Tag: Sam Phillips

Basic Folk – Sam Phillips

Posted on by Shelby Williamson

Sam Phillips was born to a family that loved doling out nicknames. She was called “Sam” growing up in a house that was filled with readers. She nurtured her love of philosophy and spirituality by exploring different religions and devouring works by authors like C.S. Lewis and Thomas Merton. Early in her career, she found success as a Christian musician under her real name: Leslie Phillips. She made several albums, but became uncomfortable with her label marketing her as “the Christian Cyndi Lauper.” She also had a desire to write songs that didn’t reinforce people’s religious beliefs. For her final Leslie Phillips album, she worked with future spouse/ex-spouse, T-Bone Burnett, “a fellow Christian with a maverick approach to songs about faith and morality,” and found a kindred spirit. She decided to rebrand and start recording as Sam Phillips. Sam and T-Bone worked together from 1988’s The Indescribable Wow to 2004’s A Boot and a Shoe.

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In our conversation, we talk about Sam’s writing process, which she is always changing up. She comes up with her best ideas when she “turns off the trying part of her brain,” but at the same time, she strongly believes in the power of editing. Sam’s probably best known for composing and performing the score for the beloved Amy Sherman-Palladino series Gilmore Girls, for which she also made a brief appearance on the season finale in 2006. You remember those “La la la’s” while Lorelei and Rory carried around their armpit purses, and drank coffee while wearing those horrible boot cut jeans? That was Sam Phillips! Currently, Sam is working on a new album and she’s taking her time, so don’t rush her, OK?

Photo Credit: Eric Gorfain

The String – Peter Guralnick

Posted on by Chris Jacobs

Journalist and author Peter Guralnick is regarded by many as America’s premiere chronicler of roots music. Besides his influential profiles, compiled into classic volumes in the 1970s and 80s, he wrote magisterial biographies of Elvis Presley, Sam Cooke and Sam Phillips.


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His newest collection, Looking To Get Lost: Adventures In Music And Writing, revisits some of his longtime subjects and adds some important new ones in a work that reveals more about the writer himself than anything he’s published so far. Peter is a literary hero of mine, so this was an exciting conversation.

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

At Your Service: A Conversation With Nicki Bluhm

Posted on by Editor

Nicki Bluhm is venturing out on her own with her newly-released solo album, To Rise You Gotta Fall. The aptly titled album chronicles her life since her split from her husband and musical collaborator, Tim Bluhm, and subsequent departure from the Gramblers two years ago. Seeking a change of scenery and a new challenge, the lifelong California resident acted on impulse and made a cross-country move to Nashville in 2017.

To Rise You Gotta Fall, produced by Matt Ross-Spang (Jason Isbell, Margo Price), features a collaboration with Ryan Adams (“Battlechain Rose”), as well as a Dan Penn cover (“I Hate You”). It was recorded in the legendary Sam Phillips Recording studio in Memphis and captures the raw emotion she poured into her writing over the two-year period. Each song is a different phase in a process of grieving and letting go — a testament that sometimes something beautiful comes out of our darkest times.

When you’re paying homage to that Memphis sound, you get something that’s tinged with nostalgia, but also totally its own and new. Did recording at Sam Phillips Recording play into that sound?

Yeah, I think so, for sure. Matt Ross-Spang produced the record and he’s a Memphian. He basically started working at Sun Records when he was a teenager. His parents got him a session for his birthday to record there. He quickly realized that he wanted to be on the other side of the experience, in the control room, and he started working at Sun as a young teenager.

Then when they started to understand his commitment and passion, and love of that era, and all of the gear that they were using at that time, the people at Sun were like, “Well, we’ve got Sam Phillips Recording Service.” which Sam built in 1958. It has really been left untouched. I mean, it looks the same. All of the decor is the same, everything short of the cigarette butts in Sam Phillips’ office. Sam’s office is exactly the same. So Matt has really been like a steward of reviving Sam Phillips.

How did that factor into you working together?

His love of that era of music is very pure and real. We have so much overlap of the things that we love in music. From my first meeting with him, I knew that we were going to agree on a lot sonically, and also pull inspiration from similar places. One of the records that he sent me to listen to was a Bobby Charles record, which, unbeknownst to him, is one of my favorite records. It’s just like, “Okay, we have a lot of commonality.”

Your record was all done analog, too, right?

