Maoli Fully Embraces His “Island Country” Point of View

In an era of polarization, social division, and dissent, Glenn Awong, the Hawaiian country reggae star better known as Maoli, believes we’ve all got more in common than not. Awong came to this realization in the late 2010s while he was touring through the US with his band. Show by show, he discovered that life in the American South wasn’t too dissimilar from the cattle ranches and pineapple fields where he grew up on Maui’s North Shore.

Once Awong had those shared realities in mind, he observed that island reggae pop and the soulful sides of country, folk, and bluegrass weren’t that different either. Emboldened, he began to cover popular contemporary country hits like Brett Young’s “Mercy” and “In Case You Didn’t Know,” imbuing their lilting melodies, range-roving rhythms, and plainspoken storytelling with a breezy, coastal shuffle. The results spoke for themselves, catapulting the big-hearted singer into a new tier of success, paving the road towards 2023’s hit-laden Maoli Music Overload album and the innumerable singalong singles that have followed.

Prior to his transformative revelations about island and country, Awong and his band had spent a decade building audiences across Hawaii, the Pacific Islands, and the American West Coast. Once he wholeheartedly embraced his fusion style, the rest of America and locations as far flung as Australia and New Zealand welcomed him with open arms. Since then, it’s been one rodeo after another.

Ultimately, the secret, as Awong has come to understand it, is leaning all the way into his island country upbringing and lifestyle. He didn’t need to disguise himself as someone else. He just needed to be the most unapologetic version of himself.

“I’m really that island guy, but I can go into the country right now and do my rodeo cowboy thing,” he says, grinning from ear to ear on a video call from Maui. “I can hunt, go down to the beach, enjoy a beer, jump in the water and start fishing, all in the same day.”

Several weeks before the release of his latest single, “Runnin’ Me Off” featuring Nashville’s Maddie Font (formerly of Maddie & Tae), Awong spent 45 minutes in conversation with Good Country. Punctuating his thoughts with an infectious laugh, he spoke generously about his musical heroes, island and country life, his experience in Nashville, and the realities of life on the road as an entertainer.

I noticed you follow Aaron Neville on Instagram. What does he mean to your music?

Maoli: Aaron Neville is one of my musical heroes. My grandmother introduced him to me when I was a kid. I was always fascinated by his music. His voice is super unique. He moved me in a way that made me feel like he was the greatest. I used to try to mimic him. You can hear it in my music.

I grew up on his music as well. I was impressed by how effortlessly he could work across genres while always sounding like himself.

I really loved it when he sang a cover of “The Grand Tour” [by George Jones]. I love it more than the original. He’s transcended genre multiple times. He did what I’m trying to do right now. I look up to people who take risks and do things that are not normal. He didn’t limit himself. I love people who take that to heart.

What do you see as the values that underpin your music?

When it comes to country and reggae, it’s really like a lifestyle for me. It’s really who I am. Reggae music comes from Jamaica. Jamaica is an island, but so is Hawaii. We can relate in Hawaii, because we’re both island people. A lot of people don’t get to see this, but in Hawaii, we live country lives as well.

If you weren’t a singer, who do you think you’d be?

I’d probably be some type of farmer or cowboy. I’d probably be cowboying for a living, or I’d be a construction worker, like a lot of people out here. I’d be in some line of labor work.

Which would have probably led you to write songs anyway.

Yeah, that’s true. That’s how songwriting is done. You’re inspired by things that happen around you.

I like how you’ve identified that your music is the outgrowth of a lifestyle.

I see a lot of artists try to copy other people. What they’re missing is that you have to find out who you are. I studied the greats as well, but I always wanted to find my own voice.

What you’re talking about is a durational exercise. It doesn’t happen overnight.

I didn’t find crazy success until five years ago. People don’t understand this, but I was in the game for 15 years before that. I was trying to discover my voice, and it led me back to where it all began, my country lifestyle.

Who are the gold standards for you in country music?

There are so many good country songwriters. Zac Brown is one of them. I love his style, which also comes from that Jimmy Buffett feel. Then Kenny Chesney or George Strait, but I can’t say George was a writer, but I love his songwriters. That type of country. George Jones. I’m an old school guy.

