Live What You’re Singing: A Conversation with Sarah Shook

Within the bounds of country music, pronoun play doesn’t come easy, but Sarah Shook believes listeners are more than capable of finding ways to see themselves in her songs. With her band, the Disarmers, she deals with gender in her songwriting as a means to challenge the heteronormative forms of representation within country music.

On “The Bottle Never Lets Me Down,” from the band’s new album, Years, she sings about becoming the man she used to be, while on “Parting Words,” she addresses a woman, her former lover, about the way things ended. Not only does she weave together traditional country, honky-tonk, blues, punk, and more, but she conscientiously flips country music’s perspective around in order to be more inclusive.

There’s a definite sense of who belongs and who doesn’t in country music, but that’s slowly shifting.

It’s a really very cool and exciting time for women making country music, especially the sort of throwback traditional country. There’s a lot of buzz centered around this new wave of women outlaw country artists. I think that’s a really good thing, and industry-wide it’s a lot more prevalent than you realize. One of the things that was frustrating for me last year when we put Sidelong out, I probably did 50-some odd phone interviews, and two of them—two of them!—were with women. I had a whole conversation with my manager, like it’s hard enough being a woman playing music, but it’s a tough field to be a woman in journalism. This year with this release, I feel like there’s been more of a balance as far as speaking with male and female journalists, and that’s been encouraging too.

You’ve been mentioned along with country outsiders like Sturgill Simpson and Margo Price. How do you see your relationship within the genre?

I think that we’ve been branded outlaw, and I feel like people interpret that in different ways. Of course outlaw country is the super old school Waylon Jennings beat, but I think the term is evolving pretty rapidly into something that is more inclusive to people doing it their own way. That’s one of the things that was really cool about country music in its heyday, when it was first starting out and all those classic artists were on the radio. As soon as the song started—a few bars in—you could tell whose band it was because all those bands had such a distinct sound. That is really hard to find today, everything sounds the same. It’s very clear that people are just looking for patterns that have achieved success and are popular. And then you have folks out there like Margo Price and Kelsey Waldon and Kacey Musgraves, and they’re kind of doing their own thing. Their bands have respective sounds that are unique and identifiable. That is really cool and very exciting.

You’ve been forthright about your sexual identity. How do you navigate your personal story within the larger scope of representation?

To a degree, I feel like there are certain points in time where it’s paramount to be very outspoken about that stuff. Most of the time, I feel like doing what I’m doing—touring relentlessly, putting out records, and being unapologetically myself—is a very powerful and political maneuver as well. Sometimes it’s more effective in a palpable way to live what you’re saying and be the person that you’re talking about. I think it’s a cool and different way for people to realize, especially within country music, which has a certain, specific demographic of people, that, yes, you can be a pansexual atheist vegan making country music, and does that affect the music? Sometimes lyrically, yes, but the overarching theme is just that I don’t necessarily have to have everything in common with my fans. We can have differences. It’s really cool to have interactions with people who are like, “I never felt comfortable with the idea of homosexuality or bisexuality, and I meet you and we’re talking and hanging out and having a good time. You’re just a regular person.” I’m like, “Exactly, we’re regular people, believe it or not.” [Laughs]

When you put it like that, it’s so depressing, but it rings true. Every time I meet someone who’s uncomfortable about anything outside heterosexuality it’s usually because they haven’t spoken to anyone who’s different from them.

Exactly. And that is such a big thing. We can play New York City and that’s a totally different experience than playing a small town in Alabama. I think consistently being the person who is always willing to talk to fans after a show and be real and be myself and form unlikely friendships, I think that’s a really cool way to create change.


I always thought action over verbiage is the way to go about it. But then looking back, we’ve seen from the Dixie Chicks how speaking your mind can be dangerous. Do the repercussions ever concern you?

You know, I’ve never been concerned about that because I feel it’s important to be honest and forthright as a human being, and as an artist and certainly lyrically as well. The other thing to me that’s really important, from the word go I’ve been very strategic about how I wanted to grow this band and how I wanted to see success. It’s never been my prerogative to go after the country music fan base—and certainly that’s the majority of our fan base. My thing was, “Yes, this is country music, but this is music for anyone who likes it.” It’s inclusive, and anyone that these songs resonate with, it’s for you. Taking that stance and being strategic about it has certainly helped. It’s really encouraging to be a country band playing outlaw country and have a very diverse audience, and I think that’s a thing a lot of traditional artists struggle with. They get pigeonholed. Being outspoken in an honest fashion but not a combative fashion, I feel that’s really helped push our music to demographics that it wouldn’t necessarily otherwise reach.

All this talk of the new outlaw makes me excited for a tour one day, or even a festival.

We need our own cruise. [Laughs] That would be amazing.

An outlaw lady cruise.

Exactly. Oh my god, that’d be a lotta fun.

Critics have referenced the underlying sense of menace in your voice, but your vocals on “New Ways to Fail” have such a biting, sarcastic note. Where does that darker sense of humor come from?

I’m very nihilistic. [Laughs] I’m one of those people that thinks life is way too short to take yourself too seriously. Within this world, there’s this huge danger of being, “I’m so and so, do you know who I am?” I’m just a person playing music and having a good time. Music should be fun, and, yes, it’s business too, but if it’s all business you’re going to get burnt out. You gotta have fun with it.

There’s also a tone of defiance in both your voice and music, which requires constantly stoking that fire inside you in order to stay angry enough to fight. How do you find yourself doing that?

I definitely have a lot of personal experiences that certainly stoke the fire. I have a lot of trans and non-binary friends here at home in Chapel Hill. Chapel Hill is a progressive little community, but even within the context of a progressive community, I’ve been out at bars before and had people give them shit about how they look. That’s a real thing. It’s so wild to me that the trans community is what’s being targeted because they’re already vulnerable to begin with and they’re probably the most non-combative people. They’re not putting up fights, they’re just trying to exist and have a life and be comfortable, like everyone else wants to do. You witness injustice like that firsthand, and you try and de-escalate situations like that. It’s a very real thing and there’s still a lot of work to be done in terms of showing people that we’re not the enemy, and yeah we’re kind of freaks but we’re not out to destroy morality.

