Various Artists: The Beginning of the End – The Existential Psychodrama in Country Music (1956-72)
There is no period in country music that resonates today as much as it did in 1956-1972. But you’d have to dig beyond just the hits - into the b-sides and deep album cuts to get to the real meat. These were the “glory days” of day-to-day living in the United States. There were great advances toward a legitimate middle class, with movement toward racial equality, unionism, and anti-war sentiment. But in reality, the ruling class never really took their boots off the necks off the working class. The "war on poverty" would be the least successful of the progressive movement.
The myth went that even the unskilled and uneducated had access to great paying union jobs, a stable family environment, an education, and the latest greatest Chevy V-8 in the driveway. There was rock ‘n’ roll on the radio. Happy days were here again. Peace & love would triumph over war, hot and cold. But despite the historical summary, this never applied to the poor. And the ruling class has been working ever since to roll back the clock - to the 19th Century.
On Record Day this year, the folks at The Omni Recording Corporation (Iron Mountain Analogue Research Facility) released a 16-track version of this title on vinyl. That it would be an Australian outfit to release such a collection should surprise no one. While major American entertainment companies focus on perpetuating the myth (i.e. Garth Brooks TV concert specials), it often seems that for a deeper understanding of classic American music, one must often look overseas. Tracking down master tapes of such recordings, years of research, and a 21st Century re-mastering comes from a labor of love, not a love of money.
With only 500 copies of the vinyl pressed, there was a need to hear more – thus a much welcome expanded version (30 tracks) on CD. The extra 14 tracks add to, not detract from, the original concept.
So how were the working (lower) class faring in those years? Well, it seems they weren’t faring too well, subjected to the same worldly fears, financial woes, and personal angst that we experience today. The song from which this album takes its name, Jimmy Griggs’ “The Beginning of the End,” captures that in it’s opening line. “People say they believe in love/ But the hate goes on.” And what rings more true today than David Price’s “National Everybody Hate Me Week,” especially in the battle grounds of social media? Mell Tillis’ “Survival of the Fittest?” It’s an early exploration into environmental concerns. And a questioning of faith.
Opening and closing with two different versions of “Searching” The Beginning of the End shows exactly how much thought went into this project. As long as we search (and act) victory for the ruling class is not a guarantee.
Rating: A (best compilation of 2018)
Frank Turner: Be More Kind
Just as I was about to give up on Frank Turner, he’s emerged from his rabbit hole with an album jam packed with sharp political criticism – absent from more recent releases. Not that Turner has become a revolutionary British street fighting man or anything like one. But there is something alluring about the simplicity of “Be More Kind,” especially when mixed among songs like the biting “Make America Great Again.” Or the historical significance of “1933” where he sings “Be suspicious of simple answers.” It seems a lot of songwriters channeled aspects of The Kinks’ Preservation this year. 2018 was, indeed, a scary year on the planet. “Be More Kind” is the simple answer, but as Turner establishes throughout this album, it’s only part of the mix. Comeback album of the year.
Rating: A-
TumbleTown: Never Too Late
This prog-opera might have you running to your record collection for the safety of Evita, Jesus Christ Superstar, or any other schlock ‘70s musical of your choosing. Occasionally there is some Brian May influenced guitar. But weighted with this much pomposity, the overall results have the unwanted effect of high anxiety. Lyrically, TumbleTown struggle with the same second language problems as their Dutch compatriots, Golden Earring. But where “Vanilla Queen” rocked mightily, Never Too Late just slogs along.
Rating: D
Reef: Revelation
In the mid-90s Reef landed high in the UK charts with “Place Your Hands,” a rhythmically fresh feel-good tune that challenged the then waning sound of Grunge. MTV picked up the video in the States – a promising start for a career that went nowhere. Two more albums followed with little success. Now, after eighteen years of silence, Reef return with an album that starts off with a track that will leave listeners thunderstruck. With gravel-voiced Gary Stringer doing his best Bon Scott imitation, the band plows through the title track like a rock ‘n’ roll bulldozer, hell-bent on destroying any illusions that this is going to be a return to form. Unfortunately, they spend the rest of the album trying to convince the audience that they were only kidding. Reef are not the next AC/DC. They are not even the next Rose Tattoo or Rhino Bucket. What follows is a meandering of styles that roughly mirror their past – some catchy tunes with evangelical overtones. But there are far more duds than you would expect from a band that had almost two decades to think about it. With a quarter of the tunes being covers, things reach a low point with ”Darlin’ Be Home Soon,” patterned after the Joe Cocker version, but with none of Cocker’s finesse.
Rating: C (a full notch up from what it deserves, but that title track is a doozy)
JCM (Jon Hiseman, Clem Clempson, & Mark Clarke): Heroes
Reuniting 3 alumni of British hard rock/progressive band, Colosseum, JCM stick to what they know best, but in a power trio format. The members have ventured far and wide since those days. Clem Clemson is most recognized in the States as a member of the ultra heavy Humble Pie from the Smokin’ period onward. Before bassist Mark Clarke formed a second edition of Colosseum with Jon Hiseman, he did stints with Tempest (a jazz rock outfit that also included Hiseman), Mountain, and Rainbow. He received his highest degree of radio exposure as a member of Billy Squire’s band in their glory years. Drummer Hiseman continues to be best known for his work in Colosseum and the United Jazz & Rock Ensemble. Although the latter band received significant exposure (14 album releases) in Europe, that never translated to much of an American audience.
JCM continues to create the kind of music their core audience expects- a hard mix of rock, jazz, and blues. Clarke handles the vocals more than adequately, often influenced by the blues renderings of Jack Bruce (Cream’s strongest vocalist). JCM is a collective of musician’s musicians, and Heroes does nothing to change that perception. For American listeners, the closest comparable is West, Bruce & Laing with jazz overtones. It’s great music derivative of the early ‘70s, but it might leave modern audiences wondering “where’s the funk?”
(Rating: B)
Bruce Springsteen: Springsteen On Broadway soundtrack
A soundtrack sorely in need of the visuals. Although the Netflix movie (I’ve finally seen it) was worthy of all the accolades, as a 2 1/2 hour soundtrack album, this simply doesn’t work. Folks do not listen to music the way they watch film and I’m no exception. Once you’ve heard (and seen) the stories, you’ll find yourself programming past the extended storytelling the next time around. And like with any exceptional movie, you’ll dial it up on Netflix a number of times when you’re ready to plant your ass in a seat for another look. A single disc version, please.
(Rating: C+)
Daddy: Let’s Do This
The latest offering from the rocking side of Nashville, Let's Do This doesn’t so much tone down the social narrative as it does move it between the lines. The ongoing side project of Will Kimbrough and Tommy Womack, Daddy rocks more on this outing – closer to Rolling Stones guitar interplay than the more roots renderings of Muddy Waters and Chuck Berry (a Daddy staple) – Kimbrough reestablishes throughout why he is one of the most sought after session musicians in Nashville. Womack reestablishes why he one of the regions finest songwriters. And fans finally get a finished version of “When Disney Takes Jerusalem,” a song that has been occupying space as a demo on Womack’s website for a couple of decades. Womack, who received his second diagnosis of cancer in as many years, seems anxious to finish of some lingering projects. This is a fantastic one, with hopes for many more.
Rating: A-
DeWolff: Thrust
This Dutch retro metal (‘80s edition) has received numerous accolades around the blogosphere. It just goes to show that living in the past is nowhere to live - especially if it's a flawed version of the past. At best (“Tombstone Child”) this is entertaining. But mostly a higher rating is just wishful thinking. Judas Priest got it right the first time around. This doesn’t.
Rating: D
Walter Wolfman Washington: My Future Is My Past
Washington carves his way through this collection of New Orleans soul like a spoon through hot butter. There is a kinship between My Future Is My Past and late-‘60s Isaac Hayes (Hot Buttered Soul) that frequents this record. Maybe the finest blend of deep southern soul and blues to emerge this year, My Future Is My Past, doesn’t exactly dwell on the past – rather it builds on it. The duet with Irma Thomas, “Even Now,” is pure salivation.
