Music Maker Relief Foundation: Keeping the Blues Alive

It’s no secret that the South is home to some of the greatest musicians around, past and present. From early bluesmen like Robert Johnson to country legends like Hank Williams, the South has produced some of the foremost forebears to our current musical culture. And while the South has big names a-plenty, it’s also rich with local musicians hoping to keep the region’s musical history alive, often, unfortunately, doing so with little to no recognition.

The Music Maker Relief Foundation was established for that very reason: to, in its own words, “preserve the musical traditions of the South by directly supporting the musicians who make it, ensuring their voices will not be silenced by poverty and time.” Founded in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, in 1994, the 501(c)3 non-profit has grown from a handful of passionate music lovers helping a small coalition of local musicians with simple necessities like securing food and paying bills to a globally recognized entity responsible for working with over 300 artists, releasing more than 150 albums, and spreading Southern music to all corners of the world.

Timothy Duffy co-founded Music Maker with his wife Denise after enrolling in the folklore program at UNC, Chapel Hill. His time working in UNC’s archives led to a chance meeting that planted the seeds for what would become Music Maker. “There aren’t many jobs in folklore,” Duffy laughs. “I was working for the archive and met an old bluesman named James ‘Guitar Slim’ Stephens in Greensboro. Before he passed, he introduced me to a guy named Guitar Gabriel in the early ‘90s. Gabe and I became partners and we put out a cassette. He was a great blues artist. He was very famous in a circuit that was never documented by white folks. It was called the Black Carnival Circuit. So he knew everybody. He knew all the musicians because he’d played in their towns for 40 years.”

Through his time with Guitar Gabriel, Duffy realized there was a vast community of phenomenally talented blues musicians that was virtually unknown to the rest of the world. Even more troubling to Duffy was how many of these musicians were living in poverty. “I soon realized that there was no place for these guys in the music business,” he says. “The blues guys never sold many records. They could barely scratch by a living. You’ve got B.B. King and that’s it. If anyone knows a blues artist after B.B., that’s amazing.”

The contrast Duffy’s own experience encountering countless talented players with the widely held notion that the blues was a dying art appealed to his presevationist roots. “There was this really weird view that the blues was dead,” he explains. “That was clear to me after meeting people like Alan Lomax, Archie Green, and some of the greatest folklorists of our time. It was just another case of politics of culture, of people appropriating what they wanted and keeping it for themselves and putting the culture down.”

Duffy saw the work of these little-known musicians as essential to preserving the musical legacy of the South and worked with Guitar Gabriel, Willa Mae Buckner, Preston Fulp, Mr. Q, Macavine Hayes, and a number of other North Carolina blues players to start Music Maker. A large focus of the organization’s initial efforts was simply providing these musicians with the financial assistance they needed to keep playing. “They were very disenfranchised economically. They were living on $3,000 or $4,000 a year,” he says. “We bought cases and cases of Ensure, because a lot of these guys had strictures in their throats, had nutrition problems. We bought clothes, shoes. We paid electric bills. That’s what it was founded as, at first.”

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Thanks to the group’s passion, it didn’t take too long for Music Maker to begin growing into the internationally respected organization it is today. Word spread throughout the blues community that Duffy and his team were doing good work, and the community rallied around them. “Taj Mahal heard about me in 1995,” Duffy says. “I flew out to L.A. and hung out with him, and he introduced me to B.B. King. B.B. fell in love with the project and took me around London, New York, L.A., and introduced me to all of these influential people like the Rolling Stones, Dan Aykroyd — wonderful people that supported the organization. That was our start. Now we’re here, 22 years later, and we’ve issued over 300 records.”

That increased notoriety for Music Maker has, as Duffy and his team hoped, also brought newfound fame and success for the artists involved. “A lot of times, in these small communities, that elevates them greatly,” Duffy says of Music Maker’s artists. “They go from this obscure guy that lives in an old trailer, now, to an international figure in their community that has played Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center, traveled all to Australia, France, Argentina. That elevates interest of the music and it helps them in their mission to keep this music alive and vibrant in their communities.”

While Music Maker has been an invaluable resource for older blues musicians like Ironing Board Sam and Pat Wilder, it’s also played an integral role in developing the careers of a number of emerging and newly established roots artists. Newer artists Music Maker has worked with include Dom Flemons, Spencer Branch, Cary Morin, and, perhaps most famously, the Carolina Chocolate Drops. “When I learned that the Carolina Chocolate Drops were learning from Joe Thompson, an old banjo player from right down the road, I went and saw the performance,” Duffy says. “We took this small, fledgling group that barely knew how to play instruments to a Grammy-winning phenomenon, that really did quite well.”

In addition to artist advocacy, Music Maker has kept busy over the years with all kinds of projects, including a photgraphy exhibit (“Our Living Past”), a book and CD (We Are the Music Makers), and the Music Maker Blues Revue, a touring group that has recently played as part of Globalfest at New York’s Webster Hall. “Gabe and I started [the revue] back in the early ‘90s,” Duffy says. “When we go play Lincoln Center or jazz festivals, we bring all these guys on stage and do a revue show. That cast is ever-changing as people pass away.”

Upcoming projects include a fundraiser to purchase instruments for the town’s prison bluegrass band and a new blues club set to open at the Durham Bulls Athletic Park, the latter of which has support from Durham Bulls owner Michael Goodman and his family. “They started a new brewery called Bull Durham Beer,” Duffy explains. “Right by the box office, they’re opening a blues club. For every beer that you buy there at the taproom, they’re giving Music Maker a dollar and also providing a budget for us to hire Music Maker acts. I think it’s going to be the nation’s greatest blues club because it’s one of the only places you’ll see these kind of guys playing. “

It sounds like a lot, but the folks at Music Maker see their work as a labor of love — one inspired by their deep admiration for Southern music history and the musicians sacrificing it all to keep that history alive.

