Even without continuing to tour the world, Black Pumas have lost very little momentum since the arrival of breakout singles like “Black Moon Rising,” “Fire,” and “Colors.” The duo of Eric Burton and Adrian Quesada were shocked to land on the 2019 Grammy ballot as a contender for Best New Artist, and in 2020, they picked up nominations in three more categories: Best American Roots Performance and Record of the Year for the irresistible “Colors,” and overall Album of the Year for Black Pumas (Deluxe Edition). That expanded edition collects several new tracks, a few live versions of familiar favorites, and a must-hear cover of Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” — a favorite song of Burton’s to sing while he was busking on the Santa Monica Pier, and later in Austin, Texas.
Drawing on folk songwriting as much as soul groove, both men agree that the term American Roots fits their sound well. The Americana Music Association seconds that notion, as Black Pumas picked up that organization’s Emerging Act of the Year in late 2020. And in January, the band performed a dazzling and powerful rendition of “Colors” on the soundstage of Austin City Limits in recognition of the historic win of President Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris.
“The first thing people think of when they say ‘Americana’ is not always music that’s influenced by soul music, but it’s great to be recognized by people that are open-minded music fans,” Quesada tells BGS. “This is every bit as much American music as country music, you know?” Burton adds, “Soul music is just as a part of American music as folk music and country music. This country is a massive melting pot of the different cultures… so we’re honored to be a part of the conversation as we make music in America.”
The two musicians met through a mutual friend as Quesada sought an exceptional singer to add lyrics and a voice to the instrumental tracks he was creating. Little did he know that Burton was around the corner, literally, where Sixth Street meets Congress Avenue. In our two-part interview (Read part one here. Read part two here.), they shared their influences, their first impressions of each other’s talent, and their hopes for the year ahead as our Artist of the Month. Meanwhile, enjoy our BGS Essentials playlist below.
No BGS reader needs a rundown of Tony Rice’s biography or accomplishments. Earlier this month I chatted with Todd Phillips, Tony’s close friend and bassist across multiple groups (David Grisman Quintet, Bluegrass Album Band, Tony Rice Unit) from 1975 to 1985. During these years Tony used inspiration from mid-century jazz and musical peers, along with his innate willpower, as levers to crack open a stunning new guitar vocabulary. In doing so he rose from a bluegrass badass to a global force, operating well above tribes and vogues.
When Todd emerged in the 1970s, bass guitar was a cross-genre norm. A young upright player who melded Scott LaFaro’s gracefulness with J.D. Crowe’s timefeel was a fairly wonderful anomaly in bluegrass. I started working with Todd in 2014, and grew close with him fast. He brought something rare — a relaxed whiphand — to the feel onstage. In the van, he indulged my ceaseless fanboy questions about the old days. An equable ex-stoner with a mildly grumpy edge, he’s as adept at building an instrument or a chicken coop as analyzing acoustic riddles, and his long experience working with people as unalike as Joan Baez, David Grier, and Elvis Costello gives him a high perch from which to reflect. He reminisced fluidly about Tony over the phone with me for two hours, stopping only twice, once overwhelmed by emotion and once to get a bottle of tequila. (Read more from our conversation at my blog.)
Members of David Grisman Quintet, 1977. L-R: Tony Rice, Todd Phillips, David Grisman, Darol Anger. (Photo by Jon Sievert.)
Robbie Fulks: I listened back today to California Autumn and other records I hadn’t heard for ages, and heard little passages that sounded uncharacteristic of Tony. Did gestures come into his vocabulary, stay there for a while, and then fade off as he went to concentrate on another idea?
Todd Phillips: That’s true, yeah. He would go through cycles, get on a kick. He’d get on riffs, like hearing Billy Crystal: “You look marvelous.” He’d say that 40 times a day, and a year later, drop it for some other riff. The vocabulary would change, according to the era.
That’s fascinating, to compare it to a non-musical example. So let’s dive in, go back to the start. Tell me about meeting Tony — when, where, and how you guys got underway with the Grisman project.
I was a beginning mandolin player, and I was certainly in over my head, playing mandolin with David, but he’d never heard me play bass, which I’d played since I was a little kid. This was 1974, and Clarence White had died the year before. And we just thought, this is a good band, we don’t need a guitar — no one else could fill Clarence’s shoes, and he’d be the only guy that would work in this thing. Then David came home from a Bill Keith recording session and said, “I just met the guy that could do it.”
(Photo by Todd Phillips)
Shortly after that, J.D. Crowe and the New South were on their way to Japan, and they stopped in San Francisco to play one gig. They hung with us for a couple days and… I had never hung with, um, that many guys from Kentucky all at once. [Laughs]
I’ve told you about that Mexican restaurant in Berkeley. The Californians — me, Darol, and David — and the Kentucky guys — J.D., Tony, Ricky, Jerry, and Bobby — were seated at one giant round table. First, Crowe ordered: “Six tacos and a Coke!” Then each New South guy ordered exactly the same. I guess they were used to the little three-inch tacos you can eat in two bites. So this big table ended up covered with plates full of giant tacos, surrounded by a pretty interesting mix of characters. I wish we had a photo. Polyester and tie-dye T-shirts all around.
After they came back from Japan, Tony gave J.D. his notice. He hooked up a little U-Haul trailer — clothes, suitcase, guitar, and stereo system — and got an apartment in Marin County. And we started rehearsing. At that point, we had what we had, but then Tony’s chemistry came into it. And it just catalyzed the whole thing. It was huge. Tony had to learn his harmony and a bunch of chords he hadn’t really played before — but we had to learn to play rhythm like J.D. Crowe. So we probably rehearsed for another six months before we went out and played our first shows.
Recording the first David Grisman Quintet album. (Photo by Todd Phillips)
Tell me about the first gig.
Our first show was in Bolinas [in Marin County], in the community center. We made our own posters and put them up all over Bolinas, so it was sold out. And no sound system. We wanted people to hear us just like we rehearsed. There were probably 200 people there.
So small room, gather round, and somehow the guitar projected through.
We played with dynamics — if Tony was soloing, we shut ourselves up. We got down light and tight under him. Since we hadn’t played through a sound system, we just did what we did every day anyway.
The first on-the-road thing, not long after, was in Japan. Our show was a bluegrass quintet with Bill Keith and Richard Greene, followed by a set of DGQ. Then, as soon as we got back from Japan, we recorded the first quintet record. So it still had that energy. We were still excited to hear it, too, every time — it would raise the hair on our arms! It was kind of a… strong existence. Life felt — pumped up, you know?
