Tag: bob dylan

3×3: Ali Sperry on Mystics, Morocco, and Memoirs

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Artist: Ali Sperry
Hometown: Fairfield, IA
Latest Album: Crooked Feelings
Personal Nicknames: Ribs, Albo, Spears

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

I’d like to live the life of the woman Bob Dylan describes in “She Belongs to Me”: “She’s got everything she needs, she’s an artist, she don’t look back.” If someone described me that way, I’d be pretty psyched. I’d also like to wear an Egyptian ring that sparkles before I speak. There is a queenly grandeur about this character. She’s revered for being mystical and wise and for creating her own reality.

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

I’d like to visit Morocco. It seems very exotic and romantic there. And I think it would be fun to ride a camel.

What was the last thing that made you really mad?

November 8, 2016

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

Paul Simon at the Ryman last Summer. I splurged on a ticket and went by myself. I got there early, in time to get a beer and box of popcorn and take my “obstructed view” seat with a huge grin on my face. He started the show with “The Boy in the Bubble” and, by the time he was singing “don’t cry, baby, don’t cry,” I definitely already was. I cried and laughed and danced through the whole show, completely enveloped by the music. I’ve been listening to his songs my whole life. He’s a hero of mine and seeing him that night further solidified it. What a massive, stunning body of work, and how inspiring that he is still executing it so beautifully.

Whose career do you admire the most?

Patty Griffin. To me, she is equal parts artist and songwriter, and excels at both. I respect the longevity of her career and the way she has always re-invented aspects of her sound to make each album feel like new territory, while maintaining her complete Patty Griffin-ness that is so recognizable and lovable. She is constantly collaborating with killer musicians, and I just get the feeling that she’s always doing exactly what she wants. Her songs are so her and yet translate gracefully to other artists — to the point of having an entire, massive, country tour by the Dixie Chicks named after one of one of her songs.

What are you reading right now?

I just finished Composed, Rosanne Cash’s memoir and have been recommending it to everyone. She has a true gift with words, and I was enthralled by her stories and the way she told them. She wrote eloquently about life and death, music, being a woman and an artist, family. She was able to do that magical thing that authors sometimes do where you feel like they are speaking directly to you. In the thick of endeavoring to navigate the waters of a music career, this book felt like a much-needed dose of the bigger picture, a reminder of how all of the little parts connect, and what will be most significant when looking back. If you haven’t, read it!

Whiskey, water, or wine?

All three are vital

Facebook or Twitter?

Facebook

Grammys or Oscars?

Grammys

The Sound of the Shoals

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Attempts to codify the “Muscle Shoals sound,” which fueled a plethora of rhythm and blues hits in the ‘60s and ‘70s, often result in anthropomorphizing. Musicians, producers, and fans alike refer to its heart, its pulse, its gut, and, above all, its soul. Originating in the Shoals — a group of small towns located along the Tennessee River in northwest Alabama — it drew musical heavyweights like Aretha Franklin, Etta James, the Rolling Stones, and Bob Dylan. Now, the public can experience a slice of that musical history. The success of filmmaker Greg Camalier’s 2013 documentary, Muscle Shoals, prompted Beats Electronics and Google to put up nearly $1 million for the restoration of Muscle Shoals Sound Studios, the site of some of the region’s most legendary recordings. While the studio just reopened for tours on January 9, the Alabama Tourism Department has already named it the state’s top attraction for 2017.

Located at 3614 Jackson Highway in Sheffield, Alabama, the studio dates back to 1969, when the session musicians at a neighboring musical hallmark, FAME Studios, decided to open their own facility. Affectionately known as the Swampers, the Muscle Shoals rhythm section consisted of Jimmy Johnson on guitar, David Hood on bass, Barry Beckett on keyboards, and Roger Hawkins on drums. During their time at FAME Studios working with founder Rick Hall, they played on classic records ranging from Wilson Pickett’s popular cover of “Mustang Sally,” to Aretha Franklin’s “I Never Loved a Man (the Way I Love You),” and Etta James’s rendition of “Come to Mama.” Their approach wasn’t anything like the arranged compositions played in the studios in New York. Instead, their process was reminiscent of a jam session: Once in the studio, they would noodle around on their instruments together and come up with an arrangement to go with the vocal. While Nashville had country music and Memphis had the blues, Muscle Shoals sat between the two, becoming a melting pot of Southern rock, R&B, and soul. And the Swampers, with their bass-heavy funk, helped catapult that sound. The result was a musical renaissance that crossed racial boundaries. During a time of extreme racial tension, some of the most iconic Black artists in music history would travel to the South to record with a white producer and a white band.