“All music is from the South,” Duffy says. “All modern music. There’s not one popular form of music that doesn’t trace its roots back squarely to the South. The blues, bluegrass, pop music … it’s America’s greatest legacy to the world. It’s better than the Colt .45 or whatever guns we invented. The music is the greatest thing we’ve done.”


Lede photo of Eddie Tigner by Tim Duffy

Playing to Her Own Beat: A Conversation with Valerie June

It’s impossible to unhear the sound that issues forth once Valerie June opens her mouth to sing. It’s a voice at once ancient — arisen from some sepia-toned past — and startling modern. From its color to its timbre to its texture, there exists something powerfully original about her primary instrument. But if June were just another singer with a distinct set of pipes, this wouldn’t be an article worth reading, and she wouldn’t be an artist worth covering. It’s how she employs her voice, and the fun she has blending and blurring genres that showcases her pioneering talent.

The multi-instrumentalist and Tennessee native returns this month with her sophomore major label release, The Order of Time. Arriving four years after her debut, Pushin’ Against a Stone, saw her perform at the White House, make countless television appearances, and become a festival staple, the album indeed took some time. June didn’t let her success dictate her writing schedule and rush her back into the studio. Instead, she read poetry, danced, cooked, and languished, allowing the music to unfold on its own schedule rather than hemming and hawing about hers. Thanks to that patience, she’s pushed her own boundaries even further.

The Order of Time spans blues, bluegrass, soul, folk, rock, and more, gathering pieces from each to build a kaleidoscope, of sorts, that showcases the long undercurrent of history running through each. Banjo appears in greater measure throughout the album, calling to its African heritage on “Man Done Wrong” and showing off its rhythmic pacing on “Got Soul,” while “Shake Down” borrows a few branches from June’s family tree. She gathered her brothers and father — who passed away in November — in Tennessee to record the raucous and gritty jam. And then there’s the viscerally thrilling “If And,” which layers an array of heavy tones, including bass saxophone, bass clarinet, and harmonium, to create an almost unholy riff. Have fun not getting chills.

So much of this album deals with time and abiding by its rhythms. How do you cultivate patience?

I don’t have any at all.

That’s fair.

It’s pure torture, honestly. I just want it to happen. It’s like getting a new plant: You’ve been to the nursery, you bought this gardenia, but it’s not flowering yet. You put it in the perfect sun and give it the perfect water and all of that, but it’s still not flowering weeks later, and you’re just like, “Oh my God, I really want the gardenia to flower, because it’s the best smell in the world and I love it. That’s why I bought it — for the flower — not for this green plant.” A lot of patience has to happen, but you don’t have it. You’re forced into it. And then, one day, it does flower and you’re really excited about it. That’s what it’s like.

I love that analogy. Building off it, how much of patience is, perhaps, about distraction?

It has to happen that way.

So what do you distract yourself with?

So many things. Life happens, people call and want me to do something, or it’ll be time to eat. [Laughs] I dance a lot. I have routines for distracting myself, and dancing is a big part of it. You have to have systems set up, you know, to keep you from dwelling in frustration. So whatever your things are that you love to do, you have to do those things. It’s almost like you have to be like, “I’m frustrated! Stop everything. Okay, now it’s time to dance. Nothing matters but dancing right now.”

It’s the physicality of it. It seems that when creatives get too caught up in their mental state, it helps to do something physical to calm that animal side of their brain down.

So true and, once every part of the body is moving, your mind is the last thing. You don’t even think about that part. It does take a minute, though, once the dancing starts. First, you’re still thinking, so your body — you’re moving it — you’re thinking, you’re thinking, and then, by the time you work the neck and the legs and the head and get the whole body going, you’re like, “Whoa!’ You’re gone man!” And it just takes one little moment of being gone to shift some ol’ thing.

So are we ever going to get a Valerie June workout video?

I don’t know. That would be really ’80s and fun. I’d have to get some leg warmers, for sure.

And neon.

I love legwarmers. That seems like a good excuse.

What do you dance to?

So many things. I like dancing to Davie Bowie, and Spoon is a really fun band to dance to — it’s so upbeat and insane. And Fever Ray and Fela Kuti, Cass McCombs … so many things. Sometimes I dance to blues music. It just depends on what I need to shake out.

I can see how these all dancing moments influence your music.

It’s all there.

Turning to the album, “Man Done Wrong” brought to mind the personal lamentations you’d hear in Ma Rainey’s and Bessie Smith’s blues. Can you take me through writing that particular song?

It started on the banjo. I was just playing that riff, again and again, for a few days, and then I heard the chanting, and when I first started to hear the chanting, I thought, “Well, this is very tribal to me.” It’s a different way for the banjo to be, for me. In my own mind, I had certain parameters that the banjo was allowed to go — for it to lean toward old time or bluegrass — and the fact that it was getting outside of its lane and it was doing something that seemed African or tribal to me was like, “What the fuck is this?” [Laughs] When I started to receive that, I was like, “Wow, I can’t fight that.” I can’t fight what comes to me in a song; I have to accept it all because, once I start to fight it, I close the door and I shut off these voices. I have to make them all feel welcome in order to receive the entire song, so I just went with it and got into it, and started to hear the actual singing, and I was like, “Well, okay.”

All these ideas I had about the banjo and the way it was supposed to be played and the way it was supposed to be fit into this box, they had to go out the window. It was like, “I guess it is an African instrument.” I learned a lot trying to play that song, about the banjo being as innocent an instrument as any other instrument and it having a voice that can fit with any style of music. It wants to be free; it doesn’t want to fit within any parameter. It just wants to be an instrument and play around in the playground of music and sound. It opened my mind and it opened my thoughts about what it should do in the world, and how I should feel about it when I see somebody get up in front of me with one. Just because you see a trumpet, do you think, “They’re going to play jazz. They’re going to be Miles Davis”? No. When you see a trumpet, it could be marching band, it could be jazz, it could be anything. A banjo is the same.