First photo of David Grisman Quintet, 1975. (Photo by Todd Phillips)
Close companions in an intense situation. A lot of people have been in a band or in the army. But on top of that, you guys were altering the course of music.
Yeah. Maybe it is a little like an army buddy. I was a cross between his bass player and his little brother. Also his babysitter, sometimes! He had left his old friends, and when he came to California, I seemed to be the guy he gravitated to. On off days, all of a sudden there’s a knock on the door at 10 a.m., and it’s Tony — “Hey man, let’s go the boardwalk, ride the roller coaster. Let’s go to the record store.” We went to the record store a million times. Came home with bags of records and stayed up all night listening — I mean, he taught me to listen close, whether playing music or just listening to records.
Any memories of the 1975 Grisman Rounder album sessions?
Tony was hilarious! We’d go out to eat, and he’d come back with a couple of cloth napkins. He’d fold one up and put it on his head, and put on sunglasses. Looking like a weird Quaker. And then drape another napkin over his left hand and go, “I don’t want anybody to steal any of my licks.” [Laughs] He’d leave that thing on his head, with the sunglasses, for like, three hours.
(Photo by Todd Phillips)
Have you heard guitarists who managed not to sound like Tony, in the years since?
Well, because Tony opened the door, after Clarence, you can’t help but sound like him as a bluegrass soloist. He found those avenues on a fingerboard that you can play with a strong attack and accurate, strong expression. A lot of it is mechanics. A D-28 with semi-high action, there are certain phrases that fall naturally under your fingers, and Tony found those. So I think a lot of guitarists use those avenues because — they’re there. You might hear different phrases but they’re not as strong. They might be more interesting, or more academically pleasing, but the effect — I haven’t heard it as strong as in those passages that Tony found.
Tell me about Manzanita.
There was no preparation that I remember. The guys came to Berkeley and we went to work. We ran a tune for 20 minutes, then recorded it maybe three to six times.
Béla Fleck said Tony didn’t like to rehearse much.
Yeah. Sink or swim.
David Grisman, Todd Phillips, Tony Rice (Photo by Todd Phillips)
Any road memories involving Tony?
He didn’t go out a lot. We went to Japan once, the three Rice brothers — Larry, Wyatt, Tony — and me. And Tony — maybe that’s when he started — he just never left his hotel room.
What was he doing in there?
Ordering room service. Later, traveling with the Unit, he’d stick to the room. I mean…he pretty much lived in front of his stereo, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. That’s what he thrived on.
How did you listen to music away from the home stereo back then?
In the early days, he drove a noisy Dodge Challenger. A muscle car, with a cassette player in the dashboard. We’d listen loud. And driving from Grisman’s house back to mine every night, it was pretty much all John Coltrane, the classic quartet.
Interesting!
Yeah, and later, a lot of Oscar Peterson. He’s like Tony: you recognize the phrases, and they’re strong as hell. Meticulous mechanics. Tony never studied music academically — but the sound of it. He took that in and it’d come out later somehow, the power and the attitude, more than specific notes or theory.
(Photo by Todd Phillips)
Did he have any relationship to the written page?
No. Not at all.
Tony cited Miles Davis and Eric Dolphy as favorites, but I don’t hear a strong kinship.
I think those were unique voices. Like Django, or Vassar.
Individualists.
I think that’s it. The attitude. He liked those kind of characters, like David Janssen — he really had an obsession with David Janssen. Or Lee Marvin.
Ha!
I’m not kidding! The Marlboro Man.
People that laid it down.
Exactly.
David Grisman Band in silhouette, 1976. (Photo by Todd Phillips)
I’m curious about the chemistry between Tony and other strong personalities. You’ve told me your take on the Skaggs-Rice dichotomy, the good and bad guys from everyone’s high school…
Yeah, Ricky would be class president and Tony would be Eddie Haskell. [Laughs] There’s a little of that, but musical respect bridges all gaps.
With David, did Tony slip easily into a sideman role?
The chemistry was — not volatile, but exciting. The New Jersey hippie and Mister Perfection. You know, when Tony was new to California, David’s living room was a real event. You never knew who you’d run into — Jethro Burns, Taj Mahal, Jerry Garcia. I think that excited Tony. He’d dig in his heels, just be who he is, and people respected that. He was…I guess I want to use the word “stubborn.” Clear-headed, with his vision.
Were cigarettes it for Tony, or were there harder things he liked to do?
No! He actually went light on the marijuana, compared to everyone else in Marin. He kinda puffed a little bit, just to participate.
Any whiskey?
No, he drank a few beers at home. I don’t remember any hard liquor at all.
New Year’s at Great American Music Hall, 1978-1979. (Photo by Jon Sievert.)
I read in The Guardianobit: “apprentice pipe fitter”…?!
Yeah! His dad was a welder, pipe fitter, and Tony and his brothers did that too.
What did he do to keep his fingers strong besides play?
Nothing. He bit his nails. He had no fingernails, and his fingertips looked like blocks of wood. Like the rounded end of a wooden dowel. The guy played a lot. He had hands that physically, mechanically, work in a different way. He could push down with his thumb, on his right hand, but also push up, with his first finger. You can look at YouTube and see it — a really strong muscular mechanism between thumb and index.
His down and upstrokes weren’t ascribed to the usual beats, weren’t automatized in the normal way — and were equally forceful.
Yeah. And rhythmically, a lot of triplet syncopation on the upstrokes. People just say “syncopation,” but technically it’s playing 3/4 against 4/4, like Elvin Jones’s drumming. You can’t tell if it’s in 3 or 6 or 4 or 2. It’s all of it. It’s all of it! And those subdivisions, I learned that from Tony — you slice that up in all kinds of ways, so those polyrhythms are all churning in your hands or head at the same time. That’s what generates good time, not tapping your foot. Tony had all those superimposed polyrhythms in him.
(Photo by Todd Phillips)
Bluegrassers work hard and live long, on the whole. And with so many players of your generation now in their 70s and performing as energetically as ever, Tony’s story looks more profoundly sad to me.
You know, I don’t know why Tony went the way he went. Why he couldn’t be as youthful as Sam Bush. Who knows, if there was some kind of a depression, or if that desire for perfection wore him out. You know? Because he did play with joy, but it was also that crazy obsession, to be perfect and accurate — maybe he was just too hard on himself.
He was hard on everybody around him. I know that I developed way more than I ever would have developed if I’d never known him. It was not that he was ever mean or harsh to me, but being around him, you put pressure on yourself to live up. I think everybody that played with him was like that. He jacked up the music to this level — and then it was your challenge to get up there with him. Being around him changed me forever.
Lede image by Heather Hafleigh. All photos provided by Todd Phillips and used by permission.
