Tag: Sam Bush

The String – String Band Special (Wes Corbett, Jeff Picker, and Andrew Marlin)

Posted on by Chris Jacobs

Bluegrass has an instrumental tradition going back to its Bill Monroe origins and its old-time forebears. Over time, the playing and composing became more refined and exploratory.


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This show features three young masters of contemporary acoustic music who’ve released all-instrumental albums in recent months. I speak with Wes Corbett, banjo player currently with the Sam Bush Band, Jeff Picker, bass player for Ricky Skaggs and Kentucky Thunder, and Andrew Marlin, half of the married duo Mandolin Orange. They talk about their new recordings and about the path that led them to write and record without words.

 

The String Cheese Incident Salute Tony Rice on This ‘Manzanita’ Favorite

Posted on by Editor

The amount of love and respect that has poured out of the music community around the country and the globe for the loss of Tony Rice has been breathtaking to say the least. The breadth of Rice’s legacy cannot be understated as he pioneered not only the guitar’s role in a bluegrass band, but also created a new sound previously unexplored by acoustic musicians. A seminal flatpicker, his touch, timing, and taste are unmatched to this day, and there’s the separate matter of his beautifully rich voice. Here at BGS, we’ve shared Tony Rice memories and stories from the likes of Ricky Skaggs, Todd Phillips & Robbie Fulks, Sam Bush, Jerry Douglas, and David Grisman, and many others.

The latest contributors to our collective debt of gratitude to Tony is the String Cheese Incident, collaborating virtually to cover “Old Train,” the lead track on what many consider his magnum opus, Manzanita. The String Cheese Incident is known for being a genre-bending group, but founding member Bill Nershi had this to say about their bluegrass roots and Rice’s artistry: “Tony Rice’s guitar playing shaped a generation of musicians. His impeccable tone, taste, and timing were unmatched and highly regarded by players and listeners alike. We are very fortunate to have so many great recordings of his life’s work. If you haven’t had the pleasure of hearing him perform, check out The Tony Rice Unit and David Grisman Quintet albums. I recommend you start with Manzanita. We’ll never forget you, Tony!”

Watch the String Cheese Incident perform “Old Train:”

Photo credit: Scott McCormick

‘O Brother, Where Art Thou?’ Created an Instant Audience for Old-Time Music

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The O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack, which was just starting to pick up momentum twenty years ago this winter, was both a forethought and an afterthought. The Coen Brothers had an idea for a film and even a title borrowed from Preston Sturges’ 1940 comedy, Sullivan’s Travels, but no screenplay. They commissioned T Bone Burnett to assemble a sprawling playlist of old-time music for them to use as writing prompts — original recordings from the first half of the twentieth century as well as new recordings of old songs. He gathered some of the finest vocalists and players, including Emmylou Harris, Gillian Welch, Alison Krauss, and members of Union Station, as well as Norman Blake, Sam Bush, and John Hartford. In various combinations they produced around sixty tracks covering hillbilly plaints, gospel numbers, Protestant hymns, children’s songs, labor songs, even prison songs.

From that pool the Coens selected a handful of tracks that served as the skeleton for their screenplay, which became a Deep South retelling of The Odyssey. As three yokel chain-gang fugitives wander the backwoods and cotton fields and gravel roads of Depression-era Mississippi, they inadvertently become country stars thanks to a hasty version of “Man of Constant Sorrow,” originally recorded in 1917 by Dick Burnett and re-recorded for the film by Dan Tyminski. Along the way they encounter a parade of white-clad Christians singing “Down to the River to Pray,” a blues singer who regales them with a campfire rendition of Skip James’ “Hard Time Killing Floor,” and a KKK klavern performing a Busby Berkley routine in white sheets and hoods.

Whittled down to eighteen tracks, the soundtrack hit stores just a few weeks before the film, and it seemed designed to stand alone as an upscale release. As Luke Lewis, formerly chairman/CEO of Universal Nashville, told Billboard in 2015: “When we were putting it together, a bunch of us said, ‘This is probably going to be a coffee table kind of a CD, where people will leave it around and be proud to have it.’ That turned out to be pretty much true… A lot of people that don’t buy records at all, or buy one a year, bought that record.”