Yep. We did it all to tape. We recorded it live and we tracked, I think, everything in five days. At the time, I didn’t really think – I thought that the band would get the songs and I would sing scratch. But I realized I had never met the band before. I entrusted Matt to choose the players and he did a spectacular job. I was beyond happy with the guys who played on the record but I hadn’t met a single one of them. They really hadn’t heard any of the demos either. Maybe Matt had shared the demos with them but it was really day-of stuff.

I realized really quickly that I was going to have to sing for real, because I needed to show them where I wanted the energy and where I wanted the arc of the song. It was a really cool experience. I had a straight sight line to all of them. Particularly Ken Coomer on drums. There was a realness to it. That was really inspiring. It made me fall back into that time where I knew I wasn’t going to, nor did I want to, overanalyze or bring out the microscope. I just wanted to capture the moment, and not get in my head about all the small details and nitpick stuff. So it was a great space, and a great group of people to make that happen.

Obviously, you’re a songwriter, so all songs are personal in some sense, but these are especially personal. Is there ever a fear when you’re writing that something is too personal? Or is it more of a relief that those thoughts and feelings are going to be out there for people to relate to?

Totally. It’s super vulnerable. I felt like I didn’t really have a choice. I tried not to be cruel, but I had to speak my truth, and that was important to me. I didn’t have the opportunity to have a lot of closure or conversations towards the end of this relationship that ended. So this was kind of my way of getting through that, and coming to terms with it, and getting those ruminating thoughts out of my mind, because I knew the toxicity of keeping them in. You have to allow those feelings to happen, you know?

Definitely.

They’re going to happen. And I felt like this was a healthy way for me to move through it. Now, singing them on the stage in front of a bunch of people — I’ve had to do that for the last six months by myself, because I’ve been on these solo tours, and I have solo tours opening for Lukas Nelson, and Josh Ritter, and just recently, the Wood Brothers. I’ve definitely felt what that was going to feel like.

Is it more difficult to do it in a live setting?

It was super vulnerable but at this point it’s almost like a service. It sounds weird but it’s almost like a service I’m providing because we all go through this stuff. For me, music has gotten me through so many hard times. It is comforting to know you’re not the only person that’s suffering and struggling.

While it’s really vulnerable and scary to get up and voice that in front of strangers, it’s really inspiring and comforting when, after the show, I go to the merch table, like I do every night, and people come up with tears in their eyes because they’re going through something similar. Or something has helped them.

For sure. One of the songs on the album that got my attention, and I think it’s because there’s such a cool juxtaposition, was “I Hate You.” It’s not what you expect it to be.

It’s a fantastic song. I didn’t write that. I wish I did. But it’s so good.

Your vocal on it is fantastic because it’s just so raw. But then, you’ve got that Hammond organ in the background, and it reminds me of walking into a Southern Baptist church or something. There’s such a cool contrast there, and that it could be such a melancholy kind of song, but it’s got this odd optimism behind it, too.

It’s interesting because there were definitely many conversations over that song between the creative and the business roles within my camp. The business side was like, “Oh, this is really harsh. This is really harsh language.” And from the creative side, we were like, “You’ve got to listen closer.”

It sounds at first listen like it’s scathing, and by the title, you might think that. But it’s not. It was written by a guy named Dan Penn. When I got together with Matt, he suggested we put a cover on the record. I was like, “Well, if we’re going to do that, I want to pay homage to Memphis. I want to do something that is of that area.” Matt is obsessed with Dan Penn. I heard that song, and I was like, “Wow. That’s it.” So we recorded it, and a month later, I was at my friend AJ Croce’s album release show, which turns out Dan Penn produced, and Dan Penn was there.

So I was introduced to Dan Penn and his wife, and my friend was like, “Dan, I want you to meet Nicki. She just put your song, ‘I Hate You,’ on her record.” His wife’s face just lit up and she was like, “I love that song so much.” She goes, “It sounds mean but he said, ‘I’m trying to hate you.’ And I should know, because that song’s about me.”

It was just so cute, and such an amazing moment to have recorded that song — and to meet the very person who it was written about, and written by. It was this really amazing, full-circle Tennessee moment for me. It’s true. Emotions aren’t always straightforward. You can love someone and hate them at the same time, and that’s confusing. Human emotions are very complex. I think that song does a great job of displaying that in a really simple way. But you have to be open to hearing that juxtaposition.