Rating: A
Kieran Kane & Rayna Gellert: The Ledges
A more front porch-sounding record than anything by Gillian Welch if you can imagine that. That’s a plus for fans of Welch who enjoy her vocal duets with David Rawlings in concert. This is truly a duet album. - no more so than on “I Wanna See Something New.” Take advantage.
Rating: A-
Pseudo Mind Hive: From Elsewhere
If your passion is for guitar/organ driven hard rock circa early-70s, this may be for you. A retro outfit from Melbourne, Australia PMH capture that sound with a fair degree of success. But lacking the extraordinary skills of Deep Purple or the drama of Uriah Heep’s Demons & Wizards album, they ultimately fall short. Still, if you’ve grown tired of the familiarity of “Highway Star” and “Easy Livin’” this may provide some welcome relief. But only for about 40 minutes and then you’ll be missin’ those old faves. Rating: C
Holly Golightly: Do The Get Along
After a three-year hiatus, Holly Golightly returns with a full band, a batch of new originals and 3 well-chosen cover tunes. British by birth, Golightly (actual name), is best known for lo-fi recordings with an Americana flair. While Do The Get Along receives a more produced approach than much of her previous work, it never strays far from the main dialogue. It’s the R&B tunes that produce the most pleasurable moments. “Do The Get Along” and “I’m Your Loss” take listener to the smokiest of night clubs. Ruth Brown’s "I Don’t Know" keeps you there. Rating: B+
Dave Davies: Decade
A collection of Davies’ unreleased tracks from the ‘70s, Decade is a welcome addition for any Kinks aficionado. The strength of the song writing should come as no surprise to anyone familiar with The Kinks catalog. With brother Ray doing the lion’s share of the writing for the band, Dave Davies contributed such tunes as “Death of a Clown,” “Strangers,” and “Living On A Thin Line” – among The Kinks’ best tunes. That level of songwriting, for the most part, did not transfer to Dave’s solo albums, a mishmash of hit and miss. The big surprise here is that there is no such inconsistency. The even bigger surprise is that, despite the albums rather long recording span, it sounds like – not a collection of Kinks’ rejected songs – but, rather (Faces fans take note) a long lost Ronnie Lane album. Rating: A-
Tony Joe White: Bad Mouthin’
The old swamper travels upriver to hill country on this, the final studio album before his passing. It’s a humdinger and not quite what you might expect from someone with as long and illustrious of a career. Still treading new waters. Rating: A-
Uncle Acid & The Deadbeats: Wasteland
A doom & gloom concept piece from the land of Brexit, Wasteland plays on the retro sound of Black Sabbath, but with a soundscape so compressed that it doesn’t sound any better on a full blown rack system than it does on a smart phone. A sonic disaster that is impossible to translate. Head back to 2011 for the band’s breakthrough album, Blood Lust instead. Or forget about them altogether unless, of course, you’re a guitar obsessive. Rating: D
Brandi Carlile: By The Way, I Forgive You
The absolute best album from the first half of 2018, enough words have been written about this album already. But if it somehow slipped by your ears, you need to check backwards. Your welcome.
Grade: A
Kevin Gordon: Tilt & Shine
The best known unknown to occupy a spot in the wide-ranging Americana genre, it simply befuddles me that Gordon didn’t move into widespread fame after his stunning 2012 album, Gloryland. Songwriting and storytelling are his forte, and there is nothing here that will disappoint. Nashville is his base but you’d have to move further south for his oeuvre. Southern Gothic is his domain. Think of a more progressive Harper Lee set to music.
Grade: A-
[There has always been something about the Blanchard murder case in Springfield, MO that haunted me. The pictures of Gypsy Blanchard, as did the name, seemed way too familiar. My fractured memory finally connected the dots this morning. I wrote this piece back in 2006 for the Holler If You Hear Me blog - long before Gypsy Rose Blanchard and her boyfriend, Nicholas Godejohn, conspired successfully to kill Gypsy's mother. Do I feel "punked?" Quite the contrary. Maybe by Dee Dee Blanchard, but certainly not by Gypsy Rose. It'll be one of the better accomplishments I'll take to my grave - helping bring a moment of joy to a little girl who has moved from one jail to another.]
Gate 9
(by Bill Glahn)
I needed a little extra cash so I signed on with the Ozarks Empire Fair as a ticket taker for the 10-day duration from July 28 to August 6. The car payment was overdue. So were the phone and Internet service payments. The $5.35/hr pay sucked, but there was an opportunity to put in a lot of hours in a short period of time. On my first day at work. they took one look at me and reassigned me to Gate 9. They explained that it was a parking lot job, but that they would still pay me the $5.35 rate instead of a drop to $5.15. Thanks.
Instead of handing me a little red flag to wave cars into open spaces, they handed me a walkie-talkie programmed to Channel 3. Channel 3 is the security channel. “Don’t let any traffic proceed down Smith Street past the Gate 9 entry,” I was told. Gate 9 is the entry to the west parking lot, by far the biggest at the fair. Smith Street is designated one-way during the fair. At Gate 9 a wooden barricade blocked the northernmost lane of Smith. An orange barrel, the other. I was to move the orange barrel only for fair operational people, emergency vehicles, and the crew and performers for the grandstand shows. In short, I was the last line of defense against traffic that wanted to continue down Smith to Grant Ave, a main artery. Or the fans who wanted to get to the backstage area at Gate 10, just 100 yards down the road. Or the farmers who wanted to take a short cut to Gate 7, which lay beyond Gate 10 close to Grant. All these people I had to direct through the west parking lot and instruct them that they would have to head south through the parking lot, exit, and then make 2 or 3 left hand turns to get to the place they wanted to go. That place was clearly visible a couple of football fields downhill on Smith from Gate 9. Not many wanted to hear that, from Gate 9 onward, Smith was closed to traffic by order of the Springfield City Council.
Gate 9 has history. “Last year, the Gate 9 attendant walked off the job on his first day,” Ellen, one of the supervisors in security told me. “He said he wasn’t getting paid enough to take so much abuse. I had to finish his shift and find somebody else.” Of course, she told me this four or five days into my employment, and by that time I already knew as much. On day two this year, a taxi zoomed through the barricade during the morning shift and sent the orange barrel airborne, hitting the golf cart of one of the supes riding to the gate to explain why he couldn’t go through. The morning shift attendant had little desire to stay after the incident.
My shift started at 3 p.m. each day and ran through 11 p.m. During one of the year’s worst heat waves, Gate 9 offered no shelter from the elements. By the time I reported to work each day, the asphalt was melting. A pair on sandals ruined by day 2; a pair of sneakers by day 4. And the tempers of the people in the cars were already frazzled by the time they got to Gate 9. I couldn’t blame them. I couldn’t let them through either. I needed the paycheck. So, no matter how much abuse was hurled my way, I remained polite.
“No, ma’am, I can’t move the barrel for you. You have to exit through the parking lot and take Norton to Grant.”
“No sir, there are no exceptions.”
“Yes sir, I realize your hogs are just down the road inside Gate 7. City Council has designated this stretch of road for emergency and operational use only.”
Sometimes, expletives were hurled at me in response. Tires screeched as frustrated drivers stomped on the gas as they entered the parking lot. A couple of farmers threatened to kick my ass if I didn’t move the barricade.
“No, sir. I can’t do that. I need this job.” Neither followed up. Sometimes there is an advantage to being physically intimidating. Even when you don’t mean to be.
I lost my composure only once.
It was on Sunday July 30, day three on the job. At about 6 p.m., a new Cadillac DTS pulled up to the barrier. I approached the driver’s side window.
A cool blast of AC hit me as the driver rolled down his window. He seemed to be in his late 60s or early 70s. A woman of similar age sat in the passenger seat. Both wore scowls that seemed permanently fixed. They were obviously well-off, dressed in conservative finery. Neither seemed as though they had allowed themselves the discomfort of exiting their air-conditioned domain for any time longer than it took them to go from their house to their car.
“I don’t want to go to the fair. Move the barricade,” the man barked at me in a manner that indicated he was used to getting his way.
