Tag: In Memoriam

In Memoriam: 2017

Posted on by Editor

The year end is a time for round-ups — reflections on the cultural, social, and political landmarks of the past 365 days. But the tragedies brought on by ideological conflict, mass violence, and natural disasters in 2017 are particularly hard to sum up in a few simple phrases or talking points. That’s where music comes in, lending form to feelings and ideas that we may otherwise struggle to put into words. Luckily, there were plenty of releases that did just that throughout the course of the year (and we’ve highlighted our favorites on our BGS Class of 2017 lists).

However, this function of songwriting is far from new. Music has provided respite or thrown down the gauntlet since its inception, and 2017 saw the passing of artists across all genres who have channeled this power brilliantly for years. We lost Sharon Jones, Curly Seckler, Butch Trucks of the Allman Brothers Band, Chris Cornell of Soundgarden and Audioslave, Hüsker Dü’s Grant Hart, AC/DC’s Malcolm Young, Steely Dan’s Walter Becker, Sister Sledge’s Joni Sledge, Montgomery Gentry’s Troy Gentry, Jimmy LaFave, Linkin Park’s Chester Bennington, Kevin Garcia of Grandaddy, and Pat DiNizio of the Smithereens, among others.

Here, we pay tribute to and honor the legacies of musicians who have bolstered communities, broadened the scope or forged new paths across this broad spectrum that we call Americana.

Chuck Berry (October 18, 1926 – March 18, 2017)

Chuck Berry is heralded as one of the preeminent fathers of rock ’n’ roll. His influence is so profound that John Lennon once famously remarked, “If you tried to give rock ‘n’ roll another name, you might call it ‘Chuck Berry.’” Born in St. Louis, Berry signed to Chicago’s Chess Records in 1955 and produced some of the biggest staples in American music like “Roll Over Beethoven,” “Sweet Little Sixteen,” “Rock and Roll Music,” and “Johnny B. Goode.” Berry contributed just as much to the landscape of country as he did to pop and R&B, and his songs became hits for heavyweights like Waylon Jennings, Emmylou Harris, and Buck Owens. His impact on the genre was recognized in 1982, when he was inducted into the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame. In 1984, he received the Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award and was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1986 as part of the inaugural class. Released in June, Berry’s posthumous record, CHUCK, became his first studio release since 1979. Tinged with playful nods to the past, it’s a fitting farewell from the architect of rock ’n’ roll.

Gregg Allman (December 8, 1947 – May 27, 2017)

As co-founder of the Allman Brothers Band, Gregg Allman was one of the most enduring figures in music. Allman and co. rose to fame as sonic trailblazers with their amalgamation of soul, gospel, R&B, country, and jazz. Allman was a strong proponent of the blues, and while he is often hailed as the king of Southern rock, it’s a moniker that he didn’t fully embrace. As Gregg Allman Band guitarist and music director Scott Sharrard told us in an interview earlier this year, “[Gregg] used to say to me all the time, ‘Nothing matters but the blues. You can go in all kinds of directions with music, but if you don’t have blues, you don’t have shit.’… And he also used to say something to me, which I thought was a really, really deep and important historical and contextual understanding of musicology in America, that there’s no such thing as Southern rock. All rock is Southern. It’s all from the South. All of it.” During Allman’s quest to preserve and build upon the blues tradition, he penned notable tracks like “Midnight Rider,” “Melissa,” and “Whipping Post.” He passed away in May due to a reoccurrence of liver cancer, leaving behind his posthumous release, Southern Blood, and a legacy of down-home soul that cuts right to the heart.

