Hang on, what the bejasus has this to do with walls, I hear you say, the perfectly decent back to Bakersfield project by Jay Farrar and his revolving door of troubadours? More about building bridges, surely, between the goddam longhair americana hippies and the more trad what Hank did iterations of a redder necked country. Yebbut, but go check out the track listing, with at least three tracks referencing walls and barriers. See? That's good enough for me.
Big fan of Son Volt, as much as for Jay Farrar being there to assist at the birth of No Depression/Alt Country and all the many myriad names to try and disguise the solid bloodline of, or the musical origins and forbears of the style. Country rock was good enough for me in the 70s, but I guess that name suggests the need and presence of a drum kit, so fair play. Farrar and his for-a-while buddy, Jeff Tweedy had been the impetus within the band Uncle Tupelo, a honey of a group that, ahead of clashes of personality, produced some glorious music. Did they do any songs around walls or obstructions? Not as such, but this one acknowledges the truth that most doors have a need for surrounding masonry.....
Screen Door
Anyhow, moving on, and with Farrar moving out of Tweedyshot, and with Uncle Tupelo essentially having become Wilco, Farrar needed gainful. Son Volt began as a band in 1994, Farrar hooking back up again with Tupelo original member and drummer, Mike Heidhorn, himself also having, some time before, fallen out of step with Tweedy, recruiting the Boquist brothers. Hitting the red dirt ground running, their debut, Traces, was well received if not so well bought. That line up, plus additional instrumentation, produced three albums before Farrar called quits; as the principal writer, it was effectively his band. A wall link? Well, I believe that creosote is sometimes applied as weather proofing to wooden walls?
Creosote
Five years later and Farrar seemed ready to pick up the brand again, initially with the same members. However, following a solitary appearance on an Alejandro Escovado benefit/tribute album, this was not to be, and a near totally new set of sidemen were recruited. This version, shedding and adding as required, have since pursued a somewhat erratic course, careering from style to style. You want some Dylanesque ballads? Tick. Barroom brawlers? Likewise. But, for me it was and is Honky Tonk that hits their lodestone. Perhaps this is because that is the style of music I like best within the broad church of country, with, here, the sounds and influences of Merle Haggard and Buck Owens spilling through into this recording with affection and respect. Predominantly acoustic of guitar, bar the essential wail of pedal steel, with twin fiddles and the never more mournful vocal of Farrar, this format ideal for his world weary tones And, add the premium of three songs based around walls, there is nothing to obstruct the right of this album to lead this thread.
Brick Walls
Seawalls
Barricades
Beautiful stuff! OK, the lyrics may be a little hokey, but, hell, that's the M.O., they have to be; an effortless recreation of the fabled Bakersfield sound, that must even had Dwight Yoakam eating out his own heart. The steel, variously by Mark Spencer and Brad Sarno, is just exquisite. Given Farrar has now embarked on a 25 years later revisioning of his Son Volt output, with last years re-released Traces, with additional unreleased material, I can't wait for, gulp, 2038.
Late to the game as ever, here I am banging on about closing the honky-tonks, just as some sectors are begging for them to be opened up again, whether for the sake of the depleted hospitality industry or just from sheer thirst. But, wherever you are, OK, except Sweden, the bars and restaurants have been or were closed for a fair old while. Mainland Europe is now beginning to open 'em up again, but the merest hope we have here, in the U.K., is possibly of beer gardens by the end of the month, and with waitress service at that, something us bar standing brits abhor.
Red
This song, an acknowledged classic of a country weepie, the alliance of tears to a jaunty beat, never fails to lift my heart. First penned back in the early 60s, by a Red Simpson, me neither, it became a 1964 country smash for Buck Owens and his Buckaroos. On researching, it seems ol' Red was a bit of name in the 50s, chiefly for songs about truck driving, a niche and specialist sub-genre that lives on to this day. (Well, sorta...) Based in Bakersfield, he seems interminably linked with the more famous Owens, originally taking Owen's place in a weekly session in Bakersfield, California. When he proved adept about writing songs about semi-trucks, he hooked up with Owens as his main co-writer, largely then neglecting his own performing career. The playing of Owens was integral to the Bakersfield scene and it's eponymous Bakersfield Sound, an altogether twangier version of Nashville's then somewhat syrupy drench of orchestral strings, with a greater reliance on electric guitar and pedal steel interplay, the bass and drums also writ large. And so with a far greater cross-over potential with the emerging rock music diaspora, resultant in the country-rock vibe that later begat americana.
