My friend BJ was working as a second engineer at a studio here in Nashville a few years back. They were recording a southern rock record for low rent version of Molly Hatchet and I had heard so many tales of their musical Redneckery I swung by the studio to see for myself.
BJ met me at the door with an impish smile and lead me to a vocal booth that smelled like cigarette butts and whiskey mixed together in someone’s armpit. The band had left for the day and he laughed pointing to a music stand. There were wrinkled lyric sheets penned by a semi-literate hand, a hip flask of Jack Daniels that was 1/3 full (I’m an optimist) and a small Tupperware filled with cigarette ashes. The container was sealed with clear boxing tape; an impractical choice for an ad hoc studio ashtray.
BJ picked up the little tub, laughed and tossed it to me saying, “This is the lead singer’s father!” It took me a second to digest what he meant. I looked at the dust in the container, back to my friend and then back to the Tupperware.
I was holding the cremated remains of this man’s dead father.
Apparently, the lead singer was a family man. When the time came for him to make a real record-album in Nashville, he cracked open the Maxwell House can which held the leftovers of his Dad, grabbed himself a scoop and toted it all the way to Nashville. His father had now been played as a shaker on just about every track on that record. Yes. A shaker. I swear.
You don’t see this particular breed of redneck very often. I grew up in Jacksonville, FL, the home of Lynyrd Skynyrd, .38 Special and Molly Hatchet. We bred them special down there. So, I know rednecks and these boys were pedigreed southern dirt-rockers. I hadn’t heard a note, but I knew anyone that used a deceased relative as a musical instrument pumped out musical brown liquor and lyrical pork rinds.
I have a soft spot for guys like this. Maybe it’s that I still take a morbid pride in the fact that my hometown’s chief export was southern rock, but there is something more, I think. Guys like that are authentic. They embrace who they are and for better or worse everything they do is an expression of that. Sure, they are capable of posturing, but there aren’t that many posers in that kind of music. Their extravagances are generally rooted in some truth about themselves.
Don’t believe me?
Then ask yourself, how many people you know that want to be perceived as a dead daddy shaking redneck? The answer is none. These people are a curiosity. Something you don’t set out to become. You have to be born into it. Like royalty or NASCAR. It is some inverted toothless Darwinism. BUT, if you combine that with musical talent you have a story worth telling. A character piece. Something worth listening to.
I’m not arguing that in order to be seen as authentic you need a homemade tattoo. And I’m also not saying that authenticity will make you a good musician/songwriter/artist. But I am saying that you can’t create truly great art without being authentic.
Don’t get me wrong…there is a place for Christina and Britney – but ultimately, we desire the kind of music that is a reflection of something real.
It’s easy to become a pure imitator of what we think is great and how we’d like to be perceived rather than who we really are. Most of us have spent too many hours thinking about how we wish people would think of us as artists (and people), rather than trusting who we really were. Artistic greatness occurs when you can keep the power of influence and imitation in its proper perspective.
The greats are “The Greats” because they succeeded despite the status quo, not because of it. What Willie, Cash, Waylon, Bono, Cobain, Vedder, Presley, Stills, Taylor and Garcia all had in common was they did what they did when nobody else was doing it. And the reason that nobody else was doing it was because these people’s music grew out of their unique experiences, limitations and talents. Tapping into that is the only way to really believe what you do as an artist…and I don’t care if you are a redneck or playing the hand bells at the First Baptist Tabernacle of Shekinah Glory, if you don’t believe it, nobody else will.
(this blog also appears on www.briteentertainment.com. Also, be sure to check out my music on www.briterevolution.com)
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Nerf Broadswords and Texas
About a mile or so from my house is a huge park where once a month a group of dweeby-twenty-somethings take a break from their jobs at The Comic Book Exchange to don medieval costumes and beat the shit out of each other with foam rubber weaponry. I’ve pulled into that parking lot on more than one occasion to watch as grown men and women in tights, tunics and chainmail attempt to cleave each other in twain with Nerf broadswords and claymores.
The eccentricity of this pastime is easy to see, but one thing that has always struck me about it is the price these people must have to pay in order to pursue Middle Earth reenactments as a hobby.
Forget the hours these men have spent convincing their mothers to sew royal crests onto their pajama tops. Forget the amount of time it takes to carve a realistic looking quarterstaff out of a push-broom handle. That’s nothing compared to the social repercussions of wearing a hooded cloak or joking with your best friends in Elvin while in public. You can bet your 20-sided dice that these were the kids that were stuffed in lockers and logged countless frequent flier miles on the wedgy nail.
