Tag: Mark Twain

BGS 5+5: Amigo the Devil

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Amigo the Devil
Hometown: Austin, Texas
Latest Album: Born Against
Personal nicknames: I’ve never had any past preschool and that was only one kid who called me Daniel Cocker Spaniel. It destroyed me. I mean utterly wrecked me at the time.

What other art forms — literature, film, dance, painting, etc — inform your music?

I enjoy reading a lot, always have. Lately I’ve been trying to dive into subjects that I’m not usually interested in or genuinely don’t know much about and have been finding that, well, apparently they’re still not my thing ha ha. At least giving it a shot helps me narrow where the passion genuinely lives. Film has always been an important factor in my life, just as much as literature I would say. I’m a big fan of visual portrait films like Ashes and Snow, Baraka, Naqoyqatsi and aesthetic systems like the Cremaster series. Jodorowsky, Yorgos Lanthimos, and Takashi Miike are responsible for most of my favorite movies as actual storyline films. I also love rom-coms. I don’t care how corny they are, they wreck me and I love it. Horror used to be the go-to while growing up, but I think that’s changed quite a bit lately. Still love a classic campy experience though.

What’s the toughest time you ever had writing a song?

I always hear stories of people writing three songs in a day or dreaming up these beautiful hits in their sleep. I’ve unfortunately never had the joy of these moments. Although some songs “write themselves” more than others, I always have a hard time with every single song when it comes to finally calling it a finished product. Whether it’s my curiosity or doubt that keeps me grounded right before the final hurdle, it’s always a “tough” time. There’s actually one quote by Mark Twain that I remember shifting my confidence immensely. “The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter — it’s the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.” Ever since that day, it’s been a brutal journey wondering which of the two I have in the lyrics I’ve written. See, not all knowledge is helpful.

Since food and music go so well together, what is your dream pairing of a meal and a musician?

I’m going to go with Ray Sawyer of Dr. Hook on this one. One, because I think they’re the #1 band I wish I was able to see live (and he’s my favorite member) and two, because I think he’d be a blast at a dinner party. I’m not saying that I would Lady and the Tramp a hot dog with him, but also not saying I wouldn’t. Dinner-wise though, I feel like Ray was as complicated an individual as he was simple. I’d start with gumbo loaded with smoked alligator (one we pulled ourselves from Lake Eufaula after a long night of mescaline)…move on to a dry-aged ribeye cooked directly on the coals and sit it in a bordelaise with a side of brown butter-sautéed endive (for health measures) and raclette over potatoes. There’s no room for dessert so we just slam some coffee and hit the town.

What rituals do you have, either in the studio or before a show?

Rituals always seemed like a guaranteed way to set yourself up for failure. Since a ritual is basically just a glorified routine, once that routine becomes psychological, both your conscious and subconscious mind depend on it…so what do you do when you don’t have access to elements you need? I feel like that’s when we see people start to freak out and convince themselves that something is going to go wrong because x, y and z didn’t happen. Granted, these are just my dumb opinions but it always seems like rituals tend to get more and more intricate with time which leads to extravagant demands and unnecessary adjustments for a superstition.

How often do you hide behind a character in a song or use “you” when it’s actually “me”?

Someone recently pointed out that I never sing from a third-person and very rarely a second-person perspective. Almost all the lyrics (that are based on people) are “me” and “I.” After thinking about it for a while, the only conclusion I can come to is that since most of the songs are stories that I’m putting myself into someone else’s shoes to write, the perspective carries over. I think there is also some level of accountability that feels more honest, especially when talking about taboo subjects. It’s too easy to shift the blame along with the perspective. It’s the “asking for a friend” complex when trying to avoid shame. When talking about topics that are hard for people to bring up, it’s important to me that there is a human element and a personal touch of admittance. That association and acceptance tends to bring the much greater reward of growth and learning. Shifting that blame will always leave you floating around a boxed-in world like a rubber duck in a hot tub.

Photo credit: Alicia Way

The Way She Talks: S.G. Goodman on Weirdos, Writing, and Western Kentucky

Posted on by Amy Reitnouer

S.G. Goodman has a lot on her mind. That much is immediately clear in the Kentucky musician’s voice, her songwriting, and throughout her new Verve Forecast debut, Old Time Feeling. Produced by Jim James of My Morning Jacket, the confessional album encapsulates her experiences on a personal level as well as the environment that’s influenced her.