Artist:Ben Harper Hometown: Claremont, California Song: “Black Beauty” (from the 2020 film, Black Boys) Release Date: January 12, 2021 Label: ANTI- Records
In Their Words: “It was an honor to have been asked to write a song for this culturally vital documentary,” Harper said. “After watching Black Boys and discussing it in depth with [director] Sonia Lowman, I went immediately to work on composing ‘Black Beauty.’ I am old-school and still love getting players in a room together, so a production of this scale during a pandemic was challenging, with quarantine. I was fortunate that the incredible musicians in my circle have taken it upon themselves to become circumstantial recording engineers, and thanks to modern recording technology and some FaceTime sessions, I was able to work by sending tracks back and forth over the internet.” — Ben Harper
In the afterglow of acclaim from her latest album, Sarah Jarosz kept her YouTube channel active, another creative COVID outlet for the singer-songwriter and picker. Along with releasing videos for songs from World on the Ground, she also contributed to a charming cover song series throughout 2020. Truly a fan’s artist, Jarosz’s effort to generate a regularly flowing stream of content is one of the many reasons why we at BGS and fans everywhere adore her work. (Read Part 1 and Part 2 of our Artist of the Month interview from June of this year.)
Not only is the Texas native’s talent undeniable and her style unique, but Jarosz enhances our day-to-day experiences with each. Unable to tour, she instead filmed renditions of songs by folks like Kacey Musgraves, Bob Dylan, and Maggie Rogers. Here, Jarosz performs a Frank Sinatra classic on mandocello, alongside bassist Jeff Picker. Beautiful and reminiscent of a bygone era, watch as the two breathe Americana life into this timeless jazz number.
Ma Rainey wants her Coca-Cola. The microphones have been set up in the Chicago studio, her small band have rehearsed and taken their places, the two white men who run the label have the needle ready to cut the acetate, but Ma Rainey won’t sing until she gets her ice-cold Coca-Cola. Everyone pleads with her, but she won’t relent. So two musicians are dispatched to retrieve cold beverages for her while everybody else just waits. It’s a small scene in Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom, the new film adaptation of August Wilson’s 1982 play, but later Rainey (played with ferocious adamancy by Viola Davis) explains her reasons for delaying the session: If she has power, she is going to exert it. If she is going to let white men profit from her voice, she is going to exact as high a price as possible. Even if it’s just a Coca-Cola.
Despite populating its cast with musicians — including the brash trumpet player Levee (played by Chadwick Boseman in his final role) — Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom is less about music than the business of music: how white businessmen exploit and quash Black talent, how Black men and women navigate an industry and a society that saps so much from them and gives back barely anything at all. To emphasize this point, director George C. Wolfe teases musical performances only to cut away and thwart our expectations. Rainey’s band, sequestered in the basement, talk about rehearsing more than they rehearse. When they do count off a song, Wolfe cuts to a different scene, and their performance becomes the soundtrack. When Rainey finally does perform for the camera, it’s late in the film, but the scene becomes all the more electric for all the anticipation Wolfe has stoked.
It’s a fascinating dramatic strategy, but one that created some headaches for Branford Marsalis, who not only scored the film in the style of 1920s Chicago jazz, but also crafted choreography and auditioned musicians. With barely a month to prepare, he wrote nearly two hours of music for the 90-minute film, knowing that Wolfe would only use a fraction of it. In fact, altogether there is only about 20 minutes of music in Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Most of the film is given over to the sound of Black characters talking to one another, cajoling each other, joshing and joking, lying and pleading, delivering lengthy monologues — all of which is its own kind of music, especially coming from such an animated actor as Boseman.
Marsalis is a musician uniquely qualified to bring this era of Black music to life in a way that bridges the late 1920s and the early 2020s. He has spent his long and diverse career bringing the music of the past to bear on the present, first as a sideman in the early ‘80s for Art Blakey and Lionel Hampton and later as the leader of the Branford Marsalis Quartet. With jazz as his foundation, he has branched out into classical, Broadway, rock (Sting, the Grateful Dead), and hip-hop (Public Enemy). To each project — including music for Ken Burn’s Baseball miniseries in 1995 and The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks in 2017 — he brings a deep understanding of the attitudes and circumstances of previous eras of American popular music and lets them resonate in the present moment.
From his home in North Carolina, Marsalis spoke with BGS about finding a new appreciation for the music of that era, holding auditions from the other side of the globe, and re-creating 1920s jazz for a modern audience.
BGS: How did you get involved with this project?
Branford Marsalis: The director asked me to write the music and consult with the musicians, help with the choreography, and arrange the songs they were going to use in the movie. It was all pretty rapid. I was in Australia working on a project with the Australian Chamber Orchestra, and that was in early May [2019]. And we had to be in the studio recording in the first week of June! It was not the kind of scramble I like, because everything is being done by telephone or by watching YouTube to hear musicians and hear singers. Not the normal audition process.
But it worked out. I just had to start, man. I didn’t think. To me, it’s like when you play football and the coach makes you do all of these run-throughs. No sane person likes practice! I had a good coach who said, practice is the place to think, and that’s why we keep doing the same things over and over again, so that when you’re on the field, you can just react. That to me is a very cool and very sound philosophy. All of my thinking is done before the gig starts. Once the gig starts, you have the faith that you have a vocabulary that’s good enough to get the job done.
What does all that entail? What goes into a project like this?
First, I had to find a singer to facilitate the process for Viola, and I had to write a song for the end of the movie. I would up writing two songs for the end of the movie, so George would have a pick in terms of style. I had to decide where we were going to record. I quickly decided on New Orleans, because a lot of the musicians there play outside and inside, whereas most musicians don’t play outdoors, especially with acoustic instruments. The sounds of their instruments don’t have an outside sound. The sound is different than it would be if you were playing in a street band or in a parade.
I wanted to get guys that still played in the style that had a feeling reminiscent of what it felt like in the ‘20s. So I called my brother Delfeayo, because he has a big band down there, and he put together a group of musicians for me. Some of them had a great vibe, but weren’t very good at reading music. But that was good. I kind of liked that. It gave the music a certain kind of urgency. Because these guys were scrambling. And panicked! So it had a certain kind of urgency that it wouldn’t have when you have a band full of readers who can read anything.
At what point do you start working with the actors?
That was the next part. When filming started, I met with them to make sure they physically look like they’re playing instruments. As kids, we all aspired to be in pop bands. We idolized those guys, so we had already visualized what it would be like to be on stage and do those things. But no kid dreams of being a jazz musician. No kid says to his mom and dad, “I want to be a jazz musician when I grow up.” And dad says, “You can’t do both!” So we don’t always think about what it would be like to play an instrument like the saxophone.
