Tag: bob dylan

BGS 5+5: Stephen Kellogg

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Artist: Stephen Kellogg
Hometown: Formerly of Northampton, Massachusetts – now in Connecticut
Latest album: Objects in the Mirror
Personal nickname: Skunk

What other art forms — literature, film, dance, painting, etc — inform your music?

I love books. Dickens writes with his heart–very inspiring. Also movies. I like those art forms because my brain never tries to deconstruct what I’m experiencing in quite the same way as it does when I hear a good song. So it can be the emotion without the intellect jumping in there. For years it would bother me because certain music that was widely accepted as great would mean nothing to me, and other stuff I loved would fall under the ‘cheesy’ moniker. Then one day I realized that it was all about the lyrics for me. If the worldview was something that resonated authentically I didn’t care about the production. The same was true in reverse, cool production isn’t really enough for me to dig something. Once I learned that about myself, I was able to apply it to the other art forms. If I feel what’s being said or commented on with piece of art, there’s a good chance I can get inspired by it.

What’s the toughest time you ever had writing a song?

I once heard a quote from Tom Petty that was something to the effect of “When the muse comes to visit, if you don’t write it down that’s just ruuuude.” I think of that every time I get an idea in the middle of the night and have to wake up to jot it down in my journal. Lots of ideas come at really inconvenient times when you aren’t looking for them. When my mother-in-law passed away, her song came to me. The problem was, that I was just so sad I didn’t want to deal with it even though I knew I very much had to get it written down. I knew the moment the first line came to me that I would be singing it at her funeral a few days later, but even trying to write the song would bring me to tears. So I’d say “Ingrid’s Song” was the toughest because even though the words and chords came with some fluidity, it was a rough time to pull it out and do what needed doing. I’m glad I did though. She deserved that tribute.

If you had to write a mission statement for your career, what would it be?

I like this question a lot. It strikes me as very important to understand one’s purpose in all this. It can really sustain you when there are bumps in the road. For me, I don’t play music because I love playing guitar or singing. I play because I love the human connection. In recent years I’ve been doing more speaking and writing of other kinds. I have my first full length book out in March 2019 and I feel a similar rush from those experiences too. My mantra that I keep around some of my social media outlets says ‘using words and intention in the hopes of a positive legacy for my family.’ I’d say that’s the mission.

Since food and music go so well together, what is your dream pairing of a meal and a musician?

It occurs to me that maybe this question is simply one of picking an artist paired with the correct meal (like Sam Cooke with linguine and clams or something). I’m going to answer it though as it first occurred to me, as in who would you like to break bread with and what would you eat? There’s nothing like meeting up with an interesting person in a place where you can actually talk and kick around ideas. I do find that to be one of the great perks of the job. I always remember the anecdote that Dylan recounts of Bono swinging by his house with a case of Guinness. That sounds like a fun evening. As much as I’d love to have dinner with Tom Petty or Taylor Swift, I feel like the most thrilling connection usually occurs when you aren’t too star-struck and I wouldn’t trust myself with either of them. Also important to me in a hang is that folks have a good sense of humor. So I’d lean towards a night of steaks on the grill with Dave Grohl. I like his vibe.

How often do you hide behind a character in a song or use “you” when it’s actually “me”?

Rarely. Probably to a fault, I need to identify with a character if I’m going to sing it. It makes it increasingly hard for me to even perform certain songs from earlier in my career because I don’t identify with the wisdom being expressed or the aims of the character. I have a ballad called “Such a Way” that I wrote when I was in my mid-twenties. I sing about “the woman down the street with a daughter twenty years.” This made lots of sense when I was 24. Now that I’m in my 40s it feels a bit lecherous when I sing that line if I think too much about it. I mean I can get back to the sentiment of young love sure, but I also have a teenage daughter myself now and it just doesn’t feel as true to me to narrate; although I’ll sing it at shows, it’s hard for me to have an emotional experience with that song sometimes. No judgment because how else can Robert Plant sing “Whole Lotta Love” or Foreigner do “Hot Blooded” without feeling ridiculous? For me, though, if I don’t relate it’s kind of like acting instead of music.

 

MIXTAPE: Madison Cunningham’s Songs I Hear in Purple

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It was difficult to narrow it down to just 12, but here are some songs that were turning points for me as an artist. Songs that made me first realize, and then remember, why I love music. I also hear songs and keys in color. Although it might sound strange all twelve of these songs have aspects that sound purple to me. Enjoy!

Jeff Buckley – “Grace”

My friend Izzi Ray told me about Jeff Buckley over lunch about four years ago. Being late to the game, as I usually am, I didn’t listen to a single song of his until a couple years later. I’ll never forget how astonished I was at his voice. Then come to find out what an innovative guitar player he was. It haunted me for months. Specifically “Grace.”

Radiohead – “Paranoid Android”

“Paranoid Android” was one of the first radio songs I listened too. I’m constantly inspired by how freely Thom Yorke creates and sings his melodies. This is one of those melodies.

Emmylou Harris – “Deeper Well”

“Wrecking Ball” was a life-changing record for me and continues to be in my top 10 favorites. The lyrics of “Deeper Well” make for a perfect song in my opinion.

Fiona Apple – “Fast As You Can”

I’ve never felt cooler than when I walk down the side streets of Los Angeles listening to this song blaring in my headphones. It’s also my airplane turbulence song. It shed a completely new light on songwriting, and songwriting tempos for me. I’ve always felt it was hard to say something important in a fast song. Fiona proved me so wrong.