The first thing that struck me listening to the title track was that it’s probably not one of the first ones you wrote. Was that one that came toward the end?

It did. I had moved out. I had moved into what I call my healing nest, which was this amazing studio in Sausalito, California, owned by my dear friend. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Sausalito but it’s beautiful and it’s on the water. I had this gorgeous view from where I lived, and it was just me and my cat. I was really feeling the support of my girlfriends and my family.

I had come out of such a dark place. Again, not that I didn’t return back to that dark place after I wrote that song, but it was definitely a respite in time, or a part of that process where I saw some blue sky, which was a huge relief. When you’re deep in it, any relief from that darkness is so welcomed, and for me, that song was a gift because it just made me feel better. I remember the day I wrote it. I was literally smoking a joint on my deck with my cat, and I got into that groove, and it just happened. It was one of those songs that happened quickly, and it just made me feel good.

This is a record that a lot of people could pull off the shelf and use it to make themselves feel better about anything they’re going through. What are some albums that you pull out when you’re going through a hard time?

Oh, well always Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark, because I love her. Talk about articulating feelings and situations and scenes. She is a master of that. And then, I will just go and binge on J.J. Cale. I’ll listen to J.J. Cale for like a month straight. I love Stan Getz. I love a lot of jazz. I don’t know if it makes me feel close to my dad. But like, you know, a glass of white wine and some Coltrane or Getz, or something like that, always makes me feel relaxed and good. I mean, the list just goes on and on.

Photo credit: Noah Adams

The Producers: Tamara Saviano

Posted on by Editor

Tamara Saviano admits she might have beginner’s luck. In 2001, she won a Grammy for Beautiful Dreamer: The Songs of Stephen Foster, which just happened to be the first record she produced. Fifteen years, two books, and three tribute albums later, she has received another Grammy nomination for Kris Kristofferson’s Cedar Creek Sessions, which just happened to be the first single-artist record she ever produced.

A singular figure in Nashville, Saviano works in the studio like any typical producer, twiddling knobs and convincing bass players they can get a better take. But it’s what she does outside the studio that distinguishes her. She builds albums from the ground up, starting with an idea and pursuing it until it becomes music. For Beautiful Dreamer, as well as for 2006’s The Pilgrim: A Celebration of Kris Kristofferson and 2011’s This One’s for Him: A Tribute to Guy Clark, she assembled the backing bands, scheduled the singers, assigned them songs, oversaw the sessions, determined the sequencing, approved the artwork, and in some cases even directed the promotional campaigns.

In doing so, she has become the foremost producer of tribute albums in Nashville, assembling compilations that are affectionately faithful to the honorees while also revealing new facets of their craft. Together with her recent biography of Clark, released in October 2016 and titled Without Getting Killed or Caught, her small-but-ambitious catalog constitutes a multimedia history of some of the country’s finest songwriters.

The Cedar Creek Sessions were a completely new project, even if the concept was similar: finding new life in old songs. It came together serendipitously, when Saviano found herself in Austin with Kristofferson and a handful of talented players, all with a few days to spare. Kristofferson recorded 25 songs in three days, drawing from his vast catalog spanning 50 years: some well-known (“Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down”), others not so much (“The Law Is for the Protection of the People”).

“He would just call out a song, and the band would start playing it,” Saviano says. “They were amazing, because they were learning things on the spot. For me, it was all about keeping the story centered: Who should be in the studio with him? Who should be engineering and mixing it? It’s all about telling his story.” By turns funky and melancholy, the double album shows a veteran musician who might be pushing 80, but has not lost a beat.

Still, she was shocked when The Cedar Creek Sessions was nominated for a Grammy for Best Americana Album — not because she didn’t think it was worthy. “I felt like I let that record fall through the cracks,” she says. “I run his label, KK Records, and I do most of the administrative stuff for him.” But both her mother and Guy Clark died from cancer in 2016, “so I spent most of the year sitting at somebody’s deathbed.” Still, she managed to get that album out to fans and publish her Guy Clark biography. When the Grammys were announced, “I almost fell off my chair. I think it spoke to people because it just captured this moment in his life.”

In March, she will release her latest tribute, Red Hot: A Memphis Celebration of Sun Records, which gathers a handful of Bluff City musicians to cover songs recorded at Sam Phillips’ legendary studio.

Your job is very different from what a lot of producers do. Do you see yourself in that role?