When people talk about it, they say, Oh, the saxophone’s so sexy, it’s so suave. But it’s not. It’s a very fucking physically demanding instrument, and if you let it, it will manhandle you. There were no saxophones in this film, but it’s the same thing with all of the instruments. There’s a physicality to playing an acoustic instrument. You can’t just be up there with your eyes closed, trying to look as sexy as possible. Because those horns will kick your ass. All of the actors did a really good job of representing physically what it’s like to play those instruments.
Chadwick Boseman was really good at that. His face transforms whenever he puts the trumpet to his lips.
Well, he was actually playing. That’s the point. The trumpet is one that you can play more authentically. It has three positions — combinations of three. You can learn that. The saxophone is crazy because you’re using all your fingers and you’re moving up and down. Chadwick developed good embouchure. His face transforms because the muscles in your face change when you’re blowing air into a little mouthpiece like that.
If an actor isn’t really playing, you can tell. He had to play, and Viola had to sing. Otherwise, the larynx doesn’t vibrate and it’s clear you’re not really singing. People see that, even if they can’t articulate it, and they know it doesn’t look like she’s singing. So everybody had to play. Everybody had to bang on the instrument. They had to be a physical presence.
You’re obviously writing in a style that reflects that era, but with the character of Levee, it’s an era that seems to be changing. How did you approach that historical aspect of the soundtrack?
The music should have an authentic sound. It should sound like the ‘20s, but I wasn’t really interested in faithfully recreating the ‘20s, because then it just becomes a kind of mimicry. I think you have to spend a lot of time immersing yourself in the sound and the style, and then you write. What it becomes, that’s what it is. I’ve been listening to ‘20s music for the last twenty years or more, but in this project I was forced to do a really deep dive. I was listening to ‘20s music from May 2019 until January 2020. A lot of the things that I wrote were based on things that I heard.
Were there any artists that stood out to you during that deep dive?
I locked in on two people: King Oliver and Paul Whiteman. After a couple of months I listened a lot to their music and their bands exclusively. I already had a sense of the ‘30s, and I knew that anything that Levee was going to be doing would be pushing everybody towards the ‘30s. It wasn’t about trying to invent some new sound of music that had never been heard before. It was about recreating a style that would have not been heard in 1927. For the song “Sweet Baby Let Me Have It All,” I used the feeling and the beat of a Jelly Roll Morton recording from the ‘30s called “Jungle Blues,” from his Red Hot Peppers group. It has this beat, and I threw in some horns and all that other stuff, and it fills in around this idea.
Was there any talk about using Ma Rainey originals or trying to recreate the scratchy quality of those early recordings?
It doesn’t make any sense to have a bunch of human beings in a room and make the song sound like a recording. Having them play together in that room would have sounded like what it sounds like in the movie. It would have sounded very different from the recordings. The recordings were so primitive. Everything is mono, and the musicians had to strategically place themselves in distance to the microphones. It must have been fascinating to be in the room with musicians turned in different directions, saxophone players facing the wall. You had to have a perfect sound, because you had at best two microphones. Usually it was only one.
All of the sound from all of those instruments is going into that one mic, so you had to strategically place the musicians in the room to offset. They didn’t have gobos and baffles and all those things they would develop once the recordings became more sophisticated. I think it would be very strange to see a bunch of people in a room and suddenly the singing starts and the playing starts and it becomes a mono recording with scratches. Because it would not have sounded like that. The thing that’s most interesting about those early mono recordings is how you hear the music is not actually how it sounded.
I was limited in a lot of re-creating because of what August Wilson wrote in the play. If you listen to the original version of Ma Rainey’s “Black Bottom,” there are clarinet players, a couple of trumpet players, a trombone, a guy playing wood blocks. There are all these sounds. But this is a play, not a musical. August Wilson wrote for a band with coronet, trombone, piano, and bass. That was it. That’s all I had, so it was like writing for a string quartet rather than a full orchestra. I was limited by that reality, and the arrangements had to reflect that.
How did this project change the way you understand or appreciate the music of this era?
I didn’t really know how great it was. Everybody calls it the Jazz Age, and everything focuses around illegal booze and chicks drinking and dancing and female independence and all these things that had not existed prior to the Volstead Act [the 1919 law enforcing Prohibition]. Most drinking was done in saloons that were like Burger Kings — they were bars that were owned and operated by the people who sold the booze. They were men’s clubs. Women were excluded. Once they passed the Volstead Act, the mobsters were like, Oh, shit, everybody can drink!
So jazz was the music they chose, and that’s what people think about. When I was listening to hundreds of songs from the ‘20s, I was listening to oratorios, comedy sketches, comedy songs, small group songs, big bands songs, string quartets. It struck me as funny how when the society was more socially primitive, there were so many varieties of music and so many ways of expressing. And now as we’ve become more socially advanced, the music becomes more stratified and more limited.
Everything is so stratified now. You can listen to a radio station that only plays the shit you know. That was unheard of in the ‘20s. They played everything, and you could hear everything. That was in the middle of a period when America was in extreme segregation, but you could hear things as diverse as Paul Whiteman’s band or Ethel Waters, Louis Armstrong. There was such a variety, and there was a level of excellence, because you couldn’t overdub back in those days. You didn’t have AutoTune. So everything you heard had to be really good, because there was no way to fix it in post-production.
There’s that great scene where they’re trying to record the kid with the stutter, and they’re throwing out all these ruined acetates, one after the other. It does such a nice job of dramatizing that idea.
There was no such thing as post-production. It was just production. If the kid fucks it up, the recording is destroyed. And that’s costing [the white label owners] money, and they’re pissed off. They don’t really like Black people. Ma Rainey understands that, and in turns she doesn’t like them. And she’s determined to have it her way. At that time in our country, there were not a lot of possibilities for Black performers to play in front of a white audience, and the white audience was the target. Black people couldn’t even come into the same theater as white people.
All of these things were a part of the time that Levee lived in, and his motivation was about ameliorating the shame and the pain of the things that happened to his family when he was a boy. All of his dreams are dashed, and as so often happens in real life, people have a grievance against a thing and they often take that grievance out on the people they’re closest to. Shit, you change the accent and get rid of the swear words, and you could say that this was a Shakespeare play: conflict, rejection, anger boils over, an ending you don’t expect.