Joni Mitchell – “Both Sides Now”

Joni was the first person who made me really want to be a songwriter. She set the bar so unreachably high that she made so many of us want to do our best even if we came just short of it. This song is one of few that make a timeless statement that could be sung by a 19-year-old and an 80-year-old.

Bob Dylan – “Just Like a Woman”

Here’s another example of a song that I think is absolutely perfect. Not a word or note wasted.

Ry Cooder – “Tattler”

Ry is another one of my guitar heroes. “Tattler” is my favorite song by him.

Nina Simone – “Feeling Good”

Nina Simone can’t play or sing a wrong note. All of her mistakes were in key somehow. Any song she plays instantly pulls me in. No other rendition of “Feeling Good” matches the sorrow, and power of this one.

Maurice Ravel – “String Quartet in F Major”

This is maybe one of my favorite pieces of music. I heard Chris Thile play it on Live From Here for the first time and it lifted me out of my seat.

Brian Wilson – “Don’t Talk”

This one makes me tear up almost every time. The melodies and voicings on this tune are such a beautiful mystery to me. And the lyrics convey the power of not saying anything and resting in the arms of the person you love

Rufus Wainright – “Poses”

On my way back from the Sundance film festival it started to snow. My friend Mike and I made a wrong turn; as we found our way back he turned this song on. When it was over I asked him if he’d mind if we played it again.

Juana Molina – “Lo Decidi Yo”

Juana is one of my favorite guitar players/writers. She’s truly one of a kind. I listened to one song by her called “Eras” on repeat for four years straight until I uncovered the rest of her record. Here’s one of my belated discoveries.

Photo credit: Paige Wilson

MIXTAPE: Cordovas’ Unknown Legends

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The playlist is called Unknown Legends because each song carries a factor of the unknown; be it a somewhat unknown version (“Connection”), artist (Altyrone Deno Brown) or even origin (“Statesboro Blues”). These compositions and singers are the backbone of American weirdness, the reason we love our country’s music. – Cordovas

“Shake Sugaree” — Elizabeth Cotton

Cotton’s “Shake Sugaree” is crucial. Hard to find anyone that good at being a singer songwriter in the early 1900s but she was. Perfectly written, this song is a masterpiece of American music. This Carolina girl was an unknown legend

“Sweet Pea” — Altyrone Deno Brown

Just look at the picture of the dude. He could slay drums and he was 9 or 10 when he got signed. They want him to be the next Michael Jackson. Listen to his vibrato and the tenderness in his voice. The way he heard other singers seems to come out.

“The End of the World” — Skeeter Davis

This perfect melody. So sweet. Skeeter. Heartbroken and gettin’ over it by singing the blues. Some dynamite two part she throws down.

“Sign Language” — Eric Clapton

Clapton is obviously very well-known but this is a lesser known song. Featuring lead guitar by Robbie Robertson, harmonies by Richard Manuel, and a verse by Dylan himself, this is a beautiful scene in some movie. Two lovers. “You Speak to me in sign language as I’m eating a sandwich in a small café at a quarter to three.” So simple.

“Jesus I’ll Never Forget” — Forbes Family

Gospel Vocal groups. They believe. They lift their voices. This one has some epic 5 part harmony. It gets us singing in exaltation “Jesus I’ll Never forget” in the van as we ramble on. We are atheists.

“Piney Mountains” — Bruce Molsky

Jump up on the flat wheel car and let this fiddle tune take you up into the u-pined hills. “My hands can’t fiddle and my heart’s been broke, lord, and my time ain’t long.” Brother Bruce.

“Runs in the Family” — The Roches

The Roches have a masterpiece here. They address here the things we pass down in our families and in our ways and ambitions. Our desires. Through and through, concept, arrangement, feeling, this one is so well thought out and executed. On the idea of the sisters themselves coming of age the Roches sing, “Something about the danger zone, wouldn’t leave the bunch of us alone”

“Matty Groves” — Fairport Convention

This is a reworking of the old English ballad that tells a tale of lust, deceit and revenge in a renaissance setting. Sandy Denny’s powerful, convincing vocals are flanked by 20 year old Richard Thompson’s innovative, unpredictable guitar lines and Dave Swarbricks masterful electric fiddle, tying the tradition to a new era.

“Shady Grove” — Doc Watson

An Appalachian folk ballad by Doc Watson. There are some 300 stanzas collected reaching back to the 1800’s. There have been a vast amount of versions recorded and documented of this song, but Doc Watson’s version would come to be known through the folk revival period of the 1960s and making its mark into popular music by way of Jerry Garcia and David Grisman.

“Statesboro Blues” — Blind Willie McTell

This song came about from his many trips to a tobacco warehouse during harvest season in Statesboro, Georgia. He collected change from the laborers in a tin cup tied to the neck of his 12 string guitar that could be heard right outside the loading docks. “Reach over in the corner mama, grab my traveling shoes”.

“Going Down the Road Feelin’ Bad” — Woody Guthrie

Accompanied by Sonny Terry (harmonica) and Cisco Houston (mandolin, vocals) Guthrie’s rendition would provide the template for many subsequent versions of the song in both the bluegrass and the folk rock genres. Alan Lomax recorded this for the library of Congress.

“Connection” — Ramblin’ Jack Elliott

“Connection” is a Jagger/Richards song about being stuck while traveling, wanting to be home. Covered by NRPS among others, the song is on Elliott’s Reprise debut where it takes new life, now sung by a gunslinger-type.

“Tamp’ Em Up Solid” — Ry Cooder

Cooder’s “Paradise and Lunch” is a collection of older tunes, some somewhat unknown, including songs by McTell, Philips, and more. “Tamp’ Em Up Solid” is a traditional, attacked by Cooder in his unique style.

