Dylan bootleg LP that many of us prized in the mid-1970s, when these underground albums really came into their own. Known by the title Are You Now or Have You Ever Been?, the album included excerpts from a New York City concert at Town Hall from April 1963 – the days when Bob was the brightest beacon of the folk community. For the concert’s encore, Dylan recites his just completed poem entitled “Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie.” Already a veteran of high profile area gigs, he nevertheless seems quite nervous as he introduces what he knows will be a lengthy spoken piece. Sans guitar, it will be outside of Dylan’s regular style -- almost an a cappella performance. In his introduction, Dylan speaks of Guthrie’s personal importance to him. He then begins a unique recitation of adulation.
This spoken work was performed only once. The 1963 recording would be legitimately released on the first of The Bootleg Series sets, issued by Columbia Records in 1991. However, what I found interesting then and now is that Dylan’s brief prefatory remarks to the piece have been edited, which becomes immediately clear when comparing the bootleg recording to the sanctioned Columbia release. The deletions jolted and irritated me the first time I played the official disk because I always felt that included in this introduction was a quick glimpse into Bob Dylan as fan – an unguarded moment acknowledging devotion.
The careful editing of these introductory remarks was not made for the purpose of time, I’m convinced, but primarily for content. True, Dylan’s halting delivery is cleaned-up, making the speaker’s words appear to flow -- when actually they were at times quite choppy and uncertain. But it is the halting nature of this spoken introduction that helps the audience to recognize the heartfelt and unrehearsed elements at play. The unedited tape certainly does not make the speaker sound inarticulate, if that was a concern.
Much more important than speech fluidity, however, is the content edited from this already short introduction. Excised from Columbia’s release is Dylan’s sincere attempt to explain to the audience that night the inexpressible depth of Woody Guthrie’s pull on him. In a removed section of the tape, Dylan says that Guthrie’s appeal “cannot really be told in how many records of his I buy, or this kind of thing. It’s, uh . . . a lot more than that, actually.” I assume it was Dylan himself who ordered the lines removed before the recording’s official release, but this decision could also have fallen to producer Jeff Rosen. Either way, I’m thinking that the cuts must have had Dylan’s approval.
But why was this content removed for the 1991 release? In his introductory comments about the intangible attachment of fan to artist, Dylan twice stresses how Guthrie is “more than a folk singer.” These lines are also cut. When Dylan then explains that his feelings about Guthrie could not be measured by “how many records of his I buy,” did Bob in 1991 think that this stated rejection of equating album purchases to one’s devotion toward an artist might hurt his own future record sales? I think not. I believe that this line was edited-out because it and the following sentence cut too close to the bone. That is, I think these lines must have touched-on something that the artist did not want revealed. Was it his youthful attempt to express an unchecked devotion toward Guthrie that Dylan later decided to bury? Did he want to downplay this element in himself, having been the recipient of such unsettling fan worship for most of his own career? Whatever the reason, this seems to be a window that Dylan wanted closed in 1991. Dylan’s younger self concludes his grasp at articulating his inexpressible feelings toward Guthrie with, “It’s a lot more than that, actually.” His thoughtful, almost distracted tone here is telling -- almost as if that 1963 audience has melted away, and he is speaking to himself.
There is only one other time in the pre-electric canon where I believe Dylan gets this close to unconsciously confiding to an audience his private thoughts about music. Near the end of the 1964 Halloween concert (also in New York City) Dylan is about to close the main part of the evening’s set with one of his strongest songs before bringing out Joan Baez. As he begins the chords to “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll,” Dylan uses the same joke for the second time that night: “This is a true story – right out of the newspapers again.” Perhaps this line is a comment about the press of the day often calling him a topical songwriter.
Dylan then again tells the audience: “Just the words have been changed around,” a line which Bob finds funny but which generates only a small amount of polite laughter from the audience. There is then a very brief pause, as if the performer really is considering the subject before he states, “It’s like conversation, really.” Although clearly exuberant here and throughout this 1964 concert, Dylan speaks the line thoughtfully, as if this connection had just occurred to him. Then he is off into the familiar waltz cadence that becomes “Hattie Carroll.” Fortunately, this shred of insight into Dylan’s creative process was not spliced from the official release. I believe it to be very telling about the songwriter’s use of language when composing his lyrics.
Telling too is how Dylan categorizes his own work by saying what it is not. Earlier in this piece I refer to “Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie” as a poem. Most would likely agree with this assessment. Not Bob, at least not in 1963. At the very beginning of the unedited bootleg recording Dylan says to the audience with urgent sincerity, “I have a po--. I have -- it’s not a poem here, but uh . . . it’s something, uh . . .”. He then quickly shifts topics, telling how this is his first solo concert in New York. Interesting here is that fact that he almost calls the work a poem and then stops himself abruptly – quickly indicating that it is “not a poem.” Perhaps the idea of even briefly taking-on the poet’s mantle also resulted in his hesitant introduction to this spoken work. He purposefully continued to shun the tag of poetry, it seems, as demonstrated by the back cover of Another Side of Bob Dylan (August 1964), where he calls his written works “Some other kinds of songs . . .” and not poems. But even though Dylan rejected the term poem, and couldn’t really name the genre of the spoken non-musical work on that April night in 1963, he was certainly right when he said, “It’s something.” There is nothing else like “Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie” in Dylan’s canon.
I said earlier that I had purposefully stayed away from writing about Bob Dylan for quite some time. After all, it seems that short of reviewing new releases, it’s all been covered. And maybe this very topic has already been addressed by others. Even so, this is my take on Dylan’s spoken introduction to “Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie.” In the 20 years since Columbia Records officially released the track, my feelings about the edited introduction have gone from great irritation to great interest. This essay, then, is speculation born of anger toward the record company and fed by my unending fascination with the artist. And truncated comments or not – I’m just glad Columbia had tape rolling that evening.
Tom Wilmeth 1,511 words
thomas.wilmeth@cuw.edu
http://wilmethway.blogspot.com/
(262) 243-4218
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Transcripts of Bob Dylan’s full, edited, and collated introduction follow.
April 12, 1963 – NYC’s Town Hall
FULL TRANSCRIPT (from Are You Now or Have You Ever Been LP bootleg):
“I have a po--. I have -- it’s not a poem here, but uh, . . . it’s something, uh, . . . This is the first concert I ever played alone, really, in New York, and uh, . . . uh, uh. There’s a fella out in Brooklyn State Hospital; his name is Woody Guthrie and uh, . . . [applause] . . . uh, . . . but, uh, . . . Woody is really sort of more than a folk singer. Uh, he’s . . . he’s really something else more than a folk singer, and uh, . . . There’s this book coming out that’s doing a . . . dedicating it to him, and they asked me to write, uh, something about Woody. . . uh. Sort of like, ‘What does Woody Guthrie mean to you?’ – in 25 words. And uh, . . . and I couldn’t do it. I wrote our five pages, and uh, . . I have it here. It’s a . . . have it here by accident, actually. [Dylan -- very slight laugh] But, but I, I, I’d like to say this out loud. So, uh, . . . th’, my feelings towards Woody Guthrie. Uh, . . . can not really be, uh, . . . told in, uh, . . . how many records of his I buy, or . . . or this kind of thing. It’s . . . uh, . . . a lot more than that, actually. . . . So, uh, . . . if you can sort of roll along with this thing here; this is called ‘Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie’ . . . um. ‘When your head gets twisted and your mind grows numb . . .’”