Still, no one figured it would sell any more copies than your typical soundtrack, and certainly no one predicted it would so completely eclipse the film. Its success has been astounding: It has sold nearly 9 million copies, hung around the upper reaches of the Billboard Top 200 for several years, won the Grammy for Album of the Year (beating out Bob Dylan and Outkast, among others), spun off a sequel, inspired a series of tours and live albums, and redefined a massive market for traditional music in America.

Twenty years later, the gulf separating film and soundtrack remains remarkably wide. The former is glib to the point of nihilism, as though every line of dialogue and every camera angle is surrounded by quote marks. The soundtrack, by contrast, is sincere to the point of evangelism, as though these old songs were pieces of secular scripture. The music plays everything straight, while the film can’t keep a straight face. The soundtrack became a phenomenon, while the film sits in the lower tiers of its auteurs’ sprawling catalog.

Both are products of a very particular time: They were released during that short window between two defining events — the hand-wringing spectacle of Y2K and the horrific televised tragedy of 9/11. With the benefit of twenty years’ hindsight, they represent a pop-cultural pivot from the irony that defined the 1990s and much of the Coens’ output to the “New Sincerity” that defined the 2000s.

Why did this niche soundtrack become such a massive hit? Some have credited the popularity of O Brother to fin de siècle jitters and a desire to return to a rosier, more comfortable American past (never mind that the past, especially the 1930s, was never rosy or comfortable). Others have chalked it up to a rejection of the late ’90s pop music excess embodied by Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys.

Perhaps the best reason for its success is also the most obvious: This is a good album, and an accessible one. It’s a well-curated tour through old-time music, a sampler of rural American traditions that serves as a primer on the subject without sounding like a textbook. All of these different styles are presented with an eloquence that is homespun yet modern: a balance that highlights rather than dampens their charms.

Burnett puts such an emphasis on the human voice that even the instrumental tracks sound a cappella. He wants you to hear the exquisite grain in the voices of Emmylou Harris, Gillian Welch, and Alison Krauss on “Didn’t Leave Nobody But the Baby” as well as the weight pressing on Chris Thomas King as he moans through “Hard Time Killing Floor.” Curiously, Dr. Ralph Stanley had to convince the producer to let him sing “Oh Death” without banjo, which was absolutely the right call. His voice is high and keening, a serious a death, shaken by the very subject he’s singing about.

If there’s a breakout song on O Brother — something resembling a hit — it was this very intense performance, which remains one of the finest renditions of this very odd and oft-covered song. Stanley was 73 years old when the album was released, had been playing since 1946, and was already celebrated as one of the fathers of bluegrass, but O Brother gave his career a considerable boost, introducing him to a significantly wider audience. (That said, it always struck me as deeply disrespectful that the Coens have a Klansman lip-synching Stanley’s performance in the film, as though they feared the words might actually mean something.)

Stanley performed the song a cappella at the 2002 Grammys — imagine anything a cappella at such a glitz-bound ceremony — not long before the soundtrack won Album of the Year. It might have been the climax of the soundtrack’s shelf life, but it kept selling and kept selling. It created an instant audience for old-time music, and upstart string-bands found themselves with readymade audiences, many of them shouting “Man of Constant Sorrow” the way they once might have yelled “Free Bird!” Every artist on the album got a boost, especially Alison Krauss & Union Station, who crossed over from bluegrass to pop and launched a series of hit records with the aptly titled New Favorite in August 2001. Similarly, Welch, Harris, and even Stanley enjoyed boosts in album and ticket sales in the wake of O Brother.

As with any sweeping change, there are new opportunities as well as new losses. The alt-country acts of the 1990s had already lost much of their luster, but roots suddenly had no room for punk anymore. Gone were the dark, twangy experiments like Daniel Lanois’s Americana trilogy — Harris’ Wrecking Ball in 1996, followed by Bob Dylan’s Time Out of Mind the next year and Willie Nelson’s Teatro the year after that. All three proved that roots music could accommodate new sounds, that it could look to the future without completely letting go of the past, and all three stand among the best entries in their artists’ remarkable catalogs.

But O Brother seemed to wipe most of those new avenues away, turning roots music into something largely acoustic, uniform, polite, conservative — beholden to the past and largely dismissive of the present. Watching certain acts riding that wave was like watching Civil War reenactors march on a makeshift battlefield, and ten years later groups like Mumford & Sons and the Lumineers were using roots music to sell arena-size sentiments.

