The Goose That Lays The Golden Age

     I don't do a lot of writers' rounds in Nashville any more. When I do, it's usually because somebody has invited me to be a part of one that they are putting together. I very seldom schedule my own.
     When I first came to town, I played out all the time. It seemed like a good way to meet other writers, and possibly make industry connections. I have some great friends that I met while playing my songs, or waiting my turn to play my songs. I was living here without my family, and trying to make the most of my time. I went just about anywhere I could in order to share my music with people. I have often joked that if there was a gas station in Antioch with an open mic on a Sunday night, I was there.
     I still go out from time to time. I enjoy going to the Douglas Corner Café, where my friend (and hero) Donnie Winters hosts an open mic on Tuesdays. I even put the bartender Rhonda Wey in a song on my "One More Night In Nashville" album. I enjoy the camaraderie there, and the picking on the back deck usually outshines what's going on inside.
     Mostly, I just got tired of playing the Nashville writers' nights game. There is almost nowhere in Nashville for a songwriter to do more than two or three songs, and those are usually interspersed with other writers doing their two or three songs. Most writers' nights in Nashville are a way for the venues to get free entertainment, and to make money off of the writers. They usually aren't real particular about the level of talent as long as they have people in the seats spending money. I go out of town and play shows of 2+ hours of all original material. I get paid, respected, and usually fed well by venue owners. I get to show more than the tip of my catalog's iceberg to audiences who are appreciative. It feels pretty good. Then I come back to town to a scene that doesn't support its lifeblood at all. They expect you to be excited to come to their venue and spend money while waiting your turn to perform for no compensation, and often while sitting through performances that aren't worth the time it takes to listen to. I can cook better food at home than what's offered at most music venues. Why should I want to spend $30 or more for my wife and I to have dinner at a place where I am performing for free? I can't remember the last time I was even offered a free soft drink at one of these places, much less anything to eat.
      I should mention here that Ri'chard's Café (which is just two hills over from where I live, and only five minutes in the car) in Whites Creek lets me play from 45 minutes to an hour by myself. They don't pay me, but they feed my wife and me, and I usually get some good tips. It's a deal for them, and I'm okay with it. We're scratching each other's backs.
     I get approached all the time by folks who want me to come play at their "writers' night at this new place". I mostly make excuses not to say 'yes". I was recently contacted by a friend who was starting a night at an upscale bakery in Bellevue. He was booking some great writers and performers. The menu at the place looked interesting. He said he would check with the owners to see about some consideration, food-and-drink-wise. It turns out that there was none, but I didn't find that out until I got to the venue. I brought two of my friends who are world-class performers. We had an hour. Basically, four songs apiece, but we also played and sang along with each other. We rocked that joint. It was fun. I knew the host was trying build up something good, so I agreed to do it again in February.
     I got a message this morning from my friend, the host. It seems that the venue owner wants to "age format" the writers' night, and is demanding that I add at least one "younger" writer to my round. She wants to cut the music back from three hours to two, and have at least one-third "younger" writers. Never mind that the writers who have been performing have written and/or produced huge hits (one of them is in the Thumbpicker's Hall Of Fame), bring crowds that spend money, and can generally be twice as entertaining as many performers half their age.
     I'm not knocking younger writers. I know some brilliant ones. Sometimes I'm in rounds with them. They are good because they are good, not because they are young. The notion that younger is better is misguided at best, and I won't be there to witness it when (if) this venue owner realizes the error of her ways. I even told my friend to tell her she could kiss my ass, and I don't generally talk that way. He said that he wouldn't tell her that, I told him to tell her I said it. Some of the writers have said that they don't think it's right, but they will play anyway. That's not me. I wish more people would stand up for the fact that the venue owners need people like us way more than we need people like them.
    None of us are getting any younger, but some of us are still getting better.
    Happy New Year!