Songwriting, recording, performance. These are all art forms that have to work together. Often, it takes a team.

That’s what I’ve learned in the business. I’ve done covers. I used to get a lot of shit for doing covers. If that’s a crime, you might as well take Whitney Houston and Elvis Presley out of the picture. A lot of your favourite artists do not write their own music.

There’s a process where you find the great songwriters, you find the perfect producer, the perfect engineer, and all that stuff. You gotta create that team. You can’t always do it all yourself. The best of the best have teams.

What are some of your favorite covers to sing, and what did you learn from them?

My favorite cover to play live is “Every Night, Every Morning” [by Maddie & Tae] because that’s the only time I can rest. The crowd sings the whole song. [Laughs] Doing covers helped me as a songwriter. I get to see how these people put these masterpieces together. I don’t just do any cover; it has to move me. The melody and lyrics have to move me.

I thought I was a good songwriter until I went to Nashville and started writing with the best songwriters. They really know what they’re doing. What I learned with them is you gotta have good storytelling, the melodies just gotta come, and all that stuff. It was cool going out there and learning how to write.

What do you think makes a good story?

It has to come from a place of truth. It can’t be fake. I’m not going to name names, but I’ve listened to songs where they’re talking about drinking and partying, and they’ve never touched a beer in their lives. How do you understand that energy if you’ve never partied?

Not everyone will be familiar with the relationship between country music and Hawaii.

People ask me all the time what my shows are like. I always say it’s something you have to experience. It’s the same with our relationship with country music. I’d really have to take you where I’m from so you could see how we live.

Country is country, right?

The country that I love is the songs that really talk about that cowboy life. Hard work, heartbreak, leaving when times are rough, and finding yourself in a bar, drinking your sorrows away. That’s real shit, right there. That’s where the relationship between island and country is very similar in ways. I spent a lot of time in Texas and Nashville. If Polynesians knew how these cowboys really live, they would realize that we’re the same.

If I asked you to name-check some Hawaiian musicians who were combining country and reggae music before you, who would you mention?

I would have to shout out the Kaʻau Crater Boys. They’re the original group that brought country covers and gave them an island reggae feel. I’d also have to say Kapena. Those are the two groups I looked up. They’ve done this stuff longer than I have. I can’t say I created it. They were really popular here. Some people didn’t know their country reggae songs were covers. They became a staple in Hawaii. Even Israel Kamakawiwoʻole, one of our greatest singers, did a cover of “Country Roads” by John Denver. It was one of the biggest songs in Hawaii. People here thought that he wrote it.

At this point, there’s a back-and-forth relationship between American country music and different scenes all over the world.

People don’t always understand. Even for me, when I started going to Nashville, it took me a while to get used to their customs and culture. I would sit in on songwriting sessions with some really incredible songwriters who had written platinum songs and had never heard of me before. I sold 42,000 tickets in Hawaii. I sold out shows in Tahiti and Samoa. I’m not trying to brag, I’m just saying that, for example, I could do all of that, and they still had no idea who I was in Nashville. When they found out who I was and what I could do, they wanted to write with me. If I hadn’t gone there, I wouldn’t have known who they were either.

It’s an interesting situation to be in. When you’re building a career like you have, you might be famous in one country and unknown in another. How do you keep yourself grounded through it all?

I don’t let any of it get to me. I stay neutral. If you tell me I’m the goat, I’ll say thank you. If you tell me I’m a piece of shit, I’ll say thank you. The way I feel is whether I’m selling 42,000 tickets or an unknown in Nashville, I’m the same. You’ve got to be humble in your success. I love going places where they don’t know me, because I can really be myself and not worry about people pulling out their phones to film me.

It seems like a hard thing to navigate in the social media era.

I’ve gotten better at the post-and-ghost thing. When you have a certain level of success, everyone on social media has an opinion. I try to spend as little time as possible on that stuff. There are great things about it as well, but I have a team to handle that stuff. I don’t let it get to me. You can get trapped on social media. Whether what they’re saying is good or bad, you don’t always need to hear it. I don’t want to break my humility. I’m just a regular guy doing my thing.

How important has the West Coast of America been to your growth as an artist?