EDITED TRANSCRIPT (officially released by Columbia Records on The Bootleg Series, Vol. 1)
“There’s this book coming out and . . . they asked me to write, uh, something about Woody. . . uh. Sort of like, ‘What does Woody Guthrie mean to you?’ – in 25 words. And uh, . . . and I couldn’t do it. I wrote our five pages, and uh, . . . I have it here. It’s a . . . have it here by accident, actually. [Dylan -- very slight laugh] But, but I, I, I’d like to say this out loud.
So, uh, . . . if you can sort of roll along with this thing here; this is called ‘Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie’ . . . um. ‘When your head gets twisted and your mind grows numb . . .’”
COLLATED TRANSCRIPT (bold/underlined/italicized/ CAPITALIZED material used by Columbia) – I figure at least one of these FOUR identifying elements will transfer through the filters:
“I have a po--. I have -- it’s not a poem here, but uh, . . . it’s something, uh, . . . This is the first concert I ever played alone, really, in New York, and uh, . . . uh, uh. There’s a fella out in Brooklyn State Hospital; his name is Woody Guthrie and uh, . . . [applause] . . . uh, . . . but, uh, . . . Woody is really sort of more than a folk singer. Uh, he’s . . . he’s really something else more than a folk singer, and uh, . . . THERE’S THIS BOOK COMING OUT that’s doing a . . . dedicating it to him, AND THEY ASKED ME TO WRITE, UH, SOMETHING ABOUT WOODY . . . UH. SORT OF LIKE, ‘WHAT DOES WOODY GUTHRIE MEAN TO YOU?’ IN 25 WORDS. AND UH, . . . AND I COULDN’T DO IT. I WROTE OUT FIVE PAGES, AND UH, . . . I HAVE IT HERE. IT’S A . . . HAVE IT HERE BY ACCIDENT, ACTUALLY. [DYLAN -- VERY SLIGHT LAUGH] BUT, BUT I, I, I’D LIKE TO SAY THIS OUT LOUD. So, uh, . . . th’, my feelings towards Woody Guthrie. Uh, . . . can not really be, uh . . . told in, uh, . . . how many records of his I buy, or . . . or this kind of thing. It’s . . . uh, . . . a lot more than that, actually. . . . SO, UH, . . .IF YOU CAN SORT OF ROLL ALONG WITH THIS THING HERE; THIS IS CALLED ‘LAST THOUGHTS ON WOODY GUTHRIE’ . . . UM. ‘When your head gets twisted and your mind grows numb . . .’”
Best again,
Tom Wilmeth
Essay written by Tom Wilmeth
23 January 2011
I have not written much about Bob Dylan in a long time. It got to the point where I figured, What’s the use? There was such a flood – nay, glut – of writings about Dylan being produced. It was the birth of the Internet that started to make me question whether I was really a Dylan fan any longer or not – a question which always makes my two grown children howl with laughter. True, I have all of Dylan’s officially released materials. Over the past decades I have faithfully purchased the spate of soundtrack and various artists CDs to get his individual tracks, going so far as to buy a 3 CD Joan Baez box to acquire the elusive “Troubled and I Don’t Know Why” duet. I still go see him when he comes to town, as I have since the 1974 tour, and I chose XM Radio over Sirius because XM carried Bob’s Theme Time Radio program
On the Internet, however, the Dylan world became an ever expanding universe, and what had been a lot of fun quickly seemed to turn into an often mean-spirited competition of territorialism. Or so it appeared to me. And so I walked away for a while – not from the music, but from the community of Dylan commentators. I write the following because a question floats to my frontal lobes with surprising regularity, and (although I could have easily have missed it) I have not seen this specific topic discussed.
There was a high quality Dylan bootleg LP that many of us prized in the mid-1970s, when these underground albums really came into their own. Known by the title Are You Now or Have You Ever Been?, the album included excerpts from a New York City concert at Town Hall from April 1963 – the days when Bob was the brightest beacon of the folk community. For the concert’s encore, Dylan recites his just completed poem entitled “Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie.” Already a veteran of high profile area gigs, he nevertheless seems quite nervous as he introduces what he knows will be a lengthy spoken piece. Sans guitar, it will be outside of Dylan’s regular style -- almost an a cappella performance. In his introduction, Dylan speaks of Guthrie’s personal importance to him. He then begins a unique recitation of adulation.
This spoken work was performed only once. The 1963 recording would be legitimately released on the first of The Bootleg Series sets, issued by Columbia Records in 1991. However, what I found interesting then and now is that Dylan’s brief prefatory remarks to the piece have been edited, which becomes immediately clear when comparing the bootleg recording to the sanctioned Columbia release. The deletions jolted and irritated me the first time I played the official disk because I always felt that included in this introduction was a quick glimpse into Bob Dylan as fan – an unguarded moment acknowledging devotion.
The careful editing of these introductory remarks was not made for the purpose of time, I’m convinced, but primarily for content. True, Dylan’s halting delivery is cleaned-up, making the speaker’s words appear to flow -- when actually they were at times quite choppy and uncertain. But it is the halting nature of this spoken introduction that helps the audience to recognize the heartfelt and unrehearsed elements at play. The unedited tape certainly does not make the speaker sound inarticulate, if that was a concern.
Much more important than speech fluidity, however, is the content edited from this already short introduction. Excised from Columbia’s release is Dylan’s sincere attempt to explain to the audience that night the inexpressible depth of Woody Guthrie’s pull on him. In a removed section of the tape, Dylan says that Guthrie’s appeal “cannot really be told in how many records of his I buy, or this kind of thing. It’s, uh . . . a lot more than that, actually.” I assume it was Dylan himself who ordered the lines removed before the recording’s official release, but this decision could also have fallen to producer Jeff Rosen. Either way, I’m thinking that the cuts must have had Dylan’s approval.
But why was this content removed for the 1991 release? In his introductory comments about the intangible attachment of fan to artist, Dylan twice stresses how Guthrie is “more than a folk singer.” These lines are also cut. When Dylan then explains that his feelings about Guthrie could not be measured by “how many records of his I buy,” did Bob in 1991 think that this stated rejection of equating album purchases to one’s devotion toward an artist might hurt his own future record sales? I think not. I believe that this line was edited-out because it and the following sentence cut too close to the bone. That is, I think these lines must have touched-on something that the artist did not want revealed. Was it his youthful attempt to express an unchecked devotion toward Guthrie that Dylan later decided to bury? Did he want to downplay this element in himself, having been the recipient of such unsettling fan worship for most of his own career? Whatever the reason, this seems to be a window that Dylan wanted closed in 1991. Dylan’s younger self concludes his grasp at articulating his inexpressible feelings toward Guthrie with, “It’s a lot more than that, actually.” His thoughtful, almost distracted tone here is telling -- almost as if that 1963 audience has melted away, and he is speaking to himself.
There is only one other time in the pre-electric canon where I believe Dylan gets this close to unconsciously confiding to an audience his private thoughts about music. Near the end of the 1964 Halloween concert (also in New York City) Dylan is about to close the main part of the evening’s set with one of his strongest songs before bringing out Joan Baez. As he begins the chords to “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll,” Dylan uses the same joke for the second time that night: “This is a true story – right out of the newspapers again.” Perhaps this line is a comment about the press of the day often calling him a topical songwriter.
