Artist:The Reverend Shawn Amos Hometown: California immigrant, Texas resident Song: “Baby Please Don’t Go” Album:The Cause of It All Release Date: May 21, 2021
In Their Words: “‘Baby Please Don’t Go’ is quintessential blues. Ours is an amalgam of various versions, and closest to Muddy Waters’. This is another example of us bringing blues back the parlors of the 1920s and ‘30s. What if Muddy Waters was more of a contemporary of Scott Joplin than Little Walter? It’s proof the blues dresses up nicely while keeping its outsider status.” — The Reverend Shawn Amos
Artist:Sunny War Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee Latest Album:Simple Syrup Personal Nicknames: Syd
Which artist has influenced you the most … and how?
That’s a tough question for me… I would have to say I was probably most moved by Elizabeth “Libba” Cotten. I really started getting into old blues when I was 13, and that’s when I first discovered Elizabeth Cotten. When I learned that she was around my age when she wrote songs like “Freight Train” I was very inspired. Just a couple years after learning to play “Freight Train” I actually started hopping freight trains! So the song has become even more meaningful to me over the years as well as her extremely unique guitar style.
What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?
My favorite memory from being on stage was when Aroyn (my bassist) and I played with a new drummer at Live Oak Music Festival in San Luis Obispo. We only managed to get one rehearsal in and the whole performance was a bit of a gamble. The drummer was a friend of mine who we asked to play just a few days before the gig. With such short notice we had to totally wing it and ended up playing the most aggressive version of my songs… ever! But the crowd loved it and we had a great time. On stage it felt like a disaster, but afterwards the audience let us know they really enjoyed how chaotic it was.
What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?
I have wanted to be a musician for as long as I can remember. However, I didn’t realize I wanted to pursue music professionally until I was about 23 years old. I had four roommates at the time, a full-time minimum wage job at a mall and no college education. I was so busy working at the mall I had no time for music. I knew that the only way I could afford to be a musician was to either get a degree or figure out how to get paid to play music. I busked on the streets for many years, but slowly broke into the club scene and started touring.
What rituals do you have, either in the studio or before a show?
Before a show my biggest ritual is running through my entire set a couple times. I don’t rehearse vocals but I always rehearse my guitar parts. My guitar style is so silly that I struggle a lot with remembering how I originally played certain songs.
Since food and music go so well together, what is your dream pairing of a meal and a musician?
I would pair Nina Simone with black eyed peas, rice and cornbread. Cos that meal is church and so is Nina. Southern Blacks have been eating that meal religiously to welcome the new year since long before my grandma made it for me and my cousins, and Nina has a way of giving me a “fresh start” with every listen.
Artist:The Weeping Willows Hometown: Melbourne, Australia Song: “Wheels Won’t Roll” Release Date: August 14, 2020 (Single)
In Their Words: “Penned in 2019, ‘Wheels Won’t Roll’ is our ‘accidental isolation song’ about feeling stuck in a rut (we owe 2019 an apology!) Early last year we were spinning our wheels, struggling to move forward, crippled by self-doubt and writer’s block. But despite all that, we longed to be back out on the open road… ‘Wheels’ is our folkie homage to the great Australian song, ‘Rock and Roll (I Gave You the Best Years of My Life)’ written by Kevin Johnson, made famous by Mac Davis.” — Laura Coates and Andrew Wrigglesworth, The Weeping Willows
For Black Americans, this day, Juneteenth, has long been a celebration of the momentous historical event of emancipation from slavery — and the nearly two and a half years it took for that news to reach all enslaved peoples in this country. Juneteenth is belatedly gaining wider recognition and arrives at a time of reckoning with systemic patterns of white supremacy, especially police brutality, that remain deeply entrenched.
Like many waves of national protest before it, the uprising in the wake of the deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, Tony McDade and many others has spurred the creation of its own soundtrack, and the following list spotlights the contributions of seven roots-savvy, Black music makers. Some draw on lessons learned from how songs gave spiritual succor to those on the front lines of the 1960s Civil Rights struggle, with righteously raised fists and declarations of passion and purpose. Others opt for expression that feels far more personalized or particular, articulating an adamantly complex range of emotions and letting profoundly unsettled, and unsettling, questions hang in the air. All of them are fleshing out their own vivid, timely incarnations of movement music.