“I’m sorry, sir. Smith Street is closed to all traffic from this point onward. You’ll have to proceed through the parking lot to Norton and exit there.”
“I am going down to Grant. Move the barrel.”
“I can’t do that, sir. Please proceed through the parking lot.”
The guy looked at my name badge and took note. “I know many important people in this city. I can have your job. This isn’t a request. I said move the barrel.”
I gave him the city ordinance spiel. He reiterated what an important a member of the business community he was. I would “have to make an exception."
By now I was ticked off. “Well, sir, if any of your important buddies are on city council, take it up with them. But if you want that barrel moved, you’ll have to get out and move it yourself. And there will be another barricade further down the road. You’ll have to get out of your air conditioning and move that one too. Do you think you can handle it?”
“Look. If you don’t move the barrel, I will sit here until traffic backs up to the zoo.”
The zoo is about a mile back on Smith; by the early evening rush, traffic was probably backed up to the zoo anyway. So I called his bluff with one of my own. “Then I guess we’ll just have to get a tow truck.” I pressed the button on the walkie-talkie. “Gate 9 to security. We have a car that won’t move and it’s blocking traffic.”
As the guy turned his wheels to pull into the parking lot, his wife leaned over and said, “This makes you not even want to go to the fair.”
“Ma’am – the first thing your husband told me was that you didn’t want to go to the fair. No loss there.”
I returned to being Mr. Polite. But no matter how many cars offered up some bottled water or Pepsis to this beleaguered “ticket taker” (and there were several), there weren’t enough random acts of kindness to make me like this job any better.
Then came Tuesday night.
Miranda Lambert was the headliner. Although I’m unfamiliar with her music, she did a fine version of The Band’s “The Shape I’m In” during her sound check. Come downtown / Have to rumble in the alley. I laughed to myself. Out of nine lives, I spent seven / Now, how in the world do you get to Heaven / Oh, you don’t know the shape I’m in. It was perfect dark comedy – this heat was about to burn number eight right out of me.
I had been instructed to let the wife of one of the fair board members through Gate 9 to meet Lambert and view the show from backstage. Rank has its privileges.
She proceeded through to Gate 10 at around 7:30. The show started at 8 p.m.
About 8:10 a ragged-looking car approached the gate. An old Dodge (I think) from the mid-80s. One of the cheap models. Definitely on its last legs. Definitely the car of a person who is struggling. I motioned the car into the parking lot but it stopped. I approached the driver’s window. It was a lady, slightly overweight, not well-dressed.
“I’m late. I got lost. I need to get to Gate 10. They’re waiting for us there.”
“Who is ‘us’?”
“The name on the guest list is Gypsy Rose [I don’t remember the last name]. This is Gypsy Rose and she’s a big fan of Miranda Lambert’s. We’re backstage guests, and Gypsy Rose is supposed to meet her tonight.”
I glanced over at the passenger seat. Gypsy Rose might have been 10 or 11 but her frail body was more that of a 6-year-old. She was dressed in a new t-shirt and new baseball hat, probably the best “duds” her mom could afford. There was no hair protruding out of the cap. She had what looked like a surgical wrap around her neck. She didn’t say anything. She just looked at me with wide hopeful eyes.
I got on the walkie-talkie. “I have Gypsy Rose at Gate 9. She doesn’t have a Gate 10 pass, but she was told to go to Gate 10 for entry.”
The response was what I expected. “Gate 10 is shut down. We’ll check to see if she’s on the guest list and then she’ll have to go to Gate 5A.”
Then word came back that she wasn’t on the Gate 5A list.
I wasn’t going to dash this girl’s dreams. “Bill, can you come down to Gate 9?”
Bill Cantrell was my direct supervisor and I had grown to know him as a genuinely nice guy who had enough years (16) with the Fair to get things done. I told Gypsy Rose and her mom not to worry. Her mom kept apologizing for being late. Gypsy Rose never said anything, and I realized that she couldn’t vocalize. But, damn, she could communicate. And what she kept saying with her eyes was that this was the biggest thing in her life. She was excited and kept bouncing up and down in her seat with anticipation. She wasn’t discouraged. She gave no indication that she had anything but the highest appreciation for life.
I explained the situation to Cantrell. He broke through the red tape – got hold of one of the stage crew and found out that Gypsy Rose was indeed expected and that everyone was worried when she didn’t arrive. While Bill arranged for a customer services vehicle to transport Gypsy Rose and her wheelchair to Gate 10, I chatted her up with questions that didn’t require more than a shaking of her head. Her body language spoke so much more.
“Have you ever seen Miranda Lambert before?” (No)
“Do you like her CD?” (Big shake yes)
“Are you excited?” (Her whole body started bouncing up and down and her hands clapped together as she put special emphasis on her yes nod.)
The customer services guy lifted her onto the cart and as she sped toward Gate 10, I yelled “Have fun!” The smile she flashed back to me was only surpassed by the one she had on her face the next day when she and her mom stopped by to show me pictures. It was a smile that will be embedded in my brain forever.
The rest of the week was a breeze.
Mr. & Mrs. Cadillac DTS are probably still miserable people. But that’s their problem. I’m feeling just fine.
Willard Grant Conspiracy: Untethered (2018)
(review by Bill Glahn)
Most often lumped in as “Americana,” by streaming services and music publications, a lot of Willard Grant Conspiracy’s music echoes from more distant shores. While some “twang” may creep in on occasion, like a refugee from Dave Alvin’s Eleven Eleven album, it’s more helpful to think “Waterlow” from Ian Hunter’s Strings Attached album, the choral arrangements during the last minute of Fairport Convention’s “Meet On The Ledge,” or even the mood of Nick Cave’s The Good Son.
The other problem with defining WGC as Americana, is that Robert Fisher’s themes predate America by a good long stretch. They’re as old as the world. And The Willard Grant Conspiracy often embellish his songs more as a chamber orchestra – one that plays in the court of common folks rather than kings. And how do you pigeon-hole an album like In The Fishtank, a collaboration with Dutch Electronica outfit, Telefunk – with it’s world music drum loops?
Fisher, the vocalist and primary songwriter for WGC describes the band’s sound in more abstract terms: “…if you draw a picture, you draw a geography, you draw a good fictional place in time for something to exist in, it immediately draws a picture in the listener’s head, so when the audience is hearing the song, they’re drawing pictures upstairs. Same with film.”
Cinematic - if it isn’t a music genre, it should be.
The first time I heard a Willard Grant Conspiracy tune was on a sampler CD that came with the British publication, Uncut. The track was “Soft Hand” from their album, Regard The End. Widely regarded as the band’s best song, “Soft Hand” contained the undeniably captivating refrain “there I made you smile, there I made you smile, there I made you smile, made you smile again.” Whether your mind draws a picture on the giving or receiving part of that refrain, the result is the same. It’s a revealing part of Regard The End – an album that is comprised of dark landscapes such as “The Suffering Song,” a tune that channels the most bleak of Leonard Cohen tunes. In Fisher’s mind, however, it’s the simplest of life’s pleasures that win the day. “There I made you smile.” Perfect. I wouldn’t know until years later, while watching a Farrelly Brothers DVD (Stuck On You) that “Soft Hand” had been used in the film.
Willard Grant Conspiracy flew so far under the radar in the United States that keeping up with their releases (and backtracking) has proven difficult. Some are only available as imports and a large number are out of print, even in this era of downloads. On a German TV interview, Fisher said, “I think in the U.S. the kind of music that we do is marginalized by the major labels and because media is not as accessible as it is here (Germany) for an independent label.”
Robert Fisher didn’t fit any major label’s image as a viable “pop star.’ A man of tremendous girth, he would perform at concerts, not prancing around the stage, but confined to a chair. With a band that couldn’t be easily boxed into a single genre, mass popularity wasn’t an option. Neither was abandoning his musical vision. “If I wasn’t here doing it today [in Europe], I’d be sitting in some roadhouse in the [California] desert doing it.” Like many artists that work on the fringe, Fisher supplemented his income with a day job – one that had flexible hours (real estate agent) until health issues intervened. All the while, writing new material.