The Dry Mouth Of Fear

        

         I had a bit of a scare at The Bluebird Cafe last night.
         There were ten writers on the bill, leading up to a featured set by the ever-irascible J. Fred Knobloch, who is a wonderfully cantankerous performer. I was the eighth writer to go on. As I often do when I'm that far down the list, I opted to stay outside after I checked in with host Steve Goodie. The music is pumped outside. I get a chance to visit with folks, and someone who wouldn't otherwise get a seat for the show gets to go in. A lot of folks travel great distances only to be told "Sorry. We're full." I try to make sure that at least one person doesn't have that lousy experience.
           When the weather is as nice as it was last night, I'll leave my guitar in the trunk of my car until about 20 minutes before I go on. Then I'll get it out, check the tuning, and play a little bit to loosen up my rapidly-getting-old fingers.
            Last night, I walked over the car, opened the trunk, and...NO GUITAR!
            I knew I had carried it out of the house, so I quickly looked in the back seat, and then in the trunk again (as if it would materialize there since the last time I looked.) I remembered checking to see if I had CDs in the pouch on the front of the case after I arrived at the Bluebird, so then I started worrying that maybe I hadn't locked the car after doing so. It was a terrible moment when I had to face the possibility that someone had seen me put it in the trunk and had misappropriated it while I wasn't paying attention.
           I could surely borrow a guitar to play some songs, but I wouldn't have my harmonicas, and how would I replace my gear? I was feeling worse by the second. I went to the door and asked the girl who was working if she remembered whether or not I had carried a guitar in when I went to check in with Steve. She didn't remember, but thought that maybe I had.
           Sure enough, it was leaning up against the corner of the bar and the sound booth.
           I was feeling much better, but I was shaking hard from the adrenaline. I still hadn't settled down by the time I got onstage. The crowd didn't seem to realize how torqued I was. In fact, I sold ten CDs after my set, but have you ever tried to play the harmonica while experiencing the Dry Mouth of Fear?
Let's hope that there is never a repeat of that performance.

I Don't Care Who You Think You Are...

          Interesting night tonight at the “The Taste OF TSAI” event. I was scheduled to go on at 6:00pm with three other writers for an hour. One of the writers showed up with an extra (and unannounced) guitarist in tow. I had never known her to need an accompanist before, but suddenly there were five guitars and only four direct inputs for the PA. Only three of the mic stands had booms on them, making it difficult to hold a guitar and sing in the mic at the same time. We decided (with the blessing of the person organizing the event) that the best way to handle it was for half of the group to play the first half hour and then the other half play the second half hour. It seemed like a good solution for making the best of an awkward situation.

          At the end of the first half hour, two people left the stage. The accompanist stood up there tuning his guitar while the emcee talked and we tried to get set up for our half hour. Then the emcee announced us and added “Accompanied by Accompanist”. That was news to me, so  I turned to the guy and told him that I would rather that he didn’t play on my songs. (He doesn’t know them, and I’m used to doing the solo thing.) Steve (the other writer) said he would prefer that I go first, so I did. I started with “My Dog Jesus”, since there were a lot of folks there who had never heard me before. Then Steve did a song.

          When I stepped up to the mic for my second song,  Accompanist said “I’m doing one now.”

          I said “Really?”

          He said “Yeah!”.

          I unplugged my guitar and walked off stage. He started playing. The soundman (who was already having issues with Accompanist) asked me what was going on. I told him I got booted. I was ready to pack up and leave. Nina told me that she thought it looked bad, and that I should get back up. The soundman went looking for the organizer, who came up to me and asked “What’s he doing up there? He’s not on the bill.” I told him what had happened, and told me “Oh, no…you need to get back up there.”

          So I got back up and played “Dickel, Strait & Jones”. Steve did another song. I got ready to launch into my third song.

          Accompanist goes “I’m going to do another one.”

          I said “No. you’re not. You’re not part of this round. You weren’t invited, and your name is not on the bill. You’ve already taken one person’s slot.”

          He acted like I had spit on him. “I’ve already taken one person’s slot?” He unplugged his guitar while telling me “You’re a real jewel, you know that?” Then he stormed off the front of the stage while shouting “You don’t ever have to worry about me working with you again!”

          I stated that he never was working with me in the first place, and that he had crashed the round.  He flew through the crowd to wherever his guitar case was.

          I was pretty torqued at that point, so I decided to do a happy song, and told the crowd so. I launched into “What’s Not To Love”, and of course I had the wrong harmonica in the rack. Swapped harps and kicked it off again. Roared through the song, and took my bows. I was headed to the green room to put my guitar in the case, when accompanist walked by me in the crowd and says at the top of his lungs “You’re a real dick!” I kept walking.