And yet, they persevere. Month after month. Year after year. They light the fires of Gondor and gather at public parks around these United States to do battle. And, you know? You have to respect that.
It’s their gig. Understand it or not, somewhere along the way they made a choice. A choice between what might have been more socially expedient and what they really loved. Sure these guys might not have the normal trappings of the adult life (like a home address that is not the same as their parents), but they know their passion, have weighed the cost (one would hope) and live it out. And that’s cool.
Last week I was at South By Southwest (SXSW), Austin, Texas’ annual music festival. This is the biggest industry wide event in the world and every singer/songwriter, butt-rocker and industry type alive packed onto 6th street to sing their songs, swap business cards and be seen.
I’ve always disliked music festivals. They tended to be depressing reminders of just how hard the music business really is. The thousands of attendees were a physical representation of the odds against making it. They were a reminder that success was not a fore drawn conclusion, that pursuing your dreams of rock stardom didn’t make you special and that most people just don’t give a damn about your new record. Going to a music festival was like being on a high-wire and looking down.
But what always bothered me the most was the idea that these festivals were about discovering and breaking new acts. That you could be playing on some forgotten stage in a dark corner somewhere and Rick Ruben would pop out and hand you a million dollar record deal. That I quickly discovered was utter and complete nonsense.
SXSW is spring break for A&R guys, lawyers and music execs. It is an opportunity to flex expense accounts, see some buddies and cast the impression that you knew something about saving the music business from itself. I’ve been doing this for 13 years and I have never seen or even heard of a band that went to SXSW without some pre-existing mojo that came out with any real, new traction in their career. But last week in Austin I was giving a new perspective.
I was walking against the flow of people on 6th street at midnight and stopped dead in my tracks. I watched the throngs of white guys with dread locks, pink haired scrawnies in skinny jeans , heavy metal hair-farmers, and bed headed emo kids move past me. The scene reminded of the people dressed like pixies in the park back home.
Music was a hard life. It was a tough choice. It had consequences. People didn’t choose this path for the easy money. Most at SXSW didn’t have a huge record deal or a sugar daddy in the wings. They were songwriters and musicians that had jumped headlong into this career because they loved the music. The consequences were just the cost of doing business. SXSW, however, was one of the few opportunities these musicians had to come together with other people that shared a common experience.
It was a time to be with others that understood what driving across state to play for a disinterested crowd and a tip jar full of change felt like. It was a place to meet people that didn’t look at you like you had just peed on the carpet when you told them you slept in your car in between gigs. They new all about the emergency change bucket you’d cash in at Coinstar when the Ramen noodles were gone and money was tight. They knew about the hours of entering email addresses into a data base to keep fans current (the older ones remember sticking the stamps on the post cards). They knew about the shows where you played to a room packed to the walls and the ones where you just played to the walls. Most had or knew somebody that had sold a body fluid for extra money. They had weighed the cost and made their choices. SXSW was a place they didn’t have to apologize.
I don’t care what you do, everybody has their version of chainmail in the park. Yours might be cooler (God help you if it is not), but you still do it. It is easy (even when you are part of a specific culture) to snipe at people from the sidelines. Most people, however, don’t go into the music because it is a place they will find respect. They don’t do it because they make a ton of money. They don’t do it for the job security, 401k or great medical benefits. They do it because they love the music.
SXSW is a chance to remind ourselves that we aren’t crazy for picking this life…and if we are, at least we aren’t the only ones. It is a chance to rub shoulders with people that speak the same language. SXSW is our version of strapping on embroidered tights, raising a goblet of frothy ale and listening to the dulcet clash of steel blades engaged in the pitch of battle…at least until our mom’s come to pick us up.
(This blog also appears on www.briteentertainment.com. Be sure to check out Billy's new music on www.briterevolution.com)
The eccentricity of this pastime is easy to see, but one thing that has always struck me about it is the price these people must have to pay in order to pursue Middle Earth reenactments as a hobby.
Forget the hours these men have spent convincing their mothers to sew royal crests onto their pajama tops. Forget the amount of time it takes to carve a realistic looking quarterstaff out of a push-broom handle. That’s nothing compared to the social repercussions of wearing a hooded cloak or joking with your best friends in Elvin while in public. You can bet your 20-sided dice that these were the kids that were stuffed in lockers and logged countless frequent flier miles on the wedgy nail.
And yet, they persevere. Month after month. Year after year. They light the fires of Gondor and gather at public parks around these United States to do battle. And, you know? You have to respect that.