Buck
Hardly surprising, then, that I first came across the song as I started to investigate the twangier side of the Byrds. Early 70s and entranced by that band, reading about their revolving door of players, I caught wind of of the Flying Burrito Brothers and of Gram Parsons. Thus, a month or so after buying 2-disc compendium History of the Byrds, I chanced upon Close-Up the Honky Tonks, another 2-disc compendium, this time of the Burritos. On getting it home, it was a whole more stark and severe an affair, with few of the radio friendly Byrdsian harmonies, and altogether more "and western" for my untutored ears. Side 3 contained the titular song, and was part of the body of songs that engaged me and some, sufficiently to then work harder on the first couple of sides. (Side 4 was just terrific, but that's another tale.)
Gram
The Byrds themselves, having anyway a somewhat incestuous relationship with the Burritos, later took it back into their own repertoire as well.
McGuinn
Fast forward a few years. Now a full card carrying country aficionado, a young buck named Dwight Yoakam was making a name for himself, and, finding his cut to my jib, I learnt that he was a huge fan of Buck Owens, to the extent that he made a full album's worth of songs either written, co-written or made famous by him, Dwight Sings Buck, in 2007. Of course the song was on it, the album itself significant enough the entice Owens back onto the stage and performing, just shy of his 60th birthday. Whist he died in 2006, Yoakam maintains a living epitome of his style and sound.
Dwight
Listening to these, as well as to the myriad other you-tubed versions out there, I have to say it is the version by Gram's Flying Burrito Brothers that still lingers longest, with the perfect balance between delight and despair in his wracked vocals.
I was going to go off on one again, lambasting and/or lampooning the various bouffant topped orange faced men leading the free(!) world, but, no, the targets too easy and all that. Plus our own UK mini-me version is looking decidedly pasty of late.....
Dangerous Man
So it is to Dwight Yoakam I turn, even if the lyrics of this song seem oddly prescient for the folk I am shunning in this post. Dwight is a maelstrom of a country maverick, and a conundrum, in that is he is or his he ain't? Is he a bona fide retro country-rockabilly honky-tonk throwback, or is he a polished opportunist with an eye for a gap in the market, seizing the niche between rock ('n'roll) and country, his break through coming at a time when Nashville was all smooth-croonin' "hats"? I incline toward the latter. For a start, as a born Kentuckian, the style he gravitates to is 100% true to that state, even if he was brought up largely in Ohio. He staked an initial claim in Nashville, ahead of slinking away to the West Coast, deemed far too rowdy for the dishes of the day. L.A.'s heady mix of cultures and countercultures was ideal for his energy, performing alongside acts as diverse as X, The Blasters and Los Lobos. Much as, in a way, had George Frayn's Commander Cody a decade before.
Of course, he looked the look, impossibly tight jeans, sometimes of leather, encasing his stick thin legs, a denim jacket and a permanently welded on 10 gallon hat. Yet, rather than aligning him with the dreary Nashville sludge in similar headwear, intriguingly this set him apart. I bought his debut, Guitars, Cadillacs, etc, etc, the expanded vinyl of the original EP, much as soon as I became aware of him: as ever I suspect was probably a piece in New Musical Express or a slot on TV's Old Grey Whistle Test, neither verifiable today, that had alerted me. This was 1986 or 7, and i was ever vigilant for crossover fertilisations, loving equally, if confusingly, folk, country and punk. The Joe Ely association with the Clash had earlier been a huge fillip to the validation of my tastes. And what a buy it was, one part rollicking roustabouts, one part beery country weepies and one part classic covers. Yoakam's yelping delivery, a yodel seeming only ever a hiccough away, was one part of the draw, the other being the searing guitar and arrangements of right hand man (and producer) Pete Anderson. More of him later.