Everyone can exist together.

Exactly, yup.

I noticed you play with gender a lot in your lyricism, either by not using specific pronouns or by flipping them in other interesting ways. Can you talk a bit about that process?

I’ve always liked pushing the boundaries with that. I think blurring gender lines is really important because it totally leaves the story open to listener interpretation. People can be like, “Well, I’m not really sure if this song is written from a man’s point of view about a woman, or a woman whose woman lover left her.” Leaving that open to interpretation and letting people wonder and figure it out for themselves and how it applies to them personally, I think that’s a cool way to let people arrive that their own conclusions, and also realize that they feel perfectly OK not really knowing.


Photo credits: John Gessner

MIXTAPE: Eric Corne’s California Country

California country has deep roots and an enduring influence. It’s given us the Bakersfield Sound, country-rock, cosmic country, cow punk, and much more. I love the more raw/less polished sound and how its artists tend to chart their own course. Nashville was a company town; California was where the mavericks went. I have a strong personal connection to California country, stemming from my work as Dusty Wakeman’s engineer at Mad Dog Studios in Los Angeles. Dusty played bass with Buck Owens, engineered Dwight Yoakam’s seminal albums, and co-produced Lucinda Williams’ first two albums. There’s still a strong core of musicians in L.A. with roots stretching back to these earlier generations, and it’s a thrill and an honor to be writing and producing records with such soulful and beautiful people, many of whom populate the selections below. — Eric Corne

Buck Owens — “Streets of Bakersfield”

Buck Owens is, of course, a pillar of California country and a pioneer of the Bakersfield Sound. An iconic harmony guitar riff provides the instrumental theme, with gorgeous vocal harmonies and pedal steel lifting the choruses. This song really encapsulates what California country represents to me — the desire to be oneself.

Merle Haggard — “Working Man”

This is one of my favorite Merle songs. It’s got a great groove and terrific guitar playing with lyrics that clearly represent the blue-collar ethic he embodied.

Lucinda Williams — “Sweet Ole World”

Lucinda really helped broaden the boundaries of country just by doing her own thing. This song has an angelic vocal melody with beautiful harmony and precise responses from the guitar. Immaculately recorded and co-produced by my mentor Dusty Wakeman.

Dwight Yoakam — “It Only Hurts When I Cry”

Dwight and Pete Anderson were real students of classic country music, especially the Bakersfield Sound, and they were at the center of the cow punk movement, along with X, Lone Justice, and others. This is a great song with witty lyrics, perfect production, and top-notch performances.

Jean Shepard — “If Teardrops Were Silver”

Raised in Bakersfield, Jean Shepard was a pioneer for female country singers and one of its first great stars, following on the heels of Kitty Wells’ breakthrough. She had a really pure voice with a lovely vibrato and a great ability to interpret a song.

Bob Wills — “Bubbles in My Beer”

It could be argued that Bob Wills is the godfather of the Bakersfield Sound. He played there regularly and had a strong influence on both Buck and Merle … something I can really hear in this song.

Sam Morrow — “Skinny Elvis” (Featuring Jaime Wyatt)

I’m really proud to work with these two brilliant, young, California country artists who are getting well-deserved national attention. I wrote this one for Sam’s album, Concrete and Mud. It’s a little reminiscent of the Gram/Emmylou song “Ooh, Las Vegas,” so I thought it’d make a great duet with Jaime. I recruited legendary Gram Parsons/Byrds pedal steel player Jay Dee Maness to play on it, which was quite a thrill, as you can imagine.

Guy Clark — “L.A. Freeway”

Guy Clark wasn’t in L.A. for long, and this song is about leaving, but it’s a beautiful farewell song. The song makes reference to another beloved and iconic figure of California country — “Skinny” Dennis Sanchez who played bass with Clark, and ran in circles with the likes of Townes Van Zandt, Rodney Crowell, and Steve Earle. There’s also a thriving honkytonk in Brooklyn named after him. It’s an incredible performance, very dynamic, with a sympathetic arrangement including Wurlitzer piano, weepy fiddle, moaning harmonica, and gorgeous chorus harmonies.

Jade Jackson — “Motorcycle”

Here’s another great, young country singer coming out of Cali right now. I love this lyric and vocal performance — intimate with a dark, rebellious under current.

Linda Ronstadt — “Silver Threads and Golden Needles”

Her early career country records are really underrated. This is a killer country-rock version of a Dick Reynolds/Jack Rhodes classic song with strong ties to the Flying Burrito Brothers. I think Ronstadt is also important to include here, due to her work with Neil Young, the Eagles, Jackson Browne, and others in the L.A. country scene of the late ’60s and early ’70s.

The Byrds — “Hickory Wind”

No playlist of California country would be complete without a song from the Byrds’ seminal country album Sweetheart of the Rodeo. My first gig in Los Angeles was assisting Dusty Wakeman on the mixes for the Gram Parsons tribute concert at which Keith Richards did a beautiful heartfelt version of this song by his old pal, Gram.

Sam Outlaw — “Jesus Take the Wheel (And Drive Me to a Bar)”

An instant classic by one of the brightest stars of the current generation of California country singers with outstanding production by Ry Cooder and Bo Koster of My Morning Jacket on keys, who also guests on my new record.

The Flying Burrito Brothers — “Hot Burrito #1”

Even though Gram Parsons and Chris Hillman’s importance is already represented here via the Byrds, I wanted to include this achingly beautiful Burrito song, partly because of Gram’s incredible vocal and melody, and partly due to Bernie Leadon and the link he represented as a member of both the Burritos and the Eagles, the latter heavily influenced by the former.