Four towns make up what is considered the Shoals: Florence, Sheffield, Tuscumbia, and Muscle Shoals, itself. With a combined population of around 71,000 according to the most recent census reports, this small, rural region was an unassuming hotbed for musical innovation. “It always seems to come out of the river, you know, even in Liverpool, you know, the Mersey sound and, of course, the Mississippi,” U2 frontman Bono says in the Muscle Shoals documentary. “And here you have the Tennessee River. It’s like the songs come out of the mud.”

The Shoals’ rich musical roots can be traced back to the water. The Yuchi Native American tribe first made note of the Tennessee River’s musical power, naming it “The River That Sings.” It was their belief that a woman in the river sang songs to protect them. Years later, the town of Florence became the birthplace of both WC Handy, known as the “Father of the Blues,” and Sam Phillips, the “Father of Rock ‘n’ Roll.” Phillips went on to become the owner of Sun Studios and Sun Records, putting Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, and Jerry Lee Lewis on the map. Through Rick Hall’s production at FAME Studios, Muscle Shoals became the “Hit Recording Capital of the World,” with Jerry Wexler of Atlantic Records sending his artists to the Shoals to record.

Once the Swampers struck out on their own with the help of a loan from Wexler, Muscle Shoals Sound Studio was a haven for popular artists who flocked from recording hubs like New York City and Los Angeles in search of the “Muscle Shoals sound.” Cher became the first artist to record at Muscle Shoals Sound Studio, followed by the Rolling Stones, who recorded both “Wild Horses” and “Brown Sugar” from their 1971 album Sticky Fingers. Before long, the Swampers were cutting around 50 albums per year, with countless legendary artists. The shortlist includes Paul Simon, Boz Scaggs, Levon Helm, John Prine, Joan Baez, Cat Stevens, the Staple Singers, Willie Nelson, Santana, Leon Russell, Bob Dylan, and Bob Seger. (Yes, that’s the shortlist.)

Measuring about 75 feet by 25 feet, Muscle Shoals Sound Studio is located across from a cemetery and had once been a storage unit for headstones, grave slabs, and coffins. There’s something poetic about the fact that the very room that housed markers of death ended up becoming a space of remarkable rebirth. The Swampers closed the location in 1979, moving to 1000 Alabama Avenue. It was listed on the National Register of Historic Places and was sold to the Muscle Shoals Music Foundation in 2013.

Judy Hood, the wife of Swampers bassist David Hood, is the chair of the Muscle Shoals Music Foundation, which still owns and operates the studio. The facility’s recent renovations aim to bring an authentic Muscle Shoals recording experience to tourists. Replete with vintage recording equipment in the production booth, original guitars, basses, organs, pianos, amps, and retro chairs and paint colors, the atmosphere stays true to how the studio looked in the early ‘70s. Studio tours start in the basement, also known as the “den of debauchery,” where musicians hung out during breaks from recording. Visitors will also be able to visit the bathroom where Keith Richards wrote “Wild Horses,” the couch where Steve Winwood took a nap, and the “listening porch” where the Rolling Stones took smoke breaks. But most importantly, visitors will have access to archives of music, bringing the “Muscle Shoals sound” front and center. More than anything, the “Muscle Shoals sound” is a feeling, and visitors can now walk on hallowed ground and experience that Muscle Shoals soul firsthand.

“What music built there is not something that you can see with your eye,” Bono explains at the end of the Muscle Shoals documentary. “In fact, if you look at the recording studios, they were humble shells. But what they contained was an empire that crossed race and creed and ethnicity. It was revolutionary.”