Leon Bridges specializes in sophisticated soul, sometimes artfully retro in presentation and other times landing at the thoroughly contemporary end of that musical lineage. His new song “Sweeter” is an example of the latter, two minutes and 50 seconds during which his buttery vocals glide over a lean drum machine pattern, delicate, gospel-dusted bits of guitar, keyboard, piano and bass and Terrace Martin’s saxophone figures. Bridges’ words land with the devastated finality of a black man whose life is leaving his body, taken from him by police. “I thought we moved on from the darker days,” he sings, his cadence fluttery and tone ruminative. “Did the words of the King disappear in the air, like a butterfly?” The blame-laying next line arrives in a burst: “Somebody should hand you a felony.”
Then, Bridges elongates his phrasing with righteous indignation, before steadying himself to spell out the loss: “‘Cause you stole from me/my chance to be.” The elegance he chose gives his performance subtly striking, emotional heft. “From adolescence we are taught how to conduct ourselves when we encounter police to avoid the consequences of being racially profiled,” Bridges wrote in a statement. “I have been numb for too long, calloused when it came to the issues of police brutality. The death of George Floyd was the straw that broke the camel’s back for me. It was the first time I wept for a man I never met. I am George Floyd, my brothers are George Floyd, and my sisters are George Floyd. I cannot and will not be silent any longer. Just as Abel’s blood was crying out to God, George Floyd is crying out to me.”
Chastity Brown has been honing her ability to create space for emotional resistance within her songs for a while now. She draws on the pointed, confessional potential of folk and soul and the digital texturing techniques of contemporary pop and hip-hop, while depicting the patient pursuit and safekeeping of self-knowledge as a sign of strength — one that differs wildly from the sort of dominance modeled by systemic power.
In her new song “Golden,” created on her iPad in her garage studio and shared with the world this week, Brown sounds willfully unhurried singing over a skittery programmed beat: “I’ve got joy, even when I’m a target/If ya think that’s political, don’t get me started/You know I’m golden and I flaunt it.” That savoring of selfhood is in striking contrast to the furious question she circles around during the chorus: “Why have I got to be angry?”
In the artist notes accompanying the song, Brown explained that she began writing it when her nephew was beaten by four white cops while walking home in Harlem, mere weeks before George Floyd died in her adopted hometown. “This collective trauma that black, indigenous, immigrant, and queer/trans folk feel is real,” she spelled out. “It’s every god damn day. Yet, we still thrive and flourish in our nature beauty, we still have swag and songs for days. We still have wild and wondrous imaginations like we are all the children of Octavia [Butler]. …This is for me, my people, and the UPRISING to defund police here in Minneapolis and thereby set a new standard for how communities want to be protected.”
Shemekia Copeland, one of the brightest stars in contemporary blues, has been deliberate for years about broadening her repertoire and approach to encompass countrified styles, singer-songwriter song sources and statement-making folk and soul sensibilities and, in the process, positioning herself in the midst of roots music discourse. That’s the insightful perspective she brings to her just-released “Uncivil War,” whose string band style accompaniment boasts the contributions of Sam Bush and Jerry Douglas.
Coming from Copeland, and delivered with measured, dignified vibrato, the simple flipping of the name of the nation’s most notorious war to “uncivil” slyly strips a veneer of respectability from the racist and romanticized Lost Cause religion. She strikes a tone of weary but resolute optimism throughout. “It’s not just a song,” she clarified in a statement. “I’m trying to put the ‘united’ back in the United States. Like many people, I miss the days when we treated each other better. For me, this country’s all about people with differences coming together to be part of something we all love. That’s what really makes America beautiful.”