Photos of Branford Marsalis: Eric Ryan Anderson (top) and Palma Kolansky (bottom)
Artist:Heather Maloney Song: “The Secret of Christmas” Album:Christmas Anyway EP Release Date: November 13, 2020
In Their Words: “I adore this song and I actually didn’t know it existed until pretty recently. While my producer Ryan Hommel and I were in the process of making the Christmas Anyway demos, our friend (and Ryan’s bandmate in the Amos Lee band) Jaron Olevsky, turned us on to the song. We listened to it and then pretty much simultaneously texted each other to say that we needed to record it. Not only is the original recording devastatingly gorgeous (because Ella), we both agreed that the lyrics are perfectly aligned with our central ideas for this holiday EP.
“Basically, the words felt like they underscored this sentiment: what makes the holidays meaningful isn’t dependent on any outer circumstances (the gifts we give/don’t give, if we are physically together/apart, etc.) — but rather, meaning is something we can choose to create (at any time) through the choices we make, our gestures of kindness and the way we frame those uncontrollable life circumstances.
“We asked Jaron to arrange our version of the song and he blew us away with what he came up with. Another dear friend and collaborator Cynthia Tolson played all of the strings and by the time I was singing the final vocal, we all honestly had to take a few cry breaks in the studio before we could get through it. This song is amazingly short and sweet for being so packed with meaning, and to me, singing it feels like singing one long beautiful sentence that slowly builds in intensity — and eventually culminates in the line that drives it all right home: ‘The secret of Christmas is not the things you do on Christmas, but the Christmas things you do all year through.'” — Heather Maloney
To get an idea of how much I love Christmas music, I’ll start with a series of questions. Do I have nearly 700 Christmas songs on my iPod? Why, yes I do! Did I scroll through every one of them in search of ideas for this playlist? I sure did! And did I start with about 75 songs, which I had an incredibly hard time whittling down to a mere 14? Yes, yes I did — I take this playlist business quite seriously. Also, on an unrelated note, do I actually still use an iPod classic? You betcha!
As you can plainly see, I love holiday music. At any other time in the year I might weary of hearing 100 versions of the same song. But at Christmas, anything goes. If a band I love has a holiday album, I’m most definitely buying it. In high school — these were pre-Spotify days mind you — I curated my own “playlists” and grouped them into categories like “Christmas Classics,” “Rockin’ Christmas,” and “R&B/Soul” and burned them onto CDs. Every year I would add more songs ’til eventually, they outgrew the CD format!
So I relished the opportunity to put together this specially curated Mixtape for the Sitch. I tried to stay away from the classic category, even though I love “Jingle Bell Rock” and “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree” as much as the next person. My taste in music is very personal to me, so with every song comes a little story.
I understand that Christmas music is not for everyone. Even some folks who like it in small doses might tire of hearing the same songs year after year. But for me, these annual celebrations — whether Christmas, Halloween, or National Donut Day — give us something to look forward to when the constant toiling of life wears us down. And that is a good and worthy thing, especially in a year when so many joyful things have been canceled. I hope you enjoy this collection and that you’ll get some real enjoyment out of these great songs! Happy listening! — Noah Wall, The Barefoot Movement
Doc Watson, Del McCoury, and Mac Wiseman – “Christmas Time’s A Comin’”
Something about the combination of Doc Watson’s immediately recognizable guitar playing and Del McCoury’s high lonesome tenor, not to mention the great Mac Wiseman (who I just learned was a co-founder of the Country Music Association, who knew?!), transports me directly to a living-room, after-dinner, holiday pickin’ party. This may be the quintessential bluegrass Christmas song and this is my all-time favorite version. I love it so much, it makes me want to learn to flatfoot.
Red Clay Ramblers – “One Rose/Hot Buttered Rum”
The Red Clay Ramblers are a North Carolina-based Americana band who have been making wonderful music since the 1970s. I first heard this song on our local NPR affiliate radio station’s weekend folk show, “Back Porch Music.” I was introduced to many bands on that fabulous little program that is still airing today, from legends like Doc Watson to then-up-and-comers Nickel Creek. It’s been an honor to hear my own music played on there amongst them.
Just once in my life, I’d love to write some lyrics half as good as these, which so beautifully capture the gloom of a wet, cold, melancholy Carolina winter, when even sparkling lights and greenery seem colorless and out of place. Ultimately, it’s a love song, an ode to the ones who keep us warm, no matter the weather. “When dreary Christmas decorations line the streets and filling stations and dime store Santas can’t disguise their empty hands and empty eyes… In the dead of winter, when the tinsel angels come, you’re my sweet maple sugar, honey, hot buttered rum.”
Sufjan Stevens – “That Was the Worst Christmas Ever!”
I am a huge fan of Sufjan Stevens and his wildly imaginative, fearlessly quirky music. I gave his first collection of holiday songs as a Christmas gift to Tommy Norris, our mandolinist and my now-husband, back when we were first dating. It’s since become a staple of our seasonal collection. This song in particular strongly resonated with me, as I can recall moments in my childhood that mirror the lyrics. For many, family relations around the holidays are tense and somewhat less than “holly jolly.” I think that’s okay — holidays can be stressful, and no one is perfect. This Sufjan song offers anyone who has been on the giving OR receiving end of some righteous seasonal stress a lovely cathartic release. Other favorites from this collection are “Only at Christmas Time” and “Hey Guys! It’s Christmas Time!”
Ralph Stanley – “Christmas Is Near”
Ralph wrote this downhome delight himself and originally recorded it with his brother Carter in 1958. This newer version is unabashedly country and I love everything about it. It’s as pure as freshly fallen snow! While some of the songs on my list might highlight the somber side of the season, this one is the exact opposite, with lyrics that round up all the good things that make the holidays special: family, joy, and love. It’s a magical time, if we are lucky enough to be able to focus on these things.
Pearl Jam – “Let Me Sleep (It’s Christmas Time)”
My “Rockin’ Christmas” playlist has all the classic holiday tracks from greats like John Lennon, Eagles, and Queen. It also includes this grunge-era gem. Picture, if you will, 4-year-old Noah, a card-carrying member of the Pearl Jam fan club with a wicked crush on Eddie Vedder. If I remember correctly, this song was on an exclusive vinyl single that was sent to members of said fan club, and I was one of them! It’s such a dreamy tune, and while a look at the lyrics today reveals deeper meaning, 4-year-old me related to the simple joy of taking a cozy nap on a cold day during Christmas vacation. And y’all, I still love naps. Especially Christmas naps. Because I feel like I earn them.
