The Show On The Road – JD McPherson

JD McPherson joins host Z. Lupetin for the final episode of The Show On The Road’s 2019 season.


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Oklahoma-born JD McPherson makes his own brand of high intellect, dance party-ready, Sun Studios-style rock ‘n’ roll. Last year he may have recorded one of the greatest original Christmas albums of the modern era with Socks.

While McPherson probably never dreamed he would become a new rock ‘n’ roll king of Christmas, Socks may be his most impressive feat yet. If you’re deeply suspicious of the capitalistic caterwauling of most modern holiday music on the airwaves (except you, Mariah!) you’ll still fall in love with JD’s sarcastic and sweet collection of holiday originals. The album deftly dives into lesser discussed Christmas subjects like broken expectations, inter-family angst, holiday horniness, and hilariously, the myth of why Santa must be grossly overweight to satisfy us fairy tale-loving kids. Give Socks a spin as you rock around the Christmas tree or the Hanukkah bush, or even better — keep it playing all year long.

 

My Love Will Not Change: Four Versions of a Modern Classic

“My Love Will Not Change” — but my favorite version of this song just might. (And yours might, too!)

The tune, penned by consummate songwriter, bluegrasser, and country stalwart Shawn Camp and his rockabilly collaborator and friend Billy Burnette, has had versions recorded and performed by both writers as well as Bluegrass Hall of Famer Del McCoury. Today, another iteration has hit the airwaves and digital shelves from Americana rocker Aubrie Sellers. The track, which features harmonies from Steve Earle, will appear on Sellers’ sophomore release, Far From Home, set to drop on February 7, 2020.

“I love bluegrass, and I thought it would be fun to bring a song with unmistakable mountain soul like this into my world a little bit,” Sellers relates in a press release. “It’s the only song [on the album] I didn’t write, but it’s something I wish I’d written. I live for straightforward, emotionally-driven writing like this. When I envisioned the sound for the track, I knew there was no one else who could do it like Steve.”

It should come as no surprise that bluegrass influenced this hard-and-heavy, rollicking rendition of the song — and not simply because Camp wrote it and the Del McCoury Band originally recorded and popularized it. In 2015, Sellers appeared on a Stanley Brothers classic, “White Dove,” with her mother Lee Ann Womack and Dr. Ralph Stanley himself on Ralph Stanley and Friends: A Man of Constant Sorrow, which was the final album released by the bluegrass forefather before his death in 2016.

In honor of the newly-minted Sellers and Earle cover, we thought we’d lay out a handful of this modern classic’s cuts and performances, posing the question to you, our BGS readers: Which one is your favorite?

The absolute original. If you’ve never had the pleasure of having your face peeled off by Shawn and company at one of his many Station Inn shows, where he routinely cobbles together just such a mind-blowing bluegrass-meets-trad-country band, you maybe haven’t really ever had a truly “Nashville” experience. Is that bluegrass organ? Let’s call it that. You can hear the influence of Camp and Guthrie Trapp’s chicken-pickin’ shredding in the Sellers cut, too. And you’ll notice, across all cuts of this song, no one tries to emulate Camp’s vocal phrasing, which outright refuses to snap to any semblance of a grid, because it can’t be done.

 

A more languid, loping style that reads as honky-tonk and rockabilly and “shuffle across them polished-smooth floorboards” all at once. Nashville legend and Fabulous Superlative Kenny Vaughan is on guitar, once again reinforcing the inextricable role of the Telecaster in this song. That is, until we get to its next version…

 

And suddenly, all of our perceptions about what this song is and what it should be are thrown out the window. Whether it’s “Misty” or “1952 Vincent Black Lightning” or “Nashville Cats,” Del has a way of taking a song and immediately making every listener forget that it ever could’ve had a version that predates him. The definitive cut? Perhaps. The counterintuitive intervals between the harmony vocal and the lead (notice how Ronnie’s tenor sounds eerily similar to his father’s voice), the subtly dissonant melodic hook, and Mike Bub’s relentless rhythm — that doesn’t just reside in the pocket, it’s freakin’ mayor of the city of the pocket — are icing on the cake. Splendid.