Photos courtesy of Music Shoals Music Foundation

3×3: Patrick Dethlefs on Batman, Blue, and Books (on Tape)

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Artist: Patrick Dethlefs
Hometown: Kittredge, CO
Latest Album: Beauty in the Unknown
Personal Nicknames: Patty, P-Money

 

I got a new guitar. New to me at least.

A photo posted by Patrick Dethlefs (@patrickdethlefs) on

If you could go back (or forward) to live in any decade, when would you choose?

The ’70s, and I would make sure I was at The Last Waltz.

Who would be your dream co-writer?

Townes Van Zandt

If a song started playing every time you entered the room, what would you want it to be?

“Man in Me” by Bob Dylan. That’d be pretty sweet.

What is the one thing you can’t survive without on tour?

A good book on tape, stand up comedy, and some sick jams.

What are you most afraid of?

My answer has the possibility of getting pretty deep, so I’ll just say scary movies … always hated them.

Who is your favorite superhero?

Batman has always been my favorite, ever since I was a kid.

 

What a good day celebrating @suzzzo , I’m a lucky guy. Happy 27th Birthday!

A photo posted by Patrick Dethlefs (@patrickdethlefs) on

Pickles or olives?

Pickles … Bubbie’s Pickles

Which primary color is the best — blue, yellow, or red?

Blue, but if we’re choosing colors, green is the best.

Summer or Winter?

Summer … but I’ll take Fall all year long.

The Paycheck Is Blowin’ in the Wind: A Brief History of Bob Dylan in Commercials

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When Bob Dylan began recording in 1962, he quickly became the poster boy for the "anti-establishment" — a totem around which disenchanted and disenfranchised baby boomers could rally their rebellion. His unadorned, unencumbered voice was the voice of every man. His poetry the rallying cry of political unrest, his songs simple but powerful, his personality both rebellious and thoughtful. He was, to put it simply, a sort of Woody Guthrie for the Age of Aquarius.

To this day, people young and old staunchly defend his legacy. Fans in their 50s and 60s stand up for him with vehemence (though his work may not always warrant such passion) while young people co-opt his style (though some may not understand exactly why). It’s all because, in the minds of many, Robert Allen Zimmerman remains an icon of the anti-establishment.

While Dylan's musical genius is undeniable — his singular dedication to his singular path admirable — the illusion that he’s some sort of icon of anti-corporate purity is a case of idealistic people whistling in the wind to scare away the wolves. The truth is: Bob Dylan's never hesitated to take payment from the very establishment against which he has railed. Back as far as '65, Dylan aligned himself with Albert Grossman, the bellicose ombudsman of Dylan's business affairs during the ‘60s and early ‘70s. He was the first of his sort to refer to his charges as "artists." In concert with that lofty definition, Grossman never hesitated to extract as much money as he could on behalf of his client’s “artistry.”

Dylan’s alliance with Grossman was dissolved in the early ‘70s, in an adversarial fashion, as Dylan accused his manager of “skimming the cream from the top of the milk can” (as Guthrie might have said). But, 40 years hence, Dylan still finds meaning in the capitalistic Gospel of Grossman. He’s chosen to be a somewhat peripatetic pitch man for a strangely disparate selection of products, from sexy underwear to luxury cars.

Witness Exhibit A, his recent appearance in IBM’s commercial for its Watson computer (an event journalist Paul Walsh charmingly referred to as “Tangled Up in Big Blue”).

According to IBM spokeswoman Laurie Friedman (as quoted by Walsh), the company actually did use the Watson computer to analyze 320 Dylan songs, adding an element of truth to the singer’s bemused “conversation” with the computer. What IBM didn’t do was listen to Dylan’s tragically horrific album of Sinatra covers or have another look at 2001: A Space Odyssey. Had they done so, they probably wouldn’t have outfitted Watson with a voice that sounds like HAL and programmed him to sing those mockingly Sinatra-esque doo-be-doo-be-doos.