Growing up a farmer’s daughter in rural Western Kentucky may not be the most common background for a musician who finds their community in a college town post-punk scene. Yet, Goodman is proof that where you come from has not much to do with fitting in. In a time where so much of our world seems polarized, Goodman — despite the way she talks — found her place in a post-punk “Mecca for weirdos.” BGS sat down with Goodman to talk about her hometown, how she encountered her tribe, and her defense of Southern people and culture.

BGS: For someone who’s never been to your Kentucky hometown, how would you describe it?

Goodman: My hometown is Hickman, Kentucky, and it’s a river town. Mark Twain described it as “a pretty town, perched on a handsome hill.” I’d say he’s right on the money. But, at the time Mark Twain was passing through, Hickman was a lot different. Now it’s a bit of a ghost town with a lot of soul. There’s no stop lights, one convenience store… it’s a beautiful place. Less than 3,000 people, but no place like home.

How did you find your community in music?

Well, I don’t live in my hometown anymore. I live in Murray, Kentucky, which is a college town, so there’s an influence of people from all over. I kinda got plugged in hanging out at a local record store in college and met some of my best friends that way. Murray is an interesting place, because a lot of people don’t think of Western Kentucky as having a thriving post-punk scene. Probably around 2010, 2011, there were a lot more shows, a lot more bands passing through. We have a really conveniently-located record store called Terrapin Station. We pass around an offering plate — bands get taken care of really well for such a small community — it’s like a true listening environment. It’s just kind of a Mecca for weirdos, where everybody is welcome. It’s not pretentious at all, perfect place to cut your teeth.

Were you already playing music at that point?

Yeah, I was. By the time I was just about to turn 19 years old I made a record, it was pop. I dropped off a bunch of copies to the record store and said, “Put one in every bag that leaves here.” That’s how I met my good friend Tim Peyton, who’s managed that store and worked at that store since he was 14 years old. Probably two years from that point, we’d be best friends, going to house shows together.

When I was 15 — I was a big athlete in school — I convinced my mother to let me not play basketball anymore so I could take music lessons. And I did for over a year, but I had to drive an hour away to take them, plus I found out I was teaching myself more than what I was learning in the classes. You know, I’d say my biggest musical influence was probably just being raised in church. I’m not a churchgoer anymore, but I could never deny the fact that going to three concerts a week was highly influential to how I view melodies and lyrics.

The opening song, “Space and Time,” seems to be saying something that’s important to you. What was on your mind as you wrote it?

That’s a special song. Being very point blank in my lyrics — when I first wrote those lyrics, I was a little unsettled by that. A friend asked me once, “Did you say everything you needed to say?” So I look at songs like that a lot now. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with letting people know how you feel about them and what they mean to you, just really contemplating what makes a life.

While a song like “Space & Time” is so personal, the very next track, “Old Time Feeling” is a call to action. How do those two sides of your songwriting work together and compliment each other?

A lot of people ask if I conceptualized this album before I wrote it, but I just write songs as they come to me, and try to respect them enough to see them through. If people look at this album as a moment in time over the course of my life, then they shouldn’t be shocked for me to have some political thoughts. I’m bound to walk around with my eyes open. There’s a lot of people who paved the way for artists to not just write songs about getting their heart broken. Artists are supposed to comment. How could you not? If I want to write a song about a red Corvette or something, I’ll do my best to make it a good one. But at the end of the day, I do wonder why so many artists these days aren’t commenting through their art on what’s going on in the world.

What do you remember about the recording sessions?

We did this in April 2019. The studio — it’s in Louisville, Kentucky — is called La La Land. It had been owned for years and started by a Kentucky guy named Kevin Ratterman, who’s on a lot of people’s records. He’s an amazing person, a total beam of light when he walks through the door. It was really important for me to make sure that this music was made in Kentucky, because so much of my music is about this place.

What do you want people to understand about the way it really is in the South?

I can’t speak for the South — as a writer I’m speaking from my POV — but I would say, don’t write off the South for its regressive policies. That does nothing for those who are working daily to change that. There are progressive pockets all through the South and through Kentucky who are devoting their time and their lives to make sure that their neighbors are safe and taken care of. In my opinion, America, for a very long time, has used the South as a scapegoat for a lot of its backwards problems.

Now that the album is out in the wild, what goes through your mind when you hear it?

I’m proud of it. There’s little moments — at the end of my last track (“Big Girl Now”) you can hear my drummer and friend for nearly 10 years talk at the end of the track. I’m so glad that we were all represented, and our friends were all represented, in that music. I’m not sick of listening to it. It’s not like I go out and listen to it every day, but you have to keep in mind I’m gonna be playing these songs for years. So, I better love ‘em!