Kam Franklin, on her own and with her Houston horn band The Suffers, has the wide-ranging musical instincts, imagination, nerve, and ear for earthy verisimilitude to make big statements while zeroing in on small interactions. A couple of weeks back, she posted a brand new, self-recorded song fragment to SoundCloud, a platform well suited to off-the-cuff expression, and with it, this comment: “I saw a photo of Breonna Taylor with her homegirls earlier today, and it gutted me. I won’t forget her. I wrote this birthday song for her, her friends that wondered where she was before the news came out, and everyone that loved her.”
Titled “Happy Birthday Breonna,” it’s a pensive, sinuous bit of ‘70s soul that drives home the fact that Taylor was ripped from a web of close relationships. The first, and only verse, lands like a voicemail from a friend who grew worried when she couldn’t reach Taylor. Franklin’s graceful trills and softly insistent phrasing have an understatement that suggests fretful preoccupation. Then she moves into a point-counterpoint refrain, murmuring birthday wishes to Taylor in her breathy upper register and making a devastating declaration beneath: “You should be here.”
Singer-guitarist and actor Celisse Henderson began work on writing, recording, and filming a video for her song “FREEDOM” four years ago, following the slayings of Philando Castile and Alton Sterling, and watched as black deaths and protest momentum multiplied before she finally completed and released her project earlier this month.
In a message on her website, Henderson explained, “I, along with millions of people, watched video footage of these unarmed black men losing their lives in the most horrific ways. The truth that these unjust deaths revealed about our country, including the systemic failings of our criminal justice system, became my personal call-to-action. Then the 2016 election night happened, and the results added a whole new layer to the purpose of this song and project. Now, almost four years later, too little has been done, and the story remains the same. With the horrific and unjust killings of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd weighing heavily on our hearts and minds, it is time to release ‘FREEDOM’ as a rallying cry and a call to action to stand up and fight for our freedom.”
Historic footage of the March on Washington that opens the clip is a reminder of the buoying role that spirituals played in the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s, and serves the narrative function of positioning Henderson to measure the too-meager progress for Black Americans since. The track is gospel-schooled and hard-rocking, powered by a thunderous, syncopated drum pattern and grinding electric guitar attack. With gospel fervor and a touch of theatrical flourish, Henderson summons a spirit of urgency and extends a broad welcome to all who are affected or disturbed by injustice.
Joy Oladokun, a Nigerian-American singer-songwriter who’s quietly carving out her place in Nashville’s professional songwriting community with introspective, melancholy warmth, steered a co-writing appointment with Natalie Hemby toward an expression of grief. The result was “Who Do I Turn To?” a naked airing of fear and distrust.
Oladokun’s reedy, plaintive performance is accompanied only by minimal piano chords. She spends the chorus adding up horrifying realizations that lead her to a resounding question: “If I can’t save myself/If it’s all black and white/If I can’t call for help/in the middle of the night/If I can’t turn to god/If I can’t turn to you/Who do I turn to?” Her voice subtly catches on the word “help,” as though knowing that life-giving protection is unavailable to her constricts her breath. Oladokun underscored the importance of the chorus lyrics to an interviewer: “[I]t’s illustrating that I don’t trust the police since I’m black. I don’t trust the police enough to know that they would think I’m not robbing my own home. I don’t think a lot of people understand what that is like. The feeling sucks.” In a separate statement she summarized her intent: “I wanted to write a firsthand account of how I feel and the question black people like me ask when this happens over and over again while nothing changes. I want it out now to help an already traumatized people cope, heal, and put words to their struggle.”
Wyatt Waddell, a young Chicago music-maker who’s been expertly, wittily, and self-sufficiently arranging home recordings of classic covers and singer-songwriter soul originals for the past few years, wrote “FIGHT!” as an anthem of admiration and uplift for young, Black Americans putting their bodies on the line in the streets and facing off against police force to agitate for change. “This song is me looking at what’s happening and what I’d tell the people protesting,” he specified in a statement. “I had to look outside of myself at what’s going on and how people are being affected. Hearing people’s fears, anxieties, and watching everything happening on TV really helped me write the song. I hope that it can be an anthem for my people as they’re fighting for a better America.”