The lone constant in WGC being Robert Fisher, it seemed that 2013’s Ghost Republic would be the band’s swan-song. Fisher had moved to Brodie, a former mining town in the California desert to write the album before passing away in February 2017.
So… along comes the news of a Willard Grant Conspiracy posthumous album, Untethered. Anything but a pillaging of the vaults, Untethered has been lovingly assembled by Fisher’s long-time collaborator, multi-instrumentalist David Michael Curry from the last recordings Fisher made. It’s a tough listen - sometimes harsh, sometimes beautiful, sometimes challenging.
Untethered opens with “Hideous Beast,” an unexpected curveball. Coming in under 2 minutes, it has more kinship to Ginsberg’s “Howl” than anything in the previous WGC canon. Fisher dispatches the rage he accumulated during a lifetime of hardships. It’s both frightening and necessary to understand the music that follows.
Fisher often wrote about pain and death. “Do No Harm” is one of the albums most beautiful songs and a coda of sorts to “Soft Hand.” More of a final prayer than a command, Fisher parts this world with the simplest of all requests: “Take my orders from the stone… do no harm when I sleep.”
The remainder of Untethered is a mix of instrumentals and reminisces. Addressing the paradoxical nature of humanity, he sings “I want to feed you to monsters/ your goodness will save you” ("Love You Apart"). The final vocal track, “Untethered,” is the only song written between Fisher’s diagnosis and death (a span of only a couple of months). On it, Fisher sings “Dreamed last night I was blown apart and busted/ sidestepped my way into the path of a hurricane/ for the first time in my life I felt untethered.” And then there’s “Trail’s End,” an instrumental that rolls along like the sound of the closing credits of a particularly fine movie. It may be the most cinematic Willard Grant Conspiracy album of them all. (Rating: beyond the ether.)
The Pink Fairies originally rose out of the ashes of The Deviants, who in 1970 fired Mick Farren and hooked up with Pretty Things drummer/vocalist, Twink (S.F. Sorrow era). Farren and various Deviants members had played on Twink’s first solo album during his final days as a member of The Pretty Things. The band would gain a reputation for anarchy, free gigs, agitprop, and drugs, as well as chaotic concerts and a chaotic line-up of band members through the years [often contributing and pinching members to/from Hawkwind, Motorhead, Farren (again)], etc. For a more complete documentation of that, pick up a copy of Keep It Together! Cosmic Boogie With The Deviants & The Pink Fairies by Rich Deakin (forward by Mick Farren).
The Pink Fairies recording career had apparently come to a close by 1973 (save a 1976 single on Stiff Records), but resurfaced with Kill ‘Em and Eat ‘Em (1987) with Larry Wallace (Motorhead) at the helm. There were reunion gigs with various line-ups, but new studio releases wouldn’t come until the late ‘90s with a pair of albums that were basically Twink and Paul Rudolph and some hired hands (Pleasure Island, No Picture) and released on Twink Records.
2016 yielded Naked Radio, a Pink Fairies’ album in name only. Featuring none of the principle members or creative force (Twink, Rudolph, Wallis), fans used such terms as “sham,” “dodgy,” and “farce” to describe the less-than-stellar result.
2018 yields a new Pink Fairies studio album and another new line-up. This time Paul Rudolph is back at the helm of a three piece – the rhythm section made up of ex-Hawkwind bassist (1984-1996) Alan Davey and original Motorhead drummer (although for a very brief time) Lucas Fox. The results this time are worthy of the Pink Fairies moniker, in style, if not in membership.
Resident Reptiles starts off with the one-two punch of the title track followed by “Old Enough To Know Better.” Rudolph may not be a great vocalist, but that has never been a strong part of The Pink Fairies. Rhythmically, much of Resident Reptiles resembles Lemmy-era Hawkwind – all the thunder intact. That adds an element to The Pink Fairies missing in the earliest days where much of the rhythm was chaotic rather than driving. That carries through for most of the album, but things start to run out of steam on the last track, “Apologize.”
Resident Reptiles is a befitting title for this album - nothing new as far as style, but a welcome reminder of the vital link between hard rock and punk. The Pink Fairies circa 2018 are sounding more like alligators than dinosaurs. (B)
Back home they pass Christmas Day by killing something wild And mark the years by where they strip the soil away
(We’re All We Got, Becky Warren)
On Becky Warren’s 2016 debut album, War Surplus, she established herself as both a compelling storyteller and social warrior by documenting the fictional relationship (based on her true experience) between an Iraq veteran with PTSD and his wife. It isn’t the usual fare of a Nashville-based artist who travels the connecting lanes of rock ‘n’ roll and country music. War has both personal and universal consequences and Warren’s songs convey both.
Warren has had a checkered career as a performing artist. As founding member of The Great Unknowns, the Boston-based band had already broken up by the time Amy Ray’s Daemon Records picked up their debut album Introducing The Great Unknowns (2004). Marriage to a soldier, soon to be deployed to Iraq and the PSTD that followed, occupied the next 6 years of her life. Warren dropped out of music completely. The Great Unknowns sophomore effort wouldn’t appear until 2012, this time with a new line-up and Warren as the primary songwriter. Titled Homefront, it would be her first record to deal with the aftermath of war on returning vets and their families. It went nowhere. She would spend the next four years sharpening her skills and writing War Surplus.
With Undesirable, her sophomore effort, Warren expands the landscape to the streets of Nashville. Not the streets of travel brochures – no, not those glossy fabrications of country music glitter. The streets that Warren is travelling on Undesirable can be found in any city of the size of Nashville – streets dotted with hotels with weekly (or hourly) rates, payday loan outlets, buy here/pay here car lots, homeless shelters, cheap wine liquor outlets, thrift shops and street venders. In Warren’s words, these are the streets of “forgotten forget-me-nots.” And the language in which Warren sings wouldn’t pass muster of any tight-assed copy editor - apparent from the title of the albums’ first track, “We’re All We Got.” Or the second, “Nobody Wants To Rock N Roll No More.” And that’s a great thing. Correct grammar doesn’t occupy those streets.
Stylistically Undesirable moves between the Midwest rock style of Tom Petty and the more countyfied musings of Lucinda Williams. Thematically and lyrically she’s in a territory occupied almost exclusively by “urban” music. As small town America becomes a thing of the past, with more and more country folks being displaced to the poverty centers of big metropolises (and that includes musicians), Warren currently is ahead of the curve. Way ahead. Undesirable isn’t all doom & gloom but, in the end, hopeful and forward looking. “Ain’t nobody gonna tell us baby/ We know we’re in a real tight spot/ We’re all we got.” In Warren’s worldview, that’s enough. And it's true. (A)
[Reviews by Bill Glahn. I've been working on these on and off over the last year, but never finished up due to other writing projects. These are two of the best releases with many more to come in the next week.]
Bottle Rockets: Bit Logic (2018) From the git-go, Bit Logic finds Brian Henneman (age 57) ruminating about this modern world of technology on the title track. “This ain’t no high tech train wreck, don’t think that’s the deal… It’s the new way of keeping it real,” sings Henneman, painting a somewhat positive landscape. “Be thankful that this old machine still runs, even on these zeros, bits, and ones.” But it’s a landscape pitted with caveats.
“Lo Fi” takes the listener on a journey from the AM kitchen radio, through the wide expanse of home stereo systems, and full circle to listening to music on the telephone. And regardless of the limitations of modern music delivery, a great song can still make his day.
For the Bottle Rockets, though, a band that has built a following on the fringes of rock ‘n’ roll and country with solid albums and relentless touring, the new world has placed some substantial road blocks. Henneman addresses these on the metaphorical “Highway 70 Blues” and the more direct “It’s A Bad Time To Be An Outlaw.” How this will play out in the end is an open question. Will streaming services (the most common form of listening among young folks) cut out the passing lanes for inventive songwriting and performing? Will the pittance of income derived from streaming make it increasingly hard for upstart bands to expand their touring schedules beyond local or regional venues?