Another aspect of old-time lost in the O Brother wave: politics. Previous folk revivals had a populist bent, extolling the music as the sound of the people and as an expression of a specifically American community. Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger were branded subversives and communists, while Dylan and his early ‘60s cohort found radical possibilities in Harry Smith’s legendary Anthology of American Folk Music. But no one on O Brother is in any danger of being branded a pinko. The film itself nods to issues of race and class, but without really commenting on them in any serious or specific way. The soundtrack, by contrast, foregrounds songs about yearning, about breaking free of turmoil and hardship to find peace and contentment. Often that can be humorous, as on Harry McClintock’s fantastical “Big Rock Candy Mountain,” but more often it’s poignant, as on Krauss and Welch’s “I’ll Fly Away.” It’s a collection more concerned with needs of the spirit than of the flesh, so any earthly implications are largely ignored.

The roots market that sprang up in the soundtrack’s wake was consequently blanched of anything resembling social commentary, despite there being so much to comment on. That wave of bands might have provided a counterpart to the entrenched political conservatism that defined mainstream country music of the early 2000s, but instead it offered merely escapism.

A few artists did manage to question this rosy thinking about the past, in particular the Carolina Chocolate Drops. They traced strains of Black influence, craft, and contribution to old-time music, which is generally considered to be white, and therefore expanded its historical scope and current impact. As players, however, they injected their songs with no small amount of joy, as though taking great delight in what these old forms allowed them to express. The group’s three primary players — Dom Flemons, Rhiannon Giddens, and Justin Robinson — have carried that particular balance into their solo careers.

Any of the soundtrack’s shortcomings weren’t the fault of the musicians, who play and sing these songs much more beautifully and sympathetically than the film ever demanded. Nor is it the fault of the songs themselves, which obviously spoke to people as clearly in 2001 as they did in 1937. And it continues to speak loudly in 2021: The coffee table product wasn’t designed to bear the burden of the market it created, but the songs still inspire subsequent generations well into a new century, with its own tribulations and hardships.

 

Sam Bush, Jerry Douglas, David Grisman – Toy Heart: Remembering Tony Rice

Posted on by Chris Jacobs

Host Tom Power speaks with Sam Bush, Jerry Douglas, and David Grisman about their old friend and bandmate Tony Rice, in the first edition of our special tribute, Toy Heart: Remembering Tony Rice.

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Critically acclaimed bluegrass podcast Toy Heart returns with a special, limited series, Toy Heart: Remembering Tony Rice. In the first installment of three, host Tom Power (CBC’s q) interviews Jerry Douglas, Sam Bush, and David Grisman, each lifelong friends and collaborators with Rice, who passed away unexpectedly on Christmas day. This extra-length episode includes reminiscing, storytelling, and remembrances of the flatpicking legend and Bluegrass Hall of Famer who not only blazed an innovative, often jaw-dropping trail in bluegrass – and all of American roots music – with his technical prowess, but also left a limitless musical legacy with his warm-honey voice, his tender songwriting, and his uncanny ability to inhabit each and every note he emitted, each and every stroke of his pick.

We hope you enjoy the first in this trio of episodes, Power’s and Toy Heart’s humble attempt to pay homage to a towering figure in bluegrass.

Editor’s note: Heart part two of our special tribute to Tony Rice here

 

BGS 5+5: Danny Burns

Posted on by Editor

Artist: Danny Burns
Hometown: New Orleans, Louisiana
Single: “Trouble” featuring Dan Tyminski, Aubrie Sellers & Jerry Douglas
Album: Hurricane (coming in early 2021)
Nickname: Danny Burns Band / The Red Buck

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

Jammin’ with Sam Bush Band at the Birchmere would have to be my favorite stage moment.

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

I would say that film definitely does. When I’m writing, I try to see songs like movies, and concept helps me craft the story. It also helps me make production choices later with instrumentation or arrangements.

What was the first moment that you knew you wanted to be a musician?

After my first paid gig. Ha! Nah kidding around, I think after hearing Willie Nelson for the first time.

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

One of my favorite restaurants is La Boca Steakhouse in New Orleans. Hanging with Sturgill and talking Cuttin’ Grass could make for an interesting Monday night in The Crescent City.

If you had to write a mission statement for your career, what would it be?

Keep working, keep learning, keep trying new things, don’t listen or surround yourself by any negative people and never miss an opportunity stop at the Rainforest Cafe at Opry Mills to scare your daughters with that darn hippopotamus. It gets them every time!