Dylan then again tells the audience: “Just the words have been changed around,” a line which Bob finds funny but which generates only a small amount of polite laughter from the audience. There is then a very brief pause, as if the performer really is considering the subject before he states, “It’s like conversation, really.” Although clearly exuberant here and throughout this 1964 concert, Dylan speaks the line thoughtfully, as if this connection had just occurred to him. Then he is off into the familiar waltz cadence that becomes “Hattie Carroll.” Fortunately, this shred of insight into Dylan’s creative process was not spliced from the official release. I believe it to be very telling about the songwriter’s use of language when composing his lyrics.
Telling too is how Dylan categorizes his own work by saying what it is not. Earlier in this piece I refer to “Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie” as a poem. Most would likely agree with this assessment. Not Bob, at least not in 1963. At the very beginning of the unedited bootleg recording Dylan says to the audience with urgent sincerity, “I have a po--. I have -- it’s not a poem here, but uh . . . it’s something, uh . . .”. He then quickly shifts topics, telling how this is his first solo concert in New York. Interesting here is that fact that he almost calls the work a poem and then stops himself abruptly – quickly indicating that it is “not a poem.” Perhaps the idea of even briefly taking-on the poet’s mantle also resulted in his hesitant introduction to this spoken work. He purposefully continued to shun the tag of poetry, it seems, as demonstrated by the back cover of Another Side of Bob Dylan (August 1964), where he calls his written works “Some other kinds of songs . . .” and not poems. But even though Dylan rejected the term poem, and couldn’t really name the genre of the spoken non-musical work on that April night in 1963, he was certainly right when he said, “It’s something.” There is nothing else like “Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie” in Dylan’s canon.
I said earlier that I had purposefully stayed away from writing about Bob Dylan for quite some time. After all, it seems that short of reviewing new releases, it’s all been covered. And maybe this very topic has already been addressed by others. Even so, this is my take on Dylan’s spoken introduction to “Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie.” In the 20 years since Columbia Records officially released the track, my feelings about the edited introduction have gone from great irritation to great interest. This essay, then, is speculation born of anger toward the record company and fed by my unending fascination with the artist. And truncated comments or not – I’m just glad Columbia had tape rolling that evening.
Tom Wilmeth 1,511 words
thomas.wilmeth@cuw.edu
http://wilmethway.blogspot.com/
(262) 243-4218
][][][[][][]][][][[][][] ][][][[][][]][][][[][][] ][][][[][][]][][][[][][] ][][][[][][]][][][[][][] ][][]
Transcripts of Bob Dylan’s full, edited, and collated introduction follow.
April 12, 1963 – NYC’s Town Hall
FULL TRANSCRIPT (from Are You Now or Have You Ever Been LP bootleg):
“I have a po--. I have -- it’s not a poem here, but uh, . . . it’s something, uh, . . . This is the first concert I ever played alone, really, in New York, and uh, . . . uh, uh. There’s a fella out in Brooklyn State Hospital; his name is Woody Guthrie and uh, . . . [applause] . . . uh, . . . but, uh, . . . Woody is really sort of more than a folk singer. Uh, he’s . . . he’s really something else more than a folk singer, and uh, . . . There’s this book coming out that’s doing a . . . dedicating it to him, and they asked me to write, uh, something about Woody. . . uh. Sort of like, ‘What does Woody Guthrie mean to you?’ – in 25 words. And uh, . . . and I couldn’t do it. I wrote our five pages, and uh, . . I have it here. It’s a . . . have it here by accident, actually. [Dylan -- very slight laugh] But, but I, I, I’d like to say this out loud. So, uh, . . . th’, my feelings towards Woody Guthrie. Uh, . . . can not really be, uh, . . . told in, uh, . . . how many records of his I buy, or . . . or this kind of thing. It’s . . . uh, . . . a lot more than that, actually. . . . So, uh, . . . if you can sort of roll along with this thing here; this is called ‘Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie’ . . . um. ‘When your head gets twisted and your mind grows numb . . .’”
EDITED TRANSCRIPT (officially released by Columbia Records on The Bootleg Series, Vol. 1)
“There’s this book coming out and . . . they asked me to write, uh, something about Woody. . . uh. Sort of like, ‘What does Woody Guthrie mean to you?’ – in 25 words. And uh, . . . and I couldn’t do it. I wrote our five pages, and uh, . . . I have it here. It’s a . . . have it here by accident, actually. [Dylan -- very slight laugh] But, but I, I, I’d like to say this out loud.
So, uh, . . . if you can sort of roll along with this thing here; this is called ‘Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie’ . . . um. ‘When your head gets twisted and your mind grows numb . . .’”
COLLATED TRANSCRIPT (bold/underlined/italicized/ CAPITALIZED material used by Columbia) – I figure at least one of these FOUR identifying elements will transfer through the filters:
“I have a po--. I have -- it’s not a poem here, but uh, . . . it’s something, uh, . . . This is the first concert I ever played alone, really, in New York, and uh, . . . uh, uh. There’s a fella out in Brooklyn State Hospital; his name is Woody Guthrie and uh, . . . [applause] . . . uh, . . . but, uh, . . . Woody is really sort of more than a folk singer. Uh, he’s . . . he’s really something else more than a folk singer, and uh, . . . THERE’S THIS BOOK COMING OUT that’s doing a . . . dedicating it to him, AND THEY ASKED ME TO WRITE, UH, SOMETHING ABOUT WOODY . . . UH. SORT OF LIKE, ‘WHAT DOES WOODY GUTHRIE MEAN TO YOU?’ IN 25 WORDS. AND UH, . . . AND I COULDN’T DO IT. I WROTE OUT FIVE PAGES, AND UH, . . . I HAVE IT HERE. IT’S A . . . HAVE IT HERE BY ACCIDENT, ACTUALLY. [DYLAN -- VERY SLIGHT LAUGH] BUT, BUT I, I, I’D LIKE TO SAY THIS OUT LOUD. So, uh, . . . th’, my feelings towards Woody Guthrie. Uh, . . . can not really be, uh . . . told in, uh, . . . how many records of his I buy, or . . . or this kind of thing. It’s . . . uh, . . . a lot more than that, actually. . . . SO, UH, . . .IF YOU CAN SORT OF ROLL ALONG WITH THIS THING HERE; THIS IS CALLED ‘LAST THOUGHTS ON WOODY GUTHRIE’ . . . UM. ‘When your head gets twisted and your mind grows numb . . .’”
Best again,
Tom Wilmeth
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Obituary (Trish Keenan)
Trish Keenan, vocalist for the band Broadcast
(an obituary of sorts)
written by Tom Wilmeth
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
I do something each week about which I rarely speak. It is almost a ritual, except that rituals often fall into the realm of empty actions. Instead, my weekly exercises perform an ongoing and important function that I am convinced keeps me happy and stable. This weekly exercise culminates each December in a flurry of activity that becomes obsession itself – followed by a return to the norm of a relatively brief weekend activity.
Since the late 1970s I have recorded the Top 40 pop charts on tape each weekend and then listened back to the programs during the course of the following week – in my car, in my office, while doing dishes. Although I do fast forward over the commercials, I listen to every song on the countdown all the way through. I went through a very brief period of jumping over songs that I didn’t want to hear or skipping songs that were on the way down the chart. However, I soon found that I was jumping over most of the songs. As such, I listen to it all. And I do mean listen – if I leave the room or if the phone rings, I first shut off the tape. What is odd is that it is now rare that I even want to skip over a song – not that they are all good (God knows) but because I am invested in hearing the countdown. And I greatly enjoy the process (or I wouldn’t do it).