Photo credit: Alysse Gafkjen

BGS 5+5: Michael McDermott

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Artist: Michael McDermott
Hometown: Chicago, IL
Latest Album: Out From Under
Personal Nicknames: Mickey, Murph, Big Dog

Which artist has influenced you the most … and how?

Bob Dylan. It all starts and ends with Zimmy. He’s the greatest.

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

Cabaret Metro, Chicago, 1996. The building was moving from people jumping when we opened with “Bells.”

What rituals do you have, either in the studio or before a show?

I meditate. It centers me, and focuses me.

As you travel around the world, what is the overriding sense you get of the people?

I’m in Oslo as I type this, so I think besides language and clothing, it’s that there are beautiful people everywhere; that we have cultivated that beauty in different ways and some people were never allowed to cultivate it, but it’s there; that the land we come from is only the window dressing of that which lies beneath; and that the loudest people in any airport in the world are undoubtedly American.

If you had to write a mission statement for your career, what would it be?

No matter what befalls you, no matter how many times they knock you down, in the words of Jimmy V, “Never ever give up.”

Canon Fodder: The Beau Brummels, ‘Bradley’s Barn’

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Who invented rock ‘n’ roll?

Don’t answer that: It’s a trick question. Rock ‘n’ roll, like most complex sounds and genres and world-conquering forces, wasn’t actually invented. Instead, it germinated and mutated and mushroomed and erupted. It’s not the product of Elvis Presley or Sam Phillips, nor of Jackie Brenston or Louis Jordan. Rather, it is the product of all those people and more — all conduits for larger cultural ideas and desires. Rock wasn’t an invention, not like television or the telephone or the automobile or the atomic bomb. Similarly, its sub-genres and sub-sub-genres in the late 1960s weren’t inventions, more like waves swelling and cresting through pop culture.

The Beau Brummels didn’t invent country-rock in the 1960s, although they did help bring it into being. Long before the San Francisco rock explosion in the late ’60s shot the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane to national prominence, they were gigging around the Bay Area as one of the first American bands to respond to the British Invasion. In 1965, they recorded their breakout hit, “Laugh Laugh,” with a kid named Sly Stewart, later known as Sly Stone. They held their own against Southern California groups like the Byrds, the Standells, and the Electric Prunes (who were marrying their garage rock to liturgical music in one of the most esoteric experiments of the era). While tiny Autumn Records could never fully capitalize on their success, the Beau Brummels did achieve enough notoriety to appear in films and television shows. (The quality of those outlets, however, remains questionable: Village of the Giants, a kiddie flick starring Beau Bridges and Ron Howard, was skewered on Mystery Science Theater 3000.)

They have a full slate of excellent hits, each marked by songwriter/guitarist Ron Elliott’s melancholic lyrics and Sal Valentino’s unusual vibrato, which had a way of turning consonants into vowels and vice versa. The line-up shrunk from a sextet to a trio, which meant fewer harmonies, but a more streamlined sound. Released in 1967, Triangle strips away the electric guitars and, in their place, inserts folky acoustics and chamber-pop flourishes. It’s a song cycle about dreams, simultaneously baroque and austere, and it finds the band stretching in weird directions. For example, they cover “Nine Pound Hammer,” which had been a hit for country singer Merle Travis in 1951. Perhaps more surprising is how well they make it fit into the album’s theme.

In fact, the Beau Brummels had been peppering their sets with country covers since their first shows in San Francisco, and their 1965 debut, Introducing the Beau Brummels, included a cover of Don Gibson’s 1957 hit “Oh Lonesome Me.” They weren’t alone, either. As the “Bakersfield Sound” became more prominent on the West Coast for mixing country music with rock guitars, rock musicians were completing the circle and borrowing from country music. In 1967, Bob Dylan traveled to Nashville to make John Wesley Harding, his own stab at a kind of country-rock.

The trend culminated in 1968, when the Beatles covered Buck Owens on The White Album and the Everly Brothers released Roots. In March, the International Submarine Band released their sole studio album, Safe at Home, and five months later, the Byrds released Sweetheart of the Rodeo. Both were spearheaded by Gram Parsons, a kid out of Florida who was in love with the kind of mainstream country music that most West Coast hipsters had long written off. He is still identified with the country-rock movement, often declared its architect or instigator — and with good cause.

Early in 1968, at the behest of their producer, Lenny Waronker, the Beau Brummels decamped to Nashville — or to rural Wilson County, just outside of Nashville — to record a new album at the headquarters of Owen Bradley. The previous decade, Bradley had helped to define what came to be known as the “Nashville Sound,” a more pop-oriented strain of country music meant to appeal to as wide an audience as possible — not just rural folk, but urban listeners, as well. Even so long after his heyday, he would have been revered for countrypolitan classics by Patsy Cline, Brenda Lee, Loretta Lynn, and Conway Twitty.

Although it bears his name, Owen Bradley didn’t produce the Beau Brummels’ Bradley’s Barn. Instead, Waronker remained at the helm. But working in Nashville meant they had access to local session players, including Jerry Reed on guitar and dobro, Kenny Buttrey on drums, and Norbert Putnam on bass. The Beau Brummels had withered down to a trio at the beginning of the sessions and, by the end, bassist Ron Meagher was drafted into the Army and sent to Vietnam. As a duo, Elliott and Valentino were able to craft a very distinctive sound that’s more than just rock music played on acoustic instruments.