Photo credit: Michael Wilson

BGS 5+5: Paul Burch

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Paul Burch
Hometown: Currently Nashville, Tennessee. I was born in Washington, D.C.
Latest album: Light Sensitive
Personal nicknames (or rejected band names): The members of Lambchop call me WP

Which artist has influenced you the most … and how?

Bob Dylan and Hank Williams were the twin Apollos of songwriting in my youth. And I loved the fearlessness of Roger Miller. Elvis Presley — when inspired — gave his audience his soul. But the four writers who most echo my temperament and drove me to compose are Chuck Berry, Smokey Robinson, John Prine, and Sam Cooke.

Smokey has a gift for literacy. “I Second That Emotion.” John, like Hank Williams, had the gift for sincerity. The taller the tale, the greater the parable. John was seldom at the center of his songs so much as caught up in the center. He could be both in the story and above it. Sam was easy on the ears. “Cupid.” “Having a Party.” “A Change Is Gonna Come.” A Sam Cooke title was exactly what the song was about. By all accounts he was a man of sharp intelligence, a true believer in decency, a hater of bullshit, and a fan of all kinds of music. Chuck could make the past contemporary and the here-and-now heroic. “Johnny B. Goode” is like a film coming into focus — so much detail delivered in less than 20 seconds. “Deep down in Louisiana close to New Orleans / way back up in the woods among the evergreens / there stood a log cabin made of earth and wood / where lived a country boy named Johnny B. Goode.”

All of these writers feel like my relatives. Something bubbles inside me when I hear them. All four had a touch of melancholy which they employed to remind you to keep having that party. Chuck is the poet of rock ‘n’ roll. Smokey is the poet of time and place. John was Jimmie Rodgers crossed with Mark Twain and inspired Sam Phillips to come out of retirement. And Sam — well — Sam was Mr. Soul.

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

I was playing on my own in a bar in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, one Saturday night. It was about 90 degrees at midnight. All I had was a microphone and an electric guitar and a little 15-watt amp. To try to keep the show dynamic, I kept a tick-tack rhythm on the bass strings when I sang and then added loud accents in between the verses. There were about 10 couples or so dancing in front of me and I could hear the scrape of their shoes on the dance floor.

I thought to myself: “This must have been what Charley Patton heard when he played a dance — the sound of the dancer’s shoes on the floor.” It was so wonderful to think I was doing well enough with what little I had that I could keep them dancing. It made me appreciate that audiences are willing to meet you more than halfway. The intensity of what you’re doing is more important than volume.

What other art forms — literature, film, dance, painting, etc — inform your music?

I get dreamy over paintings and great photography. I love the photography that Sheila Sachs and Catie Baumer Schwalb took for Light Sensitive.

Film noir is great for a sense of place and for the dialogue. So much had to be conveyed by gesture or innuendo. It was years before I realized that when Ilsa goes to see Rick in Casablanca for the letters of transit, the spotlight tells you they made love one last time. Every time I see it, the ending feels different. I used to think he gave her away. But then you remember Rick said he doesn’t deal in buying and selling people — and that extended to love, too. Now I see that Ilsa was always going to be trouble. She was right for Paris, just nowhere else. And life can never just be about Paris. Even if you live in Paris.

Also, in a film — like in songs — everybody has a job. The cab driver is important when you need that cab. Lately, I’ve been paying close attention to plays and musicals, listening for the rhythm and syncopation in dialogue. Frank Loesser’s songs for Guys and Dolls are spectacular. “I got horse right here / his name is Paul Revere…can do!” Louis Jordan’s songs sounds like musicals to my ear. I’m always on the hunt for an idea. I’m a flint and life is a white-tipped match.

What rituals do you have, either in the studio or before a show?

If I’m recording, I love walking into a studio with a fresh reel of tape under my arm, knowing that when I walk out the door, we will have created something that didn’t exist on Earth a few hours before. When I perform, I take time to walk all around the venue to get an idea of what the show will feel like from every vantage point. I like to talk to the sound engineer — usually someone I’ve never met — to get an idea what their job is like, if it’s a hard venue to deal with.

I ask them if they think the sound in the venue will respond to the kind of show I want to do. I try to make them feel like it’s our performance, not mine. Before the show, I think about my favorite people and my favorite performers. I’ll often write old friends just before a show — “How ya doin?” — just to demystify the whole thing. Other than having a new song in your pocket, there are few better feelings than walking on a stage at the beginning of a show.

Since food and music go so well together, what is your dream pairing of a meal and a musician?