What began with a weekly walk-through of Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 would later branch out after I left the Midwest. Living in Texas, I started also taping the weekly American Country Countdown with Bob Kingsley. Like Casey’s chart, this too is a 4-hour weekly program. Each is a little over three hours of listening if you jump the commercials, the Long Distance Dedications and other non-chart extras.
Moving to Wisconsin in 1991, other programs became part of the weekly diet – Nick Spitzer’s American Routes chief among them. Little Steven’s Underground Garage was even more essential to my week. But even with this additional 4-hours of audio things were manageable, and I still made plenty of time for listening to my own record collection and other songs I actually felt like hearing. I was not and am not a slave to the charts. Or so I believe.
Things took an unexpected turn when my lovely wife Ellie gave me an XM Radio subscription four Christmases ago. Although it began slowly enough, I soon found myself taping other weekly countdown shows, including A Rack of Blues, Slim Shady’s Hip Hop Countdown, Liquid Metal’s Devil’s Dozen, Verge’s Alt Nation Countdown, the Octane Countdown, and (the most recent addition) the XMU Download 15. The length of these countdowns ranges from barely 30 minutes (Hip Hop and Devil’s Dozen) to an hour or more (Rack of Blues). What is remarkable is how very little overlap exists in these charts! Even American Top 40 rarely duplicates any of the Octane, Alt Nation or XMU charts.
I love them all, to varying degrees, depending on the week and upon my mood. But what I have repeatedly noticed is that I must experience these charts by myself. They are not the same songs if I am not alone. If anyone is with me – be it wife or son or daughter – all extremely well versed in music – I find that can’t enjoy most of the countdown. For some reason I feel that I am responsible for what the chart holds. I think it is my job to justify and explain and entertain the person with me. As such, I don’t enjoy the music. So I simply don’t try to share the experience; I listen to the charts alone.
Why do I listen to these music charts? As I say above – I still enjoy the experience, and when I no longer find pleasure in these new songs, I will stop taping. How does this relate to anything? Over Christmas, making the 7-hour drive to Wisconsin back from my parents’ home in Des Moines, son Dylan and I were (as usual) playing with the car’s XM Radio. Dylan came across the countdown mentioned above – the XMU Download 15, a chart based upon how many times a song had been accessed or downloaded on the web during the previous week. I was unaware of this countdown, but was struck by many of the songs. None hit me as hard as a selection called “Carolina.” In fact, after returning home, I taped a re-run of this countdown and then went to Milwaukee’s Exclusive Company record store to find it.
The fact that I didn’t just download it says worlds about me, I know. But I’m glad I didn’t, for the song came from a brief EP called Broken Dreams Club. It is by the San Francisco group Girls; as far as I can tell there is nary a girl in the band. The entire CD is good. In fact, I was so struck that I wrote a review of it the following morning. [This review appears as a discrete blog entry.] I have played that CD more in the past month than anything else. All of the songs are fine. I gave it a very positive review, but my opinion of it keeps going up!
I admit that the above example is unusual. It is rare that a song hits me that hard, but I would have been completely unaware of “Carolina” or of Girls had I not listened to that countdown. Would I have lived without it? Sure, but my life is better for knowing about it.
This week, the XMU Download 15 chart started on a somber note. The announcer began by saying that the singer from the first selection had just died unexpectedly after a two-week bout with pneumonia. Rough stuff. And at age 42! The singer’s name was Trish Keenan – it rang absolutely no bells with me. The tune started and I was again knocked-out, much as I had been by “Carolina.” I was impressed not because she was no longer with us, but because of an unmistakable and beautiful voice. I was angry that I had never heard of Trish Keenan before, and that it took her death to make me aware of her. I did some research and discovered that Keenan had been singing with her band Broadcast since the mid-1990s. How had I missed this?
Most of the little I have read so far about Broadcast and Trish Keenan indicate that labels and radio did not know what to do with them – they fit no ready-made nitch. And as we survey the landscape, we see so many others who were musically talented but fit no single pre-existing genre – Charlie Rich (more talented than Elvis, said Sam Phillips) , the Louvin Brothers (too country for the gospel crowd; too gospel for the country audience), Doug Sahm, Todd Rundgren, and many others – from Prince to Bobby Darin.
These are the type of talented artists who have and will continue to slip through existing radio charts – no matter how many exist and no matter what the format. I mentioned at the start of this piece an obsession which hits me each December. This is the annual taping of the year-end charts. This year I recorded over 75 hours of year-end countdowns, from pop to hard rock to techno to Latin. I have listened to all of these charts at least once. At no point did I hear anything by the group Broadcast. I would have remembered.
Why do I tape the countdowns? I am searching for Trish Keenan.
[end]
(an obituary of sorts)
written by Tom Wilmeth
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
I do something each week about which I rarely speak. It is almost a ritual, except that rituals often fall into the realm of empty actions. Instead, my weekly exercises perform an ongoing and important function that I am convinced keeps me happy and stable. This weekly exercise culminates each December in a flurry of activity that becomes obsession itself – followed by a return to the norm of a relatively brief weekend activity.
Since the late 1970s I have recorded the Top 40 pop charts on tape each weekend and then listened back to the programs during the course of the following week – in my car, in my office, while doing dishes. Although I do fast forward over the commercials, I listen to every song on the countdown all the way through. I went through a very brief period of jumping over songs that I didn’t want to hear or skipping songs that were on the way down the chart. However, I soon found that I was jumping over most of the songs. As such, I listen to it all. And I do mean listen – if I leave the room or if the phone rings, I first shut off the tape. What is odd is that it is now rare that I even want to skip over a song – not that they are all good (God knows) but because I am invested in hearing the countdown. And I greatly enjoy the process (or I wouldn’t do it).
What began with a weekly walk-through of Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 would later branch out after I left the Midwest. Living in Texas, I started also taping the weekly American Country Countdown with Bob Kingsley. Like Casey’s chart, this too is a 4-hour weekly program. Each is a little over three hours of listening if you jump the commercials, the Long Distance Dedications and other non-chart extras.
Moving to Wisconsin in 1991, other programs became part of the weekly diet – Nick Spitzer’s American Routes chief among them. Little Steven’s Underground Garage was even more essential to my week. But even with this additional 4-hours of audio things were manageable, and I still made plenty of time for listening to my own record collection and other songs I actually felt like hearing. I was not and am not a slave to the charts. Or so I believe.
Things took an unexpected turn when my lovely wife Ellie gave me an XM Radio subscription four Christmases ago. Although it began slowly enough, I soon found myself taping other weekly countdown shows, including A Rack of Blues, Slim Shady’s Hip Hop Countdown, Liquid Metal’s Devil’s Dozen, Verge’s Alt Nation Countdown, the Octane Countdown, and (the most recent addition) the XMU Download 15. The length of these countdowns ranges from barely 30 minutes (Hip Hop and Devil’s Dozen) to an hour or more (Rack of Blues). What is remarkable is how very little overlap exists in these charts! Even American Top 40 rarely duplicates any of the Octane, Alt Nation or XMU charts.