Photo credit: Jacob Blickenstaff

Shaped by Blues and Country, Shemekia Copeland Launches ‘Uncivil War’ (Part 1 of 2)

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At just 41 years old, Shemekia Copeland is already an established multi-decade blues veteran. That’s what happens when you start performing as a pre-teen with your blues legend father Johnny Clyde Copeland and make your recorded debut at 18. As one of the primary hosts on SiriusXM’s BB King’s Bluesville channel, she’s also one of the genre’s highest-profile artists. A recent series of albums have both underlined Copeland as a star of the blues and pushed her beyond the walls of the genre, further into Americana and socially conscious commentary.

Her latest, Uncivil War, is another bold step forward. Recorded in Nashville with producer Will Kimbrough, the album features a wide range of guest performers, including Jason Isbell, Christone “Kingfish” Ingram, Steve Cropper, Duane Eddy, Webb Wilder and bluegrass legends Sam Bush and Jerry Douglas. She pushes boundaries not just with the instrumentation but the topics she covers, including “Clotilda’s on Fire,” which tells the story of the last slave ship to come to the U.S., and the title track, “Uncivil War,” is a plea for healing in our increasingly divided nation.

“Americana was not on my radar, but I grew up listening to country music because my dad grew up in Texas and loved it,” Copeland tells BGS. “I’d walk around the house singing Patsy Cline and Hank Williams songs that my dad loved, but I hadn’t really even heard anything about the blend of country and roots music until a few years ago, so I think it’s kind of hilarious that people are saying I’m crossing over to Americana. But I welcome all listeners!”

Editor’s Note: Read the second half of our interview with Shemekia Copeland here.

BGS: Over the past few albums, you’ve really stretched out musically and part of that is working with a wide range of musicians, many from outside the blues world. Let’s talk about a few of them on the new record, starting with two bluegrass greats, Sam Bush and Jerry Douglas.

SC: Oh my gosh! They are just really talented guys who make anything better. I just love those guys! I think my favorite part about them is that they exemplify something I love about Nashville: nobody cares about genre. It’s all about just whether or not it’s a good song and whether they want to play on it. And that’s it.

You think that’s notably different than other places? Do you find that not to be the case in New York or Chicago, for instance?

I have to say yes to that. I think it’s different in Nashville. People just want to play music. Down there, nobody ever even asks, “How much does it pay?” They’re just like, “What time do I need to show up?” It’s really about the music and Will Kimbrough, who produced the last two records, knows everyone in town and has played with most of them.

Jason Isbell is another great guest on this album and plays a great solo on “Clotilda’s on Fire.”

Yes, that one was a little different. We did a show at the Grand Ole Opry together, so Jason knew who I was when Will called and asked him to play on this song, and he was ready to do it. “Clotilda’s on Fire” is about the slave ship that they found off the coast of Alabama, and he’s from Alabama and we wanted him to play lead guitar on it. It just felt natural. It’s amazing how organically these things happen.

That song is really powerful and it’s just one of several very topical tunes on this record. That’s something different that you’ve really established. The first four songs are not about personal things like heartbreak, but heavy topics addressed in interesting ways. You have “Clotilda’s on Fire,” about the last slave ship; “Walk Until I Ride,” a modern-day Civil Rights anthem; and “Uncivil War” and “Money Makes You Ugly,” whose titles speak for themselves. Did you make a very conscious decision to do this?

Absolutely! I’ve been doing it for several records now. And I think the more confident I get, the better I get at it, and the more comfortable I get with saying what’s on my mind. Like on America’s Child, I did “Would You Take My Blood?” which was the first time I ever tackled a song about racism. On previous records, I did songs about domestic violence, date rape, things like that. But it feels more imperative than ever with everything that’s going on in this country now — and this was before COVID-19. This record was finished when all of this crap happened.

I was struck by the story about the Clotilda ever since the ship was found off the coast of Alabama. My ancestors came over here on one of those ships. I did my DNA and I’m 87 percent African, so I was very interested in that story. I wanted people to know about it and, more importantly, to understand why it still matters so much. The line in that song that’s one of the most important to me is “We’re still living with her ghost.” I want people to know that it hasn’t ended, that we’re still going through the same stuff and it’s very, very saddening. Heartbreaking, really.

Have you had any backlash to being more outspoken?

Oh, of course.