Gene Autry — “Mexicali Rose”

Gene Autry’s singing cowboy films were instrumental in bringing country music to a national audience in the 1940s. I was very fortunate to record Glen Campbell on his version of “Mexicali Rose,” but thought I’d include Autry’s version here.

Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young — “Helpless”

I think the Laurel Canyon music scene played an important role in California country and Neil Young, in particular — first with Buffalo Springfield, with songs like “Learning to Fly” and “I Am a Child,” and later with his Nashville-recorded classic, Harvest. “Helpless” to me represents the seeds of Harvest.

Eagles — “Tequila Sunrise”

Not much needs to be said about the first two Eagles’ albums and their role in the popularity of country-rock. Not to include them would seem an oversight. This also represents the beginning of the fruitful Glenn Frey/Don Henley songwriting partnership.

The Simplicity of a Song: A Conversation with Kelly Willis

Kelly Willis almost gave it up 20 years ago. After being dropped by not one but two major labels, the Lone Star singer/songwriter wondered if there was room for her in country music. “It was a huge struggle,” she says today. “I just didn’t know if there was a place for me. I wasn’t going to stop making music, but I didn’t know if I was going to be able to keep making records.”

Fortunately, Willis broke through on 1999’s What I Deserve, an album of dusty, sturdy country tunes that introduced her sharply broken-hearted voice to a wide audience and allowed her to settle into the industry on her own terms. Her story is proof that artists can still thrive professionally well outside the mainstream, and her longevity is almost as impressive as the music she makes, both as a solo artist and as a duets partner with her husband, Bruce Robison.

Back Being Blue is Willis’s first album in more than a decade, and even its title announces a return to what she does best: singing low and lonely country tunes that signal a deep understanding of country music without sounding beholden to any one particular trend or tradition. The title track is a languid third-wheel lament with a breezy country-funk rhythm section. “I’m a Lover Not a Fighter” is an energetic Texas swing cover of the Skeeter Davis hit. “Modern World” sets an elastic pop groove loose in a middle-of-nowhere roadhouse. “Freewheeling” is a spare countrypolitan weeper that she describes as the most personal song on the record.

Produced by Robison and recorded in his rural Texas studio (“I was driving out there one morning and almost hit a huge hog in the middle of the road!”), Back Being Blue sounds like a survey of the influences that have informed each one of her albums, from swing to twang to punk. Uniting these diverse sounds is a voice that conveys dignified heartache as its default setting.

This is your first solo record in 12 years. What inspired you to make a return?

I was having a lot of fun making records with Bruce, and that was taking up all my time and energy. I tried to force myself to get into the studio a few times over the years, but it really felt forced. Honestly, I think what happened was that I wrote that song, “Back Being Blue,” and when I finished it, I felt like there was a shift in my world: “Oh, okay, now I know what I’ doing.” The ball just got rolling. I had something I wanted to say. I had motivation. All it took was a little light bulb going off.

What about that song opened things up for you?

There was a simplicity about it. I’d been trying to write some really impressive songs — deep, meaningful, complicated songs — and none of them were coming together. Then this one came along, and it sounded so simple. It reminded me of the songs I was listening to when I was first getting into music — something from the ‘50s or ‘60s, like Buddy Holly or someone. It just had this vibe that got me excited to write more in that vein. It did open things up, because it gave me some ideas for the choices you make, when you’re writing a song. I could do that. “Okay, let’s simplify.” Or, “Let’s do an old-time country sound.” When you have some direction, it helps you make those decisions.

One of the things I was trying to do was get more universal and less specific about the details of my experience. They’re based in my experience, of course, but I wanted to broaden it and take out the little details. A song like “Freewheeling” is more personal. But they’re all personal, right? It’s all about heartbreak and love, and you draw on your own memory of that, when you’re writing and singing. And that’s what I love about country music. I love being able to sit at a bar with a beer and listen to the jukebox and hear a song that speaks to you. It makes you feel so much better to hear somebody express your own feelings. You feel like you’re not alone.

Did you know at the time that you were writing for a solo album? Or did you think these songs might end up on a duets album?

It was always going to be a solo album. It was time for that. Bruce and I always knew that we were not closing any doors, when we decided to play together; we were just opening more doors. So we were fully aware that we would go back to making solo records again. It just felt like the right time. He made one a year ago, and then I finally got it together to make mine. I wanted to have a record with a purpose and a point. I got lucky with that. I like a deadline, and maybe the deadline helped.

Did you give yourself a deadline, or was one imposed on you?

Bruce and I have to take turns with this stuff, due to our family schedule. It was really the most opportune time for me to make it happen, and it made sense to have it out before the summer, because that’s the best time for me to tour. If you back up from there, you know you have to get it done by this point, which helps me get started writing and recording and seeing what I’ve missed and what I still need to do.

I really thought I wouldn’t make this record with Bruce. I thought we would benefit from having a breaking in all the problem-solving that we have to do together, either raising a family or being in a band together. It seemed like a good chance to do something different and to miss each other. But he was so encouraging about the songs I was writing, and he really got what I envisioned. He would suggest that I work on that song some more or maybe do something with the tempo on this song. I shared with him this playlist of songs that were inspiring me, and he was like, “Oh, there’s a specific reverb on all of these.” He was a great partner, and it made sense to do this together. The conversation was easy. It felt like a no-brainer.

Did you look into other options for producing or recording?

I definitely thought about it. I had a list of names to consider, but I didn’t want to have a big-name producer just to have a big-name producer. And I know myself: I know I’ll lose confidence in what I want to do. If I’m around someone who has a style of their own, I’ll just say, “Your style is great, so let’s just do that,” rather than sticking with whatever weird, quirky thing I wanted to do. Since I hadn’t made a record in a long time, I wanted to stay true to my little artistic expression. Half the fun, for me, was figuring that out and trying to create a unique sound. I thought about a lot of different things, but this felt like the right way to go.