I love them all, to varying degrees, depending on the week and upon my mood. But what I have repeatedly noticed is that I must experience these charts by myself. They are not the same songs if I am not alone. If anyone is with me – be it wife or son or daughter – all extremely well versed in music – I find that can’t enjoy most of the countdown. For some reason I feel that I am responsible for what the chart holds. I think it is my job to justify and explain and entertain the person with me. As such, I don’t enjoy the music. So I simply don’t try to share the experience; I listen to the charts alone.
Why do I listen to these music charts? As I say above – I still enjoy the experience, and when I no longer find pleasure in these new songs, I will stop taping. How does this relate to anything? Over Christmas, making the 7-hour drive to Wisconsin back from my parents’ home in Des Moines, son Dylan and I were (as usual) playing with the car’s XM Radio. Dylan came across the countdown mentioned above – the XMU Download 15, a chart based upon how many times a song had been accessed or downloaded on the web during the previous week. I was unaware of this countdown, but was struck by many of the songs. None hit me as hard as a selection called “Carolina.” In fact, after returning home, I taped a re-run of this countdown and then went to Milwaukee’s Exclusive Company record store to find it.
The fact that I didn’t just download it says worlds about me, I know. But I’m glad I didn’t, for the song came from a brief EP called Broken Dreams Club. It is by the San Francisco group Girls; as far as I can tell there is nary a girl in the band. The entire CD is good. In fact, I was so struck that I wrote a review of it the following morning. [This review appears as a discrete blog entry.] I have played that CD more in the past month than anything else. All of the songs are fine. I gave it a very positive review, but my opinion of it keeps going up!
I admit that the above example is unusual. It is rare that a song hits me that hard, but I would have been completely unaware of “Carolina” or of Girls had I not listened to that countdown. Would I have lived without it? Sure, but my life is better for knowing about it.
This week, the XMU Download 15 chart started on a somber note. The announcer began by saying that the singer from the first selection had just died unexpectedly after a two-week bout with pneumonia. Rough stuff. And at age 42! The singer’s name was Trish Keenan – it rang absolutely no bells with me. The tune started and I was again knocked-out, much as I had been by “Carolina.” I was impressed not because she was no longer with us, but because of an unmistakable and beautiful voice. I was angry that I had never heard of Trish Keenan before, and that it took her death to make me aware of her. I did some research and discovered that Keenan had been singing with her band Broadcast since the mid-1990s. How had I missed this?
Most of the little I have read so far about Broadcast and Trish Keenan indicate that labels and radio did not know what to do with them – they fit no ready-made nitch. And as we survey the landscape, we see so many others who were musically talented but fit no single pre-existing genre – Charlie Rich (more talented than Elvis, said Sam Phillips) , the Louvin Brothers (too country for the gospel crowd; too gospel for the country audience), Doug Sahm, Todd Rundgren, and many others – from Prince to Bobby Darin.
These are the type of talented artists who have and will continue to slip through existing radio charts – no matter how many exist and no matter what the format. I mentioned at the start of this piece an obsession which hits me each December. This is the annual taping of the year-end charts. This year I recorded over 75 hours of year-end countdowns, from pop to hard rock to techno to Latin. I have listened to all of these charts at least once. At no point did I hear anything by the group Broadcast. I would have remembered.
Why do I tape the countdowns? I am searching for Trish Keenan.
[end]
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Obituary: (Captain Beefheart)
Captain Beefheart – “Something about the Fidelity”
Obituary (of sorts) written by Tom Wilmeth
19 December 2010
Sorry to hear that 2010 must end with the death of Captain Beefheart (Don Van Vliet). Beefheart was the type of artist who had removed himself from the public eye so thoroughly that most people who even recognized the name would need to check their computer to see if he were still living. When somebody has already been gone from the scene for such a long time, it’s hard to say that he will be missed. Those who were influenced by his music have already been missing him for over 20 years. What is incontrovertible is that he will be remembered.
I think that, like many people, I first became aware of Captain Beefheart though the Zapped sampler album of early 1970. Zapped was one in a series of inexpensive records that featured songs from new Warner Brothers / Reprise label releases, and one of the still-healthy industry’s better promotional ideas. Zapped was more focused than most of these collections since they weren’t trying to promote everything from James Taylor to The Fugs on one anthology. Zapped only included recordings from the offshoot Bizarre & Straight labels, both under the absolute control of Frank Zappa, and distributed by Warners.
After a brief instrumental “Overture” by Alice Cooper (still a group – not one person – and a 2011 inductee into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame) Beefheart arrives, grabbing attention with an urgent narrative about some sort of impending doom involving a blimp. But it is the Captain’s track from side two – I still hesitate to call it a song – “Old Fart at Play” – which made me wonder if something new was afoot. At first this just seemed to be a Kerouac-flavored bathroom-humor recitation over disjointed Ornette Coleman riffs and insistently driven rhythms – radical at the time because of the outrageous subject matter. But -- Just what was the subject matter?
After this, I did buy the record from which these tracks were culled, Trout Mask Replica. It was an expensive double album at the time but was worth having on a several levels. First, the cover (described precisely by the record’s title) was unlike all others; second, merely by playing any part of the album you could immediately clear a crowded room (at that time in Des Moines, Iowa, anyway). More than merely strange, though -- it was unique, haunting, and unforgettable. Much of side one remained my favorite material, but that may be due to not hearing the other three sides nearly as much. I’m not sure if it was endurance or tolerance, but Trout Mask Replica did require a period of adjustment for the listener, especially for one still in junior high. “Old Fart at Play” was well chosen for Zapped, I always felt, as it was a high point of the set.
I stayed with Beefheart more than some and less than others. His vocals were featured on Zappa’s “Willie the Pimp,” from the great Hot Rats album of 1969 (and also included on Zapped). I was somewhat cold on Zappa when Bongo Fury was released in 1975, so the fact that Beefheart sang with Zappa’s band on this record didn’t matter much to me. I lost track of the Captain until 1978 when Shiny Beast (Bat Chain Puller) got a big push from Warner Brothers, and rightly so. I searched out the first album Safe as Milk, but never really considered myself a fan or true aficionado.
That’s the personal background part of the obituary.
What follows is the brief section that might actually add to the conversation:
I was a huge Tom Waits devotee in his early years (another 2011 R&R Hall of Fame inductee, by the way). I still am a fan, but I was really taken with the first records and truly got on-board with the release of Nighthawks at the Diner in 1975 Even living in the great Midwest, I was able to see Waits several times -- on tours promoting his Small Change, Foreign Affairs, Blue Valentine, and Heartattack & Vine albums. I spoke with him before or after most of these concerts (sometimes both), and he was never anything but friendly, gracious, and accommodating. During one brief post-gig encounter, I expressed dismay that he had not an equal share of time on the PBS Soundstage (which aired in 1975). I also complained that he had only gotten a single tune on Saturday Night Live (1976). Waits patiently explained that he was supposed to play a second song, but they ran long and didn’t have enough time – that’s the way live TV is.
Concerning Soundstage, Tom Waits certainly wasn’t going to rip Mose Allison, who shared the hour with him in separate sets. But he did tell me – “The original guy for the other half of that show was Captain Beefheart. . . . We got into rehearsals and the Captain was unhappy. He picked-up this real Leave It To Beaver type of director by his collar and [shifting to a carefully articulated guttural] said ‘something about the fidelity.’ Everybody on the set got real nervous after that, and the next thing I knew Captain Beefheart was off the show.”