“Let Asia build your phone and Switzerland make your watch,” Zimmy says in Exhibit B, a 60-second long ode to American ingenuity in the form of a 2004 Super Bowl commercial for Chrysler. Though less odd and unsettling than his IBM commercial, it leaves one markedly more dyspeptic. For IBM, Bob seemed distracted, but here he offers a poetic reading — presented as his own poetry — in the name of economic aspiration.

Chrysler was the first, but it wouldn’t prove to be the last car company who would pay Dylan to back down their driveway. In ‘07, Bob pimped for Cadillac, a markedly more bourgeoisie brand than Chrysler. Though more tight-lipped than he was with Chrysler, the message is essentially the same.

Dylan presaged his sit down with HAL (er, Watson) when he went to bat for Apple a few years prior. While it definitely hawks all the musical “i’s” the company could cram into 30 seconds, this one’s a touch more tolerable than the rest: He was, after all, pitching a new album in the process. (And Modern Times was easily one of his recent best.)

Like owning a lot of rental properties, Dylan made money while he was sleeping with his 2009 Pepsi deal. For those who cling to the fraying threads of his counterculture heroics, this one has to be the most appalling. Not only does he capitalize on his name, he does it by offering up imagery from the past — when he really was something of a rebel — and pinning it to a company that makes liquid candy.

Did we say the Pepsi commercial was the “most appalling”? We lied. His infamous appearance in a commercial for Victoria’s Secret ranks as Zimmy’s most appalling foray into commercials. It’s not that we have anything against Victoria’s Secret, in particular, or pretty girls, in general. But we do get creeped out by the sight of a grizzled 74-year-old grandfather leering at a 22-year old girl in her underwear. There’s no paycheck in the world that excuses such a bombastic exhibition of bad taste.

Even though this brief history of Dylan's relationship with advertising portrays the artist in question as a corporate shill, the end of the story is this: Dylan seemingly doesn't give a damn. His enigmatic career bends and curves at his will, and those of us who dissent simply don’t understand. Frank Sinatra cover songs? Check. Dyed blonde emo hair for a movie? Check. Fat paycheck from Chrysler? Check. Dylan does whatever the hell he pleases. So maybe he really is anti-establishment; he just has the luxury of paying for said lifestyle through the same means Don Draper did.

Photo: Bob Dylan as he appears in his Chrysler commercial

The Essential Old Crow Medicine Show Playlist

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Though Old Crow Medicine Show are generally associated with North Carolina, where they were discovered busking outside a drug store in Boone, the band also known as O.C.M.S. are actually the product of two different areas of the Appalachians. Two of the band's five founding members, Ketch Secor and Critter Fuqua, are from the east side the mountain (Harrisonburg, Virginia) while Kevin Hayes and former members Ben Gould and Willie Watson were from the fertile string music scene of Ithaca, New York. It was when Secor headed to Ithaca College — and brought Fuqua along for the ride — that the band got its start in earnest (and later found their big break in Boone).

Like many of their counterparts in modern string music, the members of O.C.M.S. are as influenced by the sounds of Guns ‘N’ Roses as by the songwriting of Doc Watson. It has been their ability to meld the classic melodies and storytelling style of the traditional string music with the energy and enthusiasm of classic rock 'n' roll that have made them so successful.

Now, with nine studio records to their credit, from 1998’s cassette recording, Trans:mission, to their award-winning 2014 set, Remedy, O.C.M.S. have been consistently at the leading and influential edge of modern string music. For newbies and fans alike, here’s an essential playlist that spans most of their career, ranges from covers of classics to their own songs, and includes the tune that not even Bob Dylan has our permission to cover.

Photo of OCMS by Crackerfarm.

7 Americana Songs That Should Absolutely Not Be Covered By Anyone (Even Bob Dylan)

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We all know that feeling, the one we get when someone does a cover of one of our favorite songs. It's the same mix of excitement and fear we felt as teenagers, when we jumped into the back of Dad's Plymouth Reliant and started working on our 'Night Moves.' Will it be an ecstatic experience or will it completely suck? But just as there are people with whom we'd never endeavor to join in the back of that car, there are songs that are patently untouchable, recordings that should be left alone for posterity, never to be covered by anyone (even Bob Dylan). Here's a list of seven that are sacred.