 

It’s remarkable that the Sellers and Earle version doesn’t attempt to reinvent the wheel, while simultaneously covering almost entirely fresh ground. The skeletal structure is still here, with hallmarks from Camp’s, Burnette’s, and McCoury’s versions each, but this take is original. The grungy, harder rock flavors don’t blow out the more subtle touches, either. Sellers gives her own melodic embellishments and her own twists of phrasing as well, with Earle matching, but again referencing the there-are-no-rules feel of the harmonies in the other cuts. For something so seemingly disparate from the others, it is equally charming and unabashed.

Perhaps it doesn’t so much matter which one is preferable over the others? We’ll gladly take them all. Pardon, while I scroll back up to the top and start again.


Photo credit: Scott Siracusano

The Simplicity of a Song: A Conversation with Kelly Willis

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

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

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

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

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

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

What about that song opened things up for you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did you look into other options for producing or recording?

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

You mentioned a playlist. Who all was on there?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Photo credit: George Brainard

Angaleena Presley Rocks Some Retro Style

“I never kept up with the fashions. I believed in wearing what I thought looked good on me.” — Bettie Page

Angaleena Presely doesn’t look like anyone else in town. Her long legs, jet black hair, and striking smile set her apart from the average Jane. The mix of her DIY attitude and a retro-inspired wardrobe lands her somewhere between Bettie Page and Rosie the Riveter. Her look is bold, feminine, and tough. She affectionately self-describes this style as “rocka-hillbilly — a mix of rockabilly, punk, ’50s housewife, and white trash,” and I love it!

Although the “rocka-hillbilly” personality was always there, it was a long road of experimenting with fashion before Angaleena nailed down her distinct look. Attempting to keep up with endless trends proved exhausting, so she decided to scratch that approach and do it all her own way. She quit seeing what was readily available on the hangers and shelves of department stores as her only clothing options. Inspired by the life of Bettie Page, Angaleena began creating her look with one rule in mind: Whatever she wore had to flatter her body. Sometimes this is as easy as cutting up a tee-shirt or jeans and, other times, it requires the help of a seamstress.

The combination of Angaleena’s single style law, eye for unique dresses, and love of vintage pin-up style lead her to find a woman in her hometown who could make her clothing dreams come true. Angaleena began providing the fabric and patterns, and her seamstress took care of the rest. Whether the fabric is Western-themed covered in horses or a classic polka dot pattern, all the custom-made dresses share a ’40s/’50s silhouette that Angaleena can rock the hell out of. 

I really appreciate the attention given to the details of her overall look. Angaleena credits Tiffany Gifford, her stylist from her Pistol Annie days, for her ability to accessorize. Her hair is always styled in big, loose Hollywood glam curls or pinned up in victory rolls. And she never forgets to add a bandana, flower, or headband to top off the ‘do. She also keeps her makeup classic with red nails, red lips, and winged black eye-liner. Around her neck, you’re most likely to find either a Sylvia Plath Cameo necklace or a string of pearls from her husband. All these combined details keep her style consistent, when switching back and forth from dressed up to dressed down. 

Even when Angaleena is keeping it casual, she’s true to that retro silhouette with high-waisted pants, cropped sweaters/jackets, and favorite tees. It’s pretty common for her to take a pair of scissors to the tees to make them fit her frame better — another trick she picked up from her Pistol Annie era.

The retro rocka-hillbilly look is hard to nail, but Angaleena Presley is doing it right!

No Expectations, High Hopes: Sallie Ford in Conversation with Charlie Cunningham

On first listen, it would seem Sallie Ford and Charlie Cunningham have little in common, except that they are human musicians. A singer/songwriter born in North Carolina but based in Portland, Oregon, Ford writes soul-baring lyrics that reveal a caustic wit, a persistent self-deprecation, and an abiding love for doo-wop, rockabilly, punk, and crunchy guitars. With her backing band, the Sound Outside, she released two albums, then went solo with 2014’s Slapback. But her latest, Soul Sick, may be her best yet: a set of lean, mean songs that reveal an ongoing battle with her baser urges, an emotional landscape where “the feeling of failing … is freeing.” Her music is blunt and direct, like a fist applied swiftly to your jawline.

Cunningham’s music, by contrast, starts as a gentle caress but ends as a deep scratch — fingernails digging into skin to draw blood. Through a series of EPs and singles, this London-born, Oxford-based musician has established himself as a formidable guitar player and a songwriter with a brutal economy of language. “I’m not here to pick a fight,” he sings on “An Opening,” “but we can, if you like.” Released on the Swedish label Dumont Dumont, his debut album, Lines, is taut and tense, with flourishes of synth and drums that underscore his percussive guitar playing.