Not long ago I read something about how Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band were scheduled to perform at Woodstock, but that one of the guitarists quit the group right before the festival so they had to cancel. Would this exposure have helped? Who knows. Would they have even made the movie or record? Unknowable. Is this report even a fact or a rumor? Probably researchable. But for now I’ll leave you with that – the only Beefheart-related story in my arsenal which might come close to being useful. Everybody have a great 2011!
Best always,
Tom Wilmeth
Grafton, Wisconsin
(262) 243-4218
thomas.wilmeth@cuw.edu
][][][[][[][]][][][[][[][]][][][[][[][]][][][[][[][]
Notes: I have subsequently been told that the cancelled performance by Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band was not intended for Woodstock (1969) but for the Monterey Pop Festival of 1967. The guitarist who departed the band was Ry Cooder.
][][][[][[][]][][][[][[][]][][][[][[][]][][][[][[][]
exciting new web site (of musty old reviews): “The Wilmeth Way”
web site: http://wilmethway.blogspot.com/
948 words
Obituary (of sorts) written by Tom Wilmeth
19 December 2010
Sorry to hear that 2010 must end with the death of Captain Beefheart (Don Van Vliet). Beefheart was the type of artist who had removed himself from the public eye so thoroughly that most people who even recognized the name would need to check their computer to see if he were still living. When somebody has already been gone from the scene for such a long time, it’s hard to say that he will be missed. Those who were influenced by his music have already been missing him for over 20 years. What is incontrovertible is that he will be remembered.
I think that, like many people, I first became aware of Captain Beefheart though the Zapped sampler album of early 1970. Zapped was one in a series of inexpensive records that featured songs from new Warner Brothers / Reprise label releases, and one of the still-healthy industry’s better promotional ideas. Zapped was more focused than most of these collections since they weren’t trying to promote everything from James Taylor to The Fugs on one anthology. Zapped only included recordings from the offshoot Bizarre & Straight labels, both under the absolute control of Frank Zappa, and distributed by Warners.
After a brief instrumental “Overture” by Alice Cooper (still a group – not one person – and a 2011 inductee into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame) Beefheart arrives, grabbing attention with an urgent narrative about some sort of impending doom involving a blimp. But it is the Captain’s track from side two – I still hesitate to call it a song – “Old Fart at Play” – which made me wonder if something new was afoot. At first this just seemed to be a Kerouac-flavored bathroom-humor recitation over disjointed Ornette Coleman riffs and insistently driven rhythms – radical at the time because of the outrageous subject matter. But -- Just what was the subject matter?
After this, I did buy the record from which these tracks were culled, Trout Mask Replica. It was an expensive double album at the time but was worth having on a several levels. First, the cover (described precisely by the record’s title) was unlike all others; second, merely by playing any part of the album you could immediately clear a crowded room (at that time in Des Moines, Iowa, anyway). More than merely strange, though -- it was unique, haunting, and unforgettable. Much of side one remained my favorite material, but that may be due to not hearing the other three sides nearly as much. I’m not sure if it was endurance or tolerance, but Trout Mask Replica did require a period of adjustment for the listener, especially for one still in junior high. “Old Fart at Play” was well chosen for Zapped, I always felt, as it was a high point of the set.
I stayed with Beefheart more than some and less than others. His vocals were featured on Zappa’s “Willie the Pimp,” from the great Hot Rats album of 1969 (and also included on Zapped). I was somewhat cold on Zappa when Bongo Fury was released in 1975, so the fact that Beefheart sang with Zappa’s band on this record didn’t matter much to me. I lost track of the Captain until 1978 when Shiny Beast (Bat Chain Puller) got a big push from Warner Brothers, and rightly so. I searched out the first album Safe as Milk, but never really considered myself a fan or true aficionado.
That’s the personal background part of the obituary.
What follows is the brief section that might actually add to the conversation:
I was a huge Tom Waits devotee in his early years (another 2011 R&R Hall of Fame inductee, by the way). I still am a fan, but I was really taken with the first records and truly got on-board with the release of Nighthawks at the Diner in 1975 Even living in the great Midwest, I was able to see Waits several times -- on tours promoting his Small Change, Foreign Affairs, Blue Valentine, and Heartattack & Vine albums. I spoke with him before or after most of these concerts (sometimes both), and he was never anything but friendly, gracious, and accommodating. During one brief post-gig encounter, I expressed dismay that he had not an equal share of time on the PBS Soundstage (which aired in 1975). I also complained that he had only gotten a single tune on Saturday Night Live (1976). Waits patiently explained that he was supposed to play a second song, but they ran long and didn’t have enough time – that’s the way live TV is.
Concerning Soundstage, Tom Waits certainly wasn’t going to rip Mose Allison, who shared the hour with him in separate sets. But he did tell me – “The original guy for the other half of that show was Captain Beefheart. . . . We got into rehearsals and the Captain was unhappy. He picked-up this real Leave It To Beaver type of director by his collar and [shifting to a carefully articulated guttural] said ‘something about the fidelity.’ Everybody on the set got real nervous after that, and the next thing I knew Captain Beefheart was off the show.”
Not long ago I read something about how Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band were scheduled to perform at Woodstock, but that one of the guitarists quit the group right before the festival so they had to cancel. Would this exposure have helped? Who knows. Would they have even made the movie or record? Unknowable. Is this report even a fact or a rumor? Probably researchable. But for now I’ll leave you with that – the only Beefheart-related story in my arsenal which might come close to being useful. Everybody have a great 2011!
Best always,
Tom Wilmeth
Grafton, Wisconsin
(262) 243-4218
thomas.wilmeth@cuw.edu
][][][[][[][]][][][[][[][]][][][[][[][]][][][[][[][]
Notes: I have subsequently been told that the cancelled performance by Captain Beefheart and his Magic Band was not intended for Woodstock (1969) but for the Monterey Pop Festival of 1967. The guitarist who departed the band was Ry Cooder.
][][][[][[][]][][][[][[][]][][][[][[][]][][][[][[][]
exciting new web site (of musty old reviews): “The Wilmeth Way”
web site: http://wilmethway.blogspot.com/
948 words
Friday, December 10, 2010
Review (CD): Broken Dreams Club by Girls
Girls. Broken Dreams Club (EP). Fantasy Trashcan / Turnstile Records, 2010.
Review Written by Tom Wilmeth 10 December 2010
Woe! A semi-stretch band with horns. And a steel guitar. And a mellotron! And plenty of mood. And an ethereal voice appropriately hidden in the mix. And interesting songs. And guitars that sounds like they are on loan from Chris Isaak’s Silvertones at their most atmospheric. This all adds-up to a distinctive and memorable collection.
Brief and to the point -- Broken Dreams Club by the band Girls is a musical high mark for 2010, arriving just in time to make the onset of winter seem a little less glum. Christopher Owens is clearly the driving force behind the group Girls – principal songwriter, guitar, vocals; he is even responsible for the CD’s cover art. Still, producer Chet Jr. White is also inseparable from the success of this 30-minute studio set. It is appropriate that White is listed immediately under Owens on the CD’s list of credits.
The Girls know the sound they are after – and they nail it with seeming effortlessness. Like slowly waking from a dream, the ethereal and compelling closing track “Carolina” drifts through your brain for nearly four minutes before Owens’ first vocal line emerges. White’s production takes the sound from phantasmagoric blend to crisply delineated sounds with the precision and expertise of a man well acquainted with his sound board. Fine songs, well recorded -- the six selections on this EP are often haunting, beckoning one to return to the set for repeated listenings.