You mentioned a playlist. Who all was on there?

I had some Nick Lowe and some Marshall Crenshaw, the Louvin Brothers, and Skeeter Davis. I think we managed to represent all of my inspirations on there, and it’s stuff that has contributed to the music I’ve made over the years. I was thinking about when I first moved to Austin and started making music, when I was in a rockabilly band and people were really starting to experiment with blending country and punk. First it was called cowpunk, and then I don’t know all the different names it had. I just knew I wanted to look at some of my favorite music that really made me want to make music myself.

What did you learn revisiting some of that music? Did you hear it differently so many years later?

I probably listen to that stuff frequently enough that it didn’t feel like something I was going back to. But when you’re listening to figure it out, you think of it in a different context. It was fun to hear what people were doing with reverb, especially some of those country artists in the ‘60s. That reverb is so cool. We tried to do some of that, but it didn’t work in this modern context. It was fun to revisit Skeeter Davis and think back on my first foray into being in a band.

I was a huge rockabilly fan, so Wanda Jackson and those artists were heroes to me. I felt like I could hear the evolution of my own singing. When I first started singing, I would just copy those people, but I would lose my voice trying to belt like them. It can be embarrassing, but that’s an important part of the process and, eventually, you do find your own voice.

You signed with a major label and released three albums in the early 1990s. Did that disappointing experience affect your relationship to that material? Do you hear those songs differently now?

Some of them I do. I’ve had my favorites that I’ve clung to over the years. Although, at this point, I’ve done so many records that I can’t do more than one song from some of those older ones. And there are only a handful of people in the crowd who go all the way back to the first albums. A lot of people first heard of me when I did What I Deserve, so they might not be familiar with my three MCA records. I always like to do “I Don’t Want to Love You” and “River of Love” from [1990’s] Well Traveled Love. And I do “Hidden Things” from [1991’s] Bang Bang. I try to stay familiar with those records so that, if somebody calls out a song from one of them, we can play it. It’s a little tricky, but I’m proud of that material.

When I made those records, I remember distinctly thinking I was always in the opposite of whatever the prevailing trend was. When I wanted to do Fender guitars, everybody else was doing fiddles. When I brought fiddles back in, they were doing Fender guitars. It seemed like I was out of step with whatever was happening at the moment. But I was at least staying true to my vision.

The first time I heard you was on your cover of Townes Van Zandt’s “Rex’s Blues,” off the Red Hot & Country compilation. How did you that come about?

That was a really cool turning point for me. I had been dropped from my MCA deal, and I was trying to start over. I thought I needed to be at a label that would look at me like I have no history whatsoever and just let me create whatever it is I wanted to create without them trying to decide who I am. I was signed to A&M and released an EP, even though I never released a full-length album.

At the time, the Red Hot & Blue people asked Jay Farrar to do a song for that album. At first, they wanted it to be all duets, and they asked him who he wanted to sing with. He picked me. It was a wonderful experience to make music with him and be part of that project, and it really opened people’s ears to me. It made people look at me differently, I think: “Oh, if Jay Farrar wants to sing with her, then maybe there’s more there than we thought.”

After having so much trouble with labels, did you ever think about quitting?

When I got the chance to make What I Deserve [in 1999], I really thought that it was going to be the last record I would get to make. I was only 19 or 20, when I got signed to my Nashville deal, and I had made these three records that were not what they wanted. It was a huge struggle, in that regard. I just didn’t know if there was a place for me after that. I wasn’t going to stop making music, but I didn’t know if I was going to be able to keep making records. Luckily, What I Deserve ended up being the most well-received record I’ve made, and it gave me a fresh start.

And now it seems like you’ve carved out this very particular niche for yourself in the country music community.

I hope so. Don’t quit. Don’t stop. Just keep going. A lot of my favorite musicians just keep going, and what they’re contributing is really worthwhile and valuable. I’m grateful that they’re still doing it. I think I was lucky that I made my entrance when I did, because I got this national exposure with MCA and a kind of platform that other artists these days aren’t given. These days, labels aren’t investing in young artists. They’re not grooming them or giving them time to grow. I was lucky to get to do that.

And I live in Texas, where there’s a great music community throughout the state. You can play and play, and people always come out. I think it has something to do with the dancehall culture, which was such a community experience. Everybody went out to dancehalls and took their families, and that became part of the culture here. Whatever the reason, I feel lucky to be here.


Photo credit: George Brainard

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

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.”

From Sad Bastard to Groove Master: A Conversation with Sam Morrow

Apart from going all TSwift-style pop crossover, the easiest way to distance oneself from modern commercial country is to make loud and clear references to an old older era of the genre — or to just play it straight throwback style. But at a time when honoring the past has become so fashionable that it may elicit a blasé response from the more cynical of listeners, Sam Morrow remains grounded in the present through a commitment to his own ears and a desire to grow and try new things. He intentionally breaks up and flips sonic variables, but only to a degree that the studied listener will still recognize the presence of bygone innovators such as Gram Parsons, Little Feat, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and Waylon Jennings, while guessing at the precise methods used to achieve those sounds. If the progression of his works to date means anything, and as Morrow continues to put forth new recordings, expect evolution and growth. It wouldn’t be surprising to see both deeper dives into and further departures from his current country funk/Southern rock sound.

Morrow is an artist committed to finding and refining his true voice, but on his newest album, Concrete and Mud, he doesn’t weigh that pursuit down with an agenda or a need to sound too profound. He laughs at his foibles and winks at his vices. Like so many artists before him, when the Los Angeles-based Morrow got clean from an opiate addiction, he had strange emotions to process, so he turned to songwriting in an effort to root out a bevy of conflicting feelings and past wreckage.