I think it’s been really important. They were my voice when it came to the States. I started in small little bars with maybe fifty people showing up. I remember playing in venues where I counted 10 people, including security. I just told myself one day I’m gonna sell out arenas. The West Coast really helped me with that. They helped me to cross over to the Midwest and the East Coast, too. The West Coast has always been good to me. I consider them my voice when it comes to the mainland. It all started there.

Those ten people at those shows had a good time, right?

Right! I think the security guards even bought me a couple of drinks. [Laughs]

You must have had some interesting conversations with fans.

People have told me I brought their marriage closer, or I stopped them from committing suicide. There are those people who just come up, say thank you, and tell me they loved the experience. It’s all over the show.

It’s a lot of energy to give out and take in.

It takes a lot of energy to go on stage every night. At the end of the night, I just go back to my bus, green room or hotel, and decompress. It takes a lot, but you get a lot back. I’ve been backstage puking my guts out, or on an IV drip to get hydrated before performing, because I know there is someone in the audience who spent months saving to watch me. I’ve had fans drive 400 miles or fly halfway around the world to see me perform. I don’t take any of that lightly.

Did you watch cowboy movies when you were younger?

I wasn’t really a television guy. We spent a lot of time outdoors. On the weekends, I’d help dad with the pigs and goats, or herding the cows. That was my lifestyle for a long time.

If you could go back, what would you say to that kid?

I would tell that kid to just keep going. Be passionate about what you do, and never give up. They’re going to tell you that you’re crazy, but just keep going. As long as you don’t give up, you’re destined to succeed.

One of the hardest things to master in life is patience. When you’re planting, it takes time. It takes time for the plants to grow and bear fruit. You’re not going to plant the seed and get the fruit tomorrow. You’ve got to water it, let the sun do its thing, and be patient. Everything happens when it’s supposed to happen.


Photo courtesy of the artist.

The Show On The Road – Leo Nocentelli (The Meters)

This week, we dial into New Orleans for a fascinating talk with master funk-guitarist and songwriter Leo Nocentelli. Discerning listeners may known him as the chief groove-creator behind the legendary group The Meters with Art Neville on keyboard, George Porter Jr. on bass, Zigaboo Modeliste on drums. There is no mistaking his soulful dagger-sharp signature sound leading often-sampled treasures like “Sissy Strut” and “Hey Pocky A-Way” (The Beastie Boys were big fans) — or even his slinky masterful backing of Dr. John’s classic Right Place, Wrong Time. But a new generation are learning of Nocentelli from last year’s surprise release of his first and only solo record, the acoustic folk-driven Another Side, which was resurrected and marketed by Light In The Attic Records nearly fifty years after Leo first recorded it.

 

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You don’t usually put your first record out when you’re zooming past your 75th birthday. The story of how Another Side still even exists is quite a yarn (one that Leo goes into great good-humored detail about in the taping) from the master tapes being lost in damage caused by Hurricane Katrina, to a master-copy being found almost impossibly after a storage-unit got foreclosed and the music was traded at a local swap-meet. Hearing him tell it, finding these songs from his younger days, was like finding an essential, lost piece of his soul. The record isn’t polished, but the sense of youthful exploration shines through. He’s searching for his voice in real time.

You wouldn’t think a rock-funk maven like Nocentelli would be inspired by songwriters like James Taylor or Elton John — but in many ways, it was the softer, more yearning, poetic side of rock-n-roll in the early 1970s that intrigued him most when he began writing songs like “Thinking of the Day” in 1972, wondering if his place in the world, his “tomorrow would ever come.” Other standouts like “Riverfront” told the stories he couldn’t tell while penning the Meters’ funky (but often instrumental) dance anthems. With his Meters mates chugging beside him in the studio, he can tell darker, more personal tales about his hard-working friends, like Aaron Neville (who he grew up with in the 7th Ward), and how he used to haul bananas off the boats in New Orleans to get by.

Nocentelli has had his share of ups and downs as a lifer who has rode the tempests of the ever-evolving music industry. It’s a “brutal brutal business” he says at one point — and Leo shares that he had to sell some of his favorite guitars to keep going through the years. The song “Getting Nowhere” leans into the sense of helplessness and frustration many talented session players and touring side-men like him went through when royalties and fame and fortune passed them by as others rose to prominence.

