Tag: bob dylan

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.

MIXTAPE: The Capitol Theatre

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Up in the farther most corner of Westchester County New York, right at the Connecticut border, sits a renovated 1920s playhouse that also happens to be one of the best music venues in the Northeast, if not the whole country. The Capitol Theatre first opened its doors on August 18, 1926. Over the 90 years since, it has seen quite a few changes … and a whole lot of history. In the 1970s, the Cap was an A-list rock club before a 1983 change in ownership flipped it back to being a traditional theatre. More shifts happened over subsequent decades until the Cap's most recent rebirth in 2012 with Peter Shapiro (Wetlands Preserve, Brooklyn Bowl) at the helm.

Here, Shapiro takes us through the club's musical history, song by song.

Grateful Dead — “Ripple”

Jerry Garcia said it best himself: “See, there's only two theaters, man, that are set up pretty groovy all around for music and for smooth stage changes, good lighting, and all that — the Fillmore and the Capitol Theatre. And those are the only two in the whole country."

With that level of praise, it’s no wonder that the Grateful Dead played the Cap 18 times in 1970-1971 alone. To this day, members of the Dead still play the Cap.

Janis Joplin — "Mercedes Benz"

Perhaps the Cap’s most famous true story of rock history is that, on August 8, 1970, Janis Joplin wrote "Mercedez Benz" at a bar in Port Chester called Vahsen’s. Later that night, she performed the song for the first time at the Cap in what turned out to be her last New York show and her third-to-last show ever.

Hot Tuna — "Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning"

Hot Tuna has the distinction of being one of the few bands to play the Cap in all three major eras that it's hosted rock bands. Jorma Kaukonen and Jack Cassidy have played the Cap stage four times in the '70s, three times in 1989-1990, and twice in 2014-2015. They were back again this year.

Derek & the Dominoes — “I Looked Away”

The Eric Clapton-led supergroup didn’t tour much in support of their classic album Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs, but on December 4-5, 1970, the Cap was one of the lucky stages to have hosted this group. Duane Allman was not part of the band’s touring lineup but he also played the Cap with the Allman Brothers Band that same year.

Phish — “My Sweet One”

When the Cap was first reborn as a rock venue in the late '80s, many of the '90s future musical innovators were just beginning to make a name for themselves. Phish gained a huge New York following in the early '90s with seven shows at the Cap between 1990-1992 before moving on to bringing 80,000 people to their own festivals. While drawing from just about every musical influence under the sun, the Vermont foursome never shied from showing their love of bluegrass and Americana on songs like this one.

Little Feat — “Sailin’ Shoes”

During the Cap’s '90s revival, many bands that hadn’t had the chance to play the theatre in its prime were finally able to take the stage. In 1990 and 1995, rock heroes Little Feat were able to bring their unmistakable melting pot of musical influences to the Cap. Since reopening in 2012, they’ve been back three more times, and on September 9 of this year, we'll make that four.

Bob Dylan — “Times They Are A’ Changin'”

When the Cap was reborn in 2012, Bob Dylan had his first performance ever at the Cap in the newly renovated theater. What better song to celebrate an exciting new time in the Cap's history.

Willie Nelson — “Somebody Pick up my Pieces”

The country legend made his long-overdue debut at the Cap with two consecutive shows on September 18-19, 2013. Not many artists of his caliber can say that they’ve had several generations of fans in their audience at the Cap.

Wilco with Billy Bragg — “California Stars”

Jeff Tweedy and company were well aware of their musical roots when they recorded “Mermaid Avenue” with Billy Bragg. Using lyrics from Woody Guthrie they crafted music that sounded timeless yet relevant for the 21st century. In 2014, Wilco sold out three nights at the Cap to mark their 30th anniversary, even throwing in a nod to the Grateful Dead with a cover of "Ripple."

My Morning Jacket — “Get the Point”

While their eclectic sound can range from garage rock to funk and electronic music, My Morning Jacket always incorporates elements of their Kentucky roots. Despite having already headlined major festivals and arenas like Madison Square Garden, MMJ stunned the Cap with a three-night run of shows in 2012. To make these intimate shows even more special, each show had a unique set list with no songs repeated from previous nights.