Waddell begins with gospel-style repetition, creating a call-and-response pattern made up of his own layered vocals over a churchly foot stomp and hand clap groove: “There’s already so much pain/So much pain/So much pain/There’s already so much pain/And there ain’t nothin’ else we can do.” It seems like he could be building up to a confession of helplessness; instead, his funky refrain is bolstered by a sense of resolve and inevitability: “Nothin’ to do but fight.”
Photo credit: (L to R) Shemekia Copeland by Mike White; Chastity Brown by Wale Agboola; Leon Bridges by Jack McKain.
At age 9, in 1904, she quit school to work as a maid. A song she wrote at 11 became a folk classic. She married at 15. She made her first recording at age 62. And she won her Grammy at age 90.
Even the best novelist would be hard-pressed to create a more remarkable heroine than Elizabeth “Libba” Cotten. From the time she sneaked into her older brother’s room and flipped his banjo over so she could play left-handed, Elizabeth broke rules and boundaries.
Her legacy song, “Freight Train,” written at age 11, is among the most loved in folk music. Her left-handed, finger-picking guitar style — an alternating bass with her index finger and melody played with her thumb — is much emulated. She was immensely talented, creative, and wicked funny. For a great example of her humor, listen to Cathy Fink and Marcy Marxer talk about a chance encounter at the Toronto Folk Festival.
While Elizabeth was raising her daughter, she rarely played outside her home — and only at church. But a chance meeting much later in life led her to become one of the most revered names of the folk revival. While working at a department store, she befriended a frightened little girl who had become separated from her mother. The little girl was Peggy Seeger. Peggy’s mom, Ruth Crawford Seeger, almost immediately invited Elizabeth to work for the family as a domestic.
Ruth was a composer and teacher, her husband Charles created the field of ethnomusicology, but it was Peggy who first heard Elizabeth playing one of the family’s guitars. As a family that studied and documented traditional music, they were delighted to hear the music Elizabeth carried from her North Carolina home. Their son, Mike Seeger, a folklorist and musician, began recording her singing and playing. They released her first album in 1958, when she was 62.
Elizabeth became a vitally important figure in the folk revival, performing at the most acclaimed festivals in North America. Her songs and style frequently were covered by others. Artists in the Skiffle movement recorded and claimed credit for “Freight Train,” a big hit in Great Britain (the Quarrymen, John Lennon’s early band, used to perform it). With the Seeger family’s help, Elizabeth got the copyright in her name.
Her songs have been central to bringing rural southern music to commercial audiences, paving the way for bluegrass as well. Performers as varied as the Grateful Dead and Rhiannon Giddens have recorded her songs, and “Freight Train” is in the repertoire of almost every folk, bluegrass, and rock band on this continent.
It is virtually impossible to summarize Libba Cotten as a person, a musician, or an influence on American music. Her honors are countless. As examples, in 1984, the National Endowment for the Arts declared her a National Heritage Fellow. The Smithsonian Institute declared her a “living treasure.”
Elizabeth performed right up to her death at 94 in 1987. And musicians around the world pay tribute to her daily when they sing “Freight Train.”
Artist:James Steinle Hometown: Pleasanton, Texas Song: “Back Out on the Road” Album:What I Came Here For Release Date: February 7, 2020 Label: Shotgun House Records
In Their Words: “‘Back Out on the Road’ is about putting a face on in a relationship — and how one day the final straw breaks the camel’s back and you’re off to the races. One of the topics I visit a bunch on this record is the idea of being unhappy in a relationship and having the hunch it won’t work out in the long run, competing with a personality type that makes it hard to see people hurt. And so the vicious, drawn-out cycle begins. It always makes matters worse.” — James Steinle
In Their Words: “After 25 years of performing without releasing a Christmas album, I felt now was as good a time as any to spread some love and compassion. There’s something about Christmas time that makes everyone’s hearts a little lighter and I wanted to contribute to the movement of spreading a little joy. I feel like I was able to accomplish that through the making of Moonlight, Mistletoe & You.” — Keb’ Mo’
This week on The Show On The Road, Charlie Parr — a Minnesota-based folk blues lifer who writes novelistic, multi-layered stories that shine a kaleidoscopic light on defiant, unseen characters thriving in the shadows all around us.