Glen Campbell (April 22, 1936 – August 8, 2017)

Selling 50 million records over six decades, the Rhinestone Cowboy reigned as country royalty, but is just as deserving of the title “Crossover King.” In the ‘60s, his guitar chops earned him a spot in the Wrecking Crew, a cast of sought-after session musicians in Los Angeles. As part of the Crew, Campbell played on infamous recordings like Frank Sinatra’s Strangers in the Night, the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds, and Elvis Presley’s Viva Las Vegas. Toeing the line between pop and country, Campbell became a solo star in his own right, with a perfect croon that was unmatched. He was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame in 2005 and awarded with the Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award in 2012. In 2011, Campbell announced that he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and embarked on a Goodbye Tour, which was captured and subsequently released as a documentary film. He lived to see the June release of his final album, Adiós, which he recorded with the help of his longtime friend and banjo player, Carl Jackson. A pop star and a country legend, Campbell will forever be remembered as the down-to-earth farm boy from Arkansas who never lost sight of his roots.

Don Williams (May 27, 1939 – September 8, 2017)

The Gentle Giant got his start in the mid-60s, forming the Pozo-Seco Singers with Susan Taylor and Lofton Cline in his home state of Texas. After the trio went their separate ways, Williams moved to Nashville in the ‘70s and launched a prolific solo career that kept him on the top of the charts for decades. From 1974 to 1991 and over more than 40 albums and 50 singles, he never charted below number 22. Williams’ straightforward tunes and smooth vocal provided the framework for some of modern country’s biggest names, and his contributions were honored during his induction into the Country Music Hall of Fame in 2010.

Jessi Zazu (July 28, 1989 – September 12, 2017)

The word to describe Jessi Zazu is fearless. The Nashville-based singer/songwriter co-founded the band Those Darlins as a teenager alongside fellow musicians she met at the Southern Girls Rock Camp. Born out of an affinity for the Carter Family, Those Darlins sonically ran the gamut from rockabilly to growling punk and back again. On stage and off, Zazu was the epitome of grace and grit. An artist through and through, she was a staple in the Nashville scene who was just as prolific in the world of visual art as she was in songwriting. Those Darlins planned to go their separate ways, performing their final shows in March 2016 just weeks before Zazu was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cervical cancer. She publicly shared her diagnosis with a video last December in which she shaved her head and wore a t-shirt bearing the phrase “Ain’t Afraid” — a Those Darlins song written years prior. Zazu was a fighter and a creator until the very end; she continued coaching young women at the Girls Rock camp, recording solo music, and hosting art exhibitions. In her short 28 years, Zazu exuded a strength, determination, and passion that will serve as an example for young women for years to come.

Charles Bradley (November 5, 1948 – September 23, 2017)

James Brown’s frenetic set at the Apollo Theater on October 24, 1962 was given an official release the following year. One of the most acclaimed live albums of all time, its magnetism impacted generations of music fans, including a young Charles Bradley, who was in attendance at the show. In the years that followed, Bradley worked a series of odd jobs — from a cook to a James Brown impersonator — all while keeping his aspirations of a singing career in focus. Bradley’s big break finally came in the form of Gabriel Roth, who co-founded Daptone Records. Roth introduced Bradley to producer Tom Brenneck, and the result was Bradley’s debut album, No Time for Dreaming, released in 2011 when Bradley was 62 years old. Over the course of six years and two more albums, Bradley delivered captivating, worldly soul ballads that garnered him his own nickname — the Screaming Eagle of Soul.

Tom Petty (October 20, 1950 – October 2, 2017)

Tom Petty is a national treasure. Songs like “Mary Jane’s Last Dance,” “I Won’t Back Down,” “American Girl,” and “Free Fallin’” are so ingrained in the American fabric that it’s hard to imagine a time when you could turn on the radio and not hear Petty on the dial. After a chance encounter with Elvis Presley, Petty became interested in music, later dropping out of high school to join the band Mudcrutch. After its dissolution, he formed Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers — the platform which would solidify his status as a rock icon. He recorded two albums as part of the supergroup the Traveling Wilburys, which also included Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Jeff Lynne, and Roy Orbison, and was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2001. Petty and the Heartbreakers had just wrapped a 40th anniversary tour when he suffered a heart attack. Petty’s death came as a gut-wrenching shock, just a day after the mass shooting at the Route 91 Harvest Festival in Las Vegas that killed 58 people. But we can all find solace in Petty’s legacy, which is palpable. No doubt his contributions will continue to serve as mainstays in music for years to come.