The Avett Brothers — “Morning Song”

Of all the bands that have brought the sounds of roots music and Americana to new audiences in the last 10 years, few have generated as much excitement as the Avett Brothers. Their 2016 show at the Cap sold out within minutes, providing fans with a special and intimate night. The Cap loves to book bands that are known to play much larger venues as a way to give fans a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Ryan Adams — “To Be Young Is To Be Sad (Is To Be High)

Few people have held the torch of consistently prolific songwriting in America as long as Ryan Adams. While his musical ventures have taken him as far as metal covers and Taylor Swift interpretations, Adams always returns to his folk-oriented roots. In his debut at the Capitol Theatre on July 24, 2016, Adams brought along bluegrass group the Infamous Stringdusters and singer/songwriter Nicki Bluhm. The Stringdusters and Bluhm added lush harmonies and acoustic bluegrass instrumentation to his songbook.

Greensky Bluegrass — “Burn Them”

Ninety years later, the future is most certainly looking bright with up-and-coming groups such as Greensky Bluegrass set to carry the torch for roots music on the Cap stage. The Michigan bluegrass group will be making their debut at the Cap on September 17, 2016.

Nashville's 3rd & Lindsley celebrates its 25th anniversary this year with a MIXTAPE of its own.

Photo credit: Scott Harris

3×3: Mo Kenney on Saving Guitars, Climbing Trees, and Loving Summer

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Artist: Mo Kenney
Hometown: Dartmouth, NS
Latest Album: In My Dreams
Personal Nicknames: Mos, Moses, Moo, Pickle

 

Glasgow is lookin good this morning

A photo posted by Ko Menney (@mookenney) on

Your house is burning down and you can grab only one thing — what would you save?
I'd save my acoustic guitar. It's a 1930s Hensel parlor … I'd be devastated to lose it.

If you weren't a musician, what would you be?
I'd be a hermit/carpenter and I would be living in the woods somewhere alone. If I could be an Olympic tree climber, that would be neat, too.

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

 

Pic from Bowie show the other night by Anthony Conrod

A photo posted by Ko Menney (@mookenney) on

What is the one thing you can’t survive without on tour? 
Coffee. Very important in the mornings, and keeping me energized. Touring can be very tiring.

If you were a car, what car would you be? 
I'd be a dark green '70s Mercedes Benz.  

Who is your favorite superhero?
Batman

 

Backstage in Austria

A photo posted by Ko Menney (@mookenney) on

Vinyl or digital?
Vinyl!!

Dylan or Townes? 
Dylan

Summer or winter? 
Summer!

Photo credit: Matt Williams

3×3: Robert Rex Waller, Jr. on Night Ranger, Free Will, and the Long-Lasting Effects of Bluegrass Marathons

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Artist: Robert Rex Waller, Jr.
Hometown: Rochester, MN
Latest Album: Fancy Free
Personal Nicknames: Rob. Rex. Bobby. Waldebeast. Professor. Dad.

 

Exotic anniversary lunch

A photo posted by madrex (@madrex) on

What was the first record you ever bought with your own money?
Night Ranger, Midnight Madness

How many unread emails or texts currently fill your inbox?
13. I always keep 13 unread at all times. I also always leave one dirty dish in the sink when doing dishes. Superstitious, I guess.

If your life were a movie, which songs would be on the soundtrack?
“She Belongs to Me” — Bob Dylan, “Waterloo Sunset” — The Kinks, “Road to Gila Bend” — Los Lobos, “Black Rose” — Waylon Jennings, “Volver Volver” — Vicente Hernandez, “Zamboni” — Gear Daddies.

 

My son's Whales

A photo posted by madrex (@madrex) on

What brand of jeans do you wear?
Wrangler

What’s your favorite word?
Petrichor — the pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a long spell of dry weather. Learned that word from Paul Marshall.

If you were a liquor, what would you be?
Probably Scotch, but lately tequila.