It Won't Hurt
It would have been maybe five years later before I could catch him live, his appearance in an early afternoon slot at Glastonbury being a highlight of that years festival. By now I was expanding my interest in and expanding my collection of cover songs. Yoakam had already made for a credible presence on the Grateful Dead tribute, Deadicated, and I was then lucky enough to chance upon a copy of Croix D'Amour. This does not appear in all of his discographies, being a non U.S. release only, and, not that I realised it then, a compilation of earlier released tracks, including his alluded to version of Truckin'. With eight of the twelve songs being covers, I was in clover. He remains the only person ever able to instil any joy into the anodyne formulaicism of Queen.
Crazy Little Thing Called Love
Over the years I have continued my watch on him, spotting his appearances in not a few films and TV shows, broadly playing versions of what I imagine to be himself. He has released a regular outpouring of recordings, sometimes his own work, often more covers projects, including covering the work of his musical inspiration, Buck Owens, and several repackagings and reworkings, notably his acoustic and near solo dwightyoakamacoustic.net. In all of this one might forget quite what a great songwriter he is in his own right. Chris Isaak, no slouch himself, cites Yoakam "as good a songwriter as ever put a pen to paper". At the time of writing he continues to remain an active force for good, even if current tour dates are banjaxed. But, if you can't hear him play live, at least you can eat his biscuits, something you can't say for all your favourite stars!
Close Up the Honky-Tonks
Finally a brief word, as promised, about Pete Anderson, by Yoakam's side as rudder, between 1986 and 2002. This extraordinary multi-instrumentalist has become, through his sheer ubiquity, a guarantor of quality across the varied boards he treads. Think of all those guitar runs across most of the songs featured here, all him, the hickory smoke to Yoakam's BBQ wings. Scan this list of all his other projects and prostrate yourself. Here too is a good interview, covering, in part, the years the pair worked together.
The Clash: Train in Vain
[purchase]
Back when the original wave of punk rock was hitting the US, I took to saying that punk would die off when the musicians learned to play their instruments. I was not completely right. Bands like the Sex Pistols literally died off when members succumbed to drugs. There were also those who stubbornly stayed with the style long after they were capable of more, and their music began to sound less and less authentic. But when I was right, we got vital and amazing music from people like Johnny Lydon, and we eventually got two tone ska. And we got the best of The Clash. The Clash never lost their rebelliousness, continuing to make the music they wanted to, and in complete disregard to market dictates. Their monster hit with Rock the Casbah was taken by some as a sell out, but I view it more as the marketplace catching up to them than the other way around. Before that happened, however, there was Train in Vain. The song comes from the album London Calling, which has many of the band’s best songs of political and social criticism. But Train in Vain has a classic theme for its subject: a relationship gone wrong. In the hands of The Clash, the song was propulsive rock, and very powerful. But there were other ways to hear it.
Annie Lennox: Train in Vain
[purchase]
Annie Lennox heard classic R&B. Her version became one of her biggest songs as a solo artist. It reveals a singer with legitimate chops as a soul shouter. She displays a grit here that was never a part of her vocal style with the Eurythmics, although their late rock experiments hint at it. This arrangement has a synth horn section that is little more than an idea, gone almost as soon as it appears. I would love to hear an old school R&B version that uses a live horn section all the way through the song.
Dwight Yoakam: Train in Vain
[purchase]
You could say that Dwight Yoakam brought a punk sensibility to country music when he debuted. He has always delivered high energy performances on his albums. Here, he blends his Bakersfield-inspired sound with bluegrass, to great effect. Now, Train in Vain has banjo and mandolin solos, and it all works beautifully.
Smocking Flamingo: Train in Vain
[purchase]
It was to be expected that there would be at least one Jamaican version of Train in Vain. The Clash, as they branched out from punk, were inspired by both ska and reggae, and their work in these genres was almost certainly a major inspiration for the two tone ska movement. Smocking Flamingo is a reggae and ska instrumental jam band, and the song suits them perfectly.
Warren Zevon is one of those artists whose music I’ve enjoyed and appreciated over the years without ever really being a fan, or learning all that much about him. There’s just so much music out there, and so little time. David Letterman, on the other hand, was a huge Zevon fan. He was a guest on Letterman’s various shows more than two dozen times, and even filled in 20 times as bandleader when Paul Shaffer was unavailable.