Some things really haven’t changed in fifty years. But only a generational talent like Nocentelli could create sparkling guitar backdrops for artists as diverse as Dr. John, Otis Redding and even Jimmy Buffett, and keep his passion long enough to see new crowds packing houses on tours in 2022. It must be quite the feeling to finally be able to perform his own solo work — a half century after the songs first emerged and were almost lost forever.


BGS Celebrates Black History Month

February is Black History Month and, in celebration, we’ve been going through our archives and re-reading some of our favorite pieces about Black artists working in the roots community. Here are 10 of those stories:

Counsel of Elders: Taj Mahal on Understanding the World — The legendary bluesman shares his knowledge of African music and emotional intelligence in this 2016 interview. Read on to find out why, “If you don’t like my peaches, dont bother me,” are words to live by.

Music Maker Relief Foundation: Keeping the Blues Alive — North Carolina organization Music Maker is one of the most important resources for regional blues musicians hoping to get their music recognized. This interview with founder Timothy Duffy gives an overview of just how they do it. BONUS: Check out Music Maker’s new Black History Month podcast here.

Counsel of Elders: Bobby Rush on Staying Sexy — The title says it all: funky bluesman Bobby Rush offers a crash course in staying sexy, and discusses his newest album, Porcupine Meat.

Squared Roots: Rhiannon Giddens Studies the Songs of Dolly Parton — We learn a bit about how Giddens developed her phenomenal musical craft in this interview. Giddens discusses Parton’s songwriting, feminism and razor-sharp brain.

A Conversation with Jamaal B. Sheats, Director of Fisk University’s Art Galleries — Nashville HBCU Fisk University is home to one of the South’s most impressive collections of visual arts, drawing largely from the personal collection of Georgia O’Keeffe herself. The gallery’s curator speaks about working with the collection, as well as the role of visual art in protest.

Sitch Sessions: Dom Flemons, “Going Down the Road Feeling Bad” — This session with Dom Flemons will forever be one of our favorites, with the former Carolina Chocolate Drop member reimagining one of our most beloved folk songs on a beautiful Portland day.

Lightning Bolt Writing: A Conversation with Yola Carter — Yola Carter is one of the most exciting young acts in roots music. In this interview, she discusses her quick rise to notoriety, a forthcoming debut album and institutional racism.

Son Little and the Truth of Absolutes — The Philadelphia blues artist discusses his musical breakthrough, working with Mavis Staples and the evolution of contemporary R&B in this 2015 interview. 

Aaron Neville: Sharing Edifying Messages in a Dark Time — If musical styles were counted as lifetimes, then Aaron Neville has lived several. Known for his almost instantly recognizable falsetto, Neville has sung in all sorts of flavors throughout his 50-year career: doo wop, pop, gospel, country, soul, funk. You name it, he’s likely sung it.

On Histories, Stories, and Identities: A Conversation with Leyla McCalla — Both literally and figuratively, Leyla McCalla’s music exhibits a web of spatial exchange, particular histories bumping up against one another in ways that reveal their convergences.

Linda Ronstadt: Hasten Down the Wind

In Home Free, his 1977 novel of faded denim hippie dreams, Dan Wakefield described his wandering anti-hero Gene Barrett overhearing a song on a nearby record player as he dozes in a hammock in Maine — Linda Ronstadt singing her folkish country ballad “Long Long Time” in the alto that wafted through many a window in those imperfect, exploratory days. “Gene was glad it was Linda Ronstadt, not someone soppy or sickly sweet,” Wakefield wrote. “Strong. Gutsy. Belting it out. Her voice didn’t seem just to come from the house, but out of the earth, over the water into the rickety little town and the scrubland and forest beyond it.”

Beginning in the 1970s, Linda Ronstadt’s singing has had that kind of geological effect throughout popular music: steadying, seemingly able to erase time and trends within one flow of feeling that goes below the surface and the deeper strata of American consciousness. In a time of fading utopian hopes, she emerged as an emissary able to connect old musical ways with the new consciousness of her own maverick generation. “She is offering us something very valuable for the '70s: not a fantasy figure, but a reality figure,” wrote the rock scribe Tom Nolan in 1974. Raised on country and the ranchera music that echoed through her Tuscon, Arizona, neighborhood, Ronstadt sang with a verve and directness that eradicated the pretentiousness that could sometimes afflict the children of the counterculture. Album titles like Hand Sown…Home Grown, Simple Dreams, and Hasten Down the Wind celebrated a naturalness that was complemented by a meticulous attention to musical detail and one of the greatest ears of the rock era.

