Yesterday I went through all of the private messages I’d shared with Frank Gutch Jr, since I’d first encountered him. It was in 2013, just after I’d begun writing this weekly column, and right from that first message, it was as though we were separated at birth.
Holy shit! I am practically crying, the music gods are being so good to me. Just discovered a band which is killing my brain cells and making me enjoy it! They are called The Claudettes and are out of Chicago and I am in love! Lordy, I must have somehow done something really really good. If I could only figure out what it was…
Tamara Saviano has written a biography of Guy Clark. She dedicated it to Chet Flippo who I know as a music writer and historian who wrote for and edited a series of important zines back in the seventies. The article which struck me the most was the piece he wrote for Phonograph Record Magazine in the March 1974 issue titled “Texas Rock and Roll Spectacular” which broke Texas music into regions and highlighted the most notable musicians. Buddy Holly was in it, of course, as was Doug Sahm and Johnny Winter and Waylon Jennings and even Groovy Joe Poovey, all cited as influential to Texas music. Even Townes Van Zandt got mention and I mention that not in the sense that he did not deserve it but in the sense that Guy Clark, very much a cohort of Van Zandt, was conspicuous in his absence. I have scratched my head over that for years. I can stop scratching. Saviano, in this book, sets the record straight.
There was probably a time when one release would not have meant as much to me as it does today. I worked in the record business for so many years I became jaded, the major labels releasing numerous albums each month and the independents trying to squeeze the few that they had through the stampede. I never really cared about the really big ones— it is a part of me I have had since I was very young, this aversion to the stars— and have learned only within the past ten to fifteen years to really appreciate the significance of the lesser-knowns. I get tired of all the pissing and moaning about how the “new” music biz has watered down the quality of music and allowed the less talented to record massive amounts of lesser works. As if they were lesser.
I review lots of records on a consistent basis and pretty much have a policy of giving each album/EP its due. Usually that means a solid ten listens all the way through with extras for the songs which strike home. The reason? I once listened to an album a couple of times and sent a note to the artist explaining why I could not give it a straight-out five star review. It was possibly the most pompous note I have ever written and one I wish I could have taken back. Ten or so listens later, I gave it that five star review I had so bombastically refused and pledged to give every album from that point on a fair chance— a real fair chance and not one based upon a needledrop (a term which refers to radio in the sixties and seventies when the single was king— disc jockeys and music directors would listen to the first few seconds of each 45 submitted for airplay to “weed the crop”, i.e. to eliminate the clunkers). What? You didn’t think the records charted themselves, did you?
I got a haircut the other day and the guy before me asked for white sidewalls. For those who don’t know, white sidewalls is a euphemism for a buzzcut which pretty much eliminates hair from neck to crown. Marines are poster boys for the style and I jerked my mental knee and mentioned The Marines. Yes, he said, I was a Marine. I looked closely at him and I could see a hard life written on his face, the cracks deep and ancient. His life hadn’t been easy.
I was twenty-three, fresh out of the Army and full of frustration and cynicism. I had spent the last one year, nine months, two days, four hours and thirty-five minutes in what I considered a military prison. Before I was drafted, I was a radical, a hippie, an idealist. Staunchly anti-war, I isolated myself from old friends and family. I smoked dope, joined The Resistance and demonstrated on and off the University of Oregon campus. When I got out of the Army and returned to Eugene, I learned that I hated everyone who displayed bumper stickers or posters which heralded “America— Love It Or Leave It” or “My Country, Right or Wrong” as if they were the Eleventh and Twelfth Commandments. Those who upheld vocal groups like Up With People as true American music became my enemy.
But first, Brian Cullman has a pretty cool video I would like you to watch. He just released his first album in some years (The Opposite of Time) and is actually attempting to put a band together to play a few live gigs. This is something you don’t want to miss, though the audience may be limited to New York where Brian lives. Anyway, just so you know what Brian has to offer, watch this!
Funny. We always remember the stars, the champions, and we always place them at the head of the class even if they were no more than a part of one. This last weekend I spent an inordinate amount of time pondering what the music world would have been like if, say, Led Zeppelin had not become gods to so many and Hendrix and Clapton and Beck had not headed the infamous “best guitarists” lists outfits like Rolling Stone Magazine always roll out when they have nothing else to capture readers’ attentions (seriously, how do you compare Tommy Emmanuel, Eric Clapton, Christopher Parkening, and Phil Keaggy— all exceptional guitarists, all deserving of attention from most who really love the instrument and yet living in completely different worlds.
While working on this weeks column in which I had hoped to give insights into record labels and how they evolved, I realized that much of the music of the past and my attitudes toward it and the business surrounding it needed to be readdressed.
Bullseye Records of Canada
Segarini: Don't Believe a Word I Say 