2014’s Ephemeral was his first artistic exorcism, expressed in the emotional, sincere style of a Damian Rice or a Justin Vernon. However sincere, Ephemeral doesn’t sound like someone who has quite discovered his authentic voice yet. Despite its title’s indication to the contrary, Morrow’s second album, There Is No Map (2015), sounds more like someone who knows where he’s come from and where he’s going. But his newest work, Concrete and Mud, displays the confidence, mastery, and winsomeness of an artist who knows exactly who he is, what he wants to say, and what he is doing. The set marks the moment Morrow rightfully claims his place among the very best that country and Americana have to offer.

You’re from Texas, which has a pretty rich musical heritage. What Texas musicians were you into growing up?

I’ve had a really weird musical journey. I started out playing in church, kind of a natural path for any musician from the South. I’m super grateful to have all of that because it got me practiced playing with a band. It got me a lot of experiential stuff that I wouldn’t have learned, if I wasn’t playing every Sunday with a band or had to learn new songs all the time. No matter how good the songs were, they were still songs. So I did that, and once I was maybe 15, I got into rap a little bit — like Screwed Up Click, Houston rap … Paul Wall, Lil Flip, all of those kind of dudes. I don’t real listen to them anymore, but that’s just kinda how it went.

So your Texas influence is not necessarily a Texas country influence?

No, I was very like — I didn’t listen to punk rock, but I had a punk rock attitude when I was a kid. So, being from Texas, I didn’t want to like country music because that was like … everyone in Texas likes country music, so I wanted to go against the grain, you know? So I liked rap. I liked ZZ Top, or emo/screamo, or whatever it was. I didn’t start really listening to country music until I got sober almost seven years ago.

I mean I’d always kinda heard it. I knew a bunch of Garth Brooks songs. I knew a bunch of George Strait songs. You know, all those Texas country musicians — Robert Earl Keen, Jerry Jeff Walker. I knew those songs, but I had an aversion to the whole thing because of my punk rock sort of attitude. Then I kinda saw the light, I guess, and realized that it’s just what I related to the most.

Country, traditionally, has that whole thing about the primacy of the song, and you seem to be quite the songwriter type of guy.

I mean, whenever you get sober, you’re super raw and vulnerable and everything feels weird. So, really, through the three years that I was just a gnarly junky, I used being a musician as a reason to not have a job. Or I would get out my guitar every once in a while during an acid trip, and we would all freak out about it or something like that. I wasn’t really into it. Even in that phase, I was listening to electronic stuff. I got really into dubstep and Skrillex, so it just blows my mind thinking about it now, but in any case that’s where I was. When I got sober, I wanted to start writing songs, and I had all these weird feelings and vulnerabilities.

Did you feel like it was a way to get out all the weird emotional turmoil that comes with getting sober?

Yeah, exactly. And naturally I kind of gravitated toward more folk and singer/songwriter stuff because that’s where that kind of songwriting lies. And it wasn’t something that was necessarily foreign to me. It was just something that I kind of pushed away for a long time. But yeah, my first record was just like sad bastard, super depressing shit.

I can definitely hear the progression from Ephemeral through There Is No Map. And even that one is not quite as straight-ahead country as Concrete and Mud.

Yeah, I don’t know. Concrete and Mud definitely has it’s country tracks and what not, but I didn’t want to make a country record. Everyone and their mom is making a country record right now, so I wanted it to be … like, obviously that’s kinda the music I play — Americana, whatever you want to call it — but I wanted to have a uniqueness to it. I didn’t want it to just have pedal steel and some violins here and there. Though there’s nothing wrong with that.

You definitely have some weird sonic stuff going on that’s out of the box.

Right. I wanted it to get a little weird in some spots. Four years ago, I got super into Little Feat and started listening to a lot of deep Skynyrd stuff.

Is Little Feat kinda where the funk element came from?

Yeah, and I’m very groove-oriented when writing songs. If I’m sitting at a desk or something, I’m always banging on it. I don’t know. It’s just kinda there. I’ve just kinda always had that funky element. One of my favorite things to see is people actually dancing to the music I play live. And a lot of the country covers I was doing, like Don Williams, I consider him like country disco. Even Willie Nelson’s Shotgun Willie, it’s pretty funky that record.

Going back to what you said about the dance thing, you never get people dancing to sad bastard music. So what was the turn for you? Did you suddenly discover your love for groove? What happened there? Because it’s a pretty hard turn.

Going on the road and playing more bar gigs, like, “Here, we’ll give you this much money to play three 45-minute sets,” or something like that … I don’t have that many original songs. And also just seeing how people would respond to my sad bastard stuff in a weird bar where people are trying to eat their pizza and shit. So I learned covers that had a good groove or were a little funky, or I could put my own twist on and make it groovy and funky. And a lot of the songs on this record are just grooves that I took from covers that I’ve been playing for the last two years. And to answer your question: I don’t know if I really did. I just kinda hit that point where I was playing songs that people were dancing to and I was like, “Oh, this is what I like to do.”

So it was a response to the joy that you witnessed?

Yeah, just people having fun. I’m not really a dancer, but I can dance with my guitar in my hand. That’s about it.

There are some serious themes on this record, but you have a lighter approach to those themes. Was that a conscious move? Do you think about being sincere without being too sentimental?

Right, yeah that was, of course, intentional. I was definitely conscious to make this record lighter and sort of more sarcastic. I almost didn’t even understand that you could do that — that songs could mean a lot but be light or sarcastic or whatever. I could have never written “Quick Fix” six years ago, just poking fun at all my vices, noticing all my vices in everyday life. That’s not something I would want to point out — my flaws — even now, and make fun of. Maybe “make fun of” is not the right word, but make light of them or talk about them in a naïve sort of light.