 

I See Hawks in LA (Bernie edition)

A photo posted by madrex (@madrex) on

Fate or free will?
Fate. Free will is meaningless, useless, and non-existent.

Chocolate or vanilla?
Easy, chocolate. Dark chocolate and lots of it in any form: bar, sauce, ice cream, cake, etc.

Blues or bluegrass?
Tough one. Blues or Bluegrass. Hmmm. The Hawks used to play a game in the van called Bluegrass Marathon. We’d put the XM bluegrass station on and see how long we could last. We’d go hours before somebody lost it. But those miles, those hours added up. So I guess I’m going to say blues.

Standing on the Table: Musing on Townes Van Zandt

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“Townes Van Zandt’s the best songwriter in the world, and I’ll stand on Bob Dylan’s coffee table in my cowboy boots and say that.” — Steve Earle

Agreed, Mr. Earle.

By now, Steve Earle’s devotion to and admiration for Townes Van Zandt are fairly well-known bits of music history. Earle used to carry Van Zandt’s guitars around for him. What isn’t so known is Van Zandt’s response to the notion that he was a superior songwriter to Dylan, or that such a comical gesture such as standing on Dylan’s furniture could be accomplished: “I’ve met Bob Dylan’s bodyguards, and if Steve Earle thinks he can stand on Bob Dylan’s coffee table, he’s sadly mistaken,” was Townes’s pragmatic reply.

An indispensable book for any Van Zandtian is To Live’s To Fly, a remarkable, lyrical effort by John Kruth with the subtitle “The Ballad of the Late, Great Townes Van Zandt.” It’s a book in which Kruth’s abilities rise to that of a very good fiction writer, as if [add your favorite Southern novelist] had turned musicologist and journalist writing the tumultuous times of the mythical and legendary Van Zandt. Some of the stories about Townes certainly seem part legend, part myth. Like the time Townes was attending university in Boulder, Colorado, and deliberately fell from a high balcony and plummeted, Icarus-like, to the earth in order to see how it felt. Or the time Townes was (finally) to go on tour with Lightnin’ Hopkins — one of the former’s heroes — but got drunk and flew out of a manic-paced pickup truck and broke his arm, making the tour insurmountable.

Kruth’s book is filled with interviews, stories, and anecdotes that all weave together to make something gorgeous, and his prose sometimes makes one want to give up and write at the same time, to make little efforts in crafting better thoughts and sentences. Good luck.

What little I know about Van Zandt — from his hard living, habits and addictions, and mental disorders — I have learned from Kruth’s masterpiece. What I actually discovered about Van Zandt on my own, which may be the experience of so many other souls, comes from daily attention to his songs which, in the end, are mysteries in themselves. Van Zandt’s tunes call one back and back again.

Take “Waitin’ Around to Die,” the first song he wrote, crafted in a tiny closet shortly after his marriage to his first wife, Fran. It was made just around their honeymoonish salad days, and the song speaks to the darkness that resides in so many of us, though we mask it in a variety of frivolous or sincere or even actively destructive ways. Needless to say, the song frightened Van Zandt’s wife.

At the time of filming, several musicians and friends of the unparalleled troubadour expected him to be living in a reasonable house and better situation. Instead, the scene is one of squalor and drunkenness, yet Townes performs perfectly, in spite of copious amounts of whiskey and generous allotments of poverty. We follow the singer into a tale of wife-beating, robbery, and addiction, difficult subjects to broach with one’s new bride who simply didn’t see those sorts of bleak — albeit beautifully and well-made — sentiments coming from hubby.

“And I am in retirement from love …” — William H. Gass

“’Fare Thee Well, Miss Carousel’ relates a tale of bitter disappointment in intricate wordplay and metaphor, with a twist of spite that sounds inspired by Dylan. In a mosaic of images and seemingly disconnected events, Townes lays the guilt of another failed love affair at the feet of a fickle woman.” (Kruth, pg. 110)

Kevin Eggers signed Townes in 1968, and recorded and released the bulk of the musician’s work. To this day, controversy and legal battles still rage around the rights to Van Zandt’s music. It is as if the songwriter — who pushed himself through addictions and hardships to craft some of the greatest songs ever written, who was known for his hatred of money, who was concerned with the next gig, the next inspiration, the next vision and tune — isn’t free even after his release from this world. We second Guy Clark’s response to queries about Van Zandt’s royalties and estate: “That’s none of my damn business,” said the normally loquacious and articulate Clark in an interview with The Austin Chronicle in an interview. Agreed, Mr. Clark.