Bradley’s Barn crackles with ideas and possibilities, from the breathless exhortation of “Turn Around” that kicks off the album, to the ramshackle lament of “Jessica” that ushers its close. “An Added Attraction (Come and See Me)” is a loping rumination on love and connection, as casual as a daydream under a shade tree. The picking is deft and acrobatic throughout the album, as playfully ostentatious as any rock guitar solo, and Valentino sings in what might be called an anti-twang, an un-locatable accent that renders “deep water” as “deeeep whoa-ater” and pronounces “the loneliest man in town” with a weeping vibrato.

Bradley’s Barn wasn’t the first, but it was among the first country-rock albums. It was recorded and mixed by March 1968, when the International Submarine Band’s Safe at Home was released, but for some reason, the label shelved it for most of the year. It was finally released in October, perhaps as a means to capitalize on success of the Byrds’ Sweetheart of the Rodeo, which hit stores in August. Once leading the way in country-rock, the Beau Brummels were suddenly playing catch-up. And yet, compared to those two Parsons-led projects, Bradley’s Barn feels like much more of a risk, less self-conscious about its country sound. Safe and Sweetheart were primarily covers albums, with only a few of Parsons’ originals and a handful of Dylan compositions. Their purpose was to define a sound, to translate hits by Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash, and the Louvin Brothers into the language of rock ‘n’ roll. As such, they’re landmark albums, showing just how malleable rock ‘n’ roll could be — how it could stretch and bend to accommodate new sounds and ideas.

Save for the Randy Newman tune that closes the album (and was recorded in L.A. right before the Beau Brummels went to Tennessee), Bradley’s Barn is all originals, each one penned or co-penned by guitarist Ron Elliott. He has a deceptively straightforward style, evoking complex emotions with simple words. Alienation and isolation are his favorite topics, which lend all of his songs, but especially this album, its distinctive melancholy. “Every so often, the things I need never seem to be around,” Valentino sings on “Deep Water.” “Every so often, I pick up speed. Trouble is, I’m going down.”

On “Long Walking Down to Misery,” Reed’s dobro answers Valentino’s vocals with a jeering riff, turning his yearning for love and comfort into something like a punchline. That sadness and the music’s response to it — alternately bolstering it and undercutting it — is perhaps the most country aspect to this country-rock album. Elliott, in particular, understands how country works, just as much as Parsons does or Dylan does. Every song is a woe-is-me lament, lowdown and troubled, but not without humor or self-awareness. Even “Cherokee Girl” uses the imagery that would be identified with outlaw country in the next decade.

Bradley’s Barn flopped, when it was finally released, overshadowed by the Southern California bands and generally abandoned by the label. In 1969, when “Cherokee Girl” failed to register on the pop charts, the Beau Brummels broke up. They’ve reunited a few times since then, most famously in 1975, but generally they live on in reissues and oldies playlists. “We weren’t trying to do country,” Elliott told rock historian Richie Unterberger in 1999. “We were trying to do Beau Brummels country, which was a totally different thing. But it didn’t really catch on.”

The Tallest Man on Earth, ‘Somewhere in the Mountains, Somewhere in New York’

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When English isn’t the first language of a particular songwriter, the way they play with its intricacies can often breed work just as — if not more — exciting than someone born and raised in London or Los Angeles. There’s a poetic appreciation that comes from studying the words anew, and a kind of flexibility that results from mastering a fresh lexicon. They are falling in love with these words in a different light than those who have always taken them for granted and, when it’s done well, it can translate perfectly into the ear of the listener.

That’s always been the gift of Kristian Matsson, otherwise known as the Tallest Man on Earth, a Swedish songwriter with an uncanny take on the English language. For Matsson, it’s a palette with which to paint. And what results are lyrics that are half-poetry, half-storytelling, bending the words themselves in evocative, yet simple, ways. “Some nights will haunt me ’till the daylight comes around,” sings Matsson on his new song “Somewhere in the Mountains, Somewhere in New York.” It’s a gentle sweep of evocative language, mirrored in the soft, sonic textures he creates. Growing up with Bob Dylan, Matsson was never short on English-language inspiration, and he’s developed a delicacy with its syllables over the years. On “Somewhere in the Mountains, Somewhere in New York,” he creates a world that teeters just on the edge of that daylight, in that space before the sun cracks open above the mountains and brightens up the sky. There’s nothing quite as beautiful as a sunrise, but there’s nothing like a song to make it seem like we’re seeing it, and hearing it, for the first time.

That Ain’t Bluegrass: Lonely Heartstring Band

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Artist: Lonely Heartstring Band
Song: “Rambling, Gambling Willie” (originally by Bob Dylan)
Album: Deep Waters

Where did you first hear “Rambling, Gambling Willie?”

Patrick M’Gonigle: Matt [Witler] actually found the song. It was released probably seven or eight years ago now, as part of The Witmark Demos — a set of outtakes from when Bob Dylan recorded The Freewheelin’ sessions. He released a whole bunch of other music from that session. I think it was Matt that thought it would make a cool bluegrass song.

We actually have an interesting side note about that: We had a guy come to a show a couple of years ago and we played that song, introducing it as a song that didn’t make The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan record. The guy said he went home very confused. He had The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan album, and he said, “I grew up listening to that record. I know that song intimately. And I never had The Witmark Demos. So I don’t get this.” When he found his copy and looked at the track order, sure enough “Rambling, Gambling” was not on the track order. Then he put the record on and “Rambling, Gambling” was on it! He had one of a very small handful of misprints of the stereo version of that record, and it’s worth a ton of money.

I thought this was going to be a Mandela Effect kind of thing!

It was actually on there!

The title of the song almost answers this question, but what made you all think this would make a good bluegrass song?