It has this strong association with bluegrass, but there is that tradition of Black banjo players who were never recorded and so, in many ways, that history has been erased.

It’s true. It’s such a historical instrument. It keeps getting deeper and deeper, as much as you try to see where it’s going. It’s been a vibrant instrument in the past and going into the future.

Do you think these voices in any way are trying to communicate that lost history with you?

They are communicating so many things. I can’t even get my head wrapped around it because, as soon as I get one thing that they were saying, then it starts to change, like a good poem. You read this poem and when you’re younger — and I read Robert Frost’s “Two Roads” when I was younger — it meant one thing, but as I get older, it means something different. The songs are like that. They change like they are living; they live with you and they change the meaning.

What other poets are you currently quite taken with?

I like Wendell Berry a lot. I could read that all day long, and T.S. Eliot and e.e. cummings, but Wendell Berry is really huge. I don’t even know how to describe what he does to me, but by the time I get to the end of one of his poems, I can be in complete tears and gratitude for all of life, for the earth, for everything. And the short stories are the same way.

He’s one of my favorites, too. I’m always so grateful for Wendell or, really, any poet who articulates the experience of living, especially when you haven’t found the words yourself yet.

That’s the shocking part. The ability to articulate it is like, “Wow!” I felt it, but I just couldn’t put it into words. You did it! You did it! [Laughs]

But you’re tasked with that same hurdle as a songwriter.

I don’t really feel like I have any kind of control over these things. I mean, I wish I could. I wish I wrote that way, where I could have a theme in my head and write something that fits the purpose, but the times I try, it doesn’t hit me as much as when I hear the voice and I just follow it. But I do try sometimes. I’d like to learn to write that way. I feel somebody like Toni Morrison or Zora Neale Hurston, they would have these thoughts going on in their minds about the world, about being a Black woman growing up, or things like that that they wanted to put into their writing, and they were able to articulate them through their craft. But, for me, I can’t do that. I don’t write that way.

There are so many different ways to approach it. Every writer has a different way.

I love writing with other writers because, when I do that, then I steal some of their style. I’m like, “Oh, that’s how you tapped into that.” They’re my teachers.

What a great way to learn. Well, lastly, I was curious about the song “Shake Down” and recording it with your family.

My brothers’ and my dad’s vocals were tracked in Tennessee. It was great because my dad’s not really a singer, but he was in the room and I was like, “You gotta sing.” And now he’s gone and so all I have is him singing that part. I have pictures, but I don’t have his voice anymore and I never will again. That really matters to have somebody’s voice after they’re gone. That really is something, so I really feel fortunate for that song.


Photo credit: Danny Clinch

MIXTAPE: Music Maker’s Deep Blues

The blues, man. The blues. Perhaps more than most genres, the blues harbors far too many hidden heroes. That’s why the work our friends at the Music Maker Relief Foundation do is so very important. We’ve profiled that work before, so we thought it was the music’s turn for a moment in the spotlight and Music Maker’s founder, Tim Duffy, to cull a batch of blues tunes that everyone should hear.

Guitar Gabriel — “I Came So Far”

Gabriel composed “I Came So Far” during a recording session we did soon after returning from our first trip to Holland. Like so many of his performances, they are sung for the moment, and are rarely repeated.

Preston Fulp — “Careless Love” & “Farther Along”


Preston was a rural-based musician influenced by both Black and white traditions of the early 1900s. He died in December of 1993. He was the last of the generation that played in and around Winston-Salem’s tobacco warehouses.

Captain Luke — “Old Black Buck”

Captain Luke (Luther Mayer) — a wonderful bass singer, comedian, jaw harp player, and folk artist — moved to Winston-Salem, North Carolina, in 1940. It was Luther who taught me how to act and work within the stormy and sometimes violent world of East Winston-Salem. When the Captain passed away in late 2015, the Music Maker family was devastated. He was a dear friend.

Big Boy Henry — “Big Bill”

Big Boy Henry is the Carolinas’ premier blues shouter. He was born in 1921 in Beaufort, a small fishing village on the North Carolina coast. He has worked as a fisherman, preacher, and blues singer since the early 1940s. He specializes in the type of blues that was created by Blind Boy Fuller and the musicians surrounding him in Durham, North Carolina.

Willa Mae Buckner — “Peter Rumpkin”

Willa Mae Buckner has been known professionally since the 1930s as “The World’s Only Black Gypsy,” “The Princess of Ejo,” “The Wild Enchantress,” “Snake Lady,” and “Billie Raye Buckner.” She has worked as a chorus girl, blues singer, exotic dancer, contortionist, guitarist, and bassist, and she has operated a traveling snake show. In 1973, she moved to Winston-Salem and was a public transit bus driver for 10 years. At 71, Buckner lives in her own home with a 17-foot python named Big Jim.

Macavine Hayes — “Snatch That Thang”

Macavine Hayes is a younger musician, at 52. Influenced as a child by Guitar Gabriel, Hayes migrated from Florida to North Carolina, where he and Gabriel ran a drink house together in the early ’60s, selling drinks, running craps games, and playing the blues.

Samuel Turner Stevens — “Railroadin’ and Gamblin'”

I met Sam Stevens in 1982 in Asheville, North Carolina, where I was attending college. He is a mountain man who makes banjos, fiddles, dulcimers, mandolins, and guitars. The fretless banjo was introduced to whites by Blacks, but no Black fretless banjo players are known of today.

Lee Gates — “Cool’s Groove”

There is not one guitarist that rips like Lee Gates. Lee’s roots run deep into the electric blues tradition — his cousin was legend Albert Collins. This tune was inspired by another guitar legend that is part of the Music Maker fold, Cool John Ferguson.

Guitar Gabriel and Lucille Lindsey — “Do You Know What It Means to Have a Friend?”