         I was in the green room putting my guitar up, when he comes in and accosts me.

        “You’re a real asshole! You should never say on a mic that somebody crashed a round.”

        “That’s exactly what you did. You weren’t invited. Your name was not on the bill.”

        “They told me that I was going to accompany her and then be in the round.”

         I asked who “they” were.

        He told me "they" were the writer who he was there to play with and the organizer.

         I said “That’s funny, because the organizer asked me what you were doing up there.”

        He reiterated that he thought I was an asshole.
         I told him he needed to go look in the mirror.
        He turned away,  shouting “Go fuck yourself!” as he stalked out of the green room.

         I found myself wishing I was the kind of guy who would stomp a mudhole in somebody who acted like that, but fortunately I am not.

        Accompanist was in a one-hit-wonder band in the ‘60s, and hangs around Nashville pretending to something he’s not, all the while pretending to not be what he is…a self-aggrandizing opportunist. He sure hated getting called on it. I hated that I brought that drama to an otherwise fun event, but somebody had to say “That ain’t right!” I guess I got nominated. I sure didn’t enjoy it.

Addendum...because a lot of people have asked and/or wrongly assumed the identity of the perpetrator, it was NOT my friend Gary Talley. He has way more class than that. And besides, The Boxtops had more than one hit.

Liquor? I Hardly Know Her! Part 1: Jack In Common

         

          I've been thinking lately about how all the research I did when I was younger has helped me write drinking and barroom songs now that I'm sober (32 years!). One of the first songs that comes to my mind is the third song I ever wrote with my friend Bo Thomas Biermann. Bo is one of the better singers I've ever met, and a pretty danged good writer, but he is much happier as a small town guy who goes fishing after work and surfing in the summertime. Good for him for figuring that out.
          Bo showed up at my one bedroom dump apartment on 18th Avenue one day in early '06 with a hook idea " I chose the bottle, but she chose the Bible, and we don't have Jack in Common anymore" that in and of itself was not bad, but being who I am, I insisted on us changing it. We ended up writing a boy-meets-girl from a different walk of life-over a couple of shots of whiskey song called "Jack In Common". I recorded it with producer Duane Sciacqua, and it became the leadoff track on my 2009 CD "What's Not To Love About That?". Bo sang the harmonies, and his then-girlfriend Jessica Brooks sang a duet with me on the last chorus.
          Around the time that we wrote the song, my friend Suzy Q (Susan Davis) came out to visit from North Carolina. At one point she told me "I've heard that song twice since I've been here, and there's a part that has bothered me both times. It's when you say 'A little boy said'. I don't think a little boy has any business in the bar, much less in the song." Bo and I laughed and explained to her that we were saying "a little voice". I have been much more careful with my enunciation since then.
          I once sold a copy of the CD to a guy who heard me play at the Luna Star Café in North Miami. He took it to a party where everyone was apparently getting hammered and played it for the partygoers. That turned into an immediate scavenger hunt for Jack Daniels-related articles. He sent me an email and asked for my mailing address (which I am fairly protective of) and said he wanted to send me a gift. After explaining to him that my home was my refuge where I hide out when I'm not on the road and that neither my wife, nor I, nor our psycho dog appreciated uninvited "guests", I told him I would be happy to receive a token of their appreciation. Several days later, a package arrived. In it was a bottle of Jack Daniels Honey Dijon Mustard and half of a nice coaster set emblazoned with the Jack Daniels logo.
     I guess I'm living the life...and reaping the benefits...but I still won't drink to that.
     Cheers!

The Heart Of a Hobo

                                  THE HEART OF A HOBO

          My late friend Billy Phillips once told me that he had

originally moved to Nashville to be a Gospel singer. Billy had Muscular Dystrophy, and by the time I first met him at Bobby’s Idle Hour Tavern, he was pretty much confined to a wheelchair. He told me that at one time earlier in life he had been able to walk, and even though he was a “wheelie”, he felt certain that he would walk again one day.