Duke Ellington – “Nutcracker Suite: Peanut Brittle Brigade (March)”
This is a pick from our bassist, Katie Blomarz. She began performing with us in 2015 and brought with her a background in jazz music that was cultivated by her musical family. In her own words, “For me, the Christmas spirit is amplified in jazz/big band arrangements. The Nutcracker Suite interpreted by Duke Ellington and Billy Strayhorn is the perfect harmony of a classical favorite by Tchaikovsky reimagined by a big band for a modern flair. This album has been a special one for my family because my dad, brother and I all grew up playing in big bands, and in non-2020 years, my brother plays this record live every December! It is a swinging change of pace from the pop songs on any Christmas playlist!”
Laurie Lewis & Tom Rozum / Merle Haggard – “If We Make It Through December”
When I was fresh out of high school, I landed a job at a local country music radio station. Though our programming was your typical Top 40 and wasn’t even handled at the local level, we would still get CDs sent to us occasionally, the old school, indie marketing way. This is how I happened upon Laurie Lewis and Tom Rozum’s seasonal album, Winter’s Grace. Believe it or not, this was the first time I had ever heard of Laurie Lewis, and even harder to believe, it was the first time I had ever heard Merle Haggard’s wonderful song (I was only 18, so cut me some slack!) I was an immediate fan of both. The song tells such a relatable story. I am always inspired by the way a song can take a moment in time, no matter how insignificant in the long run, and immortalize it. It’s the perfect healing device that brings comfort and affirmation, even when that moment has long passed. You can’t find Laurie & Tom’s version on streaming services, so we’ll include Merle’s here.
The Jackson 5 – “Give Love on Christmas Day (Group A Cappella Version)”
My R&B Christmas playlists feature tracks by folks like Otis Redding, The Temptations, Stevie Wonder, and of course, the entire Jackson 5 Christmas album. This song is what it’s all about. Whether or not you are religious, the sentiment of spreading love is universal, and that very concept is what lies at the heart of Christmas. I love the original Jackson 5 recording, but this one, a special track from The Jackson 5’s Ultimate Christmas Collection, is stripped down to just the vocals. It goes from being a full-fledged, studio package, to an intimate, almost hymn-like family prayer, sung by an extremely talented group of brothers. The quality of their voices is so palpable and innocent, which lends to the sincerity of the message. “Out of the mouths of babes,” indeed.
Rogue Wave – “Christmas”
I love Rogue Wave so much! And I was today years old when I realized that this Christmas tune of theirs from an awesome collection, put together by their label, Brushfire Records, is a cover of a song by The Who from their rock opera, Tommy. I’ve seen it, but I completely forgot about the song. Rogue Wave’s version sparkles like sun reflecting on a snow covered hillside, peppered with sledders. Seriously, that’s exactly what I picture when I hear it.
The Judds – “Beautiful Star of Bethlehem”
One Christmas Eve, I was attending the annual service held at my great grandmother’s church. One of the performers they had scheduled to sing came down with something, and the other musicians asked me to fill in on this song. It went over so well, it turned into a tradition, and I came back and sang it every Christmas Eve for the next 15 years. Needless to say, it earned a very special place in my heart, especially after we lost my grandmother at age 96 back in 2018. Every time I hear this recording, I remember listening to it in my car in the parking lot, to remind myself which part to sing, and my precious grandmother, beaming with pride in the audience. This is another song that I would file under the label “quintessential bluegrass Christmas listening.” The Judds’ version is perfect, thus I have yet to record a version myself, as I can’t think of one thing I would do differently.
Bob & Doug McKenzie – “The Twelve Days of Christmas”
And now a fun one! One of my holiday playlists highlights things that fall into the humor category. The selections include songs like Porky Pig’s “Blue Christmas,” barking dogs singing “Jingle Bells,” and the parody of Black Sabbath’s Iron Man, “I Am Santa Claus.” I have about five spoofs of “The 12 Days of Christmas” because, well, it just lends itself so well to mockery! This one is my favorite. The characters Bob & Doug Mckenzie are fictional Canadian brothers, created and played by Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas on the sketch comedy show SCTV that aired during the ‘70s and ‘80s. I won’t say too much. You’ve probably heard it, but if you haven’t, you should. My favorite line: “Next year, get me a chainsaw.”
Track Dogs – “How Christmas Was Meant to Be”
We met the band Track Dogs at Folk Alliance International several years ago. I was walking by a hotel room showcase and the sound I heard from within made me turn around and go listen. Their typical instrumentation consists of guitar, trumpet, bass, and percussion, and they are made up of members from England, Ireland, and the US, yet the band came together and now resides in Spain. The fusion of all these elements yields something truly unique. Lead singer Garrett Wall, whom I must be distantly related to (at least I hope so) has one of my favorite voices in modern music. This song is eloquently penned, perfectly arranged, and beautifully recorded. A new Christmas favorite for me, to be sure.
The Seldom Scene – “Silent Night”
No autotune here folks, these guys are the real deal. The Seldom Scene is one of my all-time favorite bluegrass bands. When I was a preteen, and all I listened to was Limp Bizkit and Korn, I went through a phase where music like theirs was “too bluegrassy” for my taste. Then one day, I saw the light, thank God. They have such a signature sound, they were true innovators, with harmonies that stand alone in creativity, even today. This song in particular is the perfect example of why people buy Christmas albums. It’s simply pleasing to hear a band you love sing a familiar song, even one that has been recorded thousands of times and sung for centuries. Oh and by the way, I still love Korn and Limp Bizkit and have absolutely no shame in admitting this. If they had Christmas albums, I’d probably buy them.
Ryan Shupe & the Rubberband – “The Gift”
Ryan Shupe & the Rubberband are described as an American rock/bluegrass band on Wikipedia. The “rock/bluegrass” classification kind of makes me chuckle, but it’s true! Their style marries the two seemingly opposite genres of music. We shared a booking agent with the band for a while and we were able to play a few events with them. Every year when I hear this song, my sincere desire to spend my time on Earth doing good is renewed. It’s so hard to keep this ideal at the center of my attention, when the inevitable storms of life keep me constantly distracted and focused on myself, and my innate introversion pressures me into seclusion. But when I hear this song, it gives me the motivation I need to get back out there and try again, to seek to do better in every way I can, to be a friend, an ally, and a comfort to anyone in need. It’s a lofty aspiration, and I am just a work in progress, but this song gives me hope that I might one day find the strength to live up to it.