Fats Domino (February 26, 1928 – October 24, 2017)

Fats Domino ushered in the early wave of rock ‘n’ roll, topping the charts in the ‘50s and ‘60s with “Blueberry Hill,” “Walking to New Orleans,” and “Blue Monday,” among others. His adept piano playing and hearty stage presence was infectious, and he was eclipsed on the charts only by Elvis Presley, coming in a close second. His New Orleans rhythm and blues captivated a wider audience and popular music was all the better for it. Rock ’n’ roll heavy hitters like John Lennon and Led Zeppelin later covered his work, and his accomplishments were recognized in 1986 when he became part of the first class of inductees into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Fats’ brand of boogie woogie injected new life into pop, and his reverberations can still be felt today.

In Remembrance: Bob Goldstone

Posted on by Editor

On Sunday, July 3, an integral part of the Nashville music community passed away after a hit-and-run bicycle accident near his home. Bob Goldstone was Vice President of Sales and co-founder of Thirty Tigers, the driving force behind many of our favorite artists — from Jason Isbell to Patty Griffin to the Avett Brothers. Bob's passion and compassion made indelible marks on all who knew him, especially his fellow Tigers, some of whom remember him here.
 

Bob was much more than a colleague to many of us. He was a friend. If you were having a bad day, Bob’s office was where you’d want to be. He taught me a lot about life that I will never forget. Just a few weeks back, I was having a bad day and found myself in his office, venting. Bob's response was, “Is it really that bad or are you just being hard on yourself?” It was the latter. He had a knack for getting people out of their heads so they could see things clearly. I think we’ll all be asking ourselves "What Bob would do?" when we wind up in a jam for many, many years to come. — Matt Bury

* * *

Bob Goldstone was undoubtedly one of the most genuine, loving, insightful, and generous people I've ever had the privilege of knowing. Whether you knew him for years or just happened to interact with him for a few minutes in passing, he always made the time to deeply invest in his relationships and establish solid, meaningful bonds with every single person who crossed his path.

Bob was unbelievably passionate about life and unique in just about every way. He had a deep, spiritual connection to both art and nature. He was constantly "meditating on the cosmic impulses of the universe," and encouraging us to do the same.

Bob made each person who met him feel special and valued. He was always there to support you, in every way, and he taught me that the coolest person you can be is always simply yourself.

Simply put, there was no one quite like Bob Goldstone. I loved him like a brother and will continue to hear his voice guiding me for the rest of my life. — Thomas Flood

* * *

As I sit here trying to think of something that's supposed to sum up the life of an immeasurable man in a few lines, I keep coming back to Bob's capacity to love. Whether helping to change a tail light, recommending new music, or just having a drink and a laugh, Bob made everyone's day a little bit brighter. 

Bob was the light I looked forward to seeing every day. He had a way of defusing any situation and making everyone in the room feel a little more comfortable, happy to be there, and happy to be around Bob. That's the kind of man he was; the kind of man who embodied joy and warmth, who made sure everyone felt loved, heard, and appreciated. Bob made us feel like family, and words cannot express how deeply he will be missed.

No words will describe the impact this man had on my life or the lessons I've learned from his example, but ultimately Bob was my buddy. He will be missed more than he could possibly know. 

I love you, Bob. Stay groovy. — Robert Knotts

* * *

Bob always said that we were partners and a team. I would sit in his office, several hours each day, and we talked about everything. Shipping problems … we'd solve it together. Vinyl might not get done on time … we'd figure it out together. Best Neil Young album … debatable.