"Wagon Wheel" — Old Crow Medicine Show

It’s not too farfetched to imagine that somewhere in this great musical land of ours some ‘record guy’ is hatching a plot to have Bob Dylan cover his own co-write, like some evil scientist plotting to destroy the North Carolina transit system. Don’t engage with the dark side, Bob. I gave you a pass on that semi-awful Frank Sinatra thing but, if you dare lay hands on this Americana classic (part owner though you may be), I’ll be compelled to give you a thorough tongue-lashing. Worse than I would’ve given Darius Rucker had I cared enough to talk about it. And don’t get me started on the other versions that are floating around from bands that ought to know better (but apparently don’t). Heck, there's even an entire website devoted to stopping the spread of "Wagon Wheel."

"La Cienega Just Smiled" — Ryan Adams

I have a 15-year old son who’s quite an accomplished musician, who does a pretty nice piano and vocal version of this song. But he’ll never record it or perform it in public, he says, “because the original version is perfect and I’ll never, ever come close.” Others should have such foresight. Out of the mouths of babes, as they say.

"Don’t Think About Her When You’re Trying To Drive" — Little Village

A good friend of mine, once the music editor of a hi-fi magazine, said the demise of Little Village came because there was no one in charge (so everyone thought he was in charge). I’m guessing that dogs like "Solar Sex Panel" had something to do with it, too. But tucked among the mutts was this Westminster Best In Show, a fervently heart-breaking ballad about being on the road to somewhere without someone. The arrangement is beautiful, the twanging Telecasters are glorious and drummer Jim Keltner has more taste in his left foot than most people have in their whole body.

"Quits" — Danny O’Keefe

“What will we call it now? It’s not a marriage anymore.” Seriously, I tear up every time I hear this song, probably the most heart-wrenching three minutes and nineteen seconds about divorce ever written. Weeping pedal steel, desolate strings, lonely harmonies (courtesy of Linda Ronstadt), lyrics that are hankie worthy, even for the toughest of tough guys. A couple of country dudes have covered this one and they're still meeting with their therapists to work through their guilt and shame.

"Windfall" — Son Volt

Quite possibly the greatest Americana song ever written, it’s hard to imagine why anyone would try to improve on this example of perfection. It’s all here: moaning vocals, steel guitars (settlin’ down), fabulous fiddles, all night radio stations, hands on the wheel, the wind in your face, troubles, troubles and more troubles at 134 beats per minute. I’ll give ‘Rusty Fender” a pass on his YouTube bass cover (Really? bass cover?) but that’s as far as my forgiveness will extend.

"Big Yellow Taxi" — Joni Mitchell

As much as my boy and I are pretty simpatico when it comes to music, I think about putting him up for adoption every time he cracks open Spotify and plays the isn't-he-cute boyfriend funk version of this song that Counting Crows massacred for the benefit of pop radio. The codpiece caterwaul of the emotive Mr. Durwitz that was somewhat charming when he was hanging with "Mr. Jones" just proves he has no clue what he's singing about. For God sakes, dude, the song isn't about the girl. It's about our collective loss of childhood innocence and appreciation that's leading us to destroy the planet. 

"Tenderness" — Paul Simon

There Goes Rhymin’ Simon was one of Paul Simon’s most popular records and "Tenderness" followed "Kodachrome" so, even by mistake, this song got played a lot back when vinyl and tape were all we had. And why wouldn’t it? It’s New Orleans blues meets New York folk in its finest form, perfectly framed by The Dixie Hummingbirds. And that’s why it should never be covered … ’cuz no one sings like those guys.

3×3: Roddie Romero on Buckwheat Zydeco, Christoph Waltz, and the Humility of Fatherhood

Posted on by Amy Reitnouer

Artist: Roddie Romero
Hometown: Lafayette, LA
Latest Album: Gulfstream
Personal Nicknames: Rod, bruh, little shit (from my older siblings)

What song do you wish you had written? 
"Forever Young," Bob Dylan. My daughter digs that one, too.