You’re sober, which to me says that you take care of yourself, but then you sing a song like “Quick Fix,” and it makes me think that you’re not heavy-handed about the way that you take care of yourself, or prescriptive or preachy in some kind of way. Right?

Right. I mean, I still do a lot of shit. Like I play poker all the time. I’m super impulsive. I still have these addictive behaviors, but I’m in control and I recognize them. I keep them somewhat healthy. And that’s just a sign of maturity, I guess.

Kind of like, if you can wink at them, you’re giving them less power?

Yeah, exactly.

You nod to some funky and psychedelic country sounds, but then, at times, you take them a bit further. What made you decide to push the sonic envelope, so to speak?

I think we tried to do that on a couple tracks on the last record, but just didn’t quite get there or didn’t think it out enough. For instance, on “Paid by the Mile,” we initially had my phaser pedal on my guitar, and I was like, “This sounds cool, but how many people have put a phaser pedal on a guitar? Everyone fucking does it. Why don’t we try to put the phaser pedal on the Wurly?” So that’s what we did. We put the phaser pedal on the Wurlitzer, and it sounded fucking killer. And it still gives the whole mix that phasey, wobbly thing, but it’s just coming from a different place than where you normally hear it in a guitar.

So me and Eric [producer Eric Corne] both were willing to take more chances, I guess, this record. And the guy that plays keys — his name is Sasha Smith — what I really love about the way he plays keys is, he’s so percussive and rhythmic that it couldn’t have been a better person to play on this record. He fills in all the spots and uses whatever he’s playing like a rhythm instrument.

Yeah, even the organ on “Weight of a Stone” is so precise and punchy that it works like a rhythm instrument.

Right, exactly. And yeah, we took influence from … have you ever seen Peaky Blinders? So the Nick Cave song that’s the show credits opener…

“Red Right Hand”?

Yeah, so we wrote the song, and it’s sort of a murder ballad sort of song, but we wanted it to be sort of droney and have a keyboard theme in it. It’s pretty close to it. I don’t know how many people I should tell that we took it from that, but it’s far enough apart.

You do have a way of nodding to influences without aping them. There are some nods to Gram Parsons, for example, like the amphetamine queen line in “Coming Home.” Is that an homage to “Return of the Grievous Angel”?

That’s kinda where it came from. I don’t remember if I exactly took it from that. I think I just wanted to use “amphetamine” in a song. Like Jason Isbell uses “benzodiazepine” …

Yeah! How does he do that?!

I know! Dude! And it’s so perfect, too, the way he phrases it and everything is so perfect. So I wanted to have an elongated, full drug name in one of the songs and it just kinda fit. But yeah, Gram Parsons … “Skinny Elvis,” we referenced pretty closely “Ooh Las Vegas.”

Right, but Concrete and Mud doesn’t sound like a Gram record at all.

And that’s what we wanted. I was a little bit worried about “Quick Fix.” At first, I was resistant to the Clavinet because I didn’t want it to sound too much like “Cripple Creek” [by the Band], but then we started playing it, and it just didn’t sound as good without the Clav, so we were just like, “Aw, fuck it.”

To quote our mutual friend Jaime Wyatt, “Texans like to sing the shit out of a song.” What happened to your vocal performance? You’re earlier stuff is good, but you sound like a completely different vocalist on this record. You’ve got a level of control that I’d say is as good and as professional as it gets.

Thanks! I really appreciate that. Yeah, I think just playing out a lot. I’d never really taken a guitar lesson or a voice lesson, and I took a few voice lessons in the past couple years just to kind of understand my voice a little bit. And since my first record, I was playing with a friend doing a show four or five years ago, and we were playing this song and he said, “Why don’t you add some growl to this part? You can do that.” And I was like, “I don’t really have a growl to my voice, man.” And he was 100 percent right. My voice is like 98 percent growl, just like howling and seeing what comes out, and I just didn’t realize that until he said that to me.

So that’s kinda shaped my tone a little bit, too. And then I sorta started growling and yelling too much, so it was a matter of honing that in a little bit, and I think I’ve found a balance. Once you figure out you can do a new trick, you just do it all the time.

You do that really well at the top of the chorus on “Weight of a Stone.” There’s a lot of power in the attack. It’s really cool, one of my favorite moments on the record.

That one, we were a little bit worried when we first started. That was the hardest one to sing in the studio, for some reason. I think it was just a weird key or something for me. Initially we wanted to keep that song kinda soft. I even toyed a little bit with doing it falsetto, but once we got that kind of cool growl in there, it sounded a lot more epic, I guess.

One more thing: I’ve seen a term thrown around a lot lately, and it’s been used of you, and I wondered if you have any thoughts about it — “left-of-center country.” Does that mean anything to you?

Honestly, it doesn’t mean anything to me. Cool, you can call it whatever you want. You know, when people ask me what kind of music I play, I say country music just because it’s easy. You don’t have to sit there and explain it to them. Although these days you kinda have to explain to most people that it’s not the kind of shit you hear on the radio. A lot of lay people don’t know what Americana music is. When you say “Southern rock,” they don’t know what you’re talking about. You can call it whatever you want. We just made the record that we wanted to make, and we’re happy with the way it turned out.

LISTEN: The Lied To’s, ‘Cruel World’

Artist: The Lied To’s
Hometown: Boston, MA
Song: “Cruel World”
Album: The Lesser of Two Evils
Release Date: May 11, 2018

In Their Words: “‘Cruel World’ is a full-fledged ‘F-U’ to life and its misfortunes. It’s more than just angry in its lyrics; it’s downright ornery. Musically, it borrows from country music’s original angry songwriter — Johnny Cash. We spit out lines together, like, ‘Now I’m staring out the window to see what’s coming next, popping pills to ease my troubles, then go dealin’ with my ex’ in a raw blues harmony that sounds like a three-minute fiery exorcism.” — Doug Kwartler


Photo credit: Doug Kwartler

Kacey Musgraves, ‘Oh What a World’

In these tense and fraught political times, the desire for country artists to become more outspoken and opinionated has started to reach a fever pitch: After Route 91, will they speak out about gun control? Will they respond when Trump stokes hate on Twitter or refuses to condemn white supremacy? Will they support equal rights and reinforce that love is love, no matter the gender of the lovers?