Henneman, a master lyricist with a remarkably durable band, has already built a foundation for continuing onward. But there’s that nagging question – “Will such future songwriters/bands ever see that chance?” Maybe. But it’ll be a much longer, slower, road where durability may end up being the most important component. Welcome to the new wave of heavy mettle. (A)
Grayson Capps: Scarlet Roses (2017) Part swamp, part Nashville, part Red Dirt, part outlaw, with some southern rock mixed in, Grayson Capps has the kind of voice that holds it all together as a cohesive voice of rural America. Although it takes a little longer to warm up to than Capp’s 2012 masterpiece, The Lost Cause Minstrels, it is an equally worthy effort, exploring some new musical directions. Topically, all the fears, hopes, and trials of rural America continue to find their way into Capp’s lyrics. Both albums are worthwhile companions to Muswell Hillbillies, The Kinks most Americana-sounding album – a statement on the fears, hopes and trials of urban England.
Capps hails from Fairhope, Alabama, a town located on the east side of Mobile Bay, and one with a rather unique history, having been set up as a socialist experiment in the late 1800s. From Wikipedia… “Their corporate constitution explained their purpose in founding a new colony: to establish and conduct a model community or colony, free from all forms of private monopoly, and to secure to its members therein equality of opportunity, the full reward of individual efforts, and the benefits of co-operation in matters of general concern." How well they’ve succeeded is questionable. Capps concludes Scarlet Roses with “Moving On,” a song that recognizes that. The search for a better future continues.
(A)
Trip Shakespeare’s “Snow Days” isn’t a song that would usually find its way into my rock ‘n’ roll heart. There’s the bloated, almost operatic, singing. There’s the idea that “real” rock ‘n’ roll has its origins in the streets, not the highly academic origins of the band members. And there’s the academic “wit” of some of the lyrics. Chainfields? Motor Veins? But sometimes you just have to put working class chauvinism aside. “Snow Days” has a place in my heart and has had one since I first heard it on a trip to Minneapolis in the mid-‘90s, several years after its release.
It snowed yesterday in Springfield, MO. Snows aren’t unheard of in South Central Missouri or Northwest Arkansas, my primary locations since 1989. They are this early in the year. Having spent a good deal of my growing-up and adult years in New Jersey, there is a certain nostalgia attached to snow. But nostalgia is poor fodder for a good rock ‘n’ roll song.
I’ve got a story. Several, actually.
When my father was transferred to McGuire Air Force Base in 1965, snow days were an opportunity, not an escape from school. For the children of enlisted men, the opportunity was to make some money by teaming up with other kids to shovel the sidewalks. The good money was across the boulevard that separated the officer’s quarters from the lower income enlisted families. In those days, all Base Housing (except for General’s quarters which were comfortable brick houses with landscaped yards a few miles away) consisted of town houses built in courts of 18 units each. In our court there were something like 90 kids – one of the largest concentrations of juveniles in the whole complex and with a sufficient number of snow-shoveling age to form an impressive work force. We learned quickly that the best way to negotiate wages was to team up. Nowadays some people would probably refer to us as “union thugs.” As far as I can determine, Base Housing is now privatized. Probably the snow removal as well.
After my father left the Air Force my older brother and I would team up with other kids in the Holly Hills neighborhood of Mt. Holly (mostly ex-military) and then Prospect Heights, a working class neighborhood in Trenton. Old enough now to have a paper route, my parents were insistent on “saving money for college.” Record money would still be mostly dependent on the annual winter weather. From the beginning, I used the windfall of snow day cash to fuel my passion for music. First there were new singles by chart acts like Stevie Wonder, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Mamas & Papas, Aretha, Glen Campbell – mixed with 5 for a dollar cut-out singles of older tunes. I had a lot of catching up to do, having missed the soul wave in the segregated play lists of South Carolina. During the last couple of years of my snow-shoveling days it turned to albums. The last album I remember buying with snow money was the White Album. I probably wore that one out by January.
Once indoctrinated into the world of grown up labor, snow days meant something entirely different. They meant a brief respite from the ever-increasing demands of management. In the 21st century version of labor/management relations, things have declined to a point where labor is expected to brave the weather in all kinds of storms. There are no snow days. Show up for work or else. This includes all types of labor - lower level management, industrial workers, cash-register clinkers, fast-food workers, teachers… all of us. Lower pay, lower benefits, lower safety… “We are all outlaws in the eyes of (corporate) Amerika.”
The guy I most admired at my last job before I retired was the one who NEVER came to work if there was so much as 1 snowflake falling from the sky. The supervisors would make it a point of mocking and belittling him at warehouse meetings. “So-and-so made it and they live 20 miles away. How come you can’t?” It never flustered the guy. “I won’t risk my safety for this job.” He’d been employed there for about 15 years. He was a good worker, knew his job well. They threatened to fire him – never did. Everyone knew it was just his way of throwing the finger at an employer who didn’t want to pay him anything close to his value. Still… there were those who succumbed to the pettiness and labeled him a “sissy.” The fucking guy had more guts than all of them combined. As far as I know, he’s still employed there. I’m positive he didn’t go to work yesterday.
What has all this got to do with “Snow Days,” the song?
It’s this. Despite an aura of pomposity, when it comes right down to it, “Snow Days” envelops the subversive nature that is essential to a lot of great rock ‘n’ roll – this time with a beautiful arrangement and a calming piano break. It tells the tale of a dedicated and overworked teacher on a day when the snow is falling. And the respite that a day off can provide, if she’ll only take it. "There’s a blessing on the ground. Go home." That's rock 'n' roll.
Bonus photo: These are agricultural fields between Camarillo and Oxnard in Ventura County, SoCal where HillFire & WellseyFire have been burning since last week - agricultural workers are still expected to show up for work. Photo by Irvin Camacho.
When William Elliott Whitmore began his opening set at the Granada Theater in Lawrence with “Mutiny” on Oct. 22, he was clearly in a defiant mood. So was the crowd, answering the call & response with vigor.
“Let the motherfucker burn.” “Let the motherfucker burn.”
Whitmore, armed with only banjo and bass drum, was attacking both with vehemence. And an urgency that these times call for.
Will Whitmore is a farmer by birth. He’s been planting seeds at shows in Lawrence, Kansas for 19 years by his own account. It showed. This crowd came early - no stragglers or “fashionably late” hipsters. When Whitmore took the stage, everyone who was going to be there was already there. And the joint was packed.
Whitmore has a voice that sounds like it grew up out of the dirt. There’s a welcome quality to it that contrasts to the, too often, dry vocals of too much of today’s politically oriented Americana. It’s field holler singing. And that makes sense. Whitmore still lives on the family farm in a house that has no bathroom. His albums tend to be short – more akin to vinyl length - no filler. He’s not wired for the “technological age.” His only contact info on his web page is a post office box.
Whitmore has a new record out. (cd, vinyl and download). It’s called Kilonova and is a departure from past releases in that it consists completely of cover versions. Don’t expect a “Great American Songbook” nostalgia trip, though. Some of the songs will be familiar to long-time followers from past set lists. These are songs that Whitmore finds a kinship with, interpreted in a way that is 100% personal.
There’s a wide range of material on Kilonova, songs from artists that predate his birth to songs of a more contemporary age that you might expect from a man of Whitmore’s age (40). The first Youtube release was The Magnetic Field’s “Fear of Trains.” The second was “Busted”, written by a songwriter with farming roots, Howard Harlan, and recorded by both Johnny Cash and Ray Charles in 1963.
In Whitmore’s hands, “Fear of Trains” is starker than the original, captivating the flavor of the lyrics more fully. In light of the recent Kavanaugh hearings, it’s downright prescient. “Busted” is the state of being for working class Americans in this century. But there’s more.
“Don’t Pray On Me,” “Five Feet High And Rising,” and “Ain’t No Sunshine” all capture a sense of desperation that exists today. “Bat Chain Puller,” the conclusion of Kilonova, exposes the root of that desperation, rife with metaphors that a man of the dirt can appreciate.