          Billy also had a great love of classic country music, and after a few of my songs caught his ear (and his heart) we started having conversations about songs, songwriters, songwriting, and life in general. We became pretty good friends.

          Billy used to sing at a soup kitchen that operated on Mondays at a church in Madison. It was a regular thing for him and he loved sharing songs with the folks who came in for what might have been their only good meal of the week. He called me up one day and invited me over there to play.
          While we were on the phone, he told me that he had a soft spot for homeless folks, and that his father had been a hobo. Billy grew up around traveling folks, and their family home was often populated with transient types that needed a place to lay their burdens down for a spell. One family had stayed with them awhile and left owing Billy’s family some money. They left behind the only thing they had of value, which was a box full of classic country record albums. That’s where Billy got his first taste of what eventually brought us into each other’s lives.

          While we were having this conversation, Billy said “I guess God gave me a heart for the hobo.”  My immediate response was “That sounds like a great hook for a song”. We had never written anything together and decided that it was past time for us to remedy that fact. A few days later I went over to the house he shared with his girlfriend around the corner from the church with the soup kitchen.

          Billy was laid up on the couch. I pulled up a chair and we started discussing where this hook would take us. After a little discussion, we came to the conclusion that the hook was a little clunky and would be awkward to sing, so we changed it to “God gave him the heart of a hobo”, which seemed like a better alternative. We talked about it a little bit, tossing ideas back and forth, when suddenly I had a thought. I said “What if God literally did give him the heart of a hobo…as in a transplant from a dead homeless guy?” Billy’s eyes got real big and he stared at me for a minute before asking “Can we say that in a country song?” I told him we could say whatever we wanted to because we were the ones writing the song. Furthermore, if he didn’t want to write songs like that, he shouldn’t call me up, because I was prone to write things from a different angle than most folks.  He was good with that.

          It took us a while, but we finally came up with the song “The Heart Of A Hobo”.

                 R.I.P. Billy...and teach them angels this song.

Small World Tour: Day 1

SMALL WORLD TOUR...DAY ONE: Wednesday morning we said "hasta la vista" to Sadie dog, the chickens, and the homestead, and left them in the capable hands of our trusty caretaker. We pulled out on the road on the tail end of rush hour and headed east in the Nissan Versa tour bus to the strains of Tom Russell's "The Rose Of The San Joaquin" CD. The weather was beautiful, traffic was light, cruising was easy. One gas stop, three rest areas, and a Bojangle's later, we pulled into Garner, North Carolina, hometown of "American Idol's" Scotty McCreery, and the town where I spent my high school years dreaming about being anywhere else but. Hugged my mama's neck and visited for a little bit.
We left there,and went to gas up again. While I was pumping, a fellow walked up and asked about my license plate.
"Tennessee" I told him.
"Whereabouts?" he asked.
"Nashville."
"Nashville? Do you know a guy named Cal Freeman?"
It turns out I do. Cal played pedal steel for Gatemouth Brown at the same time my friend Joe Sunseri was Gate's sax man. Cal had lived in Garner for a spell. I told this fellow that I had been to Cal's house when he lived locally. The guy says "I was his roommate. I remember you. You had a song about seeing red." I guess he did remember me. Small world.
Then we headed into Raleigh to the Berkeley Cafe, a place I have played a million times. Steve Howell and I were (some of, if not) the first musicians to play there. We had a "do-grass bluo" called The Lonesome Hound Dog Whales that played some original songs at a poetry reading there, prompting then-owner John Blomquist to start up a musician's open mic. The Berkeley has recently been bought and completely renovated by the owner of the recently closed and sadly missed Sadlack's Heroes. (Another place I have played a bunch,) Mike Spence and Rickey Bacchus were at their stations behind the bar. Bill Hickman was serving up his Wednesday Night Taco Special. Open Mic was in full swing. I went out and played a few songs for the hardcores on the back patio while awaiting my turn to perform.
Debbie Baggett and Jennifer Sanders were there. It was almost like Old Home Week(night). I played my allotted three songs "You Done Done It Now", "Inside That Box", and "My Dog Jesus". By popular demand, I played one more...A singalong of "What's Not To Love?". It was kick playing in the Berkeley again after so many years.
After a few more hugs and handshakes, we headed off for some much needed sleep.