Artist: Deutsch & Thorn (Erik Deutsch and Andy Thorn) Hometown: Mexico City, Mexico and Boulder, Colorado Song: “Scorpio Sun” Release Date: December 4, 2020 Label: Thornpipe Music
In Their Words: “When I first wrote this tune, I recorded it with the Colorado Playboys (Travis Book, Jon Stickley, and John Frazier), and called it ‘Sicks Ate.’ (We thought we were very clever.) Over a decade later, playing it with pianist Erik Deutsch, it took on a whole new life. As fellow Scorpios, Erik and I retitled it ‘Scorpio Sun.’ We recorded this EP in Erik’s beautiful Mexico City apartment, between playing shows at Zinco Jazz Club in the city’s vibrant Centro neighborhood. I never thought I’d bring my banjo to Mexico City, to mingle with Erik’s jazz influences and the sights and sounds of a dazzling culture. But that’s kind of what it’s like playing with Erik — you never know what might happen next.” — Andy Thorn
Artist:Lera Lynn Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee Latest album:On My Own
What other art forms — literature, film, dance, painting, etc — inform your music?
I think everything we consume ends up informing our art. It’s difficult for me to pinpoint any one art form that influences me, but I did use the act of painting with intention while making my new record, On My Own. Because I was working completely alone on the record, I desperately needed some method for gaining perspective, so I kept my easel set up in the room where I was recording and would bounce back and forth between the two mediums. Where I would reach a roadblock with one, I would move to the other.
What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?
Music was always a big part of life for me growing up. If there wasn’t a record or the radio blasting, someone was playing guitar or keyboards and singing. I, however, had always planned on becoming an astronaut until one fateful day as a 10-year-old, when I learned that my eyesight was too poor for me to ever be accepted into the space program. I happened to be watching Star Search minutes after that disappointing realization and distinctly remember thinking, “Oh well, I’ll just do that.” It wasn’t until a couple of years later, playing violin in the school orchestra that I understood, for the first time, the hypnotic power of playing music with and for others and I was hooked.
What’s the toughest time you ever had writing a song?
I once spent 10 months working on a song, because someone I shared the song with suggested that the chorus wasn’t strong enough. I must’ve written six or eight different choruses and ultimately decided that the original chorus was the one. The song is called “Fade Into the Black.”
What rituals do you have, either in the studio or before a show?
My rituals are pretty different for live shows vs. studio work. I have to be pretty straight before getting on stage. I sing the old jazz standard “Lover Man” for its vocal range as a warmup and just before going on stage I get pumped up by yelling like I’m at a drag race. In the studio, a good buzz goes a long way for getting inside the song and tracking vocals.
If you had to write a mission statement for your career, what would it be?
Let art guide the process and decisions, not the prospect of money or success. Maintain autonomy by nurturing meaningful engagement with fans; let them be the guide and support system. And finally, trust your gut!!
A beloved band that was perhaps ahead of its time, New Grass Revival will be inducted into the Bluegrass Hall of Fame during the IBMA Bluegrass Music Awards on October 1. In the second half of our oral history with New Grass Revival, we hear from band members Sam Bush, John Cowan, Béla Fleck and Pat Flynn. Read the first half of the interview, which is part of our celebration of the 75th anniversary of bluegrass.
In 1981, founding members Courtney Johnson (who died in 1996) and Curtis Burch left the band after a long tour with rock ‘n’ roll star Leon Russell. As a result, New Grass Revival began its newest incarnation with Béla Fleck and Pat Flynn.
Sam Bush: Courtney and Curtis were older than me and John and they were just burned out. We had worked harder on the road with Leon than we’d ever worked in our lives.
Pat Flynn: New Grass Revival had established a following on the circuit in the late ’70s, but Leon Russell had sucked them into his orbit and taken them away from the bluegrass world. So by the time that band [lineup] broke up, they really had to start over.
SB: I had met Béla in a band he played in called Tasty Licks, and Béla had hired me as the fiddler on his first album, Crossing the Tracks.
PF: Béla was a smart kid. He thought, “If I’m going to come out with a solo album and nobody knows who I am, why don’t I hire high-profile people to play on it?” That’s a smart move!
Béla Fleck: I liked the original band when I heard it, but I admit I was attracted to smoother and jazzier stuff at the time. I have matured a bit since then and now I am a huge fan of the early band, their bravery and iconoclastic spirit, and a poetic expression of their time and place. They were committed to the moment and improvising, and taking the music to a new place that resonated with a lot of folks who loved bluegrass, but it didn’t totally represent them.
SB: Pat and his friend Scott Myers had opened for New Grass Revival on the Colorado tours we did. We loved his guitar playing because it wasn’t like the bluegrass players. He was a rock electric guitar player that could do it on acoustic.
PF: I’d moved from Los Angeles to Aspen, Colorado, and got to know the band at Telluride. Sam had a hand in writing some songs, but they really didn’t have an in-house songwriter. I had always written songs for the bands I was in. And Béla brought a unique and original instrumental vision. So all of a sudden you had two new people that could supply original material.
SB: They were the two musicians who could bring the next step of another sound for us. I called Garth [Fundis, the band’s producer] and said, “You’ve got to come hear these new pickers we’ve got, this is something, this is really good.” I knew it was too hot for me to handle — I didn’t feel I was qualified to produce the four of us. We needed another ear, an outside opinion, because we had so many ideas between the four of us.
PF:On the Boulevard was the first album we released in the US, but we’d done a live album in France almost a full year prior. Technically Live in Toulouse was the first album we made as a new band.
JC: We’re playing like a well-oiled machine; it’s really a good record. It has one of Sam’s instrumentals on there called “Sapporo” that might be 11 minutes long!
SB: The idea of “Sapporo” started when the band went to Japan for the first time. It was my favorite city over there; it was also my favorite beer. A mandolin player over there taught me a five-note Japanese scale and that is a recurring riff you hear us play as we jam.
JC: The first year we were together with Béla and Pat, the energy and the love and everything was way up, confidence was high. And On the Boulevard is one of my favorites. There’s no drums, it’s just the four of us.
PF: It was very fresh. I remember the recording sessions at Jack’s Tracks studio in Nashville. We had a decent budget from Sugar Hill, enough to record comfortably and take our time. I experimented with different guitars and arrangements. We were able to bring the music into the magnifying glass of a studio and really look at it in depth.
JC: The dynamic of the band had changed so much, because Béla was already miles ahead of everybody in terms of his ability to play. He practiced all the time. In the old band, I was in charge of shoveling coal into the engine and Sam was flying around on top painting whatever picture he wanted to paint. Courtney and Curtis, they were kind of like myself, advanced support players. But now you’ve got two other players who can play at the same level of Sam. So we could take this train anywhere. We could get off the tracks.
PF: I had brought some songs with me to the band and I was very happy with “On the Boulevard.” I had written it prior to joining. It was pretty much autobiographical. I’d been living in Thousand Oaks, California, and there’s a boulevard that runs through the middle of the Valley, and as I watched it from the window it was like its own little world, a parade of passing people. It was one of the earliest things we worked out.