Whitmore concluded his concert in Lawrence where he started – with “Old Devils,” a song referenced in “Mutiny” delivered with the same fervor. The man has stamina! It’s going to take a good dose of that from his audience as well. Lawrence was up to the task.
I’ve been travelling around the Midwest with my dog, Sally, taking notes. In the last few days I passed through eastern Iowa and western Wisconsin, home turf for Will Whitmore. It’s under water. Said one farmer, "I'm about to break the first rule of farming - never complain about the rain. What started off as a '100 year rain' is now a 500 year rain. If it rains like this for another week, there won't be a crop to harvest." The preservation of the earth is high on William Elliott Whitmore’s priority list. He starts the second leg of his tour tonight with label mates, Murder By Death, in Washington, D.C. at the 9:30 Club. If the crowd responds loud enough and long enough maybe the politicians at the Capitol will hear them. “Let the motherfucker burn!”
In 1980, a man named Art Evans founded a company in Indiana that made riding lawn mowers. These weren’t ordinary lawn mowers. They weren’t even ordinary riding lawn mowers. They had a zero-turn radius and an engine so powerful that it could even overcome a parking brake, fully applied. They were (and still are) the Dragsters of lawn care for those who can afford them.
With Indiana, being the most northern of “southern states” and with a historical attachment as a Klan bigotorium*, it seems entirely logical that Evans would call his company Dixie Chopper. Indiana has competition these days. The bigotorium has expanded.
It also seems logical that Textron would buy the company in 2014. Textron is a corporate behemoth specializing in aerospace, defense, security, and advanced technologies. Read that as an instrumental part of the military-industrial complex. There would be no name change. “Dixie” sells.
This tends to set my imagination into high gear. I imagine a horror film – a nightmare-come-to-life. In this film, Dixie Chopper comes out with a new model to keep up with the times. It’s called the Trumpster. It’s top-of-the-line, able to cut down human beings at astonishing rates. It’s lubricated by Mitch McConnell Oil Products. It has a “cow-catcher” out front dubbed The Betsy, useful in stunting all but the most elitist of weeds. And those ignition problems early Dixie Choppers were notorious for? They are outsourcing the fix for that to a company called Scotus Inc. Once the machine starts, it keeps on going. The chassis is a thing of mystery. Termed the Trump Base, it is unexplainable – proprietary in nature. Scientists are befuddled. This machine seems to be built on blind faith. It’s a blessed machine that can do no wrong. Ask any Evangelist. The brakes have been disconnected. It’s out of control and can’t be stopped.
The cost of a Dixie Chopper is high. Incredibly high. Like any overpriced machine (or law) it needs a strong ad campaign. And Dixie Chopper has one. “The Trumpster -Making lawnmowers great again.” Remember that the Trumpster model is for mowing down people. No problem. “Hop on board to the land of cotton. Old times there are not forgotten.” “ Dixie” plays in the background. It’s alluring.
Chop chop chop chop chop
Coming up with an appropriate ending for my horror flick is going to take more imagination than I have. Dixie doesn’t exist anymore. It’s the land of Kudzu now. Kudzu could stop a Dixie Chopper but it’s got some pretty devastating consequences of its own. Wrong ending. If he could be found, Superman couldn’t throw this machine into the sun. There are too many distracted consumers still clinging to the undercarriage. Maybe I’ll call the Parkland students. They’re the brightest minds at script writing for horror flicks. If they haven’t found a suitable ending for theirs, they are certainly moving towards one. Or maybe the Women’s March organizers. They haven’t killed all the monsters yet. But they’re pretty effective at installing brakes. The pipeline resistors? The Poor People’s Campaign? They are growing in legion. Or maybe this is a script that requires the joint forces of ALL resistance.
I see a hand grenade being thrown into the combustion chamber – a crack in the engine block.
Chop chop… sputter sputter
But this is a music related bog, right? OK then. Here’s the soundtrack. Can you hear me?
“You want to know what my version of gangsta is? Making your family top priority. If you ain't doing that and your spending more money on drugs than you are on your kids school clothes than you definitely not gangsta. Go steal from someone that works there ass off so you can go get high. GANGSTA. Lmfao. If I hurt your feelings than this applies to you. Don't trip though I been there myself and Im still trying to get my life right. I hope that one day I make it to where I can call myself a true gangsta. To my two beautiful daughters I'm so very sorry and ill be doing my best til the day I die to earn the right just to be called dad.” (Chris Seitz, August 12, 2018 Facebook posting)
Exactly one month later Chris Seitz would be dead.
Yesterday morning at 2:30 a.m. I was awoken by a loud, persistent knock and Sally’s aggressive barking. I got up, threw on some jeans, turned the front porch light on, looked out the window. It was a cop at my front door. “We’ve had some reports from this neighborhood that someone is going from house to house pounding on doors. Have you seen or heard anything?”
Still groggy from my sleep and more than a little irritated about being woken up at the wee hours of the morning, I answered sarcastically, “Not until now.”
The cop asked my name and jotted it down on his notepad and then asked my date of birth. “What has that got to do with anything?” He didn’t ask the question again.
“So nobody has tried to gain entry to your house in the last hour?”
“I’ve got the biggest dog in the neighborhood with the loudest bark. No one who’s ever walked down this street doesn’t know that.” On cue, Sally pushed her way forward to stand between me and the cop. He took a step back from the doorway.
“Ok, We may send someone around later in the morning with some more questions.” As he started to walk away I told him as an afterthought, “My neighbors on that side of me are camping until Friday. You may want to put a spotlight on their house and yard.” He thanked me for watching out for the neighbors and left.
What he didn’t tell me was that an hour earlier a man had been killed at the house directly behind mine while attempting a home invasion. I guess that’s standard operating procedure in an investigation.
Not being able to get back to sleep, I posted the following on Facebook. “There was a pounding on my door at 2:30 this morning. It was a cop. He said they had gotten a report that there was someone going around the neighborhood pounding on doors. My first response was, "Well if there wasn't before there is now."(3:18 am)
It got a lot of laughs. But when the early news came on TV, it was no laughing matter. My neighbor, Travis, whose backyard is directly behind mine, had shot a man. Dead.
I’m not putting any blame on Travis. I’ve only met him one time and he seems to be a pretty decent guy. I probably would have done the same in his circumstances if I owned a gun. In fact, I have empathy for him. It’s one thing to have a gun in your house for protection. It’s another thing entirely to have to use it.
No charges have been filed against Travis. The media has kept his name out of the news. The focus of ALL media reporting so far has been to explain Missouri’s Castle Doctrine - similar to the “stand your ground” statutes in some states but only applying after a home has been breached.
The name of the man he shot, however, has not been kept out of the news. The inference, lacking any background, is “He got what he deserved.” And that’s the way people hear it. Put one in the “pro-gun” column.
His name was Christopher A. Seitz. He worked, for a time, with both my oldest son and daughter-in-law. “It’s pretty upsetting,” is what my daughter-in-law messaged me.
I decided to check out his Facebook page to see if there were any public posts. There were plenty.
I don’t believe you can always get an accurate picture of someone from social media. But I think you can sometimes get the basic palette. Here’s what I found.
Chris Seitz had two estranged daughters. He loved his mom. He was 36 years old, but still struggled with the stunted maturity that I see in a lot of younger men and women – trying to create an image that is packaged and sold through much of today’s entertainment media. And conflicted or confused when finding out that “image” isn’t reality. Issues that used to be resolved in one’s late teens and early twenties were still issues for Chris as he approached 40. For some people, they never get resolved. Chris Seitz hadn't at 36. And now, he won’t ever.
The pictures on Fb depict a heavily tattooed and muscular man. He spoke in “gangsta” speak. His posts depict a not so unusual tendency for drama. He had friends who catered to the same “style.” They loved him and offered support - or what passes for love and support on social media. The most profound statement on his posts was “It's okay if you take five steps forward and 10 steps back just the next time you make a move 20 steps forward.” But the reality is that sometimes 10 steps back is one step to many.
I was talking to my other next door neighbor yesterday. He was one of several people to dial 911 around 1:30 in the morning. Chris Seitz had tried to break into his house as well. Dissuaded from doing so by two Dobermans, he headed through the backyard and over the fence, where he then broke through the back door of Travis’ house. That was his one step too many.