I asked Gabriel one day if he had any brothers or sisters. He mentioned that he had a sister, but he had not seen her in eight years. He gave me her married name, and I found her, blind from diabetes, in an awful nursing home. When I reunited this pair the next day, they immediately broke into song. I scrambled to put up my recording equipment as they sang. Gabriel had written this spiritual the day their mother passed away. Their emotions were so intense, they both began crying and their tears soaked the front of their shirts.

Robert Finley — “Age Don’t Mean a Thing”

Robert is a recent partner artist with Music Maker. I met Robert just under two years ago on the streets of Helena, Arkansas. He was busking at the King Biscuit Blues Festival. When I heard his voice, I knew that he was special. This track is from his debut album … just the tip of the iceberg in terms of what Robert is doing with his career!

Sam Frazier, Jr. — “Cabbage Man”

Sam Frazier is another new addition to the Music Maker family. For years, he performed in Vegas as a Charley Pride impersonator. “Cabbage Man” is written by Frazier and tells the story of his love for cabbage sandwiches. While the song is cheery, it reflects the deep poverty that Sam grew up in outside of Birmingham, Alabama.

Adolphus Bell — “The One Man Band”

When I first met Adolphus, he was homeless, living out of his van, doing everything he could just to scrape up gigs to eat. When I saw him perform, he blew me away with his stage presence. Adolphus and I ended up touring the world together. He was always so grateful that the gigs he got from Music Maker allowed him to get a home.  


Photos courtesy of the Music Maker Relief Foundation

LISTEN: Shinyribs, ‘Don’t Leave It a Lie’

Artist: Shinyribs
Hometown: Austin, TX
Song: “Don’t Leave It a Lie”
Album: I Got Your Medicine
Release Date: February 24, 2017

In Their Words: “The only rule one ever really needs is the Golden Rule. We all lie to ourselves and each other. That’s alright, as long as you don’t leave it that way. Be you, but be true. Always come back to love and honesty.” — Kevin Russell


Photo credit: Wyatt McSpadden

Counsel of Elders: The Fabulous Thunderbirds’ Kim Wilson on Keeping it Fresh

If the idea of success in music revolves around “a certain way of doing things,” count on the Fabulous Thunderbirds’ Kim Wilson to chuck that concept and strike out on his own path. It’s not that he’s always had that kind of freedom, but after a certain amount of time building his legacy in the music industry, he’s earned himself enough flexibility to go about things differently. For starters, Wilson keeps the Fabulous Thunderbirds on their toes by avoiding set lists and going by the feel of the evening. Then there’s the way the band tours nowadays: Rather than launch lengthy stretches that involve mostly clubs, Wilson prefers festivals and casinos where he and his boys can cut loose. It’s an approach that allows him to balance his personal life with the music he so loves to perform.

Wilson co-founded the Fabulous Thunderbirds in 1974 with Jimmie Vaughan and, in 1979, the band released its self-titled studio debut. He hasn’t slowed down since, even while the members have undergone significant changes. Wilson remains the only original, but alongside Johnny Moeller (guitar), Steve Gomes (bass), Kevin Anker (keys), and Wes Watkins and Rob Stupka (drums), he recorded and released a new album, Strong Like That, this year. Combining Wilson’s compositions with covers from an array of legends like Johnnie Taylor and Clarence Coulter, the album is packed with lively energy and a blues-influenced rock ‘n’ roll.

Strong Like That shows the harmonica player and vocalist still has a lot to say when it comes to both of his instruments, a point he continually reinforces off-stage when he’s communicating with fans via the band’s blog. “Being a musician is all about leaving a legacy. And that’s not about money. That’s about music,” Wilson wrote in October. “If you can’t leave a musical legacy, if you can’t be remembered for what you did, there’s no sense in doing it.” He’s proof positive for any musician at any stage that, even though there can be a standard path toward success, hiking off in your own direction is equally rewarding.

Besides guitar, harmonica has been credited with being the staple instrument for the blues, but really it’s the person behind the instrument that infuses it with a particular flavor. What does the harmonica allow you to say that another instrument wouldn’t?

A harmonica is very close to you. It’s inside you. That’s how close it is. You can do more things with a harmonica, expressively, than you can with just about any other instrument. There are so many different kinds of tonal things you can get and, of course, it’s all improvised. I consider myself a player. It’s not something where I’m doing a part to enhance a song; I’m actually improvising and just winging it. And that’s a big deal for me. That keeps things fresh for me. I improvise everything on the bandstand, even the set list. I don’t have a set list.

No kidding.

I can call off the next one while the one before it is going, and my boys know it. There are certain songs that you almost have to play; I mean some of the hits, obviously, and some of the new ones, too. Other than that, it’s kind of a free for all. I think the guys appreciate that. It keeps everything fresh for them, too. Even the hit songs have a lot of improvisation for them. You know it’s the song, but I don’t sing ‘em exactly the same, and they don’t play ‘em exactly the same.

I love the music more than I’ve ever loved it. You’re not supposed to get worse. You’re supposed to get better at what you do, and I really haven’t gotten, in my mind, to where I want to be until just recently. And I’m still not where I want to be. Of course, you’re always learning, and you want to be able to hear yourself back on a recording and not wince. Very very important. Very important.

That’s probably the key test. It seems like it takes a certain kind of age and maturity and perspective to hit a stride.

Well, to play the kind of music we play, it does. It can’t be contrived; it can’t be just run of the mill. You’ve gotta be at the top of the food chain to be in the business as long as we’ve been in it: 45-46 years now. Obviously, there are arrangements and stuff like that, sure. I think, if it’s not interesting for you, it’s certainly not going to be interesting for the audience.

Do you feel as though playing the harmonica is a different personality than your singing?

Well, how I perform, it’s kinda violent. There can be some pretty moments, but really it’s more kind of …

Primal?

It’s very primal. That’s exactly right. And I think that it used to be that I’d have to really hit the audience to get their attention, and it’s still kind of that way. People, when you give them something else, they don’t want that. They want something that’s going to smack ‘em a little bit. I was always an athlete — I was a football player when I was a kid — and, luckily, I’ve chosen an instrument that’s allowed me to affect people without breaking bones.