Parr has a new record with only his name on it, and it isn’t shiny and perfect and commercial and catchy. It’s him. It’s pure Charlie Parr and maybe that’s enough. He hasn’t moved to LA or Nashville; he’s stayed in the cold grey north of Minnesota, because that’s his home. Take a second wherever you call home right now and listen to his episode — and his new record. You might hear something different every time.
Born and raised in North Carolina, of course John Locklear (AKA Lakota John) could draw from strong regional and cultural influences to create his sound: old-timey, down home, acoustic blues. But his North Carolina roots aren’t his only connection to the Piedmont, and the vast, richly diverse musics that come from his home state. His Lumbee and Lakota lineage most certainly have an equal influence on his picking, his songs, and his style — especially given the huge impact Native and Indigenous Americans had on the creation of American roots music in general. It’s an impact that continues to this day, despite constant erasure and attempts at exclusion.
Ahead of Lakota John’s performance as part of BGS and PineCone’s fourth annual Shout & Shine: A Celebration of Diversity in Bluegrass — at IBMA’s Wide Open Bluegrass festival in Raleigh, North Carolina, on September 27 — we had a chat about why old-time blues isn’t just time capsule music and what folky magic must be in the water in North Carolina.
BGS: So many folks view this style of down home, old-time blues as antiquated music, as “throwback” music. What do you think blues, especially of the kind that you make and play, can bring to this modern era? What value is added to it if we allow it to be in the present?
Lakota John: Awareness of the genre itself and the fact that without roots music, many other types of music wouldn’t exist. Roots music is the foundation of other music and by bringing it into today’s musical conversation, younger generations can embrace its importance as a foundation and use it to innovate and create new styles of music.
What was your own entry point to this style of folky, vernacular music?
I grew up listening to the music of the ’60s and ’70s, because that’s what my parents listened to. Around 10 years old, I became curious about the earlier influences on the artists who produced music in the ’60s and ’70s, which led me back to blues, bluegrass, and roots music. I could see the correlation between the earlier music and later music in so many ways and found it really interesting how the music evolved.
Erasure is so prevalent in American society, many people — including historians, journalists, and ardent fans — don’t realize how fundamental Native and Indigenous influences were (and still are) to American roots music. Who influenced you? Who do you point to, to help reduce and eliminate that erasure?
I feel Jelly Roll Morton, Rev. Gary Davis, and Charley Patton are just a few of my influences who approached music with a percussive and syncopated style which is something Native and Indigenous people have always shared through their music and traditions. With later musicians such as Muddy Waters, Link Wray, The Allman Brothers, Jesse Ed Davis and many more, the basic structure remained but they incorporated an electric sound into the blues along with other styles to create their own unique sound.
Part of that erasure is simply because most colonizers and descendants of colonizers, immigrants, etc. do not realize that Indigenous people are still here. What do you say to folks, even the most well-intentioned and progressive among us, who have this very common blind spot when it comes to Native Americans, Indigenous peoples, and Indigenous rights?
Native peoples walk in two worlds, the traditional and contemporary; we’ve always been here and always will be. We’re more than the stereotyped “Hollywood Indian” and definitely not museum artifacts. Hopefully to clarify this common blind spot I’d say, “I had some difficulty finding my keys and a parking space for my buffalo this morning.”
Shout & Shine returns for its fourth year at the IBMA’s Wide Open Bluegrass Festival at the end of September. What does bluegrass mean to you? What, if any, of its influences have filtered into your music and art?
That’s awesome. I grew up listening to bluegrass music and I definitely incorporate some elements of the bluegrass style into my own music. Bluegrass is an interesting art form and a very important category of roots music.
IBMA being hosted in North Carolina, in Raleigh, for the past number of years seems like a perfect fit. What is it about North Carolina that makes it such a hotbed for roots music? What do you get out of living and performing in this richly musical area?
Man, I really think there’s something in water here. The south has always been a hotbed for roots music, possibly because of the many trials and struggles the south has been through in our country’s history. Because I’m from North Carolina, I’m connected to the community and music that has been an influential piece to what I do. This place is one of the richest musical areas where I have been fortunate enough to have access to artists and mentors who were and continue to be pioneers in the development of roots music in America.