When I would complain about incompetence, he'd laugh and say, "Man, you got attitude. I'm gonna put this record on for you to chill out." Chillin' me out and acting as the best mentor I could ever ask for was only a small fraction of what he did for me. He was my friend. I'll always cherish the drinks we got together, the dinners we shared, the pot we smoked, and oh the stories … so many stories. He always had one and it came with a smile and an infectious laugh. He was so genuine, it was disarming. He said part of being a team was that we had to stay in step with each other — one doesn't work without the other.

Recently, he could tell I was upset about something and he called me into his office and said, "You don't have to talk about it, but I'm sensitive and I can't sit here and look out at you, so what's up?" I cried and gave him a hug after and he said, "I love you, home slice. You know that." He was always just what I needed, and to think he was the one that called me up once every couple of weeks to tell me he was thankful for me …

I loved him dearly. He was the coolest, nicest, most loving person I will ever know. — Morgan Perry

* * * 

It's so hard to believe that we lost Bob Goldstone. He was a friend, co-worker, and mentor. He and I are music fans first. We could talk about records forever. A few days ago, I gave him a marbled vinyl copy of Dave Mason's Alone Together with cutout gatefold that I found at Earl Scruggs' estate sale. I'm listening to it in his office now. He made sure we made art the priority, when we worked together on album releases. I'm thinking that a Bob Goldstone Music Appreciation Society might be in order. I'm praying for his family constantly. — Logan Rogers

* * *

Bob was a beautiful, fun-loving, and abundantly caring man. When I started at Thirty Tigers, he was so pumped that I was joining him as his right-hand man. He was calm, cool, and always on my side. He told me not to be so eager and to slow down when I needed to. He told me he knew I had great intentions, that I was smart, and I would do great things. I don’t even know if he told me those last two things directly, but that’s how he made me feel. He believed in me (and believed in everyone, really). We liked to sit and listen to test pressings together — he considered that responsibility a privilege. He lit up like a Christmas tree when my son JW would come to visit, and JW loved to say hi to Bob in his office. He always told me to smile when he walked by my desk; he was so good at that himself.

God, thanks for the life of my friend, BG. He made mine better, and I'll miss him dearly. — Zach Bevill

* * *

Walking up the steps of old 1604 8th Avenue South on my first day of work at Thirty Tigers over three years ago, the very first thing I saw was an office window. In that window was a gigantic poster of the cover of Miles Davis’ album Kind of Blue. That was Bob Goldstone’s office. I thought to myself “good sign.”

You have to understand something: Thirty Tigers is an incredibly fast-paced, lean, powerful machine. The staff there puts in the type of hours you’d equate to a doctor in residency. We spent most of our days and the majority of our nights together. That was my life for the last three years. We were TIGHT. Some of that crew has been working together for over a decade. It’s more than a job over there; it’s a ship on a holy fucking mission — and Bob was firmly positioned at the front of the helm. He was the greatest champion of up-and-coming artists that are now household names: The Avett Brothers, Jason Isbell, Sturgill Simpson, St. Paul and the Broken Bones … just a few of the bands that went from obscurity to stardom under his loyal watch.

Many of my former colleagues have mentioned this, but Bob set me straight on many occasions. When I bought my new (to me) car, I complained about something and said that I was surely getting screwed over by the dealership. He quickly and sternly told me to STOP. Call the dealer. Figure it out. They will do you right. You see, the root of all that reaction was because I didn’t have trust in my heart … but Bob did. His heart was filled with goodness and light and great vibes, and with all that, comes clarity and self-awareness. He knew what was up, and he wasn’t going to let you get away with a bad attitude. The people who call you out on your shit do that because they give a damn. Those are the people who love you, who want you to be your best self. Sometimes it was hard to hear, but I always walked away thinking he cared enough to say something.