Well, there are always eardrums …

Maybe. Oh, I know all about the eardrum thing.

Me, too. With Strong Like That, how did you decide which songs to include? Leslie West and Johnnie Taylor, among the others you cover, are such interesting choices.

It’s not all blues, obviously. That’s the way we’ve always been.

Right, you’ve always straddled different genres.

We just played a bunch of songs and picked the best performances, the ones we thought worked the best.

I love your rendition of West’s “Don’t Burn Me.”

That’s a great track.

There’s a real heat that comes off it. I know you spent a good deal of time in Texas. Do you equate the feeling you were able to create with that particular region?

The Texas sound … I can’t say we ever had a Texas sound. We lived in Texas. In the beginning, we were more Louisiana and now it’s more, maybe, Memphis. I don’t know what’d you call it. It’s a lot of different areas that we come from. I’m a blues singer, so however I sing it, it’s going to come out like that. Now, we’re playing soul beats and soul songs, but how they come out is more of a blues band playing soul and rock ‘n’ roll and blues. It all starts with the blues for us. When they’re playing this stuff on the radio, it always has upset me when they automatically take it to the blues stations. And some of it you could, but a lot of it you could take it to a lot of different stations. I think right now we’re doing well at Triple-A [Adult Album Alternative], I believe. The Triple-A thing, that’s a relatively new thing out there. You used to have AOR [Album-Oriented Rock] Radio, which we would climb to the top of that and then we would get into the CHR [Contemporary Hits Radio], when there were actually 40 or 60 songs they were playing.

Now it’s more like 15.

Yeah, it’s kinda crazy. Triple-A is fine. Whatever gives us more success, we’ll take it. It’s one of those things that’s really out of your control. We did sign this deal with Sony now, which has really helped. It’s been great to be back with them because they’re so well-staffed and they’ve been on the case, they’ve been really working it. I’m really appreciative of that. We feel like every project we do is very special and for it to just fizzle immediately because people aren’t aware of it, so we’re very happy with the Sony deal.

They have the manpower to get the word out because there’s so much taking place these days, in terms of new releases and surprise drops and what have you.

Right.

I read you play 300 shows a year between the Fabulous Thunderbirds and your own solo projects.

I don’t do that many anymore.

Okay, because I was going to ask where you find the energy for that momentum.

I do quite a few shows and I do have the All-Stars, I guess is what you call it, but that’s a lot of going back into the clubs and it can be a real hassle. Even though I love that music and I love playing it, going back into the clubs is just … Boy, you really start, once again, seeing the bottom of the food chain. It’s very difficult. I do it mostly out [in California] now. I do a Christmastime thing. That’s really all I can do. I don’t want to go out there and kill myself, because it’s not worth it — being burned by club owners and people not advertising shows. It’s kind of insane. It’s really taking a step back from what it was when I was a kid, which was a pretty fun way to make a living.

Playing clubs, you have to work literally 300 days a year just to do anything financially, and that’s just not where it’s at with me anymore. I want to enjoy my life; I just got married, after all this time. I want to see more of my wife, and I want to play more shows that are going to get to a lot of people, like festivals. Not necessarily blues festivals. I mean, festivals, casinos are a nice … Casinos are kind of what the clubs used to be, but a little better than what the clubs used to be, as far as the facilities go.

In terms of treating artists with respect or drawing a crowd?

The facilities are beautiful; you have real dressing rooms. It’s a nice way to go. It’s gotten to where there’s a lot of competition in the casinos, a lot of people who had hit records in the past are gravitating to that. You don’t play as many of them. You play more festivals, but it’s always nice to play a casino because the room’s right there. You just come right down and get on stage. I mean, it’s very nice.

I can see why the Las Vegas residencies are so popular. They live upstairs and just go downstairs for work.

I wouldn’t mind having a residency, actually. I go back and forth on that. I don’t know if I’d want to be in a house band or have to play every night. I wouldn’t be playing the same thing every night anyway, even in a residency. I would be doing how I do it now.

Let’s end on a millennial question: Do you think the blues can be applied to modern woes, things like FOMO [fear of missing out] or hook-up culture?

Of course. Well, I mean, guys like J.B. Lenoir were doing that 40, 50 years ago. There’s always different subject matter you can tap into. There are always different emotions you can tap into, as long as it’s not too corny. I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be corny because I just don’t like corny. Modern music is a very, very difficult challenge because all the lyrics have been used. Now, I love putting a different twist on a cliché. That’s the challenge. Putting a new twist on something people have heard a lot — and a clever twist, not a corny twist.

Myself, I like sticking to … well, blues and soul, it’s really all about man, woman, and money. Now, it can be a really uplifting song like, “I love her, she’s the greatest thing that ever happened, she’s so fine, she’s so smart,” you know? Or it can be, “I hate her, she ruined my life.” And people have success with all that stuff: “I’m broke” or “I’m rich.” There are lots of different ways to approach it. I still like the man/woman interaction, and that’s just the way I’ve always been. I listen to some of these old songs; I don’t listen to too much modern music. To me, there’s something missing there. I like to listen to stuff that I’ve been listening to all my life.

Counsel of Elders: David Bromberg on Music’s Many Languages

There’s no end to the adjectives ascribed to musicians and their styles, but few are, themselves, an adjective. With David Bromberg’s career-spanning 50 years in the industry — which include recording his own albums, guesting with a variety of artists, and producing others still — he has run the gamut when it comes to music making as a life calling. So then it makes sense that “Brombergian” would encompass that very spirit, defying any quick and fast label in order to create a path outside the “way things are.” It’s a designation his friend, collaborator, and producer Larry Campbell first used to describe Bromberg’s particular blues style, but it seems fitting to expand its use. Bromberg has gone about things differently, eliding the industry’s desire to fit him into a neat category by playing multiple instruments (and styles), as well as taking a significant hiatus from recording music in order to run David Bromberg Fine Violins in Wilmington, Delaware. His career is nothing short of Brombergian.