It’s got a great, classic chord progression. Also, the timing of the words allowed us to speed it up and have it work. A lot of songs, you speed them up, and the words just become insane or crunched together. The song itself, the words are at a slower pace, so when we sped it up, they totally fit. It’s super fun to play on as a soloist. It had all of the elements. We did the same thing recently with a song that we learned from Willie Nelson. If we hear [three-chord] songs that are slow, but also have a slow word flow, they lend themselves to this. “Rambling, Gambling Willie” was our first experiment with that.

What was your process of arranging the song and putting it together?

It was a few years ago now. When we sped it up, the verses ended up being quite short. There are a lot of them — I think the original version has maybe eight or nine verses. We chose six of them. We chose the ones that told the story cohesively. We cut a bunch of them, and we realized, because we were speeding it up, it didn’t make sense to do verse-chorus-solo. So we did two verse-choruses in a row between solos, which kind of acted as one verse.

The other thing we did, when we worked up the harmonies on the first chorus of each pair, we would do a low harmony and, the second one, we’d do a high harmony, so it would still have kind of an arc over the two verses. One of our favorite, one of our most popular bluegrass songs when we arranged that song was “Born to Be with You” by J.D. Crowe and the New South, which we still play. That has a really cool arrangement style where the banjo finishes every break. We applied that to this song, too. When it gets to the chorus parts, because we would solo over verse-chorus, Gabe [Hirshfeld] on the banjo would always solo over the chorus part.

Bluegrass has always had this tradition of reworking and revamping songs from outside of bluegrass since the very beginning. Why do you think this still happens?

I feel like there are several answers to that. For us, we love — in terms of traditional bluegrass sounds — J.D. Crowe and the New South. J.D. is a great example of someone who does that. Like the song “Born to Be with You,” that’s a ‘50s doo-wop song by the Chordettes. The original sounds nothing like what J.D did with it.

Also, I think a lot of the bluegrass themes are pretty constant throughout bluegrass. We have a banter joke on stage that there are only like six themes in bluegrass: heartbreak, drinking or making alcohol, trains, God, and death. In pop music, especially folk revival — ‘60s, ‘70s pop music — there was a kind of poetic awakening and there was a lot more content. That’s one answer: You can talk about more complex themes.

Then, on the other hand, it’s just natural. Especially in this day and age, when there’s so much good music happening all over the place, if you grow up listening to the radio, it’s not just the Grand Ole Opry anymore. Everyone’s listening to everything.

You know that ain’t bluegrass, right?

Whatever, man. [Laughs] In our band, it’s different for everyone, but I think, in general, I see the term “bluegrass” as either a help or a hindrance. It’s a double-edged sword. On the one hand, sure, it’s bluegrass. In my opinion, bluegrass is whatever anyone wants to call bluegrass. I’m not concerned with it. Maybe it’s not traditional bluegrass, if you define traditional bluegrass as anything that happened before 1953 or whenever. I don’t feel like it’s constructive, especially in our band, to talk about what is or isn’t bluegrass. To us, that song is bluegrass because we’re taking pentatonic solos over essentially a 1-4-5 [chord progression,] the mandolin is chopping, the banjo is rolling, and we have three-part harmony that’s stacked in thirds. That’s awfully bluegrass, if you break it down as a specific musical form.

If you start trying to define what bluegrass means to us, it can start holding us back, because we can easily decide that nothing is bluegrass. I think it’s better for everyone, especially touring, performing musicians who are trying to expand their markets, trying to talk about diversity, or any sort of expansion, because if you start putting labels on whatever bluegrass is, the conversation is over pretty quickly. Everyone has a different idea.

But, at the same time, bluegrass as a positive aesthetic is really powerful. Bringing in the imagery of traditional bluegrass, in a good way, to any sort of music, incorporated into any of those styles can be super awesome. People can immediately conjure some sort of nostalgic, rural, aesthetic. Those are powerful aesthetics that are very popular in American culture. That’s the double-edged sword, to us.

Ken Irwin had a very interesting thing to say to us after we played at Pemi Valley Bluegrass Festival in New Hampshire — that’s a pretty traditional festival. We were up there playing our music, but at that point, we were probably playing more of the Flatt & Scruggs and Bluegrass Album Band kind of stuff. I kept saying, “Here’s one of our songs” and then, “Here’s a traditional bluegrass song.” Ken pointed out that, if we say that, people will start putting those divisions in their own minds about our music. If the audience loves traditional bluegrass and they want to call our music “bluegrass,” then we should let them. But as soon as we start saying what is or isn’t bluegrass from stage, we might be steering someone’s opinions in directions they wouldn’t otherwise go.

A Minute In the Catskills with Simone Felice

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Welcome to “A Minute In …” — a BGS feature that turns our favorite artists into hometown reporters. In our latest column, Simone Felice teaches us about the history of the Catskills and Hudson Valley.

Kaaterskill Falls: As fate would have it, I was born just a few ledges below the falls, on the same creek, which the early Dutch settlers named the Kaaterskill, or Cat’s River, after the wild mountain lions and lynx that roamed both forest and glen. In the 19th century Enlightenment Period, many prominent landscape painters and naturalist writers and poets — including Hudson River School founder Thomas Cole and his close friend William Cullen Bryant — made pilgrimages to these remote cataracts with easel and pen, and passed the hours in conversation, study, and communion with nature. Today, the falls, which are the highest in New York state, attract folks from far and wide in all seasons. It’s crazy on the weekends, so I climb up often weekdays at dawn. Maybe I’ll see you on the trail.