“All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way,” Leo Tolstoy wrote in one of those impossibly thick Russian novels that draw the reader in and, in the end, make him or her wish the book had been even longer. The same wish might apply to Townes’s discography. From recorded live shows to studio albums, one cannot get one’s hands on enough of his music. It’s the feeling — at least when writing an article or piece about the singer/songwriter — that one’s own efforts are false, useless. Each word and eventual sentence is swallowed whole by Van Zandt’s songs, lyrics, life.

When researching his life — from legal battles over music to his nearly cursed inability to have a long-lasting relationship with a woman to falling from that balcony — anything added now rings hollow and pointless. Townes is and was as good or better than Dylan.

I imagine Townes landing after that fall he deliberately took. I imagine him smiling and brushing himself off, and finally standing on some table of his own, singing through a golden room. I imagine him happy, finally, and letting his music also stand on its own. Townes was a body and mind tuned into something inaccessible to most. Call it a god, a form, a preternatural gift that few understand or know of. Call it the songwriter’s knack for falling and, like the mythical Phoenix, rising out of the ashes, rising from the ground, and letting the voice bell and resound against all odds.

Townes had that, whatever that is.

A Place in the Chain of Stories: A Conversation with My Bubba

Posted on by Editor

Named for its two members — My Larsdotter, pronounced “me,” from Sweden and Guðbjörg Tómasdóttir, nicknamed “Bubba,” from Iceland — My Bubba's harmony-centric vocals and minimal instrumentation lend the duo a mesmerizing and timeless quality, one that’s as captivating on a stage as it is a street corner. Their latest record, Big Bad Good, capitalizes on their improvisational capabilities with many numbers that were recorded as they were being written, a process that took place in the studio of producer Shahzad Ismaily and expanded into an 11-song gem released last month on the duo’s label, Cash Only. Turns out, My Bubba is informed by — and even distantly connected to — some of folk’s greats.

When did you first realize that making music together was something that was good and that you wanted to pursue?

My: So that happened pretty much the first day we spent together, which was when Bubba moved into my apartment. I had a room to rent in Copenhagen in Denmark about eight years ago. Bubba was unpacking boxes, and I was doing dishes in the kitchen and I was singing to myself at the same time, and she came up and sort of asked me to sing on the song she was writing — to do a harmony or something. I agreed to do that, but I had never really sung with anyone before, never thought about being in a band even, but I [said], "I think I can do that. I’ll try." So we did, and we immediately had such a good time together. We kept doing that basically every time we were home together and had time to spare. We’d sit down on my couch and Bubba would play guitar and we would just harmonize. Most of the time we’d be humming at the beginning, and then we started writing songs together. It was very immediate, and was pretty much our first interaction.

Bubba: I think My covered the grounds. It was immediate and effortless. Even though we were not trained musicians or anything like that, we both had a very strong relationship with music in our own way. When we met, we liked that we could share that very naturally and create our own music. Of course, a lot has happened since then — this was eight years ago. We say that music came and chose us. Opportunities kept coming at us and we would always say yes to them. It took us on a lot of adventures.

I’ve heard a lot about how quickly you recorded these songs after they were written. Did you approach Big, Bad, Good differently during the recording process than any of your previous work?

Bubba: The first few times that you sing a song, ever, when it’s being born, the song always has a very special feel to it … before you’ve rehearsed it, before you find the exact form of a song. We were very intrigued by exploring, let’s say, if we could capture on the record the songs the first few times that they’d become songs. We went into the studio without even having … I mean we had some ideas, some sketches, in our heads, but no finished songs, and we wrote all of the materials as we were recording.