After rising to fame on his 1972 self-titled debut — which itself spanned various styles from the pondering, folk of “Dehlia” to the bluegrass-driven “Lonesome Dave’s Lovesick Blues #3” to the acoustic blues number “Pine Tree Woman” — he refused to be categorized and confined. Beyond defying a lone musical identity, though, Bromberg did what many a musician might balk at after achieving some level of notoriety. He took time off, beginning in 1980, to focus on learning the violin business … 22 years to be exact. “But who’s counting?” he chuckles, his matter-of-fact delivery belying his easy good humor. Bromberg returned to form in 2002 and hasn’t stopped his pace yet. With a new album, The Blues, the Whole Blues and Nothing But the Blues, just out, he’s made what he describes as his most homogenous album yet, even though the different types of blues — Chicago, Delta, and more — on the album might suggest a more Brombergian approach. At 71 years old, he’s got a lot more to say and more than a few ways to say it.

You’ve recorded so many different genres of music. Each one reminds me of a language. If we’re sticking with this analogy, what do you consider your native tongue?

Oh, boy. That’s a difficult question. I mean, my first response is usually blues. However, a more correct response might be what’s now considered oldies radio. But, you know, I’m not really sure.

Okay then, what do you enjoy most playing?

Music.

That’s cheating!

I know that’s not what you wanted to hear. There are two kinds of music — good music and bad music. I prefer the good kind.

Besides styles, you play several different instruments. Do you find each suits a particular mood?

Yeah, absolutely, and that goes even for one guitar versus another guitar. Any two guitars, they’re going to be different and, if they’re guitars that you can talk to, then you can enjoy them both.

How much do they talk back?

An awful lot. I discover these days, when I start to play mandolin or a fiddle, my guitars yell at me, “You’re not done with us yet!”

What was it about the violin that attracted you?

I learned to play a little bit of fiddle pretty early on. I’m a terrible fiddler. I mean, I used to be just merely bad, but these days I don’t play enough to be anything more than terrible. What interested me about the violin … you know, people assumed that I wanted to be a violin maker and I never wanted to be a violin maker. What fascinated me was how someone could pick up a violin and, without referring to a label, which the labels are very often wrong, you can say when and where it was made and sometimes by whom. And that’s what I wanted to learn, and that’s what I do.

How do you measure success, then? It seems like many, if not most, wouldn’t have considered stopping for 22 years to make instruments.

I still stand by this: At the point where I could take a cab home at the end of the night instead of getting on the subway, that was all the success I needed.

Oh, I love that. But it’s so true.

It really is.

On the flip side of success, what does it take to survive in this business?

Persistence, and that’s not as much of a “blowing you off” answer as it may sound. I think persistence is tremendously important, and I kind of surprised myself by not showing that much, and actually stopping for 22 years, because I knew how important it was. I remember … Charlie Rich was a country or rockabilly singer and, in his 60s, had a huge hit. Persistence. “Behind Closed Doors” was the tune. It was a good tune, and he sang the hell out of it.

Here’s the thing: At one time, if you just stopped someone under the age of 40 on the street and said, “If you could do anything in the world, if you could be anything in the world, what would you be?” They would say, most of them, “Oh, I’d be a rock ‘n’ roll star.” Well, the people who become rock ‘n’ roll stars, they’re people who have to be rock ‘n’ roll stars. That’s it. That’s real. I’m sure it applies to a lot more than just rock ‘n’ roll. Any difficult, enjoyable profession, it’s gonna take a lot of drive. In my day, doing what I did entailed learning to sleep on other people’s floors. I think it’s actually harder today.

Well, there’s certainly a lot more noise today in that there are a lot more people able to get their music into listeners’ headphones.

Did you ever see that ad for the headhunting firm on television? They’re in a tennis stadium, and the guy’s about to serve, and some guy comes out of the crowd and swats at the ball with a briefcase, and then before you know it, the court is covered with people out of the stands, all of them trying to hit the ball. And this is a headhunting firm trying to tell you, “Look, we’ll get you the good people.” But that’s what’s going on. The record companies, which don’t really exist any longer, used to be a filter because you couldn’t just make your own record on an iPhone. It required money. Somebody who got far enough to actually make a recording, well, there might be something there. The odds were greater than they are on YouTube, and YouTube is the medium today.

And even something like Soundcloud, where you can upload an EP or a mixtape and put yourself out there. But there’s no filter.

There’s no filter to say, “Well, you should really listen to this, or you should really listen to that.” I don’t understand how anybody gets anywhere, except for money. I think one of the things that can work for you is, if you impress very wealthy people, maybe they back you. To be someone who does a modern stage show, I mean, that’s very expensive. It’s not an easy thing. Not that it was easy in my day, either, but I think it’s harder today. Anyone and everyone does put things out there, and nobody gets paid for anything any longer, and that’s a difficult thing.

I know even with the streaming services it’s some kind of paltry per-play fee.

I can tell you where this comes from and how this came to be. It used to be that radio stations paid nothing to the artist to play a tune. They might have a small royalty that would go to the writer of a song, but the artist got nothing. So this idea got moved over to the Internet. The Grammy people are trying to change it. I went down to DC and I was a lobbyist for a day, promoting the idea to different representatives that everybody is making the money except the people making the music.

Is there a big coalition?

Basically, in DC these days, no one can do anything. It’s all static — in the sense of not moving.

What’s the most surprising piece of advice you ever received? Or that you, yourself, picked up along the way?

I’ve given people some advice that is kind of surprising or surprises them a lot, people who want to break into music. I say, “Well, you have to be in either New York, Los Angeles, or Nashville.” And people generally don’t think about it, but if you become famous in Dubuque or Boston even, your fame will reach to the edges of Boston. It will take you the same amount of time to be famous in New York, but the New York press is nationwide. There’s your difference.