Olana: If you follow the Kaaterskill, as it snakes stubbornly eastward, you’ll come, by and by, to the mighty Hudson. Cross the river and take the old winding road up to, what is in my opinion, Fredrick Church’s most important masterpiece: Olana. With breathtaking views of the Catskill Mountain range and Hudson River, it’s no wonder that, upon discovering the location, Church wrote to a friend that he’d found “the center of the world.” You can tour his home and painting studio or simply wander the grounds, which he called “living landscapes.” I had many noonday picnics in the garden as a young kid with my mom, hoping for a glimpse of Peter Rabbit. And, after 40 years, it’s not lost a bit of that magic and wonder.

West Indies Grocery: The old city of Hudson was a sketchy place, when we were kids. It had been a prominent whaling town in the 19th century, earning a mention in Melville’s Moby Dick, but by the 1990s, many of the shops on its main (Warren) street were boarded up. Over the past 25 years, it’s gone through a near miracle of revitalization, block upon block of enviable period architecture has been spared the wrecking ball, and Hudsontown is again a center of arts and food culture. There are many posh hipster eateries I could mention, but my favorite is still this little grocery shop where the family matriarch, Paulette, cooks up homemade Jamaican “yard” food for her sons and neighbors, and if you’re lucky, there will a plate of curry goat or ox tails left for you. Cash only.

Circle W Market: “The W” is the beating heart of the Katterskill Clove. In the summer of 1908, Circle W opened its doors as a traditional country general store to serve the needs of a growing population of vacationers, quarrymen, landscape painters, and mill workers. Palenville, New York, (a small Catskill hamlet) had become famed for the many waterfalls in its vicinity (including Kaaterskill Falls and Fawn’s Leap), mountain views, artists’ retreats, and the setting for the mythical home of Washington Irving’s Rip Van Winkle.

For close to a century, upon entering the store, one could find anything from a gallon of paint to a gallon of milk, a pair of work pants, a kite, homemade lunches, a fishing pole, hardware, ice cream, and much more. After falling into disrepair for many years, my family bought and restored the original store and, a few years back, our mom retired and my wife Jessie and I bought it, and a couple buddies and myself turned the old horse barn in back into a music space complete with a balcony and chandelier. Come on out for one of our wild barn nights — there’s always a fire, and you never know what sort of freaks will show up.

Big Pink: We grew up riding our bicycles past the dirt driveway that leads to this modest, unassuming house off a backroad just outside of Woodstock. It wasn’t until years later that I began to understand the eternal significance of the place in the hallowed annals of American song … after Rick Danko — bassist in Bob Dylan’s touring band in the mid ’60s — rented the house and he, Dylan, and the rest of the gang (Levon Helm, Robbie Robertson, Richard Manuel, and Garth Hudson) set up a make-shift studio in the basement and stayed up all hours recording, drinking, smoking, waxing philosophical, and digging deep into the essence and origins of the songs and sound that they grew up on and would continue to pioneer for years to come.

Throwing Out the Rulebook: A Conversation with Bettye LaVette

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There are singers, there are songwriters, and then there’s Bettye LaVette. She prides herself on being an interpreter, on using her voice to guide new melodies out of lyrics that have become a second skin to many listeners. But don’t you dare call her a covers artist. The septuagenarian’s new album, Things Have Changed — her first major label effort since 1982 — marks the first time LaVette has ever released an album focusing on one artist exclusively, and it just so happens to be Bob Dylan.

The idea sprang out of her 2008 Kennedy Center Honors performance in which she interpreted the Who’s “Love Reign O’er Me” and effectively stunned Pete Townshend. She eventually translated that moment into her 2010 album, Interpretations: The British Rock Songbook. But Dylan is a different beast. LaVette shape-shifts his Nobel Prize-winning words into growling, bluesy affairs and soul-laced R&B, each track so unlike its origin that it’s a wonder they ever came from his mouth in the first place.

LaVette uses her voice to guide her interpretations in ways that defy the traditional notion of covering a song. “I got with my keyboard player, and he played it the way I sung it,” she explains about her process on Things Have Changed. With that basic foundation in place, she approached her producer, Steve Jordan, and Dylan’s long-time guitarist, Larry Campbell — who plays on the album — to work out the arrangements. “It was going a completely different way, and they had to go with it,” she says.

One of Dylan’s most iconic songs, “It Ain’t Me, Babe” (from 1964’s Another Side of Bob Dylan), sounds like a soul-infused ditty straight out of the Stax era, while LaVette picks up on the menacing quality running throughout “Ain’t Talking” (originally “Ain’t Talkin’ from 2006’s Modern Times), lacing it with equally ominous strings. “I thought about these naked banshees running through the forest playing violins,” she says. Dylan being Dylan, there’s a certain aura surrounding his music, but LaVette strips away all that pomp and circumstance, and reimagines these songs as new possibilities for the modern age. After all, things have changed.

Even though the title of your album pulls from Dylan’s song, it seems so appropriate today. As an artist, how are you trying to cope with the changes we’re witnessing on an almost daily basis?

Well, my husband says I do better some days than I do others. Some days he tells me I’m just too angry about it and I have to calm down. When I do these lyrics to “Political World” and “Times They Are a Changing,” it sounds as though they were written for today, so I don’t know if Dylan is prophetic, along with brilliant, or if he just didn’t have any faith in anything getting better and he was right!

The central sentiment on “Things Have Changed,” how do you push past that to still care?

Oh, honey, I am 72 years old. I basically don’t give a fuck. Nothing at this point wears me down. I know that all of this going on right now, either it’s going to pass or we’re going to pass. Something’s going to stop, though. I hope it’s not us.

You said Dylan’s lyrics were almost prophetic in a way. How does contemporary art need to respond to this moment more than it has been?