Luke Winslow-King has been drawn to the blues since he was a kid growing up in Cadillac, Michigan. At 14 years old, his namesake blues band was playing clubs and festivals around the Midwest. Whatever he lacked in life experience, he made up for it with prodigious guitar work and an easy stage presence. Yet any lingering innocence would have eventually fallen away following 15 years of living in New Orleans, spiked with a couple of international tours.
Now in his mid-30s, Winslow-King’s pedigree in the blues is far more defined after enduring a divorce, the loss of his father, a couple of friendships falling apart, and the deaths of more than a few musical influences. In other words, he’s no longer just a boy with the blues. In fact Blue Mesa is Winslow-King’s first new album since he moved back to Cadillac from New Orleans last year. Considering what he’s been though, his writing offers a streak of hard-won optimism in songs like “Better for Knowing You” and “After the Rain,” elevating Blue Mesa beyond just another breakup record.
At what point during the making of this record did you move back to Michigan?
It probably was right after we recorded it that I moved to Michigan. I went on tour for three months, so I didn’t live anywhere. Then I moved to Michigan after the tour. I was in transition at that time. I’ve spent the better part of 15 years in New Orleans. Some of that time was spent in New York or on the road, but I’ve been in New Orleans pretty solid since 2001 or 2002. I learned a lot; the city has been great to me. It’s been an incredible place to get my career started. I’ll enjoy going back there soon, but I’m just ready for something else right now.
Was there a moment where you said, “All right, I’m changing”?
Yeah. I went through a divorce there and did some editing as far as my friend group goes. Now I just want to be in a place with nature and family so I can focus on my career in a different way. When I’m home, I’m off. When I’m on the road, I’m on the road. In New Orleans, you come off the road and you’re in this music scene where you’re playing every night or every other night when you’re home. It’s nice, man. I’ve been enjoying fishing, and bowling, and canoeing, and cross country skiing. It feels real to be back home. I’m enjoying it.
Has that helped your creative mindset?
I think so. I’m feeling less pressured to write and do business and just being like, “You know what? This is my life.” I’m going to follow it through and do the best I can. If people like it, cool. If they don’t, then someone else will. just keeping at it and trying to keep it real rather than force anything. I think that’s how the record comes off a little too. I quit telling the band what to do and just let them do what they do best. If I didn’t like it I would tell them but usually I was just like, “Sure. Sounds great, let’s go for it.” I think there’s a certain breath of freedom in it.
You’ve got a lot of tasteful playing on this record. How did you learn the skill of not overplaying or just ripping through your songs?
Just listening, and years of playing, and learning how to speak through the guitar. The guitar doesn’t necessarily have to sound like a guitar. You can speak a language through it or sing through it. My guitarist Roberto Luti, who is not touring with us because he’s back in Italy, is my guitar maestro. He is our unicorn for gathering the spirit and learning how to be very tasteful and minimalist on a guitar. I’ve learned a lot watching him too.
How did the Italian recording sessions for this album come about?
Well, we were hitting the road pretty hard in Europe this summer for eight weeks or something like that. We had a five-day break in the middle of it and we were in Italy anyway. Roberto is from there, so he knew people who owned a really nice studio. It ended up being this cool getaway up in the mountains in Tuscany. We had the tunes ready enough. We had to rehearse a little to get ready for the session but the tunes were at that perfect point where they weren’t over-rehearsed.
We caught a really cool moment, which is really important in a session. We were comfortable with each other and the material. We all needed a break, but we were still excited about the music. Everyone was laid-back. This is the first album where I’ve kept all my live vocals. Usually I go back and do an overdub session, which a lot of people do, but it felt nice to be like, “This is natural and real.” All the takes on the solos and guitars are live. There are keyboard overdubs and edits here and there, but it’s mostly all live.
It makes sense to do it that way, rather than get it so perfect that it’s too polished.