If money were no object, where would you live and what would you do? 
Mmm, I guess I would still be in South Louisiana. Down here is  very much an Old World culture mixing in modern times. My parents still speak French, most bands on any night will play a waltz or two, the food is like no other mixing Spanish, French, German, Creole, African, Native American together in one black pot (la chaudiere). I would [will] continue to pass down our culture as our ancestors that came before us. Plus, we have a great little airport where they know you by name that can get you just about anywhere. 

If the After-Life exists, what song will be playing when you arrive?
“Let the Good Times Roll” — Buckwheat Zydeco has a pretty damn good version of that one.

How often do you do laundry? 
Well, I’d like to think that my momma taught me right, but I do let it pile up every once and a while. We’ve had a busy Summer of traveling, so I’ve been good at washing the stink out of my travel bag after every trip.

What was the last movie that you really loved? 
Inglourious Basterds. Big fan of Christoph Waltz.

If you could re-live one year of your life, which would it be and why? 
That would be 2002, the year that my daughter was born. I’m sure that every parent goes through the same or feels the same things, but for me, it was beautiful and grounding. I learned so much so quickly that year. I learned humility.

What's your favorite culinary spice? 
Fresh Peppers — Habanero, Cayenne, Serrano, Jalapeño. I enjoy growing them and cooking with them, as well.

Morning person or night owl? 
Absolutely a night owl. I’ve played music professionally since I was a kid, so it’s the life I know. That being said, I do love a good strong brew in the morning. 

Mustard or mayo?
Both, and mixing is not out of the question.

Jonny Fritz, ‘Are You Thirsty’

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Somewhere along the way, when everyone in folk and country songwriting started to get just a little too serious, there was one unexpected casualty: detail. Just ask Taylor Goldsmith of Dawes: Mention a "chicken wing" in your song, as he did in "A Little Bit of Everything," and Reddit riots break out. Even though some of our greatest writers thrived — and still thrive — on very specific narrative imagery (well, hello, Bob Dylan and John Prine), it's far from an accepted thing — especially when it's used in any subversive or slightly satirical context. Any time we hear that sort of combination, we immediately classify it not as smart wordplay that captures the shadier side of human existence, but as comedy. Who knew that a chicken wing could be so divisive?

Such is the case, often, with Jonny Fritz, who happens to have featured Goldsmith and his brother Griffin on his Jim James-produced LP, Sweet Creep. Fritz has always been an extremely detailed writer, singing about trash cans, panty liners, and, now, alcoholics and seedy hotels; and sometimes that can make people a little uncomfortable. It's a lot easier to laugh than to actually appeal to the visceral nature of his work. "Are You Thirsty," the song that opens Sweet Creep, is deliciously specific: "Are you packing on the pounds now that you quit?" Fritz asks over a chugging countrypolitan doo-wop. It's about an alcoholic who left the bottle behind, and Fritz never buries his ideas in too many metaphors or grand, sweeping statements — he's simply turning life to lyric. And, really, life is almost always a combination of funny, imperfect, weird, and sad … a meaningful one, anyway. Same goes for music. Fritz knows this well, and delivers, whether or not your instinct is to laugh or cry.

Tim Easton, ‘Before Your Own Eyes’

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If a song falls off social media, does it make sound? Once upon a time, there was a world where the one thing that mattered was our own opinions and our own visceral reactions to the way we absorbed art or even basic human interaction — maybe we'd be alone in a car, hearing a new track on the radio, or spinning a just-released LP in the privacy of our bedrooms, the only peanut gallery in sight a sleeping cat on the pillow nearby. It was a freeing environment in which to explore and experience music, and especially to make it. If only we had known how quickly things might change, we may have been able to stop it: But no one warned us how those "likes," those tweets, that steely-white glow might infect us and addict us until it was far too late. Now, a word's worth is far too often only measured in metrics.