It’s their gig. Understand it or not, somewhere along the way they made a choice. A choice between what might have been more socially expedient and what they really loved. Sure these guys might not have the normal trappings of the adult life (like a home address that is not the same as their parents), but they know their passion, have weighed the cost (one would hope) and live it out. And that’s cool.
Last week I was at South By Southwest (SXSW), Austin, Texas’ annual music festival. This is the biggest industry wide event in the world and every singer/songwriter, butt-rocker and industry type alive packed onto 6th street to sing their songs, swap business cards and be seen.
I’ve always disliked music festivals. They tended to be depressing reminders of just how hard the music business really is. The thousands of attendees were a physical representation of the odds against making it. They were a reminder that success was not a fore drawn conclusion, that pursuing your dreams of rock stardom didn’t make you special and that most people just don’t give a damn about your new record. Going to a music festival was like being on a high-wire and looking down.
But what always bothered me the most was the idea that these festivals were about discovering and breaking new acts. That you could be playing on some forgotten stage in a dark corner somewhere and Rick Ruben would pop out and hand you a million dollar record deal. That I quickly discovered was utter and complete nonsense.
SXSW is spring break for A&R guys, lawyers and music execs. It is an opportunity to flex expense accounts, see some buddies and cast the impression that you knew something about saving the music business from itself. I’ve been doing this for 13 years and I have never seen or even heard of a band that went to SXSW without some pre-existing mojo that came out with any real, new traction in their career. But last week in Austin I was giving a new perspective.
I was walking against the flow of people on 6th street at midnight and stopped dead in my tracks. I watched the throngs of white guys with dread locks, pink haired scrawnies in skinny jeans , heavy metal hair-farmers, and bed headed emo kids move past me. The scene reminded of the people dressed like pixies in the park back home.
Music was a hard life. It was a tough choice. It had consequences. People didn’t choose this path for the easy money. Most at SXSW didn’t have a huge record deal or a sugar daddy in the wings. They were songwriters and musicians that had jumped headlong into this career because they loved the music. The consequences were just the cost of doing business. SXSW, however, was one of the few opportunities these musicians had to come together with other people that shared a common experience.
It was a time to be with others that understood what driving across state to play for a disinterested crowd and a tip jar full of change felt like. It was a place to meet people that didn’t look at you like you had just peed on the carpet when you told them you slept in your car in between gigs. They new all about the emergency change bucket you’d cash in at Coinstar when the Ramen noodles were gone and money was tight. They knew about the hours of entering email addresses into a data base to keep fans current (the older ones remember sticking the stamps on the post cards). They knew about the shows where you played to a room packed to the walls and the ones where you just played to the walls. Most had or knew somebody that had sold a body fluid for extra money. They had weighed the cost and made their choices. SXSW was a place they didn’t have to apologize.
I don’t care what you do, everybody has their version of chainmail in the park. Yours might be cooler (God help you if it is not), but you still do it. It is easy (even when you are part of a specific culture) to snipe at people from the sidelines. Most people, however, don’t go into the music because it is a place they will find respect. They don’t do it because they make a ton of money. They don’t do it for the job security, 401k or great medical benefits. They do it because they love the music.
SXSW is a chance to remind ourselves that we aren’t crazy for picking this life…and if we are, at least we aren’t the only ones. It is a chance to rub shoulders with people that speak the same language. SXSW is our version of strapping on embroidered tights, raising a goblet of frothy ale and listening to the dulcet clash of steel blades engaged in the pitch of battle…at least until our mom’s come to pick us up.
(This blog also appears on www.briteentertainment.com. Be sure to check out Billy's new music on www.briterevolution.com)
Autobiographies, John Cusack and Butt-less Chaps
One of my all-time-favorite movie scenes is from the John Cusack film, High Fidelity. Cusack plays Rob Gordon, a 30-something owner of a second-hand record store who is in the throws of a soul melting pre-midlife crisis. Rob has just been dumped by his latest long-time girlfriend and is sitting on the floor of his apartment self-medicating by rearranging his huge collection of vinyl records. One of his employees stops by and is speechless to discover that Rob is cataloging his records…autobiographically.
Rob:
“I can tell you how I got from Deep Purple to Howlin’ Wolf in just 25 moves…and if I want to find the song Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, I have to remember the ‘I bought it for someone in the fall of 1983’ pile, ‘but didn’t give it to them for personal reasons.’”
Dick:
“That sounds….”
Rob:
“Comforting.”
Dick:
“Yes.”
Cusack and I are about the same age and his films have always felt like a better-looking rendering of my own life. In his younger years, he had an empathic ability to articulate the dorky teen caste system that made or destroyed everyone’s high school experience and sense of self for the next 20+ years. He was/is the poet laureate of the Members Only age bracket. There was, however, something about this scene in particular that has stuck with me over the years.