Those who underestimate Ronstadt as a pretty face and voice who rose to fame on the power of others’ songwriting and production talents — and there have been far too many in that camp — are ignorant. From her teenage days in the folk trio the Stone Poneys, Ronstadt developed a persona that spoke profoundly to women waking up to the way many men had condescended to them throughout the early years of the supposed sexual revolution. She was an everywoman who, instead of building a world through songwriting, did so by taking on others’ words and melodies and reshaping them with intelligence and boundless energy. She grew up in public through her recordings. In 1971, when she was 25, she told a reporter that she didn’t have the voice to do soul music; by 1974, she’d developed her own style of testifying that made her funky reinterpretation of Dee Dee Warwick’s 1963 shouter “You’re No Good” into a number one hit, one she’d follow up by reinvigorating songs by Martha and the Vandellas, Chuck Berry, Roy Orbison, and the Everly Brothers, among others. At the same time, she continued championing her own peers, who played on her most successful albums. She was that woman who, like so many others, did the real power lifting within a scene dominated by self-styled heroic men.

When the multi-platinum success of her fifth album, Heart Like a Wheel, sent Ronstadt into the arena-rock stratosphere, she became the premium interpreter of an American songbook that she’s continued to redefine throughout her career. It now includes everything from George Gershwin and Cole Porter to early rock 'n' roll, the Nashville sound, Mexican canciones, Laurel Canyon balladry, Cajun two-steps, and the punkish sounds of New Wave. She developed her singular eclecticism, in part, as a way of coping with a music industry that would have kept her in a stadium-sized box — she hated playing those big venues, ripping up her voice in front of anonymous-feeling hordes — and turned to theater music and standards as a way of reclaiming her right to be a subtle interpreter. "Your musical soul is like facets of a jewel, and you stick out one facet at a time," she said in a retrospective interview in 2003.

Even as a teenager, when lesser musical adventurers would fall into a rut, Ronstadt would change course. Setting forth on a solo career after early success with the Stone Poneys trio challenged the boundaries of strummable folk music by foregrounding its connections to country and becoming as much an inventor of country rock as was Gram Parsons or the Eagles, who famously formed as her backing band. After finding a niche as the patron of her L.A. neighbors, from Warren Zevon to Randy Newman and Jackson Browne, she teamed up with producer Peter Asher to hone that rocked-up pop sound that made her a superstar. Throughout her career, she would return to that sound which, in turn, became hugely influential, forming part of the bedrock of many future stars’ styles, from Olivia Newton-John to Sheryl Crow to Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and Carrie Underwood.

Meanwhile, Ronstadt became a producer herself, an extension, in some ways, of her role as a brilliant collaborator. Her work behind the boards with the soul legend Aaron Neville, for example, complements her many beautiful duets with him. Her deep love of harmony singing, along with her dedication to uplifting the women with whom she feels the deepest musical kinship, led her to form one of the most beloved vocal groups in recent pop memory — Trio, her project with Dolly Parton and Emmylou Harris. “I always mean to be a singer, not a star,” she said when the second Trio album was released in 1999. In fact, Ronstadt’s stardom has been predicated upon her ability to consistently remind listeners that to sing is to cultivate a space where all the trappings of the moment — fashion, fame — fall away, a space of pure joy and sensual release.

Linda Ronstadt can no longer call that space into being in real time, having lost her voice to Parkinson’s disease in 2013. But she remains a bright spirit: the author of a revelatory book, Simple Dreams: A Musical Memoir, and a role model for a new generation of musical boundary breakers. And through her immortal recordings, her voice still permeates the soil of our consciousness, a clear liquid presence easing our minds and, by example, urging us to continue challenging ourselves. A natural gift beautifully cultivated, Linda Ronstadt’s legacy still challenges us to be more free, even as it hastens down the wind.