I often imagine a perfect day of music would be some kind of outdoor event with a pile of fried catfish, margaritas, and then a show at twilight with a great lineup of the WPA Ballclub. In reality, outdoor shows are usually a drag. Bugs, bad sound, the drummer falls into the generator. I do think loud guitars and BBQ go together pretty well.

I used to stare at a photo of Little Richard playing at Wrigley Field with his band in the ’50s and thought it was the perfect gig. It must have been hot because the band were all wearing plaid shorts. Now that I’m older, I realize they were probably miserable — with an out-of-tune piano, distorted amps, and a lousy PA. But you know that first beer and smoke after the show must have been delicious.

As for a particular musician and food pairing, I hear that in the 1930s, all the jazz joints served Chinese food. If I could have seen Charlie Christian play guitar or heard Billie Holiday sing in a little joint with Teddy Wilson on piano over a hot plate of home-cooked crispy duck, I would have been very happy.

Photo credit: Emily Beaver

Joan Shelley’s Love of Kentucky, Captured in Iceland

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Singer/songwriter Joan Shelley’s voice has a warmth and purity that can still the choppiest minds. Her fifth album, Like the River Loves the Sea, is a calm offering in noisy times. She says she didn’t set out to make an album with any kind of theme or message, but she found herself writing songs that often reflected her love of her native Kentucky.

For many years, Shelley chased the idea of leaving Kentucky, maybe relocating to someplace in Europe or a big city on one of the coasts. She grew up on a small farm outside of Louisville, a swarm of animals, siblings, and step-siblings to play with, a creek and woods to play in.

On her song, “The Fading,” Shelley borrows a phrase often attributed to Mark Twain about Kentucky’s sluggish pace of life: “And, oh, Kentucky stays on my mind/ It’s sweet to be five years behind/ That’s where I’ll be when the seas rise/ Holding my dear friends and drinking wine.” And yet when the time came to record this album, Shelley travelled far from Kentucky to Iceland, with frequent collaborators, guitarist, Nathan Salsburg, and producer and guitarist, Jim Elkington.

BGS: How did you end up in Iceland?

Shelley: I have a friend who’s a complete fan of Iceland. It just started to simmer in my imagination. This could be poetically in between Europe and the U.S., this ancient musical tie on the newest earth that’s in the ocean. I was, like, I want to go essentially to a different planet and make a record and see how that air feels and how that environment works.

When you go someplace like that to record, are you bringing all your instruments with you? Or are you letting the place influence the music?

We each brought a guitar. I was like: I’ll use their banjo; I’ll use their drums; we’ll use their tambourines, everything. In Iceland, there was no banjo. We couldn’t find a banjo. So someone had a resonator guitar and I had to retune that to a banjo tuning that I was using for the song, “Coming Down for You.” You know, funny limits that you encounter like that, even though it’s frustrating at the time and you’re kind of panicked, then you feel for the next step. I love that.

So were you running around Iceland looking for a banjo?

We asked musicians who had been there and musicians know musicians. It’s a pretty creative community. There are a lot of artists and songwriters. And a lot of synthesizers and not a lot of banjos. When you talk about a Kentucky-to-Iceland record, like, you’re in this black hole where you cannot find a banjo.

You became interested in music later in your childhood, but you’ve always had a strong connection to the outdoors that’s apparent in a lot of your songs.

Music came later but when I think about my time in nature as a kid, I would always wander off on my own. I remember distinctly sitting under trees and singing to the day, kind of being a little kid and making up melodies.

Were you singing with an instrument?

No, just singing. Like, bird education. Melodies only. No one had instruments. My mom used to and that’s how I found the guitar. It was in the attic.

Tell me about that.

I was a freshman in high school and I wandered up to the attic which had all the good stuff in it and I kind of dusted off my mom’s guitar that she had up there. And there was a chord chart up on the wall too. She was one of those people who would say, “I just want to get better at this someday.” But it was always someday. So I taught myself from the chord chart on the wall.

Do you have a certain go-to guitar when you’re in the process of writing songs? 

I have a Collings guitar which is a pretty fancy bluegrass guitar. It’s good for fingerpicking. I got it from my cousin who passed away. She died really young of cancer. At first I wasn’t taking it anywhere because I didn’t want it to break but then it hit me — no, she’d want to go everywhere! It’s good to be reminded of how lucky I am to have gotten this far and seen what I’ve seen. It’s amazing.

Do you remember when you first heard mountain music or when you first felt like it spoke to you? 

I would say the first song that ripped my stomach out and onto the ground below me was a Dillard Chandler song, a ballad. All his unaccompanied ballads on that Dark Holler record are just gorgeous.