Aside from a certain musical violence, Ford and Cunningham happen to share an understanding of music as a fundamentally cathartic endeavor, of songs as vehicles for the kinds of dark secrets you wouldn’t normally admit to a roomful of strangers. Never exactly grim nor simply self-absorbed, they are hyper-confessional lyricists, which means their albums are equally harrowing and relatable. Beyond that, they both come across very differently in conversation than they do in their music: amiable and animated, Cunningham speaking quickly and Ford punctuating her remarks with a piercing laugh.

One of the reasons I wanted to get you two on the phone together is that you’re both incorporating some styles that I don’t hear in a lot of music right now — Sallie with doo-wop and early rock, Charlie with flamenco. Those styles seem integral to your songwriting, rather than just sounds you’re dabbling in.

Sallie Ford: I just like retro music, in general. I grew up listening to a lot of oldies. My parents really liked the Beatles and Aretha Franklin and James Taylor, and we would have dance parties in the living room. [Laughs] So a lot of my music is about nostalgia. If you’re going to be influenced by anything, it has to be something that just calls you. What about you, Charlie?

Charlie Cunningham: First, I want to say well done on your album. There’s so much going on there, especially on that song “Unraveling.” You can definitely hear your soul influences coming through. As for me, I’ve always liked all sorts of music, but particularly acoustic guitar music. I used to listen to a lot of people like John Martyn and Nick Drake and Leonard Cohen — those kinds of people, playing that finger-picking style. I wanted to learn how to do that. I’d run out of tools, as far as playing goes. I went for flamenco because it seemed like the kind of thing I could understand. It sounded alien, but it also sounded somewhat familiar. It sounded very human and relatable. Once I did learn it, I was off. It just took a long time. I don’t know about you, Sallie, but it took me a very long time before I was ready to say, ” Here’s my music, people. This is what I do. This is me singing. This is me playing guitar. That was the biggest hurdle for me.

SF: I grew up playing music, but it always mortified me to perform in front of people. My mom would have to make me. I played classical violin, and she would throw these concerts at her friends’ houses, and I would just die from embarrassment. It took me moving to a new city where no one knew who I was to realize that maybe I actually did like performing. Which is strange, because my whole family are performers. They’re much better than me. My father is a puppeteer, and he would make puppets with us. We lived way out in the boonies, and I was home-schooled. It was a pretty unusual upbringing. What about you?

CC: I was born in London, but I grew up about an hour outside of the city in a bit of country. I say “a bit of country” because you have these cities like London and Birmingham and Northampton, and then you have the bits of country between them. I lived in one of those. There was always music playing in my house, but there weren’t many players in my immediate family. My granddad used to sing. I’ve got lots of brothers and sisters — I’m one of five — and we were always trying to out-sing each other, not with any kind of skill, just in terms of volume. It was mainly a thing I did on my own, really. Music struck me early. I’d watch a lot of MTV, back when it was just one channel, and VH-1, and I stared to get interested in the world of music. We listened to a lot of Stevie Wonder and Elton John and these classic songwriters at a very young age … Why does my answer suddenly seem so much longer than yours?

SF: Ha! I think you’re just good at talking. I tend to clam up.

CC: I don’t think I am. You’re quality over quantity. Anyway, do you feel any relief now that your album is done, or do you feel anxious putting it out there in the world?

SF: I’m really excited. I’ve had a whole year off, and I have a new band, so I’m excited about all that. This will be my fourth album, which is crazy. But one thing I am nervous about is just now realizing how hard it is to be a musician, and I think it’s getting harder with digital downloading. Are you familiar with that really nerdy TV show in the U.S. called Nashville?

CC: No, I don’t know it.

SF: It’s not great. It’s a lot like a soap opera, but the reason I bring it up is because they’re all talking about how musicians are being affected by downloads. The fact that they’re talking about it on a major network television show about pop-country musicians is scary to me. I’m like, “Oh my god, what did I get myself into?” Maybe it’s not as bad in Europe, so I guess I could stop touring the U.S. and just tour over there.

CC: When I was listening to your stuff, there’s definitely this sense of being aware that what will be will be — like in that song “Failure,” when you’re talking about failure being freeing and a fleeting thing. That’s a good way to think about doing music, just knowing not to expect much. It really can be liberating. It does free you up writing-wise, because you don’t have to worry if it will sell. I think live music is one of the only things now that’s actually flourishing, perhaps more than ever, just due to the fact that people have to play gigs and tour to make a living. That’s the only way I can do it. So, in a way, maybe there are some positives, but it’s a bit of a Wild West, at the moment.