Kacey Musgraves has always been one of the few outliers who existed on Music Row without having to play by the rulebook of being politically neutral — particularly in the arena of human rights (and, of course, marijuana use). She praised equality on “Follow Your Arrow,” from her debut LP, Same Trailer, Different Park. The line that gets the most attention is “kiss lots of boys, or kiss lots of girls,” but the more simple phrase of “love who you love” is equally poignant. Inclusion has always been part of who she is and her process — a bit ironic, considering that her attitude toward inclusion is exactly what’s had her excluded from country radio.

Her third album, Golden Hour, has been discussed and deconstructed as being less inherently political or mischievous (though, overall, she’s rarely been explicitly partisan in terms of left or right) and more about love … specifically, her relationship with her husband Ruston Kelly. It’s filled with meditations on kindness and romance and self-worth, and what it means to be alive, and on what it might mean to die, too, and the infinitely depressing and unstoppable passage of time — particularly the difficulties in enjoying a moment while knowing that its about to inherently be gone forever.

But in 2018, under a Trump presidency, Golden Hour is actually new kind of political, and, along with the songs of May Your Kindness Remain, the new LP from Courtney Marie Andrews, presents a different breed of protest song: one where there’s protest in kindness, in the appreciation of beauty and a sense of being grateful about the world. “Oh What a World,” a superb work of gauzy modernist folk-pop that balances both vocoder and traditional country orchestration in uncanny ways, is perhaps the album’s best example. “Oh what a world, don’t want to leave,” she sings, “There’s all kinds of magic, it’s hard to believe.” They’re simple words, really, but they sting.

Musgraves proceeds to lists some various wonders, from neon fish to magic mushrooms, and then moves on to a simple reminder: “These are real things,” she sings softly. “These are real things.” Fake news, Twitter wars, social media profiles don’t actually reflect who we are at all. Here, Musgraves is doing something just as mischievous and political as she’s always done, but in different clothes. She’s reminding us all that life is short and the world is beautiful. It a simple idea, but one too often forgotten.

Love, beauty, kindness, appreciation … these are real things. And, these days, they’re resistance.

LISTEN: Tami Neilson, ‘Stay Outta My Business’

Artist: Tami Neilson
Hometown: Auckland, NZ
Song: “Stay Outta My Business”
Album: SASSAFRASS!
Release Date: June 1, 2018
Label: Outside Music

In Their Words: “‘Stay Outta My Business’ is something I never would’ve written in the past. It is the musical result of me coming into my full confidence as a woman and realising that I don’t need to take the opinions of others on board. It’s very freeing to just shut all that negativity down in four words! I’ve had numerous people approach me, after performing this song live, saying it is their new anthem. I love that this song is empowering and emboldening others to just say no to engaging with all the bullsh*t!” — Tami Neilson


Photo credit: Ashley Church

Joshua Black Wilkins, ‘Cops and Robbers’

In the era of Instagram, everyone fancies themselves as amateur photographers, snapping pictures of their vacations, their coffee cups, or, of course, themselves. But a fancy filter or a string of tweak-able iPhone settings does not a photographer make. It takes a keen eye, a lot of training, and a certain kind of gift to see the world in moments worth capturing, and moments that speak more than words, or even several minutes of moving film, ever could. And a great photo, like a great song, is often more simple than meets the eye: Stripped of its color to black and white, it relies on pure emotion, a visceral connection with a smile, a smirk, a feeling.

Joshua Black Wilkins, a photographer and songwriter, is deeply in tune with the power of eerie simplicity. His portraits rest less on pretty and more on the idiosyncrasy, discomfort, and true beauty that lies beneath than traditional glamor. His songs, from his newest record, Valentine Sessions, do the same. With his gravely voice layered atop fingerpicking guitar, he keeps things paired down but no less evocative. “Cops and Robbers” is a prime example of the allure of this recipe — a stripped-down folk ode to the lure of a lover, that plays with child-like colloquialisms in a very adult way. “Sticks and stones, but the words won’t come,” Wilkins sings. Like his pictures, “Cops and Robbers” leaves an impression that lasts much longer than its two short minutes on your speakers.

MIXTAPE: Lloyd Green & Jay Dee Maness’s Steely History

Fifty years ago, the Byrds set out on an ambitious path to deeper explore the country music they had flirted with on previous records with Sweetheart of the Rodeo. In addition to introducing Gram Parsons to a larger audience, it was the first country-rock record to be recorded by an established rock act. The record continues to open the eyes of new generations to country music. Recorded in March of 1968 in Nashville, Tennessee, and April of the same year in Los Angeles, California, the original record utilized the amazing steel guitar talents of Lloyd Green (Nashville) and Jay Dee Maness (L.A.), both established session musicians. The freshness of their playing added not only an authenticity to the sessions, but opened the eyes of a whole new audience to the sound of the pedal steel guitar.

Now, 50 years later, the original steel guitarists have reunited to make a stunning instrumental tribute to this ground-breaking record. Over the intervening decades, the two masters have played on countless songs. Here are some of their favorites.

LLOYD GREEN

Warner Mack — “The Bridge Washed Out”

Owen Bradley, the producer, did not want to use me since he didn’t know me nor my capabilities. He insisted on Pete Drake, who Warner said could not possibly play this new idea and sound I had discovered. Owen reluctantly let me be on the session, and it became Warner Mack’s first and only number one record, for which Owen Bradley then took credit, telling people that he knew they had a hit with my sound on that record. It was my career-launching recording.