There’s a sweet spot – you obviously have to know the songs well enough. I’m a huge Bob Dylan fan and listen to records like Desire. You can tell the rhythm section has maybe never heard the song before. It makes for an awesome recording. Everyone is on their toes.
You had a blues band when you were a teenager in Michigan, right?
Yeah. I grew up in northern Michigan and I started the Winslow-King Blues Band when I was 13. We played a few music festivals. My parents used to go see me play at bars on the weekend. I’ve come back to a sound that’s a lot more similar to what I was playing when I was 14 years old, which is like an electric trio with a Stratocaster playing blues. The difference is I’ve lived between then. I’ve explored folk music. I had classical string quartets on my first album. New Orleans jazz was mixed in there for a while. I tried jazz, a lot of different styles.
Now I’m playing original music that I can stand by. There’s a lot more diversity in it, of course, but it feels good to come full circle and be back to my roots. A lot of my friends back home were like, “When are you going to rock again? I remember when you were young you used to rock.” Even my dad was like, “I liked it when you rocked.” I’m back to that, so it feels good.
I wonder what that’s like for people who remember you as a teenager, and now you’re back home as an adult. They have to reevaluate you and you have to reevaluate them at this stage. Has that been the case for you?
Well, that’s what’s so great about going home and being back with your old family and friends. It’s a very understanding reevaluation. You are who you are. The friendships go beyond whatever music you’re playing or what notes you’re playing. I’m glad to be back home and have salt-of-the-earth friends. My best friend was a logger and now is a sand miner; my other best friend is a fishing guide and snow plow truck driver in the winter. It’s cool to have friends who are concerned with normal daily life. You can go fishing and hang out and not have everyone be into cool music everywhere you go.
This album has very cinematic moments too. A lot of it felt like it could be placed in movies on the closing credits. Are there soundtracks or composers that you consider primary influences?
Yeah. I’m a huge Ry Cooder fan. That’s one of his things that he’s been known for and made a career out of. I’m also a big fan of Neil Young’s soundtrack for the Dead Man movie. I’ve always really liked that and listen to that in the van sometimes. I went to school for classical music and I’ve always loved great classical music. I also love Clint Eastwood. I’ve been watching a lot of Clint Eastwood and Sergio Leone movies and hearing that stuff too. It’s not necessarily stylistically what I want to do but I love how evocative some of those sounds are and how much they bring the listener to the setting. It would be cool to be able to do that in my own way with my music.
Are there any filmmakers other than Clint Eastwood that have affected the way you see your art?
I’ve watched all five Rocky movies and all the Rambo movies this winter, I’m embarrassed to say.
No, don’t be embarrassed. Rocky won an Oscar.
Chris Davis, my drummer, is a huge, huge Rocky fan. We just went to Philly and ran the stairs while we were there. Honestly we’re in this Stallone phase. Roberto, our Italian guitarist, always says ‘Stallone-ay’ which we love. Honestly, Rocky is a really inspiring movie. I appreciate that Stallone did that movie on a shoestring budget and was inspired to make it himself. Right now Rocky has been what I’m all about. It’s that underdog mentality. Even though everyone makes fun of Stallone and it is so cheesy, and some of the acting is so terrible, there’s a really beautiful sentiment in that movie about going the distance.
Photos by Victor Alonso
This website uses cookies to improve your experience. We'll assume you're ok with this, but you can opt-out if you wish.AcceptRead More
Privacy & Cookies Policy
Privacy Overview
This website uses cookies to improve your experience while you navigate through the website. Out of these, the cookies that are categorized as necessary are stored on your browser as they are essential for the working of basic functionalities of the website. We also use third-party cookies that help us analyze and understand how you use this website. These cookies will be stored in your browser only with your consent. You also have the option to opt-out of these cookies. But opting out of some of these cookies may affect your browsing experience.
Necessary cookies are absolutely essential for the website to function properly. This category only includes cookies that ensures basic functionalities and security features of the website. These cookies do not store any personal information.
Any cookies that may not be particularly necessary for the website to function and is used specifically to collect user personal data via analytics, ads, other embedded contents are termed as non-necessary cookies. It is mandatory to procure user consent prior to running these cookies on your website.