SF: I feel like I’ve written my most important album, and it’s just … I’m trying not to think about the past and how it’s been such a struggle. I want to change my way of thinking. I feel like I’ve been doing this long enough that I start to make assumptions about how things are going to go. Maybe that’s just how I am — always preparing for the worst.

CC: Preparing for the worst and hoping for the best.

SF: That is my motto, actually, although I word it slightly differently: No expectations, high hopes.

CC: That’s the only way to be, isn’t it? Because, at the end of the day, it’s the music that’s going to stay forever. That’s not going anywhere. That’s your thing that you’ll look back on and say, “I’m so glad I did that.” And it’s such a good record. I like the guitar sounds. What’s going on with the guitars there? Were those vintage amps?

SF: Yeah. I have tube amps. It’s actually all new equipment, but it’s modeled to sound old. I really dig Fender guitars, especially if you put them on the most trebly sounding pickup. I really love a thin, trebly sound. I love surf music. Actually, when I first learned guitar, my first teacher was trained in flamenco playing. He could do all this fast picking because of that training. He got some of the chops. Here’s a question for you: Do you play solo when you tour, or do you have a band with you?

CC: I’ve been playing solo for the last couple of years, but I’ve got a European tour starting pretty soon and there are going to be a couple of other people on stage with me. It’s still really minimal stuff, just some light percussion and some soft synths underneath to give it a bit of a lift. It’s still fairly simple and calm stuff, nothing too dramatic. I think the only way I was able to play music for the last couple of years was to do it on my own. Otherwise, it’s just too expensive to travel with a group of people. But I could usually say yes to anything because it’s just me and my guitar and a bag. But now I think I could probably justify getting some people on board, so I’m looking forward to traveling with other people for a change.

SF: Sometimes I think I might go back to doing that. I never did it that much. I did open mic nights, when I first started playing. My biggest goal right now is to go to Japan, and I feel like that’s not going to be a money gig. So maybe the next record will be a solo record that lets me tour in Japan.

Why do you want to go to Japan?

SF: I went to Japan when I was 12 because I had a bunch of pen pals. Since I was home-schooled, my parents would let me write to pen pals as part of my homework. So I would spend hours researching the countries they were from, and I was obsessed most of all with Japan. I learned Japanese and had a Japanese teacher, and she took me back with her to Japan to meet some of my pen pals. I’d really like to go back. I find that most Americans are pretty fascinated by Japan. What’s your dream tour, Charlie?

CC: To be honest with you, I really want to tour across the pond in your part of the world. I’ve never played a gig in America, but I’m coming over for the South by Southwest festival in March. Hopefully I can get some other dates during that trip. That would be fantastic. It’s a bit of a dream, but growing up in England, watching the telly and listening to American music, we knew American culture really well over here. So I think it would be interesting to see it and play some gigs over there. I’m just going to go over on my own, not with a band or anything. So, you’re from Portland, right?

SF: I lived here for about 10 years. I moved from this little city in North Carolina called Asheville, which is like a miniature Portland but not as famous. It’s one of the most liberal college towns in the South. Have you heard much about Portland over there?

CC: I’ve been to the States once, and one of the places I went was Portland. I went there and Seattle. I really like Modest Mouse, so I was excited to see the city. I heard this band called Mimicking Bird. Did you ever hear them? I think they’re on the label that Isaac Brock from Modest Mouse runs. It’s really nice music. And Johnny Marr from the Smiths lives in Portland, I think. I’ve seen that program Portlandia, as well, which I love.

SF: So many cool musicians who live here, for sure, but it still feels like a small town. That’s what I like about it. You run into people you know all the time, and most people know each other, especially in the music scene. Most of the time people aren’t very competitive with each other.

CC: A little bit of healthy competition can be okay, but generally you need to be supportive. That sense of community is important. I think that’s why I keep ending up back in Oxford. There’s a sense of community here, and good music. People go to each other’s shows and they keep an eye out for what everybody else is doing. That really helps the creativity and makes you feel involved.

What took you to Oxford?