"Look at everybody in this room," sings Tim Easton on "Before Your Own Eyes," a seminal track off his new LP, American Fork. "No one's really talking to each other. They’re all consumed with what to love, who to hate, and what to ignore." In a soulful, solemn shake that evokes Bob Dylan's Love and Theft, Easton speaks to a world so captivated by the little device that they hold in their hand that it's hard to find space for anything in their heads or hearts. Easton's not preaching for us all to return to some impossible, tech-free utopia ("I’m not saying you should smother the fire, step on the spark, or unplug the wire," he sings), but he is weary about just how much is being missed — or not even created at all — when we become enslaved to the screen. It's a reminder to let your own emotions simmer and stew after you listen to a particularly poignant song, not a version condensed into 140 characters written for everyone but yourself. Because, in the Internet age, it's our own character at risk of being liked, shared, and clicked away before our own eyes. All we have to do is look up long enough from the glow to realize it.

Squared Roots: BJ Barham on the Brilliance of Bruce Springsteen

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Bruce Springsteen. What, really, is there to write about him that hasn't been written thousands of times? (Although this ranking of all his songs is awfully cool!) He's a working-class hero, a thinking-man's poet, an activist-artist, a national treasure, and a songwriter's songwriter with 18 albums and millions of record sales to his credit. Over the past five decades, Springsteen has witnessed and documented in song the American dream — its promise, its realization, and its demise. For that, he can also be credited as an oral historian.

To American Aquarium's BJ Barham, Springsteen is also the greatest ever. Full stop. On his recent solo debut, Rockingham, Barham puts that admiration and influence on full display, working through an Americana song cycle about small-town living with a gruff voice and a simple message.

What is it, for you, that makes Springsteen so great?

Springsteen, for me — and I've argued this with plenty of people — he's simply the greatest American songwriter we've ever seen. [Bob] Dylan's good. I really like Dylan a lot. I really like Tom Petty a lot. Dylan wrote a lot of artsy, abstract stuff, too. Springsteen always writes to the core of America. Springsteen writes songs that 21-year-old hipsters in East Nashville can relate to or, you can play them for my father, and he relates to the same exact verbiage, same exact song. It's timeless. You play Thunder Road, you play Born to Run … you play anything from Born to Run and it could've happened today; it could've happened in the '60s.

There aren't many songwriters that we come across in this business that have that ability. And I'm one of the countless songwriters who spent my entire 20s at the “Church of Springsteen” and am, really, sometimes just doing a pale imitation. Everybody who writes songs about small-town living that comes out and says Springsteen didn't influence their music are liars. [Laughs]

He taught me that you can have a guitar and three chords and tell people stories about where you're from and people will relate to it. There's no greater lesson that I have learned than from Springsteen: Write what you know. He made New Jersey sound romantic. That's how good Bruce Springsteen is. New Jersey is a terrible place. Springsteen is the only guy who can make New Jersey sound appealing or romantic or nice or not a shithole. I can say this because my bass player and my guitar player are both from New Jersey.

Having never been to New Jersey, on my first tour, I made sure to book a gig in Asbury Park. On the way up, I was like, “Man, this is going to be a game-changer. This is going to be life-altering!” Then, you pull up to Asbury Park, New Jersey, and you're like, “What the hell?!” [Laughs] “Did they do nuclear testing here after the Springsteen records came out?! Maybe this is the desolate wasteland that came after the vibrant city he painted picture of …” Then you realize, that's how good Springsteen is. He's such a good writer, he can make New Jersey sound like a hotspot tourist destination.

Being a guy from a small town that's not really desirable in too many different ways, it taught me that you can sing about what you know — sing about things that are close to you — in a way that made it relatable to the rest of the world. On my new record, Rockingham, all of these songs are about my hometown. They are all about a very specific time and place. And I attempted to make these songs so that somebody in Anchorage, Alaska, or somebody in Wichita, Kansas, can hear these songs and put themselves in these characters' shoes. That's what Springsteen taught me, that most of us have the same perspective.

It's interesting what you said about how his old records are still just as relevant today. That's great for him — that he's able to write such timeless pieces. But it's also a little bit sad for us — that there's been very little progress.

Very much so. If Springsteen came around today, he wouldn't exist as Bruce Springsteen. He would've put out his first record, Greetings from Asbury Park, and he would've been dropped from his label immediately because he only sold 100,000 copies. And he might live in obscurity. If Springsteen came out today, he'd be one of the guys who're on the road 200 days a year playing in empty bars singing songs about common people. It was the right place, right time for Springsteen. Luckily, Columbia Records gave him three shots. That's unheard of today.