Back in 2002, Zevon was diagnosed with lung cancer, and shortly afterwards appeared as the only guest on Letterman’s show. Their interview soon became a classic. Letterman’s respect and compassion for his dying subject, coupled with Zevon’s unflinching honesty and humor (which gave Letterman the opening to be funny, too) is striking. During the course of their discussion, Zevon responded to Letterman’s question about his new-found understanding of life and death with the phrase “Enjoy every sandwich,” which became a pretty well-known distillation of his life's philosophy. Zevon also performed three songs on the show that night. The Letterman show is worth watching, and you can see the interview here, the performance of “Mutineer,” here, “Genius” is here, and Letterman’s request, “Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner” is here. And Letterman's and Shaffer's heartfelt announcement of Zevon's death about a year later is here.
At the time of the Letterman interview, Zevon had recently released an album whose title, My Ride’s Here, seemed eerily prescient in retrospect. But to be fair, his prior album was called Life’ll Kill Ya, so it is probably more fair to say that he was comfortable with his death as a concept, not that he had any mystical foreshadowing of his demise.
After his diagnosis, Zevon worked on his last album, which ended up titled The Wind. It is hard to listen to the album without feeling that Zevon was trying to sum up his tumultuous life and preparing for its end. It includes 10 original songs (or co-writes with his long-time collaborator Jose Calderón), and a poignant cover of Dylan’s “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door.” The album included numerous high profile guests, including Mick
Fleetwood, Jackson Browne, Joe Walsh, Tom Petty, Billy Bob Thornton,
Dwight Yoakam, T-Bone Burnett, David Lindley and Emmylou Harris. While the album contained its share of contemplative ballads, Zevon could still rock and show his trademark twisted humor, most notably with guest Bruce Springsteen, who shared vocals and played electric guitar on the raucous “Disorder In The House.”
The song lays out the chaos and confusion in the titular house--overflowing bathtubs, falling plaster, doors coming off their hinges. It’s so bad that “even the Lhasa Apso seems to be ashamed.” Then, it becomes clear that the song is about criminals being chased by the police, but it appears that the narrator escapes.
To me, what is most memorable about the song is the fun that Zevon and Springsteen seem to have performing it.
The Wind was released two weeks before Zevon died, at the age of 56. The album received five Grammy nominations, including Song of the Year for "Keep Me in Your Heart," and it won two Grammys, for Best Contemporary Folk Album, and "Disorder in the House" was awarded Best Rock Performance by a Duo or Group With Vocal.
These were the first Grammys of Zevon's career, and I suspect that he’d be chuckling to himself if he knew what it took for him to get them.
It’s hard to keep track of all the shitty things that went down in 2016, including remembering all the musical luminaries we lost. Prince, Bowie, Cohen—hard to get past that, but it almost seems like everyone forgot Merle Haggard took the long journey home, too. Haggard passed away right before Prince, so I suppose the news got a little lost.
And, whose casting aspersions? Not me—so much bad went down in 2016 it’s hard to remember it all, let alone remember anything with a light shining on it…
What to say about The Hag? He’s classic country, as responsible for the sound of “real” country as Jennings, Owens, Williams, or Cash. I include Buck Owen’s name in that list of luminaries for two reasons: one, Buck has always been one of my favorites, and two, he and Haggard share equal responsibility for creating the “Bakersfield” sound, otherwise known as honky-tonk.
The meaning of honky tonk is disputed, with lots of disambiguation about the origins of the word, but essentially: it’s chunky, rhythm based hillbilly tunes, spun with a certain verve, rollicking, good time choruses which must be crooned – not sung - and whole lot of dirt and sawdust and love of things run down, of bourbon shot - not sipped - and beer cold and in a can.
