I met Danny Schmidt at The Sisters Folk Festival nine years ago. He had invited me to attend, though I am sure he forgot it right away. I know I surprised him. My first words to him as he passed by to play a set in a tented area were “The Longhorns suck” which brought the Look of Death for Danny was and is a fervent Texas Longhorn fan, him having grown up in Austin and all. I realized my mistake right off. He had no idea who I was, having never seen me before. And it wasn’t his best day.
Meet Dan Phelps, if you have not already done so. I first ran across him over a decade ago when he was working with both Bill Pillmore and his daughter Jess Pillmore on their respective albums, Look In Look Out and Reveal. Bill was an original member of Cowboy and I had heard through Scott Boyer, another original member of that venerable band, that he was recording for the first time, to my knowledge, since Cowboy‘s excellent 1971 release, 5’ll Getcha Ten. When I contacted him, he was in full recording mode, working with Phelps, whom he had chosen to produce. To my amazement, Phelps did more than just produce. He was a sideman and a damn good one, a creator of good licks and solid musical ideas. It was a first look at a musician I would follow from that point on.
Continue reading
Please allow me to start this column with an aside. Each year, I compile a list of albums I consider the best. Last year, I picked Lost Leaders‘ self-titled album because it had that indescribable something which made me come back to it again and again. I mean, I love this album!!!
I am being steamrolled. It is a conspiracy, or maybe just the herd instinct. What is the herd instinct? That is the terminology we used when I used to work in retail records when for half an hour people would mill around the store until one came to the register, at which time those remaining followed. We would check out three people in half an hour and suddenly there were fifty people standing in line. Today it would be called WTF? Then, we chalked it up to the herd instinct.
Devon, you have no idea the trouble you have caused me over the years. Since hearing your most excellent Keep Your Silver Shined album back in 2006, I have been a slave to your music. I have written about it and promoted it and played it in the shower. I have taken your music for long romantic drives and have used it as background music for romantic dinners. I have listened to it, all of it, enough to have made it part of my DNA and I have even adopted the Smokey Mountains, though mountains they hardly seem to a guy who grew up at the base of the Cascade Mountains in Oregon. That old Virginia block? My heart broke when you deserted it. You had me convinced that you would never leave the Blue Ridge. I mean, you sang about it!
A couple of years ago— well, maybe a few now— I spent a summer reading and hearing about how this Sheryl Crow track (I can’t think of the title at the moment) was the anthem of the summer and captured everything good about the season. When I finally heard it, my mental jaw dropped. I could not believe that anyone could hear anything inspiring about the song or the performance. It was decent enough, I suppose, but it didn’t make me want to sing or dance or hit the freeway with the top down and sing along at the top of my voice. That’s what an anthem is supposed to do, right? Inspire?
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 