I don’t know. I don’t really like for people to sing about what’s going on; I’d rather them say it. If you’re a big enough star, then go somewhere important and say something. I want our entertainers to be well informed and to know everything that’s going on politically really does affect all of us. I’d like to see us become a little more serious-minded, instead of sitting around and singing about it all day.

I was looking at something the other night — Jay-Z was on something — he and Snoop Dogg both are speaking so much better than when they first started, and about so many more important things. I watched them when they started, and to hear what they speak about now, it warms my heart. I still am not a fan of hip-hop, but I’m glad that, since they’re making so many millions, they’re trying to contribute something now.

Absolutely. It’s an interesting conversation taking place. So, can you take me back to the moment when you first started listening to Dylan?

I’ve always heard him, but he’s never sounded appealing to me. I’ve recorded four of his tunes — those were the only ones that I could break down to size. Otis Redding said he’d never do one. It’s too damn many words! [Laughs] He was not played a lot on Black radio, and I didn’t like, necessarily, the way he presented his songs, and I always had a whole bunch of other stuff to sing about. He hasn’t been a mainstay in my life.

As I understand it, the album’s executive producer, Carol Friedman, brought the idea to you. What was it that excited you from a creative perspective?

This was more than just a big musical opportunity. This was a big business opportunity, as well. This is my 57th year in show business, so I’m not fascinated or enamored with anyone right now. I was fascinated and enamored that I would get a chance to get a really big shot and, because the company thought it was a really great idea, I thought I would tackle it for that reason. When I started to choose the tunes — which was very difficult for me to do because there’s only so much of what he says that I want to repeat — it was quite a daunting thing. I wasn’t going to tributize him, and I don’t do cover tunes. I can sing, so I don’t have to do the song the way you do it.

Right. You’ve described yourself as an interpreter.

No. I am an interpreter. That is what I do. I had to write a whole bunch to make it fit into my mouth. I had to change the gender in a lot of places, and I got to know him a lot better. I understand him much better. I would like to talk with him, though, because I’d like to know why he feels the way he does.

Has he gotten wind of this project?

Oh, I’m sure. His manager loved it. He gave me license to change the lyrics and gave me license not to license it. So I assume Bob has heard it.

As we know, white folk artists in the ‘50s and ‘60s covered or referenced Black artists in their music. And, here, it’s thrilling to see a Black woman interpret a white man’s music. Did that ever strike you during the project?

Oh, yes! I definitely thought about it. I listened to John Lennon and Paul McCartney say that B.B. King is their idol, and I know that B.B. came very close to dying broke and unheard of, so when I did the Interpretations album, that was pure vengeance. I thought of it that way. I wanted to do the tunes well enough for whites who were in love with these guys to realize that they’re just writers. These songs are not hymns; they’re just songs. Having a husband who was a white teenager who grew up with all of these guys and has been enamored of them forever, one of the greatest joys of my life was for me to make Pete Townshend cry and for him to see it. So I enjoyed that tremendously. [Laughs]

They are considered sacred among a set, but I love what you’ve done on this album, because these songs don’t sound like what we know Dylan’s catalogue to be!

As I said, I had to sit and think about them for a long time, whereas the ones that I’d chosen to do by him before, they were just songs that I liked and I just did them. But with 12 of them facing me at one time, I said, “Now, here, let me think about them.” I had to really listen because they weren’t going to be a part of what I was doing. They were going to be what I was doing. I had to make them definitely fit into my mouth perfectly, squarely, just as if they’d been written for me. The greatest joy for me now is that the people I’ve been seeking out are Bob Dylan fans. I’m not asking my fans what they think about it; I’m asking Bob Dylan’s fans what they think about it.

And what’s the reaction?

I wanted them not to recognize them, and I wanted them not to be able to sing along with them.

You said you selected songs you could fit into your mouth. What did you want this project to say exactly?

The only words I don’t use are, “If you do this, I’ll die” and “Boy.” I’ve never said, “If you do this, I’ll die,” because that just ain’t gon’ happen. And, when I was 12, my boyfriend was 18, so boys have never been a part of my life. As long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to be grown. But I can’t think of anybody who can write a song that I couldn’t sing because you don’t have to sing it the way they write it. Sing it the way you sing.

I think some of the best songwriters are those that can be interpreted in any genre.

I find when people cover Bob Dylan songs, they worship. They don’t change them or do anything. That’s no fun!

It’s like you said, they’re not hymns.

Listen, I would not want anyone to say, “My goodness, she captured Bob perfectly.” No! No!

In terms of process, how much time do you need to spend with a song in order to hear it in a new way?

When I start to sing it without the recording, that kind of dictates the way mine is going to go. So, when I sat down with Larry Campbell, he knew immediately he could not play the way he’d played for Bob [Dylan] with the way I was singing it. I was really like a director in that, “This is no longer going this way. This is going this way.” When we did Interpretations, the first thing I said to all the musicians was, I said — all of them were white — ”I know all of you grew up with these tunes, but I want you to suspend thought about them, and don’t play anything other than what is on the paper. Play this as if it’s a song you’ve never heard before.” Some were easier for them to do than others.

Well, Things Have Changed is really something else. You’ve captured something, but it’s not his!

I’m so glad that you hear it. I wanted young people who have been given a Dylan album in their cradle when they were born, and they feel that that’s the way it should go to hear it. I would give anything to have seen [Dylan] hearing it.

To be a fly on that wall!

I would have liked to know did he recognize them all the moments they started playing, or if he didn’t recognize them, which ones didn’t he recognize? That would’ve been fun to me.

MIXTAPE: John Murry’s Southern Soundtrack

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When we needed a Mixtape selected for a Southern soundtrack, we knew John Murry was our guy. After all, he is related to William Faulkner.