Review Written by Tom Wilmeth 10 December 2010
Woe! A semi-stretch band with horns. And a steel guitar. And a mellotron! And plenty of mood. And an ethereal voice appropriately hidden in the mix. And interesting songs. And guitars that sounds like they are on loan from Chris Isaak’s Silvertones at their most atmospheric. This all adds-up to a distinctive and memorable collection.
Brief and to the point -- Broken Dreams Club by the band Girls is a musical high mark for 2010, arriving just in time to make the onset of winter seem a little less glum. Christopher Owens is clearly the driving force behind the group Girls – principal songwriter, guitar, vocals; he is even responsible for the CD’s cover art. Still, producer Chet Jr. White is also inseparable from the success of this 30-minute studio set. It is appropriate that White is listed immediately under Owens on the CD’s list of credits.
The Girls know the sound they are after – and they nail it with seeming effortlessness. Like slowly waking from a dream, the ethereal and compelling closing track “Carolina” drifts through your brain for nearly four minutes before Owens’ first vocal line emerges. White’s production takes the sound from phantasmagoric blend to crisply delineated sounds with the precision and expertise of a man well acquainted with his sound board. Fine songs, well recorded -- the six selections on this EP are often haunting, beckoning one to return to the set for repeated listenings.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
One Question With . . . #4
Tom Wilmeth
December 9, 2010
Last night I was trying to write part of an “Introduction” to a book I have been working on. It just wasn’t coming, and things sort of went into a different direction.
This is the carnage:
][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][]
Introduction [to that book I mentioned above]:
One of the things that my recent projects have taught me is that people are living their own lives, as they should. As such, they really don’t have time to dig in to my obscure writings. That’s fine, and in many ways it’s also liberating. Writing for myself, I am allowed to go after the short items such as my occasional “One Question With . . .”. Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to write this one for a while – here it is:
][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]]
Tom Wilmeth Presents Another: One Question With . . .
If I had one question with a specific individual, what would it be?
[This one is pretty obscure.]
One Question With . . . #4 – Barry Manilow Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Tom Wilmeth: So, Mr. Manilow, What is up with your recording the song “Sandra”?
Barry Manilow: What do you mean?
TW: Well, it’s about a woman who gets married young, has several kids, and then attempts suicide by slitting her wrists with a broken glass. Not exactly “Weekend in New England” stuff.
BM: [sings] “She wanted to be like her mother.”
TW: Yeah. We get that. The story’s a bit dark, isn’t it?
BM: Hey, the lyrics say that “she cut her wrist – quite by mistake.” By mistake! An accident!
TW: That slit wrist episode seems to be the centerpiece of the song. That, and how afterwards it was “touch and go for a while.” And that she also suffered from post partum depression and frequently drinks at home during the day. A pretty bleak portrait.
BM: It doesn’t exactly say all that.
TW: Sure it does. That tune is worthy of Lou Reed’s Berlin album.
BM: I’m not sure if that comparison is praise or a burn. But that’s good album.
TW: You like Berlin?
BM: Very sincere. Heartfelt stuff.
TW: Pretty stark vignettes of extremely sad situations.
BM: That too.
TW: Let’s get back to your recording of “Sandra.”
BM: That song is sung from the point of view of the husband.
TW: Right – and the fact that he isn’t all that troubled by his wife’s actions – that is frightening in itself. This is clearly the portrait of a woman drowning, and a husband blindly in denial.
BM: Succinct assessment. But you miss a lot by summarizing it in that way.
TW: You mean like the daytime drinking and the depression.
BM: Well . . . maybe. But the husband IS troubled by his wife’s situation. He absolutely is aware – he just doesn’t know what to do about it. So he writes it off to her being normal with a couple of temporary quirks. Easier to get through life that way. Ignore the bad stuff – it’ll work out. And he was able to explain that away as well – at least to himself.
TW: You did not write that song, did you.
BM: I’m not finished -- It’s clear that the husband too is calling out for help here – or his list of unhealthy things about his wife’s mental condition wouldn’t be the subject matter of the song.
TW: OK. But it still sounds like he is rationalizing a lot of stuff to himself on this. You did not write that song, did you.
BM: I co-wrote it – I added some things to Anderson’s original song, and I only performed that tune in concert for a short time, very early in my career.
TW: It wasn’t all that early – it was in your set when you played Carnegie Hall in about 1972. Or was Carnegie Hall an early, forgettable gig?
BM: You have long since passed the one question mark, so just back off a bit. But concerning playing that song live -- you need to remember the time and the audience.
TW: Meaning?
BM: The time was the early 1970s, so there was a bit of “women empowerment” in that song. Or maybe instead of the woman empowerment thing, you can see it as a wife who is also a real person, with real problems -- in a very different type of love song.
TW: She doesn’t seem very “empowered” to me. She knows she missed something, but isn’t sure what.
BM: Well, you are right about criticizing the husband. He should be throwing his wife a life-line, but he is pretending that there is no problem. Or he doesn’t really see one.
TW: So it’s an anti-man song?
BM: Once again -- It’s not that simple. “Sandra” not an anti-man song; it’s an anti- not caring song. An anti- not being in touch with your human surroundings song. It’s not an us-versus-them song for gender studies. I’ll say it again – it’s a love song, but not one that fits with flat character situations.
TW: OK, but you had to search-out that tune. You clearly really wanted it in your set. Even the original songwriter Anderson had never heard “Sandra” performed until your recording came out.
BM: I like that song and I liked performing it.
TW: You mentioned the time; what about the audience.
BM: Very New York – and most of my fans were very New York in the beginning even if they did not physically live in New York.
TW: Large gay audience?
BM: Some, but not as prominent as you might think. I never really courted that. I had seen that from the inside working the baths. And I knew that it would be a limiting thing for me to specifically target such a nitch audience.
TW: OK. So why did “Sandra” stay in your set list for such a short time?
BM: It sort of creeped people out – especially once I started to get non-New York City fans.
TW: It “creeped people out.” Go figure.
BM: Perhaps even more important – it is a depressing tune. It would take me a couple of really “up” songs to get the audience back from the doldrums that the song induced.
TW: Powerful stuff. So, “Sandra” was a song that would shatter the mood of your live show.
Yet you intentionally performed it, knowing the work it would take you to get the audience back. That’s quite a risk for a performer. Even now, for good or for bad – the song really distinguishes itself amidst any collection of your material. Any regret over performing or recording that song? Any second thoughts about including it in your show, even briefly?
BM: Not at all. Listen – that would have been a very easy tune to bury. It only appears on my second studio album, Manilow II, which has long ago been supplanted by various hits collections. I think it’s even out of print now. “Sandra” appears on none of my hits collections, as you might guess, so the only place to now get the song is on the expensive box set in the form of the live Carnegie Hall recording you mentioned.
TW: Oh. You mean your 4 CD, 1 DVD box set that contains very few of your hit singles?
BM: Guilty.
TW: But you did beat me to the punch on that box set topic – the place where you buried this intriguing oddity.
BM: I knew you were about to ask. The reason I put it on there is because I do like the song and I wanted to have some tangible evidence that it had been in my set. Sort of my take on Another Side of Barry Manilow.
TW: In a one song form.
BM: Right.
TW: Your specific parallel to Another Side of . . is a reference to Bob Dylan’s fourth album.
BM: Correct. The one where he does unexpected topics.
TW: Yeah – I’ve heard it. Is it true that Bob Dylan once hugged you in a hotel hallway, told you that everybody admired what you were doing, and then walked-on down the hall?