Do you care?

Not at all. You can’t satisfy everyone. The one thing that I’ve learned in my career is you’re going to piss somebody off. Not everybody’s gonna be happy with you. It’s just that simple, and it’s okay. Nobody wants their difficult history dredged up and put out in front of their face, but I’m good as long as I can look at myself in the mirror every day and be happy with myself.

Amidst all the great new original songs is a cool cover of The Rolling Stones’ “Under My Thumb.” How did you choose that one?

Doing that song was, for me, turning the tables on men. In fact, I actually hate it as a Stones song. I don’t want a man talking about a woman in that way — but it’s a great song! I don’t want to think of a woman being under anyone’s thumb, so the tables were turned… but one critic listened to it and said, “She’s talking about Black women being oppressed in this country.” I thought, “They’re making me sound so smart!” Same thing with “No Heart at All,” which a lot of people have read a lot into and interpreted as being about the president. Okay, but that goes for anyone who doesn’t have one.

That’s interesting about “Under My Thumb.” There’s a power to a woman flipping a song as Aretha did with Otis Redding’s “Respect.” That’s a completely different song sung from a woman’s perspective.

Yeah, to me, a guy singing that is just not right. Doesn’t work. Like, I couldn’t do some standard songs, as much as I love them. I would never want to sing things like “I’d Rather Go Blind” because, shit, I don’t want to go blind. You want to go? Get to steppin’! I don’t need you here. You know what I mean? It’s like this great love song but it leaves me saying, screw that. Peace out.

And you’d never think of Etta James as a pushover in any way! You were close with Koko Taylor, who turned some songs around as well.

She did! “I’m a Woman” was her turning the tables on men. I was devastated when we lost her [in 2009] because she always checked on me. She was so worried about me being in this business because of what she went through with her musicians and managers. Meanwhile, I’m out on the road with all these square guys that only drink herbal tea and don’t even smoke cigarettes. This was not her experience at all! I don’t think that she realized that it was just a different time. She had managers stealing money and disappearing into crack dens. She went through some stuff and wanted to make sure that I could avoid them.

You have a very interesting relationship with your manager, John Hahn, who is also your primary songwriter. How did that develop?

I met John when I was 8 years old. When my friends came around, I’d say, “This is Mr. John Hahn and he’s my manager.” Really, he was working with my father and I was just a little kid talking shit. But when I was about 12, he wrote me a song called “Daddy’s Little Girl” for fun. I started to go sit in with my dad. Now fast forward 33 years or so, and John and I talk every day on the phone, about everything. Having someone who knows me so well write songs is like having a tailor make you a suit. These songs are tailor-made to me, and I’m very fortunate to have that.

Your father was a great songwriter who wrote simple but profound lyrics that really resonated with me. Obviously you agree because almost every album you do one of his tunes, this time “Love Song.”

Yes, thank you! People have suggested I could do a whole record of my daddy’s songs, but this is my subtle way of doing it. I’ve already done ten of them. And, I got to tell you, I do believe that my little boy Johnny is my father reincarnated. He acts just like him. He’s three-and-a-half years old, and is so damn sure of himself. This kid knows who he is. He is arrogant in his confidence, and I always felt my father to be that way. Kind and sweet, but definitely sure of himself. You couldn’t tell him who he was, because he knew. And this little boy is all that and a bag of chips. By the way, my dad knew that I was going to be a singer the second that I came out of the womb.

That’s amazing. How?

I don’t know, but he told my mother when she was holding me in her arms, “She’s going to be a singer.”

And you always feel that way?

No! I did not have the confidence to be a singer. I never wanted to be in front of people. Audiences scared me. I’d always ask my dad how he could get up there in front of all those people and perform. That was always a problem for me.

But you did it from such a young age. I saw you when you were about 12!

I did, but I never was comfortable with it. And it’s now my favorite part. The music business sucks, but performing in front of people is the most amazing feeling in the world. That didn’t come to me until I got older, and became more confident in myself. I had to grow up. Eventually I realized this is who I am.

When was that? You put out your first record at 19.

It’s gotten better over the years. You’re always a work in progress. I started out as a child, and a certain confidence comes in when you’ve been doing it a couple of decades! You never ever stop paying your dues, but I’ve now accepted me wholeheartedly.

(Editor’s Note: Read the second half of our interview with Shemekia Copeland here.)