Nathan Salsburg, your collaborator, is also curator of the Alan Lomax archives. Did he help lead you down that well of old-time music?

He exposed me to Dillard Chandler. I wanted to hear the female singers. I was hungry because I know they just don’t get represented in the recordings of the great musicians. When you look at old-time music, and bluegrass too, it’s male-dominated. So I was like, give me everything you got. And he collected some for me to listen to, like Aunt Molly Jackson, Little Jean Ritchie.

What do you hope people take away from this record?

Once I was done editing the songs that would go on the record, I almost called it Haven, because it’s the first song on the record. We need that calm, that haven, whether it’s in terms of relationships or the environment or political noise. I have to remember how to be quiet and lead my thoughts back to being quiet.

Even when I’m talking about love in the songs, there’s a deeper level we can agree on. Let’s get back to the deeper level. At this point in my life, and at this point in our country, this was the record that I was like: I’m going to stop telling myself I’m going to move somewhere. I’m going to be here. I’m making that choice to bring what I love about the rest of the world to Kentucky.

Photo credit: Amber Estes Thieneman

BGS 5+5: Kirby Brown

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Kirby Brown
Hometown: Nashville, Tennessee (by way of New York City; Dallas; Sulphur Springs, Texas; and Damascus, Arkansas).
Latest album: Uncommon Prayer + new EP, Dream Songs out June 7, 2019
Personal nicknames: Kirbs, KB, Corbin Biscuits (hi, Matty!)

Which artist has influenced you the most … and how?

I could never narrow it down that far, so [I’ll] touch on a few here. Joni Mitchell, for her ability to be raw and personal while simultaneously touching on something emotionally universal. Townes Van Zandt, because nobody else could make plain language sound so sacred. I love Randy Newman for the juxtaposition of his complex sense of character development with the simple familiarity of his melodies. John Prine is the master of using levity to disarm you in one line, only to jab the dagger through your heart in the next. All of these have made a lasting impact on my approach to the song craft, but I could go on and on. Of course, I probably can’t escape the influence of my musical surroundings growing up: country gospel, ‘90s alternative, the radio.

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

My friend Dylan LeBlanc took me as solo support on his European tour in Fall 2017. There were several “wow” moments on that tour, but I specifically remember a show at Pustervik in Gothenburg, Sweden. The venue was perfect, the sound was on point, and the audience and I just felt like we had something special going on. It was one of many magical moments on that run. There’s something to be said for European audiences’ capacity to tune in and really “go there” with you. I’m so thankful for that, and I’m looking for any excuse or opportunity to go back.

What other art forms — literature, film, dance, painting, etc. — inform your music?

After my parents split up, I’d only see my father every so often. He’d gone back to college as an English major and (I think) rediscovered a lost interest in literature, specifically poetry. For that reason, many of our visits would come back to whatever he was reading at that time. He gave me Norton’s Anthology of Poetry when I was nine years old, and so began a lifelong journey with language and how we use it. I’m still walking down that road — this year’s focus has been Maxine Kumin, Donald Hall, and Anna Karenina. Film-wise, I once went through a period when I was trying to learn a second language and watched only Spanish-language films for a year. I found one of the songs I recorded on my new EP in an Almodóvar film, and it has haunted me ever since. Lately it’s been Westerns by John Ford. I digress… I guess we’ll save painters for our second date.

What’s the toughest time you ever had writing a song?

Aren’t they all tough? Not really, I guess they do come fast and easy sometimes. Still, the longer I do this the more pressingly I feel the need to filter myself. This is for the best I’m sure, but it does make the writing slower and more arduous. I carried around the phrase “a Playboy for the interviews, a Bible for the maps” for the last three or four years. I don’t even know why, maybe I thought it was funny? Anyway, it only recently found a home in “Little Miss” from the new Dream Songs EP. I don’t even know if it works. Either way, at least I’m not toting it around anymore.

How often do you hide behind a character in a song or use “you” when it’s actually “me”?

All the time, honestly. I approach most everything I write like it’s fiction: made-up characters and stories, some conversation I heard in passing, etc. But somewhere along the way it almost always ends up being me or someone I know or some synthesis of all the above. Still, I don’t think it’s hiding, maybe it’s just a very effective trick I keep playing on myself. Mark Twain has a quote attributed to him about “not letting the truth get in the way of a good story.” I tend to believe that it’s best to not let a little fiction stand in the way of the truth — even if it’s the hard truth about yourself you weren’t ready to hear.

Photo credit: Jacqueline Justice