The Connells — “Lay Me Down”

A song from a pair of North Carolina attorneys and their band about a child they knew who received a bicycle for his 11th birthday, rode it away from home on his own for the first time the next day, fell into a ditch, and broke both of his legs. It rained. The little guy slowly drowned as the water rose.

Lead Belly — “You Don’t Know My Mind”

Though he sang his way out of prison not once, but twice, I seriously doubt it was this song that he sang for his white captors to gain his release — a song now white-washed and remembered fully in circles that have kept a tradition alive, added meaning and mirth to his verses by adding theirs while reviving and performing his original verses. Kenny Brown is a legend in Mississippi. His earliest version, recorded for Fat Possum, is still a touchstone for me.

Furry Lewis — “Judge Harsh Blues”

Another song about law and (dis)order, written by a man who preferred to be known as the one-legged street sweeper of Beale Street in Memphis than a bluesman. The Rolling Stones and U2 both gave him gifts of expensive guitars while he was still alive, living at the top of Beale. He pawned both the day he got them. FTW. RIP, Furry. Universality? All arrestees will soon (or do now) know about 11 months, 29 days … I can’t sign my name either, Furry. I have never known it.

Vic Chesnutt — “Isadora Duncan”

To dream he was dancing with Isadora, the woman who unabashedly danced and — with a sash pulled by the dance and the dancer — first exposed her bare breast to a stupefied, stupefying, and puritanical public … and to write of that dream from a wheelchair. Dance on, Vic. What beauty, what timelessness, what a gift he gave us (though “we” weren’t ready, perhaps, to be exposed to his transcendent and righteous indignation and powerfully fragile poetry).

Big Star — “Holocaust”

In honour and in memoriam of LX Chilton and Chris Bell (though not on this recording), I intend to drop acid later today and report back to no one. Big Star did not simply pave the way for “jangly indie pop”; they created powerful, powerful music with the help of the legend that was Mr. Jim Dickinson (living on, mister!) despite the “obstacles” Ardent and an entire industry placed in their way. Memphis was dying, Elvis was dead, and those listening were “… a wasted breath, you’re a sad eye, you’re a holocaust.” Basketballs, deflated, served as percussion, as there’s no need for a formal drum kit (just ask Stephen Merritt — or anyone who stomps while singing — or any kid in a kitchen with pots and pans and wooden spoons) when heart, broken or bruised, and soul are captured on tape, just as living and gone ghosts on celluloid prints were. William Eggleston playing piano on “Sister Lovers”? Magic. All of it was magic. And this kind of magic terrifies. What happened to them in that place that necessitated this bit of “horror”? No one ever asks the right questions, I suppose.

Jim Dickinson — “Wild Bill Jones”

Jim was the moral compass Southern music needed after the Civil Rights Movement, after Elvis’s death, after Yankee A&R folks no longer visited Memphis — “the capital of Mississippi” — anymore in search of “that” thing the South breeds. The master had tamed the beautiful beast, or so the beautiful beast would have their “master” believe. Bob Frank wrote this one. Kinda. He’s the greatest songwriter you’ve never heard.

Lost Sounds — “Ship of Monsters”  (Not on Spotify)

Jay Reatard was an incredibly complicated person, a lover and a fighter, as sensitive as they come, capable of an empathy that can only lead — in our world — to those blood visions that took him from us too early. I slept most nights at the People’s Temple near the old 616, making prank calls with Jay and the Oscars, and playing shows as a fake straight-edge hardcore band while inebriated. This record was being recorded at the time in the space at the bottom of the warehouse. Scott Patterson and I would listen to “Scenic” on the roof. Abe and I would listen to “Art Bell” in the kitchen. Jay broke a fucker’s arm with a bass for trying to attack him (and us). To fear goodness is silly. But common now. Leaves many stranded. He fought. For me, this was a record that attacked the core of something I lived inside, the first to do so. It taught me. Jay and Alicja Trout are that decency and violence the world needed and still demands. A better vision. No wave. Wtf that means.

Johnny Cash — “Delia’s Gone”

So many have done this. Christ, he did it justice, though. There’s a chair, a gun, suspicion, paranoia, direct Biblical allusions, and death. There ya go.

O.V. Wright — “A Nickel and a Nail”

His life was cut short by heroin, and his career defined by an ever-lurking fear; but he sang of it so well — of the terror of a twilight existence.

Townes Van Zandt — “Waiting Around to Die”“

He wrote this song after he was married. His new bride came to collect him to go to their wedding reception. He needed to finish writing a song down. He did. This is it.

Bob Dylan — “Mississippi”

Written at Zebra Ranch in Mississippi, this song is one that tells a universal truth — at least for those of us from *that* universe. How does Bob know? Same place, different centuries … “I stayed in Mississippi a day too long,” and can’t figure out what sin I committed I must now atone for. He somehow knows place as decay. As stagnant water in motion.

Sparklehorse — “Rainmaker”

Mark Linkous … His life, his words, his melodies simply resonate with me and reverberate in eerie ways. The rainmaker IS coming. He wasn’t “like” Wm Blake; he was cut of the same cloth. Wm Blake was “like” him, too. How odd we are, to see time as distances measurable. “All you’ve got to do is look in the sky and wish.”

Neutral Milk Hotel — “King of Carrot Flowers Pt 2 & 3”

Jeff used to borrow my amp and wrestle — and bite — my 110-pound labrador. This song is one I think I knew before I heard it. It’s that brilliant. “… and dad would dream of all the different ways to die.”

Reigning Sound — “Can’t Hold On” (Not on Spotify)

If ever a man was born out of time, it’s Greg Cartwright. Just listen.