There isn’t one person in that organization that asked me “How are you doing?” more … and with earnest. I think, many times, he did so because he sensed the answer was maybe not good, and he’d close his office door and listen to me. The constant advice was, “It’s all going to work out.” He had faith in the organization and the process … and he just plain had encompassing faith. And faith is infectious. It helped me get through many tough decisions and choices.

I left Thirty Tigers for a new career opportunity at the end of last year. It was the right choice and a wonderful opportunity for me, but the hardest transition was walking into a new office with new people. It’s like the first day of kindergarten in a new town. I dearly missed my old co-workers. The person I kept running into after I left the company the most was Bob, always boisterous and joyus. The last time I saw Bob was at City Winery about a month ago. Big hug … talk of my new job … how happy I looked. “I am so happy for you.” And he meant it.

Back to the beginning … that first day of work. I will forever think of Bob when I hear “So What” from Kind of Blue. That iconic poster in his window. And how many times did I hear that song radiate from his office? It seemed like his song, and the sirens call for me to come and sit in his chair and say hello, or confess, or vent. I know when I hear it now, I will forever think of him — the person who cared enough to set me straight, to ask me how I was doing, and to be of such generous heart to always put the happiness of others at the top of his list.

BMLB (Be More Like Bob)

— Katy Kirby

Eddie Cochran: The Original Rock Guitar Hero

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Welcome back to In Memoriam, a monthly series that chronicles Americana legends. So often, one giant is memorialized in their field while the others are displaced to historical footnotes. In Memoriam will spotlight influential musicians that are fading from the collective conscious. This month: Eddie Cochran.

At the beginning of 1960, rock ‘n' roll’s detractors appeared correct: It was a flash-in-the-pan fad. The previous year, Buddy Holly, Richie Valens, and the Big Bopper — three of the genre's biggest marquee names — died in a plane crash. Little Richard found religion. Elvis Presley cleaned up his act for a shot in Hollywood. Frank Sinatra once again topped the charts. On January 10, 1960, Eddie Cochran landed in England for a co-headlining tour with the wild man, Gene Vincent. Vincent was a waning rock star, but he could still draw a crowd. For all intents and purposes, Cochran was still on the rise.

Beginning in 1957, Cochran had a handful of moderate hits that ranged from crooner teenage pop like “Sitting in the Balcony” to straight-ahead rockabilly like “Twenty Flight Rock.” In 1959, he leapt to international stardom on the polyrhythmic and acoustic guitar-driven rockers “Summertime Blues” and “C’mon Everybody.” After years as a session player, he was poised to break out as the next big thing. The tour exceeded all expectations. The English youth were hungry for rebellious music. Cochran bowled them over with his California good looks — he was blue-eyed and blond-haired. He hypnotized them with his guitar theatrics. He charmed them with his humor. Vincent also shared in the success. His black leather outfits enamored the men in the audience. England was starstruck by the Americans and treated them like royalty.

Due to popular demand, the tour was extended, and Cochran found himself increasingly homesick. “Ed was so homesick and desperate to get back. He missed his family and especially his mum. He would talk to his mum for hours on the phone and these were on their hotel bill, so I had to clear them up,” said Hal Carter, one of the tour managers. The deaths of his good friends Holly and Valens still weighed heavy on Cochran, as he feared a similar fate awaited him. Cochran, never one to shy away from a drink, began consuming as much as two fifths of whiskey a day. In later photos, he looked bloated and tired, but his performances were still top notch. Unfortunately, his heart was not in it. He finally called Sharon Sheeley, his fiancée, and implored her to join him for the remainder of the first half of their tour. She joined him at the start of April so that she could celebrate her 20th birthday with him on the April 4.

When Sheeley arrived, she found a severely depressed Cochran. By some accounts, he advanced beyond alcohol and was abusing uppers and downers. He became increasingly convinced that he was supposed to have died with Buddy Holly and Richie Valens. He visited fortune tellers, desperate to know when he would die. Soon after her arrival, Cochran asked Sheeley to go the record store and buy every Buddy Holly record. For days, he only listened to them. Sheeley finally asked, “Doesn’t it upset you hearing Buddy this way?” Cochran replied, “Oh no, because I’ll be seeing him soon.”