Ours was the last “album” generation. Not that people don’t buy albums anymore, but that was our only option (I did have a few 45s that I could put on my turn table using that plastic donut, but those didn’t really count). We occupied the unique wrinkle in time in which people purchased vinyl, dabbled in 8 tracks, rocked the cassette and saw the introduction of the indestructible compact disc. There were no web sites, TRL, Pandora, Limewire and the closest thing to iTunes was a jukebox.
Albums were it.
Every time I got a new record it felt significant. I’d ceremoniously lie on the floor to remove the wrapper, drop the needle and lose myself in analog crackle. You see, albums weren’t just the delivery system for new music, they were 10 to 12 song vinyl rabbit holes you could run into and lose yourself in every twist of album art, turn of lyric sheets and free-fall of guitar solos.
Records were a big deal. They were events. Every time a great one landed it left an indelible divot on your developmental time line. It marked the spot. It was a sonic and emotional reference point for all that was going on in your life at that time. And that’s why Rob Gordon could tell you the 25 moves that took him to get from Deep Purple to Howlin’ Wolf.
I totally get Rob Gordon. I get the who, what and where of a music catalog. I get the autobiographical record collection.
My fist concert was Van Halen. They were on tour to promote their record Diver Down. I was so excited that I got to go to a real life rock and roll show, I actually studied for the concert. I spent hours in my bedroom with their albums consuming Eddie Van Halen’s guitar licks, imitating Diamond Dave’s high pitched wail and memorizing lyrics.
The night of the show David Lee Roth took the stage wearing nothing but a pair of buttless-leather-chaps with a horsetail hanging over the crack of his bare ass. He was slurring drunk and climbed on top of a massive stack of speakers while thousands of outstretched Bic lighters lit the ceiling of the Jacksonville Memorial Coliseum.
It was 1982, I was 13 years old and now every time I hear Where Have All The Good Times Gone or Pretty Woman, a small trap door opens in the recesses of my brain and the smell of sweaty bodies, hair spray and adolescents wafts out. I can tell you who I was with that night, what I was wearing and the name of the girl I was dating. Van Halen’s albums are forever a porthole back to that exact moment in my life.
The same thing happens when I listen to records by Crosby, Still and Nash (and sometimes Y), James Taylor, Jane’s Addiction, Psychedelic Furs, Emmy Lou Harris, U2, Adam and the Ants, The Grateful Dead, Tom Petty, The Cure, The Fix, John Cougar, Zeppelin, The Police, R.E.M…get the point?
I realize that writing this I risk sounding like one of those old dudes with a clip on ponytail that can’t move beyond the fact that Van Halen didn’t break up when David Lee Roth left the band (Ok, I still have an issue with that one). But this isn’t a rant about the golden days, it’s about the place music and the larger event of music occupies in our lives.
It would be silly to say that the album doesn’t exist any more. It does. I and just about everyone I know has put out a few over the last several years. But I would say that it is getting harder and harder to feel consumed by the “Event” of music. Music has become super-saturated and its personalities smeared too thin across pop culture. They are still making pop-icons, but it’s harder for something to make a hard landing, leave that mark and become a totem for a generation. Great music and great musical events don’t happen because of the status quo, they happen despite it.
And that’s why I believe Brite Revolution is so important.
Brite realizes that the need for the event hasn’t changed, but the way people interact with music and musicians has. The desire to engage deeply in the culture of music is alive and well, but it is harder and harder to find a puddle deep enough to wade in.
We need a real musical event. The kind that connects the artists with the fans and with other artists. The kind that frees musicians to create. The kind that pushes musicians to make new music and fans to anticipate its release on a regular basis. The kind that give’s the next wave of Rob Gordon’s a chance.
Brite Revolution is a place where artists are free to make the kind of music they want without going into debt. It gives them a place to circle the wagons with other like-minded musicians to create a musical event like no other. It is a place where musicians invite fans into their stories and allow them to see music being created from the front row. And allows them to give back in the process.
Everyone wants to experience the event of music. And while nothing will ever replace butt-less chaps, I think we have come up with the next best thing.
(This blog also appears on www.briteentertainment.com. Be sure to check out Billy's new music on www.briterevolution.com)
Rob:
“I can tell you how I got from Deep Purple to Howlin’ Wolf in just 25 moves…and if I want to find the song Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, I have to remember the ‘I bought it for someone in the fall of 1983’ pile, ‘but didn’t give it to them for personal reasons.’”
Dick:
“That sounds….”