Those are the cities where the industry has headquartered itself.

Right.

On your latest album, you span so many different blues styles. It’s like you’re coloring outside the lines in a way. Why make this type of album?

This is the most homogenous album I’ve ever made. I never saw any reason not to play any music that I enjoyed. Why be limited? This is commercial suicide to do things that way. The first time I asked Larry Campbell to produce an album, I said “Let’s do an album of all Chicago-style blues.” And he said, “No, let’s do an old-fashioned David Bromberg album.” I never assumed that he’d listened to those records, but evidently he had, so that’s what we did for the first one we did together [2013’s Only Slightly Mad]. The latest one is me taking baby steps to being a little more homogenous.

In the old days, from a commercial point of view, it was suicide, because the record stores had no idea what bin to put me in, and the record company had no idea where and how to advertise me. “But what will we call you?!” “Call me anything but late for dinner.” [Laughs] Without question, it’s the most homogenous album I’ve ever done, and it was fun to do. I’m happy about it.

And I saw you re-recorded “Dehlia” for this album. What was it like revisiting that song?

I did it on my first album, but Larry Campbell plays so beautifully on it, I just had to do it again. After I did the first with Larry producing, Larry and I did some gigs together, just the two of us, and I’ve never wanted anybody else to play on that tune, but I did it one night. Larry was sitting there and he started playing the slide on it and it was so gorgeous. It just kills me every time.

 

For more wisdom from another bluesy elder, read Amanda’s conversation with Tony Joe White.

LISTEN: Otis Taylor, ‘D to E Blues’

Artist: Otis Taylor
Hometown: Boulder, CO
Song: “D to E Blues”
Album: Fantasizing about Being Black
Release Date: February 17, 2017
Label: Trance Blues Festival Records

In Their Words: “The track ‘D to E’ is about a person who is screaming for freedom, even though he has been pushed down. Sometimes getting from D to E is a lot harder than it seems.” — Otis Taylor


Photo credit: Evan Semón

Squared Roots: Scott Biram on the Legend of Lead Belly

Though Lead Belly was merely a man, his story reads like the stuff of legends. He had multiple encounters with the law, was sentenced to a chain gang, escaped, killed a relative, and got thrown back in the hoosegow, earned himself a pardon because the governor was a fan. But then he stabbed someone else and got put back in prison, this time in Angola, where Alan and John Lomax found him. He was released, again, after serving his minimum and pleading with the governor, but committed a second stabbing, in the late ’30s. All the while, he so impressed everyone who heard him that he also landed himself in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Known primarily for playing 12-string guitar, Lead Belly also played the piano, mandolin, harmonica, violin, and diatonic accordion on the hundreds of songs he recorded over the course of his all-too-brief career.

Texas songwriter Scott Biram grew up on those songs and, later, learned the stories that went with them. In his own bluesy, folky, soulful Americana style, Biram hears the inevitable echoes of Lead Belly coming through, including on his latest release, The Bad Testament. The influence is there in the miscegenation of musical styles, but also in the way Biram approaches his role as raconteur.   

Why Lead Belly?

Well, Doc Watson was taken! [Laughs]

[Laughs] Fair point.

I would definitely say he’s among my biggest influences — Doc and Townes Van Zandt are my other two. Lead Belly has been in my life my whole life. My dad listened to him a lot when I was a kid. I have quite a few songs where I do a little rant in the middle, where it’s not really singing as much as it’s telling a little story or saying something. I think I got that from listening to Lead Belly.

Right. Must be nice to have parents who listened to cool music. I grew up on Barry Manilow and Dionne Warwick.

[Laughs] There was definitely a lot of Eagles and Crosby, Stills, and Nash at my house. But my dad listened to a lot of Doc Watson and Lightnin’ Hopkins and stuff like that.

I can see why he would gravitate toward that stuff. Lead Belly really did have a singular style — this mix of blues, folk, gospel, and country on a 12-string guitar. What was it that spoke to you in that mish-mosh or maybe it was the mish-mosh?

I think a lot of it had to do with just being a part of my life when I was a kid with my dad listening to it so much. We had this vinyl record that was the soundtrack to the film Lead Belly which is a pretty obscure movie, not really easy to find. I think they filmed it in ’76 or something like that. I was a little kid. They filmed it in the little town that I lived in and I was in my dad’s arms on the edge of the set while they were filming the scene where Lead Belly shot his friend and went to prison.

Well, one of the times he went to prison …

One of the times … yeah. [Laughs] So I heard that soundtrack a lot, which wasn’t actually Lead Belly playing on the soundtrack. It was Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee and someone named Hi Tide Harris who I haven’t been able to find too much on, even with the Internet.

Once I got into roots music, when I was a little older and started playing bluegrass and started really playing the guitar a lot and learning blues, Lead Belly was just naturally somebody that I gravitated toward. And his story is so interesting. I read all the biographies. I read a lot of biographies on musicians that influence me so that I don’t just have a shallow knowledge of them. If I’m going to be playing some of their music, I want to definitely know as much about them as possible.

That’s awesome. I had never studied much of his life until prepping for this. But, I mean … the guy recorded hundreds of songs, worked with the Lomaxes, had a radio show on WNYC, went to Europe, and was in and out of prison multiple times — sang his way out of jail a couple times — all before dying at 50 or 51. That’s some hard living. Can you imagine spending even a couple years in his shoes?

No. [Laughs] I mean, I can imagine, but I’m probably not going to do a very good job of imagining what something like that would be like. I’m just a guitar player. [Laughs] Actually, he only sang himself out of prison once. There’s a legend about him that he sang himself out twice, but really, the second time was kind of exaggerated. I think he was in prison in Louisiana, at that time, and he got out on something called “good time” which is, I think, probably good behavior.

Right. He served his minimum and got out. Here was an interesting thing that I learned: He played at the Apollo, but the Harlem audience didn’t really resonate with him as deeply as the folkies did. He had a lot in common with Woody Guthrie, maybe more so than some of the old blues guys, but why do you think the Black audience didn’t connect?