On April 17, the increasingly morbid and despondent Cochran was getting a break. He was flying home to Los Angeles for 10 days to fulfill a recording obligation … and for a little rest and relaxation. As the day approached, the dark cloud began to lift.

The final show before the tour hiatus was April 16 at the Bristol Hippodrome. Vincent was scheduled to perform a series of concerts in France, as Cochran and Sheeley were flying back to Los Angeles. They were all headed to Heathrow Airport, when the trains quit running early because of the Easter holiday. Johnny Gentle, the opening act, drove back to London, but his car was full. Cochran, Sheeley, and Vincent decided to take a car service. Although none of their flights were until the following day, they were itching to get on their way … especially Eddie.

George Martin was the driver of the Ford Consul and tour Manager Pat Thompkins sat in the passenger seat. Cochran, Sheeley, and Vincent were in the back with Eddie in the middle. They left for London around 11 pm. There was no major motorway between Bristol and London in 1960, so they took the old A4. According to Hal Carter, Pat Thompkins’ confidante and co-tour manager, the driver took a shortcut and ended up going the wrong way. He quickly spun around and tried to make up for lost time.

Sharon Sheeley had this to say about the fateful drive: “For the whole journey, I just sat there waiting … waiting for that car to crash. It was a very strange feeling. The minute the car door shut, it felt like I was shutting a tomb. The driver was speeding and Eddie kept telling him to slow down. I remember seeing the trees zipping by because we were going too fast, and thinking there’s nothing I can do to stop this.”

Police reports from the accident state that Martin was driving too fast. He misjudged the curve of the road and careened into a lamppost. Microseconds before the moment of impact, Cochran threw himself over Sheeley to protect her. He sacrificed his own safety to ensure her survival. She broke her neck and back, and Vincent reinjured his leg that was previously hurt in a motorcycle wreck. The front seat passengers suffered only scrapes and bruises. Cochran had massive head trauma and was rushed to the hospital. He never regained consciousness and died the following morning.

History has not been kind to Eddie Cochran. He is remembered as a footnote to the golden era of rock 'n' roll. To many, he epitomizes the one-hit wonder. It’s a shame.

Unlike most early rockabilly artists, Cochran wrote the majority of his songs. He revolutionized the genre, as a result. In his hands, it was more than sped-up blues and country. He introduced polyrhythmic beats and more complex rhythms — h wrote riffs, which was uncommon in the late '50s. Cochran was also a pioneer in the studio. Along with Les Paul, he was one of the first to experiment with multi-track recording and dubbing. He was also an astounding and prolific session player.

And Cochran was a guitar hero — he did for rock 'n' roll guitar what Chet Atkins, his hero, did for country guitar. By treating it like art and infusing it with fresh influences, he elevated it.

Perhaps Eddie Cochran’s biggest contribution was as a rock ‘n' roll ambassador to Europe. The UK youth were hungry for the music coming from the United States, but few performers left the States for their shores. It wasn’t cost effective. Cochran and Vincent were pioneers and went overseas. Because of that tour, they are still extremely popular in England. Not only did Cochran introduce the war-ravaged country to the new rebellious music, but he also sat down and taught them how to play it: He tutored their drummers on the proper beats; he showed the correct fingerings and chords to the would-be guitar slingers. His influence on the first wave of British Rockers was profound, and it is still visible today.

Although his life and recording career were short, Eddie Cochran left an indelible mark on American music. His guitar playing inspired everyone from George Harrison to Brian Setzer. Jimi Hendrix requested Cochran’s music at his funeral. It’s a shame that we can only speculate on how much more musical ground he could have broken. Eddie Cochran might not be the most popular rock ‘n' roll musician from the 1950s, but he is one of the most loved.