Ann Powers is critic and correspondent for NPR Music and the author of several books, including Good Booty: Love and Sex, Black and White, Body and Soul in American Music, forthcoming from Dey Street Books in 2017.

Lede illustration by Cat Ferraz.

3X3: Chris Staples on Paul Newman, Deion Sanders, and Jerry Reed

Artist: Chris Staples
Hometown: Pensacola, FL
Latest Album: Golden Age
Personal Nicknames: Stapes, Bunzoli, Staple Back, Alphonso Bunzoli, Buns

 

Picked up a few straglers for our drive to albuquerque. Playing at low sprits tonight with @rockyvotolato

A photo posted by Chris Staples (@chrisstaplesyo) on

What song do you wish you had written?
"Guitar Man" by Jerry Reed

If money were no object, where would you live and what would you do?
I would have a ranch somewhere, maybe in Oregon or Washington. Have a bunch of guest houses, a fishing pond, and a studio.

If the After-Life exists, what song will be playing when you arrive? 
"Don’t Take Away My Heaven" by Aaron Neville

How often do you do laundry?
My girlfriend does my laundry every day. I tell her not to, but she just likes doing laundry, I guess.

What was the last movie that you really loved?
I’m not sure that I loved it, but that new movie Green Room is pretty rattling.  I absolutely love the classic movie The Hustler with Paul Newman.

What's your favorite culinary spice? 
Basil

 

Man Seeking Palo Santo.

A photo posted by Chris Staples (@chrisstaplesyo) on

Morning person or night owl?
Night owl, of course.

Who is your favorite Sanders — Bernie or Colonel?
Deion

Coffee or tea?
Coffee by a long shot.


Photo credit: Jenny Jimenez

Aaron Neville: Sharing Edifying Messages in a Dark Time

If musical styles were counted as lifetimes, then Aaron Neville has lived several. Known for his almost instantly recognizable falsetto, Neville has sung in all sorts of flavors throughout his 50-year career: doo wop, pop, gospel, country, soul, funk. You name it, he’s likely sung it. He rose to fame on the success of his 1966 R&B single “Tell It Like It Is,” but later performed funkier, grittier music with his brothers Art, Charles, and Cyril in the Neville Brothers. Then, of course, came the duets with Linda Ronstadt and Tricia Yearwood, which earned him three Grammys.

But while he’s matched his voice to many moods, it’s his newest album, Apache, that shows off a deeper, more intimate side to the singer. Combining many of the sounds that have informed his impressive repertoire, Apache feels like Neville’s big personal statement — one that just so happens to arrive as he turns 75 years old. He penned most of the album’s 11 tracks, setting his poetry to music as he’s done before in the past for the occasional song. “The stars had to be aligned and everything,” he says about why he waited so long to complete this project.

Listening to him now, it sounds as though he’s got as much vocal power as he ever did. Neville credits his regular workout routine with keeping him young, but beyond that, he cares for his voice with a mixture of apple cider vinegar, honey, and cayenne pepper, and regularly flexes his talent rather than let it atrophy. Speaking about growing older and the physical limitations it can bring, he says, “If you don’t use your legs, one day you’re going to get up and your legs are going to say, ‘No, I’m not doing that.’” The same goes for his voice. “I have to sing a lot. In the place [his wife Sarah and he] got out in the country, I can sing loud as I want. I’m not bothering nobody. In New York, in the apartment, I gotta sing soft, because I don’t wanna mess with the neighbors.” If it sounds like listening to your neighbor Aaron Neville sing would be the best dinner party story to share with friends, he only chuckles at the thought.

The one element defining Apache more than any other is its strong New Orleans vibe. It bubbles up in nearly every song, as if Neville had — to borrow a cliché oft ascribed to the Crescent City — created a delicious gumbo. Originally from New Orleans, Neville now lives in New York, but he hasn’t lost sight of the city that birthed him. “New Orleans is my mother and father,” he says. “It raised me. I used to drink that Mississippi River water.” Listening to the first track, “Be Your Man,” that water lingers still in Neville’s blood. With big horns leading off the song (thanks to David Guy and Cochemea Gastelum — two parts of Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings — Ryan Zoldis, and Eric Bloom), it’s a striking departure compared to the cover work Neville has put out in recent years. If it weren’t for his voice interjecting a soft “oooh” at the 12-second mark, it would be hard to pin it to the singer in 2016. The song feels straight out of his early days with the Neville Brothers mixed with a touch of the Meters’ flare and a dash of Incredible Bongo Band’s rhythm for good measure. Added to all that, there’s the ineluctable something that makes its way into all his music thanks to his vocals.