Nobody knows what Chris Seitz intended as he went from house to house trying to break down doors at 1:30 in the morning. I asked my daughter-in-law for a summary of the 6 months that Chris Seitz worked with her and my son. This is what she wrote: “He was a really cool guy and a really good worker. He was living in a halfway house at the time trying to get himself and his life back together for his family. By the sounds of everything, he probably fell back into drugs.”
Chris worked as a low-wage temp, trying to move into a responsible adult life and failing. It seems epidemic.
Whenever a bunch of us old codgers get together, whether it be at the work break gathering place, a retirement party, or the local watering hole, you hear: “The younger generation doesn’t have any concept of work.” “People can’t handle responsibility these days.” “All they want to do is take drugs and party.” “They complain about not being able to buy diapers and then go out and get $500 worth of tattoos.” “It’s not like when we were young.” Is it just the next older generation talking?
The Westside Neighborhood where I live is something of an anomaly these days – a low-income neighborhood where crime rates are low. Tenant ownership is high. It’s an old neighborhood with an aging population – one of the oldest “suburbs” in Springfield, swallowed up by the city limits as Springfield expanded. At strategically located locations there are signs that proclaim “THIS IS A NO NONSENSE CRIME PREVENTION NEIGHBORHOOD.” They are not small signs, nothing like those “neighborhood watch” signs that you see attached to traffic signs and such in some communities. They are the size of small billboards. They’ve been there a long time, funded by an organization called The West Central Betterment Association. WCBA doesn’t exist anymore. These days it’s been split in two – the Westside Betterment Association and the West Central Neighborhood Association.
West Central is closer to the inner city, plagued with high crime, slum lords, and drugs. Lots of drugs. There are no such signs in West Central. A main corridor, Kansas Expressway, separates the two neighborhoods. In West Central very few people own their homes. Many of the residential buildings are former two-story, one family homes that have been divided up into decaying four unit apartments. In both Westside and West Central, if someone went house-to-house trying to break in, you’d probably call it suicide by proxy.
In Westside, the homes are smaller, single story, single family cracker boxes and ranchers, with a low cost of entry. Owners have kept the slumlords at bay by opting to stay in the neighborhood and apply their savings to buy up the low end of the market - maintaining them in good working order and renting out at fair market value. Travis is such a landlord, owning a house across the street from his. By taking care of his rental property, he protects the financial integrity of his own home. By taking a “no nonsense” approach to crime, he protects his family.
But, still, slumlords have made some penetration into the neighborhood. And real estate profiteers have built some large apartment complexes along Scenic Avenue, the most traveled road to the west of Kansas Expressway. Crime has come knocking at the door and people are scared.
How did we get to this point?
The news tells us that today’s wages are “stagnant.” They are not stagnant for unskilled or low-skill labor. In terms of buying power, they have been in free-fall since 1970. 50 years ago, 1 in 3 Americans belonged to a labor union. Today that number is 1 in 10 - the vast majority belonging to public sector unions with little or no striking power. For-profit colleges hand out paper “diplomas” for training in jobs paying as little as $8-9/hr. Tuition has skyrocketed for more traditional degrees. We’re left with a generation of young and middle-aged people buried in student debt.
The median length of time in a job for people aged 25-34 is 3.2 years. People are job hopping for a 25-50 cent an hour raise to make ends meet. And the entertainment industry is selling the idea that anyone can make it on “style” alone.
Suicide is at an all time high.
Did Chris Seitz deserve to die? Nobody deserves to die. That includes Travis and his family. Fearing for the safety of his family, in today’s society, Travis took appropriate action. But if we don’t take a harder look at what motivates behavior in our society and act on it, there will certainly be more tragedies like this one. A shift in a direction is needed. One to where “no nonsense” doesn’t have to mean “no future.” Literally.
As a young man in Chicago, Mike Felten played the local folk and blues circuit, sharing the stage with the likes of John Prine, Steve Goodman, and Pinetop Perkins. A recording career, however, eluded him. Instead of making records he began selling them. Mike opened a shop in Iron Mountain, MI (upper peninsula) and adopted a cartoon moose as it’s logo. When he eventually moved the store to Paulina Street in Chicago, the moose logo moved with it. The Record Emporium enjoyed some great success there, eventually moving from one storefront to two.
The Record Emporium, like all the best new & used record stores, had a funky urban atmosphere and fit in well with the working class neighborhood near Wrigley Field. Then gentrification came, and with it, high rents. Felten’s record store survived for awhile, but when an age of disc-burners and I-Tunes turned records and CDs into a doomed market, The Record Emporium’s fate was sealed. The upscale bar market was much more appealing to his landlords. The business that provided income enough, along with that of his wife – a nurse, to raise a family was providing no more. Felten began playing the club scene again, this time recording CDs to sell at whatever venue would have him.
The gigs began to multiply and Felten found himself touring the upper mid-west – around 150 gigs a year. He and his wife, Gail, retired and bought a house in Franklin Park in July 2016.
Then the unforeseen happened. In February 2018, his wife, Gail, was diagnosed with ALS. Those gigs from Detroit to St. Louis to Kansas City and other distant points? Well, they were no longer a possibility – at least not for awhile. Mike would have to stay close to home. Still – there is no shortage of places in and around Chicago to play. When I interviewed him before a gig at Sylvie’s on July 2nd, it was his 80th show of the year.
Felten is currently in the studio recording his seventh album. He doesn’t reveal too much about what the finished album will be like, though. “The songs are still working themselves out.”
Mike Felten: It’s 7:35 in the evening at Sylvie’s in Chicago! Bill Glahn: Your new record – you were telling me it’s going to have a little more instrumentation on it. Cello? MF: No, no. That was the last one. This one might be a little more sparse, this time. Harmonica, bass… I’ve got the drummer lined up and of course me. I don’t know. We have tentative sax player. Tentative keyboards. The blues are kind of stripped down. We’ll see how it goes with each one. If I feel it’s complete… I like the raw sounds. BG: More blues than folky? MF: Yeah… I’m going to try to do two CDs at one time – one more produced with all kinds of people on it and one with just me & guitar. BG: Like the 1st album? MF: Yeah, I like the first album. It was all me, playin’ different instruments. So it blew me away. (laughs) I kinda like that way so people get a chance to hear what I sound like in person. (Felten plays almost exclusively solo shows)
BG: Topically you’re usually in there… well, you sing about your father as a working man – “a used car life” is how I think you put it. MF: Yeah, a used car life for sure. BG: Your records have always been rooted in the working class – the working class in Chicago specifically – and Iron Mountain (Michigan mining country). MF: More Chicago this time. A lot of mom & dad. BG: How long has it been since your mom passed? MF: About eight or nine years now. BG: And your dad was early, right? MF: Yeah, 1991. It’s getting’ to be… I think there’s only one living (ancestral) family member left. I try to commemorate some of the things they’ve gone through. The houses I’ve lived in. It wasn’t heaven but it damn sure wasn’t hell. I guess I’m still trying to find out who I am. BG: I’ve talked to quite a few songwriters recently that just happened to be in their sixties. One of the things that come up time and time again is that some of the things that weren’t important in their twenties and thirties have become more important. It’s not nostalgic thinking but, rather, reflective thinking. MF: You look more kindly on your parents and the choices they made. I get the overwhelming sense that the problems they faced and the problems I faced back then are the same problems we’re facing right now. They have to be redressed and reaffirmed. And it goes on and on like another cycle. BG: Yeah, if you live long enough you go through a cycle or two. When you’re young you think you’re bulletproof, but then you find out you’re not. MF: We had the war in Vietnam and then the Civil Rights movement… and we thought we put that behind us. You want to think we put all of that behind – some of the crap you saw. And here we are – we’re fighting the same battle. BG: My view – I don’t know about yours - is that… some of those same people we knew who were fighting those things – Vietnam, Civil Rights, have reverted back to individualist thinking. Money changes things. An awful lot of them have no