BM: Yes. I used to wonder if he were mocking me, but I don’t think he was. I think he is a fan of strong melodies. And love songs.
TW: Like “Sandra.”
BM: Just like “Sandra.”
[][] ][][][][[][] ][][][][[][] ][][][][[][] ][][][][[][] ][][][][[][]
PROVISO: The above “interview” is fiction – written by Tom Wilmeth.
Best,
Tom Wilmeth
(262) 243-4218
thomas.wilmeth@cuw.edu
exciting new web site (of musty old reviews): web site: http://wilmethway.blogspot.com/
December 9, 2010
Last night I was trying to write part of an “Introduction” to a book I have been working on. It just wasn’t coming, and things sort of went into a different direction.
This is the carnage:
][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][]
Introduction [to that book I mentioned above]:
One of the things that my recent projects have taught me is that people are living their own lives, as they should. As such, they really don’t have time to dig in to my obscure writings. That’s fine, and in many ways it’s also liberating. Writing for myself, I am allowed to go after the short items such as my occasional “One Question With . . .”. Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to write this one for a while – here it is:
][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]] ][][][[]]
Tom Wilmeth Presents Another: One Question With . . .
If I had one question with a specific individual, what would it be?
[This one is pretty obscure.]
One Question With . . . #4 – Barry Manilow Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Tom Wilmeth: So, Mr. Manilow, What is up with your recording the song “Sandra”?
Barry Manilow: What do you mean?
TW: Well, it’s about a woman who gets married young, has several kids, and then attempts suicide by slitting her wrists with a broken glass. Not exactly “Weekend in New England” stuff.
BM: [sings] “She wanted to be like her mother.”
TW: Yeah. We get that. The story’s a bit dark, isn’t it?
BM: Hey, the lyrics say that “she cut her wrist – quite by mistake.” By mistake! An accident!
TW: That slit wrist episode seems to be the centerpiece of the song. That, and how afterwards it was “touch and go for a while.” And that she also suffered from post partum depression and frequently drinks at home during the day. A pretty bleak portrait.
BM: It doesn’t exactly say all that.
TW: Sure it does. That tune is worthy of Lou Reed’s Berlin album.
BM: I’m not sure if that comparison is praise or a burn. But that’s good album.
TW: You like Berlin?
BM: Very sincere. Heartfelt stuff.
TW: Pretty stark vignettes of extremely sad situations.
BM: That too.
TW: Let’s get back to your recording of “Sandra.”
BM: That song is sung from the point of view of the husband.
TW: Right – and the fact that he isn’t all that troubled by his wife’s actions – that is frightening in itself. This is clearly the portrait of a woman drowning, and a husband blindly in denial.
BM: Succinct assessment. But you miss a lot by summarizing it in that way.
TW: You mean like the daytime drinking and the depression.
BM: Well . . . maybe. But the husband IS troubled by his wife’s situation. He absolutely is aware – he just doesn’t know what to do about it. So he writes it off to her being normal with a couple of temporary quirks. Easier to get through life that way. Ignore the bad stuff – it’ll work out. And he was able to explain that away as well – at least to himself.
TW: You did not write that song, did you.
BM: I’m not finished -- It’s clear that the husband too is calling out for help here – or his list of unhealthy things about his wife’s mental condition wouldn’t be the subject matter of the song.
TW: OK. But it still sounds like he is rationalizing a lot of stuff to himself on this. You did not write that song, did you.
BM: I co-wrote it – I added some things to Anderson’s original song, and I only performed that tune in concert for a short time, very early in my career.
TW: It wasn’t all that early – it was in your set when you played Carnegie Hall in about 1972. Or was Carnegie Hall an early, forgettable gig?
BM: You have long since passed the one question mark, so just back off a bit. But concerning playing that song live -- you need to remember the time and the audience.
TW: Meaning?
BM: The time was the early 1970s, so there was a bit of “women empowerment” in that song. Or maybe instead of the woman empowerment thing, you can see it as a wife who is also a real person, with real problems -- in a very different type of love song.
TW: She doesn’t seem very “empowered” to me. She knows she missed something, but isn’t sure what.
BM: Well, you are right about criticizing the husband. He should be throwing his wife a life-line, but he is pretending that there is no problem. Or he doesn’t really see one.
TW: So it’s an anti-man song?
BM: Once again -- It’s not that simple. “Sandra” not an anti-man song; it’s an anti- not caring song. An anti- not being in touch with your human surroundings song. It’s not an us-versus-them song for gender studies. I’ll say it again – it’s a love song, but not one that fits with flat character situations.
TW: OK, but you had to search-out that tune. You clearly really wanted it in your set. Even the original songwriter Anderson had never heard “Sandra” performed until your recording came out.
BM: I like that song and I liked performing it.
TW: You mentioned the time; what about the audience.
BM: Very New York – and most of my fans were very New York in the beginning even if they did not physically live in New York.
TW: Large gay audience?
BM: Some, but not as prominent as you might think. I never really courted that. I had seen that from the inside working the baths. And I knew that it would be a limiting thing for me to specifically target such a nitch audience.
TW: OK. So why did “Sandra” stay in your set list for such a short time?
BM: It sort of creeped people out – especially once I started to get non-New York City fans.
TW: It “creeped people out.” Go figure.
BM: Perhaps even more important – it is a depressing tune. It would take me a couple of really “up” songs to get the audience back from the doldrums that the song induced.
TW: Powerful stuff. So, “Sandra” was a song that would shatter the mood of your live show.
Yet you intentionally performed it, knowing the work it would take you to get the audience back. That’s quite a risk for a performer. Even now, for good or for bad – the song really distinguishes itself amidst any collection of your material. Any regret over performing or recording that song? Any second thoughts about including it in your show, even briefly?
BM: Not at all. Listen – that would have been a very easy tune to bury. It only appears on my second studio album, Manilow II, which has long ago been supplanted by various hits collections. I think it’s even out of print now. “Sandra” appears on none of my hits collections, as you might guess, so the only place to now get the song is on the expensive box set in the form of the live Carnegie Hall recording you mentioned.
TW: Oh. You mean your 4 CD, 1 DVD box set that contains very few of your hit singles?
BM: Guilty.
TW: But you did beat me to the punch on that box set topic – the place where you buried this intriguing oddity.
BM: I knew you were about to ask. The reason I put it on there is because I do like the song and I wanted to have some tangible evidence that it had been in my set. Sort of my take on Another Side of Barry Manilow.
TW: In a one song form.
BM: Right.
TW: Your specific parallel to Another Side of . . is a reference to Bob Dylan’s fourth album.
BM: Correct. The one where he does unexpected topics.
TW: Yeah – I’ve heard it. Is it true that Bob Dylan once hugged you in a hotel hallway, told you that everybody admired what you were doing, and then walked-on down the hall?
BM: Yes. I used to wonder if he were mocking me, but I don’t think he was. I think he is a fan of strong melodies. And love songs.
TW: Like “Sandra.”
BM: Just like “Sandra.”
[][] ][][][][[][] ][][][][[][] ][][][][[][] ][][][][[][] ][][][][[][]
PROVISO: The above “interview” is fiction – written by Tom Wilmeth.
Best,
Tom Wilmeth
(262) 243-4218
thomas.wilmeth@cuw.edu
exciting new web site (of musty old reviews): web site: http://wilmethway.blogspot.com/
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