Photo credit: Mike White

Artist of the Month: Shemekia Copeland

Posted on by Editor

When it comes to modern blues, Shemekia Copeland is at the top of her game. Uncivil War, her newest release on Alligator Records, offers a number of topical songs, ranging from gun rights (“Apple Pie and a .45”) to LGBT affirmation (“She Don’t Wear Pink”). Yet as the album progresses, she delivers a few straight-up blues songs like “No Heart at All” and “In the Dark” that could have fallen anywhere in her decades-long career — or found a home with the generation of blues artists that inspired her. Throughout, her voice is strong, drawing you in to hear firsthand what’s on her mind.

Recorded in Nashville with producer Will Kimbrough, Uncivil War gives Copeland a chance to clearly speak her truth. From the historical narrative of “Clotilda’s on Fire” (with an electrifying guitar solo from Jason Isbell) to the philosophical title track (which features acoustic all-stars Sam Bush and Jerry Douglas), Copeland consistently comes across as persuasive, but not abrasive. The message of one of the album’s finest moments, “Walk Until I Ride,” is indeed empowering — but the fact that she needs to walk in the first place is not lost on the listener.

“You know, being angry doesn’t do us any justice,” Copeland told NPR in October. “I spent my time being angry and pissed off and mad about it. But at the end of the day, you know, that just doesn’t help anything.” That determination to channel her emotions into her music paid off in 2019 as she picked up multiple wins in the Blues Music Awards and Living Blues Critic’s Poll on the strength of her prior release, America’s Child. Since 2000, three of her albums have also received Grammy nominations.

In the weeks ahead, BGS will feature a two-part interview with Shemekia Copeland, where she reflects on the influence of her blues musician father, Texas legend Johnny Copeland, as well as the statement she’s making with Uncivil War. (Read part one here. Read part two here.) Author and journalist Alan Paul, who conducted these interviews, also provides us with the BGS Essentials playlist for November Artist of the Month, Shemekia Copeland.

Photo credit: Mike White

BGS 5+5: The Band of Heathens

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Artist: Ed Jurdi of The Band of Heathens
Hometown: Asheville, North Carolina; band’s hometown is Austin, Texas
Latest album: Stranger
Band Nicknames: The Hand of Beathens

What’s your favorite memory from being on stage?

At the Americana Awards a few years back. I remember being on stage at the Ryman Auditorium and looking around and realizing that I was performing with a bunch of my heroes. Delbert McClinton, Emmylou Harris, John Hiatt and Sam Bush, to name just a few. It truly was a full circle moment for sure.

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

In short they all do. I have always been in awe of painters who can really create a world with their colors and imagery. I find myself being really inspired by the impressionistic painters and the way they use light to offer a unique and different perspective on things that can be somewhat mundane.

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

I don’t have any real set rituals, but I generally like to hang around the gig and sing some songs either by myself, or with whoever else is hanging out. It’s a good way to warm up and it’s a fun way to get the group vibes in a positive space.

If you had to write a mission statement for your career, what would it be?

Follow the muse. Lead with your art and expression and figure out how to make the business part of the career work in service of the creativity. I can happily say that has always been the case.

Which elements of nature do you spend the most time with and how do those impact your work?

I live in Asheville, North Carolina, so I spend the most time in the mountains and the forests that surround us. I love being able to hike way out into the woods and find a vista where I can see both the great scope of things, but also hear the rustling of the leaves and the wind blowing through the tops of the trees. In those moments of solitude I find my mind is incredibly clear and clean, which is almost always when ideas begin to present themselves almost out of nowhere.

Photo credit: Jason Quigley

The String – New Grass Revival

Posted on by Chris Jacobs

New Grass Revival showed the world new ways of playing and thinking about bluegrass music between 1972 and 1989.


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Founded and led by fiddler, mandolinist and singer Sam Bush, two different lineups reached new audiences, interpreted and wrote important repertoire and ushered in today’s modern and very popular jamgrass scene. The String talks with Bush and the rest of the 1980s lineup, banjo player Bela Fleck, singer and bass player John Cowan and singer, guitarist Pat Flynn in a special episode on the even of NGR’s induction into the Bluegrass Hall of Fame.

New Grass Revival: Four Members Look Back on Their ’80s Albums (Part 2 of 2)

Posted on by Editor

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.

(Editor’s note: Read part one of our New Grass Revival Bluegrass 75 feature.)