SB: My songwriting partner Steve Brines had died a sudden death of a heart ailment he didn’t know he had. So Steve was gone and I was still writing instrumentals, but I lost my enthusiasm for songwriting.
PF: I was especially happy with “One of These Trains,” the way the material came out, and the band took to it so naturally. I was encouraged that I was in the right place with the right people. I loved Sam’s instrumental “Indian Hills,” and John did a great blues number called “Just Is.” We were discovering each other’s powers and personalities as musicians and friends. I remember it very fondly. We were struggling for employment to connect with the old fans and that album was a big help — when it came out, we created a pretty big buzz.
SB: Toni Foglesong told her husband Jim, who was the president of Capitol Records Nashville, “I heard a band that makes a sound like nothing I’ve ever heard before.” So, Jim came to hear us and he said, “I want you guys to record. I don’t know how we’re going to sell you but I want you to be yourselves.”
Two studio albums followed: New Grass Revival in 1986, and Hold to a Dream in 1987.
SB: Every time new people joined, we encouraged them to bring their influences into the music. When Pat joined he was influenced by those Southern Californian songwriters like Jackson Browne, and the country-rock Telecaster picking he knew. One song where I specifically hear Pat’s southern rock influence is “In the Middle of the Night,” on the ’86 album.
PF: I was very involved in the country-rock sound like the Eagles and the Flying Burrito Brothers and the songs I wrote were well-fitted for a bluegrass approach. I didn’t have to make adjustments musically or lyrically, just in the area of arrangements. I had to make sure the songs I wrote had great solo spots for the instrumentalists and I had to fit the songs to whoever was singing, either John or Sam. So I started to instinctively shape my material where there was plenty of room for improvisational playing and also good range of vocals for those two.
BF: This band was full of guys with very different musical influences. If you didn’t want to be challenged, it was the wrong place for you. Some folks surround themselves with people that love all the same stuff they do, and that can work too. But in New Grass Revival, we were all into different stuff, which we brought to the band to see if we could get our favorite stuff included.
SB: Béla is a jazz player and when he came in his favorite musician was Chick Corea. I had his records, but they didn’t make so much sense to me until then.
BF: I think my interest in jazz gave me some cool tools to work with in a bluegrass context. I wrote a tune called “Metric Lips” [on Hold to a Dream], which was partly in jig time. I feel like that main melody had some Chick Corea influence. Sam was highly influenced by John McLaughlin and his great bands. One of them was Shakti, a collaboration with Indian musicians. This seemed to encourage his interest and ability in odd meters, which I also was quite fond of exploring. So if you look at “Metric Lips,” you have Irish music, Indian music, and fusion jazz represented, along with some raging bluegrass. It’s puzzling that it actually works, but in my opinion, it does.
PF: When you’re in a bluegrass band, it’s blend or die! You’re cramped inside a van together and you’re sleeping feet to nose. You’re in a very confined space together more than you are with your significant others back at home.
JC: We called our bus The Bread Truck. We’d bought it from a dry cleaning business. It wasn’t like the 36-footers I had in the Doobie Brothers; it was less than half of that, closer to a van.
PF: John slept half the time, I would be reading a book or writing a song, Sam would be listening to reggae or some weird eclectic thing, Béla was always fiddling with a new tune.
BF: For me it’s the intention and commitment to the ideas that make them work in this band. The same ideas might not work for a band that didn’t play so confidently. Of course we loved bluegrass and that was the common denominator. Each guy also played with a savage fervor or intensity, and perhaps that was another denominator.
PF: We could really charge each other up with the solos. We admired each other, and when somebody threw a flaming ball out there it would be a challenge. And in that exchange, gosh, we became so much better players. I remember listening back to tapes and thinking I lifted myself up and above myself. We all did.
BF: The new band with me and Pat was a somewhat cleaned-up version of the band. We still improvised and pushed hard, but we also were going for a supercharged, seamless tightness.
PF: The thing I remember that we developed between the first two albums was a hardcore consistency. We could turn it on and it would just come on full-bore despite whether or not there was a good sound system or the weather was bad or the crowd was sluggish. We could always count on each other to present a united front. There were no weak links. We just locked into that energy and never lost it.
BF: And we made singles for country radio, which is hard to imagine the early group doing.
SB: We knew we were going into a country market, but I think there’s a misconception that Capitol Records changed us, when in fact the change came from us. We were the ones that said, “We’ll try this song,” and maybe we wouldn’t have tried it in the past.
BF: We were still too out there for it to work, but we were trying to take the music closer into the mainstream, and that was bringing a lot of new people into the scene and showing them what bluegrass could produce.
PF: We would laugh about that in a sad way. The jocks would come to us and say, “I love your stuff, I listen to it at home,” and we’d say, “What about playing it on air?!” They’d say “Yeah, but it’s bluegrass….” We finally got “Callin’ Baton Rouge” into the top 40 which opened up a lot of shows and airplay for us. But we ended up disbanding before we could really bring that home.
SB: For our last album, Friday Night in America, Wendy Waldman became our producer and we really tried all kind of things on that. It’s hard for an athlete to know when to stop, but I really think our last record might be our best one.
PF: I saw a deepening musically. John’s vocals had got better and better, but he also doesn’t get the props for his bass playing. He was a terrific player — listen to his work on Friday Night in America, see how he connected the melodies, the tone he got and the way he tied together the four instruments. They would get noticed, but the glue was John.
SB: John and I had been together 15 years and we were burned out. We lived on the road and I was suffering responsibility overload. And we couldn’t possibly accommodate all that Béla was writing, the type of tunes he was writing. I physically couldn’t play them and neither could the rest of us! We all loved each other, but it was time for him to go on, he needed to express himself. Because at that point it’s not about making money, it’s about musical happiness and your satisfaction.
PF: We’d got together in 1981, and we played our last job as a band on New Year’s Eve, the last day of 1989. We were opening for the Grateful Dead at the Oakland Coliseum, 10,000 people inside and 5,000 outside. That night was particularly memorable — on the right side of the stage sitting nearest Béla was Bonnie Raitt, on the left side, near to me, was Jane Fonda — and I’d always thought what a shame we didn’t release that. Years later someone walked up to me and said, “Remember when you guys opened for the Dead?” I said yes. He said, “Have you got a copy of that set?” I said no. He said, “Do you want one?” A tape of our concert had leaked out among the Dead fans. I contacted a friend at Capitol Records and then that set was remastered and released on a two-CD set called Grass Roots, which has stuff you wouldn’t find on our records. It had its rough spots as a live tape, but you’ll hear that energy and visceral connection we had with each other on stage, you sure will.
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