Rob:
“Comforting.”
Dick:
“Yes.”
Cusack and I are about the same age and his films have always felt like a better-looking rendering of my own life. In his younger years, he had an empathic ability to articulate the dorky teen caste system that made or destroyed everyone’s high school experience and sense of self for the next 20+ years. He was/is the poet laureate of the Members Only age bracket. There was, however, something about this scene in particular that has stuck with me over the years.
Ours was the last “album” generation. Not that people don’t buy albums anymore, but that was our only option (I did have a few 45s that I could put on my turn table using that plastic donut, but those didn’t really count). We occupied the unique wrinkle in time in which people purchased vinyl, dabbled in 8 tracks, rocked the cassette and saw the introduction of the indestructible compact disc. There were no web sites, TRL, Pandora, Limewire and the closest thing to iTunes was a jukebox.
Albums were it.
Every time I got a new record it felt significant. I’d ceremoniously lie on the floor to remove the wrapper, drop the needle and lose myself in analog crackle. You see, albums weren’t just the delivery system for new music, they were 10 to 12 song vinyl rabbit holes you could run into and lose yourself in every twist of album art, turn of lyric sheets and free-fall of guitar solos.
Records were a big deal. They were events. Every time a great one landed it left an indelible divot on your developmental time line. It marked the spot. It was a sonic and emotional reference point for all that was going on in your life at that time. And that’s why Rob Gordon could tell you the 25 moves that took him to get from Deep Purple to Howlin’ Wolf.
I totally get Rob Gordon. I get the who, what and where of a music catalog. I get the autobiographical record collection.
My fist concert was Van Halen. They were on tour to promote their record Diver Down. I was so excited that I got to go to a real life rock and roll show, I actually studied for the concert. I spent hours in my bedroom with their albums consuming Eddie Van Halen’s guitar licks, imitating Diamond Dave’s high pitched wail and memorizing lyrics.
The night of the show David Lee Roth took the stage wearing nothing but a pair of buttless-leather-chaps with a horsetail hanging over the crack of his bare ass. He was slurring drunk and climbed on top of a massive stack of speakers while thousands of outstretched Bic lighters lit the ceiling of the Jacksonville Memorial Coliseum.
It was 1982, I was 13 years old and now every time I hear Where Have All The Good Times Gone or Pretty Woman, a small trap door opens in the recesses of my brain and the smell of sweaty bodies, hair spray and adolescents wafts out. I can tell you who I was with that night, what I was wearing and the name of the girl I was dating. Van Halen’s albums are forever a porthole back to that exact moment in my life.
The same thing happens when I listen to records by Crosby, Still and Nash (and sometimes Y), James Taylor, Jane’s Addiction, Psychedelic Furs, Emmy Lou Harris, U2, Adam and the Ants, The Grateful Dead, Tom Petty, The Cure, The Fix, John Cougar, Zeppelin, The Police, R.E.M…get the point?
I realize that writing this I risk sounding like one of those old dudes with a clip on ponytail that can’t move beyond the fact that Van Halen didn’t break up when David Lee Roth left the band (Ok, I still have an issue with that one). But this isn’t a rant about the golden days, it’s about the place music and the larger event of music occupies in our lives.
It would be silly to say that the album doesn’t exist any more. It does. I and just about everyone I know has put out a few over the last several years. But I would say that it is getting harder and harder to feel consumed by the “Event” of music. Music has become super-saturated and its personalities smeared too thin across pop culture. They are still making pop-icons, but it’s harder for something to make a hard landing, leave that mark and become a totem for a generation. Great music and great musical events don’t happen because of the status quo, they happen despite it.
And that’s why I believe Brite Revolution is so important.
Brite realizes that the need for the event hasn’t changed, but the way people interact with music and musicians has. The desire to engage deeply in the culture of music is alive and well, but it is harder and harder to find a puddle deep enough to wade in.
We need a real musical event. The kind that connects the artists with the fans and with other artists. The kind that frees musicians to create. The kind that pushes musicians to make new music and fans to anticipate its release on a regular basis. The kind that give’s the next wave of Rob Gordon’s a chance.
Brite Revolution is a place where artists are free to make the kind of music they want without going into debt. It gives them a place to circle the wagons with other like-minded musicians to create a musical event like no other. It is a place where musicians invite fans into their stories and allow them to see music being created from the front row. And allows them to give back in the process.
Everyone wants to experience the event of music. And while nothing will ever replace butt-less chaps, I think we have come up with the next best thing.
(This blog also appears on www.briteentertainment.com. Be sure to check out Billy's new music on www.briterevolution.com)
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