Tammy Wynette — “D-I-V-O-R-C-E”

Producer Billy Sherrill heard me doodling with a new sound I had discovered, recognized its uniqueness, and told me that was going to be the signature of the song. It was and quickly became a number one record for Tammy, where I introduced the last remaining missing component of the E9th commercial tuning heard on most records which had remained unknown — the E to F pedal change. It now is part of our tuning on all steel guitars which use the commercial E9th neck.

Freddie Hart — “Easy Loving”

George Richey had gotten in an argument with Freddie about how we should record this song and, wisely, went outside for a smoke and to cool off. So Charlie McCoy, Billy Sanford, and I said, “Let’s cut this damn thing,” which we did in two takes. Richey came back in and asked if we were ready to cut it, but I told him we already had. He listened with a bored look on his face and said, “Sounds okay, next song.” Little did he know we had just cut Freddie’s career song which sold around two million copies and became a number one, and also became one of only three records to ever become the Country Music Association’s Song of the Year two years in a row, in 1971 and 1972.

Gene Watson — “Farewell Party”

We had recorded Gene’s new Capitol album but lacked one more song to complete the music. Having but 10 minutes left in the session, both Gene and his producer, Russ Reeder, came over to me and asked if I would just do an intro and a solo in the middle real quickly so they could finish the album and not have to pay the musicians overtime. I did. We cut the song in one take and left for our next sessions. While not becoming a number one record for Gene, it quickly became his most famous recording and he even named his band Farewell Party. The song became a cult favorite among steel guitar players around the world.

Alan Jackson — “Remember When” 

Keith Stegall, Alan’s producer, called me when he heard I was coming out of a 15-year retirement to again record, asking me to cut with Alan Jackson. It was my first time back in the recording studio. On the session, Alan told me his favorite steel solo of all time was what I played on “Farewell Party.” He asked me to give him another “Farewell Party” solo. The song, of course, went to number one, like all of Alan’s records and, ironically, became the last major country music record with a significant 16-bar solo. Steel is no longer featured on most big recordings.

Leslie Tom — “Hey Good Lookin'”

“Hey, Good Lookin'” is a Hank Williams song I’ve played since the age of 13 or 14 in the bars and clubs in Mobile, Alabama. I can still play it exactly like Don Helms recorded it back on non-pedal steel guitar in 1951 with Hank. But … I only honored him with some key phrases on this modern Leslie Tom recording. My entire recording career has been built around creating sounds, not imitating others. Leslie’s version, while also honoring Hank, has a bit more swing and sizzle to it, so that’s the direction I went. It is really good, and I am honored to get to record with such a talented, beautiful lady. Leslie sings it with fervor and an obvious love for Hank Williams’ music.

JAY DEE MANESS

Gram Parsons — “Blue Eyes”

I got a call to work on an album called International Submarine Band with Gram Parsons. When I got to the studio, I found out that Glen Campbell would be playing acoustic rhythm guitar. This was my first encounter with both Gram and Glen. In addition to myself on steel, the album had Jon Corneal on drums, Joe Osborn on bass, and Earl Ball on piano. This album was produced by Suzi Jane Hokom. The album was eventually released in 1968, after the group ceased to exist. Some might say this was a precursor to the Sweetheart of the Rodeo album.

Ray Stevens — “Misty”

In 1974, I was lucky enough to record in Nashville on a song called “Misty” with Ray Stevens. Shortly after the session, I moved my family back to Los Angeles. One day, Ray called and said he had been nominated for a Grammy for “Misty,” and asked if I wanted to play on the Grammy Awards. Of course, I said yes. I was thrilled to get to play the Grammys on national TV with Ray Stevens. During rehearsal, all went well. Once it was our turn to be on stage — live — and it came time for my “solo,” I broke the third string on my steel guitar. This string is very important to the sound of the solo so, on national TV, and I had to “fake” it. This was a very embarrassing moment.

Eddie Rabbit — “Every Which Way but Loose”

In 1978, I received a call to do the soundtrack and had a bit part in the movie Every Which Way but Loose, which was produced by Clint Eastwood. All the bar scenes were being filmed at the Palomino Club, so Clint decided to use the house band in the movie. I had already received the call to do the soundtrack and to play with Eddie Rabbit on the title song and to play on Mel Tillis’s “Send Me Down to Tucson.” Soon enough, I was called to do the Any Which Way You Can soundtrack, too. In addition to the soundtrack, I was able to play with Shelly West and David Frizzell on “You’re the Reason God Made Oklahoma.” I also had the opportunity to work on “Bar Room Buddies,” sung by Clint Eastwood and Fats Domino.

Anne Murray — “Could I Have This Dance”

I had the privilege of working with Anne Murray on her hit song “Could I Have This Dance” which was produced by Jim Ed Norman. “Could I Have This Dance” was also in the Urban Cowboy movie and soundtrack. Later on, I got a call late one evening from Jim Ed Norman asking if I could come over to his studio after my gig at the world famous Palomino Club. He said, “I have a record for you.” I thought it was a copy of the album which had the tune on it. When I got to the studio, he presented me with a platinum record of “Could I Have This Dance” from the Let’s Keep It That Way album to hang on my wall. This was the first of many albums from various artists that I now have on my wall.

Eric Clapton — “Tears in Heaven”

When I got to the studio to record with Eric Clapton, I was told Eric was not feeling well and could I come back the next day. The next day, I came back and started recording. We took all day to record Eric’s song called “Tears in Heaven.” I was packing up my steel guitar, when Eric came out into the studio and said, “I would like you to play the solo.” That’s when I got scared. I played the solo (melody) on the steel and, after I left, Eric put the harmony part on top of my melody. “Tears in Heaven” became a number one hit for him. I feel very privileged to have played on it.

Photo credit: John Macy