My: So Goes Abroader, the second record — the one before this — we had a very clear idea of what we wanted to sound like as we were writing it and planning the recording sessions. We ended up very close to that, which we were very happy with, of course. With this one, we wanted to challenge ourselves in the writing process by doing it in the studio and we also wanted to, like Bubba was saying, explore that freshness of a song as it’s being written.

It was all kind of because we had met Shahzad [Ismaily], who produced the record. The first time we met him, we had a jam session during a home night in Iceland with some other musicians — Damien Rice and Sam Amidon and [others]. It was a very fun, creative night and we had a connection with [Ismaily] right away. The next time we met him, he told us about his studio that he had just finished and invited us to come make a record with him, and we said we’d love to, but we didn’t have any new material at the time, so maybe later. He said, "No — you don’t have to have songs. Just come over and we’ll see what happens."

We got used to that idea very quickly and decided it was exactly what we wanted to do that that time. It seemed like the perfect challenge, and especially having had that experience with him collaborating creatively in that way, it seemed like the right thing for us to do at the time. It was great, and we’re very happy with the result.

Bubba: Going into the studio, we had no idea what was going to come out. No expectations. We didn’t even know if we were going to come home with a record.

My: All we came with was some kind of confidence, that working with Shahzad was going to lead to something nice.

I loved something you said about your recent video for album track “Charm.” You called it the CliffNotes to your “unauthorized biography,” and I thought that was an interesting way to describe something you wrote. What made you describe it that way?

My: Well, when they asked me to say something about the song and the video and I thought about the lyrics, most of it was a poem that I wrote several years ago that I’d just wanted to be used in a song. That text, I feel, is a condensed version of my experience of being me. At the same time, it’s not written deliberately to be that. I guess that’s the unauthorized part — it’s kind of semi-subconscious poetry.

You could argue that the title track has a biographical element, too. The lyrics about relatives and ancestry lend a lot to the song. Are you inspired by history, family?

Bubba: I have always been really interested in history and my own history and I think, especially at this age, when you’re finally becoming an adult, I feel that I think a lot about where I come from and where my parents come from and try to learn from their journeys. I was inspired by those kinds of feelings, writing that song, in particular … looking back and finding your own place in that chain of stories and deciding how you want to keep building from there, feeling some kind of responsibility and wanting to make something positive and great with your own life.

Another great part of the song is the way it loops and multiplies the harmonies. What inspired that? To me, there are elements there that recall old, old folk songs, gospel songs, hymns — as well as more modern remixes and electronic music. Did that come from any particular place of inspiration?

My: It happened on the spot. We had the chords, the "big, bad, good" part. That was something I had come up with some months earlier, so that’s the part we had. The lyrics we were writing that day, and Shahzad was working out that beat. Once the beat was there, we decided to go in and start singing what came to us. We did that in layer after layer after layer and it became what it is, pretty much, with some editing and adding some things after. But that’s very much how it happened — it’s what came to us instinctively.

I noticed also that you reference other artists in your songs. What made you decide to do that in such an overt way? It feels cliché to ask a musician in an interview, "Tell me about your influences," but you seem to invite a certain amount of comparison with those kinds of lyrics.

My: In "Big Bad Good," we talk about Paul Simon, and that is probably, mostly … I mean, I couldn’t say for sure … I’m interpreting my own lyrics here, but my dad used to sing to me a lot when I grew up. He has a very Simon and Garfunkel-y voice, so it’s really kind of talking about him. Also, we are compared to Simon and Garfunkel, our sound.

Also, Bob Dylan is sort of a relative of mine. [Laughs] Well, we joke about it often when we play live because one of the first songs we played together was Bob Dylan, “You’re Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go.” And we keep playing it, eight, nine years later. So before we play it, I usually say, "Now we’re gonna play a song that was written by my father’s wife’s ex-husband’s mother’s previous lover." [Laughs] And, that is how I’m related to Bob Dylan.

Bubba: We call him Uncle Bob.

My: Yes. We never met him. We’d love to just have him hear our version of the song. I feel like it’s gonna happen someday.