First of all, he was a country guy. And I don’t mean country music; I mean from the rural South. So I’m not sure anyone from New York would really see it as anything but a spectacle, at that time. But, also, I wonder — and I’m just guessing here — I know that John Lomax used to kind of have him dressed up in a prison uniform and stuff like that, kind of clown him around out there and make him seem like he was just straight from the prison. I imagine that might have been a turn-off to some people in Harlem back then. I know Woody Guthrie, when he went to New York and was supposed to be on something and they wanted him to dress, as he described it, “as a clown,” he said he’d be back in a few minutes, went downstairs, and left. Didn’t even come back to the studio. [Laughs]

[Laughs] Yeah. I read that Life magazine did a three-page spread on Lead Belly and the title of the article is not something I’m going to repeat.

Yeah, I get ya.

And it was considered an honor that he was getting this prominent placement. But it makes sense that the minstrel thing wouldn’t fly.

It might’ve been a turn-off to people in Harlem. If there was anyone from the South who lived in Harlem at that time, they probably weren’t impressed by it because, to them, it was just a reminder of what they just left.

The other thing I love about listening to his stuff and pouring over his stories is that he lived through an era of history that was rife with huge moments and he documented history as it happened, writing songs about the Titanic, the Hindenburg, Jim Crow, FDR, Hitler, etc. Pete Seeger carried his style forward. Bob Dylan, to a certain extent. Who else do you hear carrying the Lead Belly torch?

You mean documenting history as it happens?

Yeah. Ani DiFranco does a bit, which she picked up from Pete Seeger.

Honestly, nobody comes to mind that is documenting current events in music so much that it’s actual historical stories in the songs. There are a lot of people saying their thoughts about the current states of everything, but I can’t think of anyone that actually sings a story about a tragedy.

Santiago Jiménez, Jr. — Flaco Jiménez’s brother — has a record called El Corrido de Esequiel Hernandez: Tragedia de Redford. The album is titled after the song about a kid in Redford, Texas, down in the desert on the border, who was walking his goats one day and the guys in the DEA or Border Patrol came and shot him because he had a rifle walking, like he did every day, with his goats. He was basically a shepherd and he got shot. That’s the only one I can think of that pops out and that’s not a popular artist or anything. [Laughs]

[Laughs] Right. I was just thinking Hurray for the Riff Raff does it a little bit. Rhiannon Giddens, a little. But no one to the same extent. I mean, if you read Lead Belly’s song titles, you can trace history.

A lot of the time you have to listen to it as “The Hindenburg Disaster, Part I” and “Part II” because they couldn’t fit the whole song on the single. They had to put it on both sides!

BGS Class of 2016: Books

Yes, indeed, this was a great year for music (just check out our stacked 2016 albums list) and, luckily for all the bibliophiles out there, it was also a great year for music books. Because there's nothing better than reading a good book while your favorite music plays, we've rounded up a few of our favorite books from the past year. From Whisperin' Bill Anderson's life story to a memoir from the one and only Bruce Springsteen, there's something here for everyone.

Just Around Midnight: Rock and Roll and the Racial Imagination by Jack Hamilton

Slate writer and University of Virginia at Arlington professor Jack Hamilton tackles the complex relationship between race and rock 'n' roll in the 1960s in this new book. It's an essential addition to the rock 'n' roll history canon that covers new, much-needed ground.

Slim Harpo: Blues King Bee of Baton Rouge by Martin Hawkins

Slim Harpo forever altered the culture of Baton Rouge, Louisiana, with his own take on blues music. The only available biography about Harpo, this book preserves the legacy of one of the genre's most important artists.

Whisperin' Bill Anderson: An Unprecedented Life in Country Music by Bill Anderson and Peter Cooper

Whisperin' Bill Anderson is one of the most celebrated songwriters in country music, with hits for everyone from Ray Price to Eddy Arnold. In this autobiography — written in tandem with music writer Peter Cooper — Anderson offers a behind-the-scenes look at Music Row, his storied career, and the difficulties he faced as the music industry evolved.

Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen

An autobiography from the Boss … need we say more? 

Anatomy of a Song: the Oral History of 45 Iconic Hits That Changed Rock, R&B, and Pop by Marc Myers

"Proud Mary," "Carey," "Mercedes Benz," and 42 other legendary songs get the oral history treatment in this anthology from Wall Street Journal columnist Marc Myers. It's a fascinating read for anyone, but should be especially so for anyone hoping to write the next classic song.


Photo credit: Abee5 via Foter.com / CC BY.

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3×3: Jimmy Lumpkin on Zeppelin, Norway, and Southern Manners

Artist: Jimmy Lumpkin
Hometown: Fairhope, AL
Latest Album: HOME
Personal Nicknames: JL Fresh

 

Bombarded by beach buzzards! Cute though, huh?

A photo posted by Jimmy Lumpkin (@jimmy.lumpkin) on

If you had to live the life of a character in a song, which song would you choose?

"Ramble On," Led Zeppelin

Where would you most like to live or visit that you haven't yet?

Paradise, or Norway maybe

What was the last thing that made you really mad?

Myself

 

Dangerous Alligators

A photo posted by Jimmy Lumpkin (@jimmy.lumpkin) on

What's the best concert you've ever attended?

New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival, Van Morrison — in the rain.

What's your go-to karaoke tune?

Sorry, don’t have one; would probably be “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd

What are you reading right now?

Nothing at the moment, but I love the bookstore and the familiarity of the written word. I am always seeking that spark.

Whiskey, water, or wine? 

Whiskey, and water. And Wine. 

North or South? 

Wherever you’re at, there’s always an upside — and down. Whichever invites me back. Still, I’m Southern in manner and heritage. Without bias.

Facebook or Twitter? 

All my Facebook posts are Tweeted, I believe.