Neville channels New Orleans most especially on “Stompin’ Ground,” when he invokes the places, family, and friends who shaped him. “When I wrote this poem, I started thinking about the people that passed through my life and that meant something to me,” he explains. “Like the first one [he mentions], ‘Mole Face and Melvin.’ I’m Mole Face, that’s me and my friend Melvin. They used to call us that because we used to go through different neighborhoods looking for girls back in the day, and we’d get in fights.” He sees the difference between then and now most starkly in the way young men choose to settle their arguments. “Back then, we’d get in a fight, but the next evening, we’d have respect for each other — we’d be playing basketball with the same guys. Now, they killing up each other. It’s nuts. ‘You diss me, so now I gotta take you out,’ you know.”

 

Besides the strong New Orleans feel running throughout, Apache contains message after message — some social, some political, some environmental, and some just good ol’ fashioned wisdom about love and respect. “People don’t realize, when you born, you have a package deal,” Neville says. “People live like they ain’t got an expiration date, but I mean it’s what you do in between. Don’t make it a blank check, don’t make it about ‘Me Me Me.’ Reach out and help people on the way. Make your life meaningful.” Meaning arises most clearly on “Fragile World,” which encourages people to treat the planet better, and “Judgin’,” which encourages them to treat one another better. “You never know what someone else is going through,” he says discussing “Judgin’.” “One of the Native Americans had a thing saying there are two wolves inside of each other — one is evil, one is good. You gotta fight the evil one off.” Neville believes his messages come from a higher power. It’s his purpose to act as conduit, sharing them with listeners and, hopefully, shifting what the world appears to value. “You know, I cannot plan to write anything. I have to be inspired. It’s like somebody’s telling me the words and I just write it out.”

The arrival of the conscientious Apache could not be timelier, and Neville is already aware of how hungry the world is for something edifying. He says, “There’s a lot of fear and hate and envy. I don’t know what’s in the air, but I pray.” He was deeply struck by the nearly back-to-back shootings of Alton Sterling in Louisiana and Philando Castile in Minnesota. “I put something on Facebook the other night after the …,” he begins, his voice trailing off but failing to finish the thought because the words grow too heavy. “I got kind of emotional because I had a flashback of me and my brother Cyril in New Orleans back in the '60s about to have a confrontation with the police and it was … wolves, they were the evil wolves back then. You couldn’t stand on the sidewalk or nothing, they’d come and harass us. I started crying and my wife said, ‘What’s the matter?’ I said, ‘I don’t know. I just got emotional. I had a flashback and I thought that could’ve been me back and then and they …’ so you know that’s got to stop.”

But rather than the divisive narrative that has been trying to pop up about Black Lives Matter versus Blue Lives Matter, Neville doesn’t see things painted in such stark opposition. Harkening back once again to the Native American phrase that resonates with him, he says, “They’ve got great police, and we need the police, but there are some wolves out there, and they’re on a mission. They’ve gotta kinda get in and weed it out. Have a better training program or whatever. Do whatever you can to save a life. Life is precious and life is a present to us from God, and he’s the only one who has a right to take it.”

As much as his newest album is about communicating something positive at a dark time, don’t consider it a swan song. Apache is not a coda for Neville’s career. It is a persona freed from any one constraint and allowed, instead, to bask in the freedom that blurring boundaries brings and the messages that result. Neville has more poetry — he is constantly writing, jotting down this and that on his iPhone — and plans on setting more of it to music. There’s no slowing down, especially since he knows he doesn’t have forever. “I want to sing until the creative say, ‘That’s enough.’ Until then, I wanna do it and I’m gonna keep on singing loud out in the country and hitting notes, and stay in the gym,” he laughs.


Lede illustration by Cat Ferraz.