Keep It Simple, Stupid!

     I woke up this morning about 4am with one of my old songs in my brain. It was something I had written in the very early 1980s. I could remember almost all of the lyrics, except for the beginning of the second verse. After getting up out of the bed, and moving around a little bit, the words all came back to me. I even remembered the chord changes and melody. I also realized what a pretentious piece of work it was.

     At the time that I wrote it, I was listening to a lot of Townes Van Zandt's music. I was playing in college town bars, and covering songs by him, Kris Kristofferson, and Jesse Winchester, in addition to Hank Williams, Sonny Boy Williamson, and some country, rockabilly, and old-time rock 'n' roll tunes. I was starting to hang out with other writers who read books, and poetry, listened to traditional folk music and blues, and told exciting and exotic (or so it seemed to me) stories. I slipped right into a "Let me show off my vocabulary. Surely people will be amazed" phase.

RENEGADE
You try to burn your bridges down the moment that they're built
Into my mind you've plunged confusion way up past the hilt
You rash rapacious renegade you burning shooting star
Unfortunate mistake I made and the consequential scar

     Oh oh renegade
     Oh oh renegade

Love me for a little while and stay 'til you must leave
But please don't tell me stories you don't want me to believe
A Rapunzel or a rapparee a lover or a thief
Your indecision instigates my flux from mirth to grief

     Oh oh renegade
     Oh oh renegade
     Oh oh renegade
     Oh oh renegade

     The crowd I was running with all seemed to really like the song. The girl I wrote it about even wrote a reply song (the next day) called "Renegade Woman", letting me know that she only wanted me when she wanted me, and she certainly didn't need me. In spite of the fact that my love life was virtually non-existent, I was quite impressed with myself, even though I often felt like I couldn't hold a candle to some of my "peers".

     But at some point I came to the realization that people's eyes would glaze over if I pulled out a song like that at a campfire or dive bar. I had to face the fact that I wasn't writing songs for English professors, and that I had a better chance of communicating with people if I wrote songs with words that more people understood. In certain circles, the songs went over fine, but intellectuals and artistes are such a niche market. Nobody talked the way I wrote songs, at least not contemporaneously.

     I began to choose my words more carefully. I found that my songs that sounded like the way people actually talked got a much warmer reception than the ones that audiences needed a dictionary to listen to (and in fact were often written with one open in front of me). Not to say, I won't throw a challenging "fifty cent word" into a song these days, but the ten dollar ones are generally nowhere in sight, nor within earshot. Polysyllabic can be problematic, so I have learned to keep it simple.

It's much less complicated that way.

A Heckuva Day

     I had a heckuva day on Saturday. Woke up way too early, had breakfast, wrote a blog piece, and got in the car by 6:00am.

     The weather and the traffic weren't too bad. Rolled through Nashville and Chattanooga, and into Atlanta before I ran into trouble. Traffic was stopped on I-285. Too many people were trying take the exit onto I-85 North. Fortunately "Haunted Man" by Rod Picott came up in the shuffle and significantly mellowed the mood. 

 

      I was crossing the South Carolina state line on I-85 just north of Lavonia, Georgia (where Michael Curtis Branch's listeners have made my song "Inside That Box" a staple on his "Breakfast With Porkchop" radio show) when "Desert Skies" by The Marshall Tucker Band came on. I thought "I guess I am supposed to be in South Carolina tonight."

      I got to Greenwood and found my hotel, stretched out for a few minutes, and then took a shower.

      Soundcheck was at 4:00pm. I headed over, met up with event organizers Trey Ward and Frank Elliott, tuned up my guitar, and climbed up on a stool center stage. Greenwood Community Theatre has great acoustics, and the soundman knows his stuff, so two half-songs later I was done checking.

      Byron Hill and Wil Nance showed up for their soundcheck. Between them, they have written several truckloads of great country songs, and they were the headliners for that night's Nashville Songwriters Benefit for Make-A-Wish South Carolina concert. I had met Byron before, and certainly knew about his songwriting success, but I had never met Wil.

       After soundcheck, we all strolled over to Montague's Restaurant for dinner. Montague's was one of the sponsors of the event, and our dinner was on the house. The food, the service, and the atmosphere were all excellent, as was the company. We talked about everything except songwriting...our various gastrointestinal issues, history, food, arthritis, and how beautiful Greenwood is.

      Trey kicked off the show with a few of his songs about 7:00pm, accompanied by David Tilley. They play together on a pretty regular basis, and David's sweet touch on the guitar adds another beautiful layer to the songs that Trey writes. They played several heart-rending Bluegrass songs, and then ended with "Second Hand Spit". Trey and David pretty much knocked the crowd dead. It was my job to resuscitate them so that Byron and Wil could lay them out again.

       I played a mix of songs from my CDs "What's Not To Love About That?" and "One More Night In Nashville", along with two songs that I have not yet recorded. I was well-received, although I was afraid that I might have gotten a little too weird for the crowd when I played "Can't Cut The Baby In Half". I told a few stories, and generally acted like a fool, but nobody threw anything. It was fun.

      Byron and Wil came on, and Wil started with this song that he wrote for George Strait...

 

     

...and it only got better from there. Those guys had so many big songs (including Byron's first #1.. which was also George Strait's first #1 "Fool Hearted Memory") that I can't even list them all. The near-capacity crowd definitely got their money's worth, and Make-A-Wish South Carolina is well on their way to making another child's dream come true. My dream of sharing stages with big hit songwriters is already coming true.

     After the show, I had the opportunity to hang out with an old college buddy who had the adjoining room to mine at the hotel. Bill Roberson and I were in theatre together at East Carolina University. He has since gone on to act in "Forrest Gump", "Radio", "Patch Adams", and a bunch of other film and television spots. Here's an Oscar Meyer commercial he did recently.

 

      Bill and his wife, and a friend of theirs from Columbia were great company, and we sat up until well after midnight, when I excused myself and crawled off to sleep.

      Did I mention that I had a heckuva day on Saturday?

 

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.