problem sitting back and watching Afghanistan go on for 17 years. Do you get political on this next record? MF: Well, you know… kind of. I try not to beat people over the head but it’s part of who you are and you’re facing these struggles. I’ve got one called “Godzilla Jones” and it’s about fighting hard times – getting blood on your nose. Over and over again. And you’re older and you’re tired. So you’ve got to pass the ball on. I can understand the kids from Florida. “How could you get us involved in Vietnam?” - “How can you get us involved with weapons in the schools.” It’s just stupidity. Why? Why? Why can’t you have a better life? Why couldn’t this all be eradicated? What happened when we got rid of Nixon and all those other assholes -pardon me - that came back? No, don’t pardon me. They come back and come back again with the same old tired ideas and bullshit. You can look back to Andrew Jackson. BG: It’s like every time a new generation comes around they try to sell the same old lie. The next generation hasn’t heard those lies before. History, these days, is not taught in schools. You have a unique position as a volunteer tour guide at the Chicago History Museum. Do you get a chance to address some of this stuff? MF: Yeah. Actually we have a Facing Freedom workshop that we do. It was kind of an underused exhibit. It’s dedicated to all kinds of struggles – from the United Farm Workers to the Pullman porters. Kids don’t know anything about this. Even Suffrage. And you look at the Declaration of Independence. Who did this apply to? It applied to white men with property. Could women vote? Could people of different colors vote? You had all these disqualifications that were accepted. "All men were created equal." "We hold these truths to be self-evident." Well things changed. And they’re changing again. These kids we talk to are younger than the Stoneman-Douglas kids. But I told them that “you’re at the point where you’re challenging your parent’s authority. They’re not always right. But you’ve got to accept responsibility and to change things and look at your issues. Where do you want to be? What changes do you want to make? And it might be a change that I don’t like. Or it might be a change that your teachers don’t like or your parents don’t like. It’s your vision and it’s part of becoming an adult. And you can grow on that. There are no wrong answers here. You give me your answer.” And it might be an answer that I don’t expect. And sometimes it has been an answer that I didn’t expect. BG: Are these young people there because they have curiosity - made the decision to go there on their own? Or school children as a class trip? MF: School kids. There was one kid, a small boy, who said he was afraid of walking down the street when people of other colors were walking towards him. Do you cross the street? Another kid said “if they’re not friends, you cross the street.” But you have that issue. Do you feel safe and do you do things for your safety? Or do you placate someone who might be offended ? You have to educate yourself with what’s goin’ on. I told him to err on the side of safety. But that’s an option on this whole Facing Freedom deal. Is it safer to stay at home and let the war go on? Or do you stand up and get your ass beat? [Felten made that decision at the 1968 Democratic Convention where his head was split open by a Chicago cop.] But I also told him “You can choose this issue or that issue, but you can also choose to do nothing as well. But if you choose to do nothing, you’re beholden to whoever does what.” BG: Do you ever learn things as a guide? MF: Oh yeah! I learn stuff from kids all the time. Different perspectives. They’ll jump in there on something like gun control and they might be against it, depending on where the kids are from. Kids might not know who the Pullman porters were. They might not know who Rosa Parks was. They might think “Rosa Parks, a black woman gets on a bus – what’s the big deal?” She could have gotten killed on that bus. You gotta think about this. They don’t know anything about the women’s movement. Or the American Indian movement. Cesar Chavez – that’s another one. “I like grapes. Why should I boycott grapes?” Pullman porters – unionizing was not all about wages. What about identity? All the Pullman porters had to go by the name “George.” And black men, in those times, couldn’t form a union. But they stood up and did anyway! BG: Once you reach to a livable wage, wages are no longer the best thing a union can do. Safety for one. Child labor laws. Racial equality in the workplace. Pensions. Some of these things are rolling backwards. MF: With kids, everything’s about fairness. And you bring these things up and they think about it. What’s fair? Sometimes it’s “It’s not fair that I can’t go out with Johnny.” And the Parent has to consider “Is Johnny behaving responsibly? BG: There’s a childish view of what fairness is and mature one. MF: It’s called compromise. (laughs) BG: It’s the idea that you can challenge things. It’s something you can establish very early on. It’s a very important thing. MF: Yeah. It’s going to be interesting to see where they are in ten years. BG: Social Security is the most successful socialist plan ever to pass into law in the United States. And it’s under attack. It’s something every young person ought to think about as much as old folks like us. Where do you come down on Socialism vs. Capitalism? Do people have to buy your records to find out? (laughing) MF: Yeah. Buy ‘em. Buy ‘em all? Listen to them over and over. (much laughing) I try to tell stories because people like stories. I try to humanize what happens. BG: I get that and I like the stories between the stories that you tell when you’re performing. Like about the workingman’s fireworks across the river at the smelting plants when you were growing up. Is that the style you prefer all the time or do you like to preach once in awhile? MF: Well, I don’t like to preach at all. But one of my favorite songs is “How Many Wars.” That’s not something I would put on one of my albums, though. [It can be found on a Youtube collection of outtakes called Man + Guitar + Dog]
But Gail’s father was a paraplegic from WW 2. Her brother just died from the effects of Agent Orange in Vietnam. Her other brother did a couple of tours in Vietnam. And her son is a disabled veteran. I have a friend named Tim that was very badly wounded in Vietnam and eventually died. My dad had a friend that was in a POW camp during World War 2 – he got letters and things that my mom saved. He eventually started hearing voices, locked himself in a bathroom and killed himself. I don’t think my dad ever got over that. My dad never saw combat or anything like that, but this kid did. BG: And those are people that did one or two tours. Today you have an all-volunteer army where guys are doing sometime 5-6 tours in the Middle East. Not to mention the people getting bombed and slaughtered in those countries. But there doesn’t seem to be any anti-war movement. There aren’t many Americans dying so there’s no outcry. MF: Jan Maara – she’s a fairly successful folk singer, I think – she did this song called “Penny Evans” by Steve Goodman. I was sitting in the audience and she did a tremendous version of it. And lady in front of me said “I don’t want to hear that. I don’t want to be preached to.” This was in the ‘80s. And I thought, “Maybe people should be listening to this.” And lo and behold, we’ve had Grenada and Iraq and Afghanistan.
BG: I noticed over the years that you perform to a pretty wide variety of audiences. Sometimes it’s a fairly young audience that might not have come to see you specifically, but you got a good reaction and they seem to pay attention when they’re not drinking too heavy. MF: I think the last time I saw you was in Kansas City and they were there to party. They reacted more to the up-tempo stuff, so I’ve put more of that into my set. You can tap your feet if you want. It seems like it’s working. BG: Is there going to be more of that on the new record? MF: Oh yeah! Most of it is up-tempo. There’s no sentimental ballads like “No More Wars” or “Working Man’s Paradise.” I mean, I love those songs but… BG: How many shows are you doing a year now? MF: Tonight’s show [July 2] is number 80 this year. BG: I know you have some personal issues you’re working around this year and you’re booking dates closer to home. Are you able to keep that up?
MF: I want to play more folk festivals. Maybe next year. I’d like to play things like the Winnepeg Folk Festival. Americana festivals. Gail and I are Sooners fans- season ticket holders. We weren’t able to go to games this year, but she’s got a positive outlook and wants to go next season. I wouldn’t mind playing a club like the Blue Door while we’re out there [Oklahoma City’s best known club for songwriters]. We’ll see.
Fast Mikey Blue Eyes is the working title for Felten's next album. As for it being a Blues album he states "I have problems being called a blues guy. It is a lot of blues form, but I'm a white guy from the north side of Chicago (whatever that entails) - I'm not up from the plantation. I'm not usurping anyone's culture. The whole thrust of my music is being true to myself."
For sure songs:
Where the White Lady Lives
Ragtop Down
Godzilla Jones
2302
Dead Old Girlfriend
Burnin and Lootin
Homan Avenue
Y'all Look Guilty
Homan Avenue? Isn’t that an infamous street in Chicago where cops routinely take suspects for "interrogation”? Felten isn’t saying. We’ll just have to wait for the CD.