Well, he was a critical favorite, right out of the gate, some 43 years ago. But, you're right, the big sales didn't come along until later.

Don't get me wrong, by '84 or '85, that man was playing football stadiums — a level of fame, arguably, nobody today really understands … unless you're Beyoncé.

Right. A singer/songwriter doesn't do that.

Nobody walks into Giants Stadium and plays, at the root of it, folk music. Don't get me wrong: He had the bombastic band and, in the '80s, he made the horrible decision to add synthesizers to everything; but, at the base of everything, those are three-chord folk songs. Nebraska is a great example of what Springsteen sounds like in his room just playing an acoustic guitar.

I was just listening to Nebraska and Tom Joad. That's John Moreland. That's Jason Isbell. That's Lori McKenna. Those are the artists making that kind of music today. But, yeah, they are, at best, playing a nice theatre or maybe a small shed.

If you look at some of the outtakes from Nebraska … “Born in the U.S.A.” was supposed to be on Nebraska and there are acoustic versions floating around of demos he did for “Born in the U.S.A.” It's a haunting folk song about the reality of the Vietnam War and what it did to the American psyche. But, if you talk to anybody my age about “Born in the U.S.A.,” it's, “Oh, that's that cheesy Springsteen song.” It's all because of that synth line that makes it danceable and pop-py and sellable. But, when you strip everything away from any of his songs, they're John Moreland, they're Jason Isbell. They're everybody that we look up to today in the Americana scene. Springsteen just put 20 instruments over the top of it to sell it.

But he was a product of his environment. That's what was going on in New Jersey. If you wanted to play on the beach, you had to have a band that made people dance. He learned that, as long as he had the band to make people move, he can sell it mainstream. And he got to sneak in all these amazing poems. The best part about it was, America thought, “This is really catchy.” But they were listening to, in my opinion, the greatest American songwriter ever to write songs.

It's interesting because, I think, those are the people — much like Ronald Reagan trying to use it for a campaign song — they weren't listening. They're listening on the surface to the riff and the chorus, but they weren't actually tuning into it.

And it blows my mind because the first line of that song is such an epic line: “Born down in a dead man's town. The first kick I took was when I hit the ground.” WHAT?! [Laughs]

[Laughs] So do you have a favorite era or album? Or can you not pick?

For me, it's Born to Run. It's eight songs. It's perfect. A 47-minute record. It's funny that my debut is an eight-song, 45-minute record.

[Laughs] Hmmm. That is interesting.

[Laughs] Springsteen taught me that, nowadays, everybody wants to put out 16-song records with a five-song bonus disc, if you get the deluxe edition. Born to Run, arguably one of the best records that will ever be made, in my opinion … eight songs. It's the perfect four songs on each side of vinyl. I can't even get started. “Jungleland” … I still cry.

Every generation has great songwriters. For my generation, Isbell is that … for me. He's playing big theatres. Let's be generous and say he's playing for 3,000 people per theatre. That's one-tenth of what Springsteen was playing. We'll never see anything like what Springsteen was. It was a cultural phenomenon, the fact that America rallied around a songwriter. Beyoncé is lucky to sell out a football stadium now and she had 16 ghostwriters on every one of her songs. Springsteen was a guaranteed sell-out. So, if he booked a football stadium, he might have to book two or three nights because it sold out so quickly. I don't think we'll ever see that again, in our lifetime. It was such a perfect storm.

Looking back, I don't understand how it happened. It's like if John Moreland got famous, or someone you loved in your record collection that you wondered why nobody else knew about them got extraordinarily famous. The closest we have, to me, is Isbell. Knowing him pre-Southeastern and going to one of his shows now and seeing how big it is, it's still not even a speck on what Springsteen was, which is hard to wrap your head around.

For more songwriters admiring songwriters, read our Squared Roots interview with Lori McKenna.

Photo of BJ Barham by Joshua Black Wilkins. Photo of Bruce Springsteen courtesy of the artist.