CC: It’s not a million miles away from where I grew up. Basically, I grew up between Oxford and London, and I ended up studying there — not at Oxford University. I should just clear that up right now. But I did study at a university in Oxford for a little bit. I met a lot of people there, and there’s a big music scene going on there. You’re only an hour away from London, so you can be really involved in that scene, but then you can step out of it and be in this much smaller town. It’s an inspiring place to be. There are lots of people from all over the world in Oxford, because of the university. So you get to meet a lot of different people. And I love a bit of history. It’s nice to walk into town and see all these really old buildings. It’s a clam place to be. When I get home from touring, Oxford is a good base. I’ve lived here for eight or nine years total, but I keep moving away and coming back. Maybe I’ll end up staying a bit longer this time.

SF: I saw something on your Facebook about how you went to Abbey Road. What was that like?

CC: Yes! I went there to master the album. I recorded it in New Cross in south London, and then I did the mastering at Abbey Road. What a great day that was. I was such a Beatles fan when I was growing up, so it was just crazy to be there. You go through the studio and see all these pictures of people who have played there. And it’s everyone. It felt humbling, and I was really trying to be present for it. There’s a lot of stuff that happens and you don’t sit with it properly, but I spent most of that day really trying to take it all in. And they did such a job with the mastering. They really took it to another level, and it was incredible to watch and hear that happen.

Here’s a quick question for you. That song “Get Out,” is that about trying to get songs out of you, trying to get music out of yourself?

SF: I love that interpretation. It’s cool when songs can mean different things to different people. When I wrote it, I was thinking about how I tend to give up pretty easily. If I’m feeling overwhelmed by a situation, my first inclination is to remove myself, especially struggling to do music. It’s overwhelming, and I tend to give up on things too quickly. I’ll take some new class or try some new hobby and, before I even start, its like, “Oh no, I’m already over this.” You can’t do that before you’ve even started. You can’t be the best at something as you’re learning to do it.

I recently took this weird circus class, and I had this competitive feeling, like I want to be really good at it. But it was so hard and I struggled so much that I swore in front of the whole class. They were trying to get me to hang upside down, and I finally went, Screw this!” It was the very first class. I made the mistake of going with my friend who was really good at it. I was jealous.

CC: At least you went to the class. Some people might not even try. I think that’s admirable.

SF: I started doing hip-hop dancing a few years ago. I was pretty bad, but it was so much fun that it kept me coming back. I would never do it in front of anyone, but there’s so much about it that I love. It shuts your mind off. Everybody talks about yoga shutting your mind off, but for me, it’s dancing.

CC: I used to dance a lot more than I do now. I need to dance more. I used to enjoy going to clubs and dancing, but when I got older, I got more self-conscious. Maybe that’s something to fix. Maybe when I’m in Austin, I should have too much to drink and end up dancing somewhere. Note to self …


Sallie Ford photo by Kim Smith-Miller. Charlie Cunningham photo by Louisa Stickelbruck.

Derek Hoke, ‘Trouble in Mind’

If you live in Nashville — specifically East Nashville — then Derek Hoke is your eminent host, with his weekly $2 Tuesdays event at the 5 Spot serving as your best bet to catch a smartly curated collection of emerging talent, drink cheap beers, or make an unexpected musical discovery. (Usually, it's all of those things.) But he doesn't just throw the party; he makes its soundtrack, too. Hoke appears on stage most Tuesdays, where he works through a catalogue of songs that shudder, shake, and groove with the steely composition — and slick propriety — of boogie-woogie kings like Roy Orbison. There's a classic touch and reverence for the dying rock 'n' roll tradition of occasionally keeping it clean — crisp lyrics, tight production unmarred by fuzz, tasteful riffs, and unwrinkled blazers — with an emphasis on putting the grit where it belongs. And that's in a dirty guitar vamp or wail of the harmonica.

Nowhere is this tactic more apparent than on "Trouble in Mind," off of his new third album, Southern Moon. With mouth harp courtesy of Willie Nelson's right-hand man, Mickey Raphael, the song slinks in with a bluesy roll that Hoke's smooth vocal croons right over. Like the Black Keys on "Howlin' for You," Hoke knows the power of a good Lightnin' Hopkins-era riff sidelined by a thumping drumbeat to propel a song straight to both the balls of the foot and the gut.

"I feel it down in my soul, into my heart, out of my head, I'm always thinking of you," Hoke sings. He's got trouble in mind, alright, but it's the music itself that hints at just what kind of mischievous behavior he might be after.

Eddie Cochran: The Original Rock Guitar Hero

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.