I always found Haggard to be kind of square, as before I realized the cultural treasure of country and western music, all I knew of him was “Okie from Muskogee”, which was featured on the Platoon soundtrack and was used as the musical symbol representing the idea of establishment in the platoon itself. There are two great musical scenes in that movie: in the doper’s den, we get a wild party scene accompanied by Smokey Robinson’s “Tracks of My Tears”—sweetness and light, despite the darkness. And Haggard’s anti-hippie screed, “Okie From Muskogee” accompanies the scene where we spend time with the hardcore, non-dope smoking, hippie hating soldiers under Barnse’s command…two versions of hell, made much more tolerable with music, probably both songs inserted as an aural joke…What's ironic about Haggard's straight-laced stance that he took in "Muskogee" is how it directly opposes his own lifestyle, meaning his well-documented drug and alcohol problems. But C&W music is often more about the story and the real life that is reflects than the sterling souls of those who deliver it all. Fiction, or in this case, song, doesn't need to be the truth, at least not so much as it reflects the reality of the one who writes it. It's the emotional truth that matters, not the actual truth that inspires the story...
As I got older, I started to recognize Haggard’s greatness through the influence he had on younger, modern artists. That’s a long list, but his fingerprints can be found everywhere, from Dwight Yoakam to Eric Church, to Reckless Kelly and a lot in between. When he died, the Washington Post wrote how "Respect for the Hag [Haggard] as an icon, both for his musical status and his personal views, is a common theme in country music.” His Wikipedia page goes on to say part of his ubiquity in country songs is the fact that ‘Merle’ rhymes with ‘girl’ and is therefore an easy phonic device to use in four chord, verse-chorus-verse country tunes—you know, the kind you love to sing along to ‘cause they sit so easy in the part of you that feels so good when you hear a pop song…that’s probably a whole post in itself, too.
The Hag—often imitated, rarely equaled (though, I think of all his disciples, Sturgill Simpson, with his grave, beautiful baritone and poet’s soul, is his best successor). There’s a hell of a band up in heaven this year, you know? I don’t want to be there, not yet, but, it bet things sound great right about now.
My selection from The Hag is one of my faves, not necessarily his best, but then, that kind of subjectivity could be a whole other post…
I'm using "Mama Tried” for my song to accompany this post, which plays on the best of the outlaw country image that is almost it’s own metaphor with these old troubadours, and never, ever gets old…
Pshaw, and to think I thought I knew everything! One of the occasional joys of this nonsense is the need to research learned tomes for the accuracy of assumptions I hold with my steely gravitas. (Wikipedia generally fits the bill for me.) My song has been a staple favourite since I bought the 45 on a record stall in Soho, London, along with other post review "not for sale" knock-offs being sold. Something about it seemed just a little more varied and energetic than the standard 2 bar chug of most other shorthairs clamouring for chart attention. That and the o so witty puntastic name of the band, the Banned, adding, or not, a taste of seedy subculture to the sufficiently young and stupid to be that impressionable. Hell, did they know their demographic! It even got into the hit parade and got them on to the telly, albeit after the "brains" of the operation had left and moved on, probably why I neither twigged nor recognised them from that Top of the Pops moment.
For, in common with not a few others, the Banned were an undercover manoevre from the old guard to sneak some long lost cred and kudos from the changed musical world. Gryphon were about as far from punk and guitars as could ever be conceived possible, being steeped in a mediaeval prog-folk fusion; think Yes with crumhorns. They had carved, or dented slightly, a route through seriously long and lengthily serious and largely instrumental suites, often the entire side of an LP, garnering praise from serious critics, who would die of shame if ever made to think of rock and roll. But their time had passed and I dare say bills still had to paid. So Richard Harvey, recorder player, and Jonathan Davie, bass player, teamed up with a couple of reprobates and bashed out the above. No recorders were harmed, I think it fair to say, in the making of this record..... As I said, they left before success beckoned, returning to worlds of, respectively, film soundtracks and folk music. The remainder couped a couple of new members, before fading away after the wonder of that one hit.
So what did I learn? Only that the song is not an original. Syndicate of Sound, a garage rock band from San Jose had a relatively huge hit with it, in the US, in 1966, reaching number 8 on the billboard chart. And I dare so most of you knew that, questioning my musing on my brit has-been heroes. Here's their version. and you know what? I think it's better, certainly snottier of vocal and, hindsight or not, a whole lot less contrived. And it put paid to my earlier enhanced admiration for Dwight Yoakam, who also covered it more recently, leaving me thinking him a closet punker, before realising he was just recycling a hit from his youth. Damn and drat. Sadly not available on Youtube, but look it out, as it's a corker of a version.
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