I think you’re right. What I do is different, even with this Kristofferson album, which is the first time I’ve produced a record by one artist. I approached it the same way I do my tribute albums. I got a house band together to play live in the studio, and then brought Kris in. He sang through 25 of his songs in three days. We did everything live, although we did end up sweetening some of it. But I never think about that when I’m in the studio. Really, it’s all about the live performance. That’s how I’ve done my tribute albums for the most part. Beautiful Dreamer was different because it was the first one. We had a band for some of the tracks, and some people turned in their own tracks. I learned on that album that I didn’t like people just turning in their tracks, because then I had no creative control. Working with a house band means there’s some consistency in the sound, which is the way I like to work.

I’m assuming that makes scheduling a headache.

It is. It’s like herding cats. But it’s so important. When we did Beautiful Dreamer — which I love and we won a Grammy and everything worked out — there were a couple of tracks that were turned in, and I just didn’t feel like they fit with the other tracks. Making the entire album work together was more challenging, and it wasn’t as much fun. It took some of the magic out of it. I realized that I didn’t want to do it that way. I want to schedule artists. It’s not always easy. We had to lay down tracks for Rosanne Cash and Willie Nelson on the Guy tribute. I just couldn’t make the scheduling work, so I had my band lay down the track and they added their vocals later. I don’t like to work that way. It’s better to have everybody in the studio at once. Like Lyle Lovett on the Guy tribute. He’s such a perfectionist, so it was amazing to watch him work. We were in the studio for a long time to get one song, but to be there with the artist and learn how they like to work and watch them give direction to the band is a great learning experience for me.

Are you using the same band for each album?

I pick musicians based on the project. With the Guy tribute, I wanted Shawn Camp and Verlon Thompson and Lloyd Maines in the band, because they all had personal relationships with Guy. Jen Gunderman played keyboards on it. We recorded half the album in Nashville and half in Austin, which was important to me, too. In Austin, we had Glen Fukunaga on bass and John Silva doing a little bit of percussion. We had a couple of bass players in Nashville because it didn’t work out to have just one. But yes, I do pick the band based on the project, based on who I think is going to hit the sweet spot of those songs.

So it’s not just the musician’s skill or technique, but the personal connections they have with the music.

You know, I still think of myself as a writer and a journalist first. I’m telling a story, and every part of it matters to me: the photos and the artwork and who’s in the studio and who’s writing the liner notes. I just did a Sun Records tribute with Luther Dickinson that’s coming out in March, and I had Alanna Nash, who has written several books on Elvis, come into the studio with us so she could write the liner notes. I wanted her to be there so she could get everything that was going on. She’s telling the story of the music that goes with Sun. I do that with all my projects, too. I don’t think a lot of people have the liner note writer in the studio, but I prefer to do that.

How did the Sun project get started?

I wish I could say it was my idea. It wasn’t. I thought I was finished producing tribute records, but there’s a new organization called the Americana Music Society of Memphis and they were fans of my Guy Clark tribute. They approached me about doing an album that was very Memphis-centric. I love Sun Records. That was what I cut my teeth on. Even though I grew up in Milwaukee, my first taste of music was that stuff. My dad was really into that stuff: Sun and Stax and all the Memphis music. Because I’m not from Memphis, it felt a little inauthentic for me to do this, so I brought in Luther. His dad was Jim Dickinson, and he grew up in the area. He has such a deep well of knowledge about the area, so I brought him in to co-produce with me. We put together a house band — all Memphis people — and we did it at Sun and Sam Phillips Recording. It was probably the most fun I’ve had doing a tribute album. It was amazing being in those historic studios with the ghosts of Sam Phillips and Johnny Cash and Charlie Rich.

How are you matching the artists with the songs? Do they get to choose, or do you — as the producer — assign them their covers?

Before I started calling artists, I spent a long time listening to the Sun catalog. And here’s something I learned during that process: Some of the stuff I was listening to was later Sun material that Sam Phillips had nothing to do with. So I had to decide: Are we going to stick to the Phillips era or cut some of the more modern stuff? And we decided to stay true to the Sam Phillips era, and that changed which songs were available. I sent a couple of ideas to the artists — Amy LaVere, Valerie June, Bobby Rush, Alvin Youngblood Hart, Jimbo Mathus. Who am I missing? They all either grabbed on to one or we had further conversations about what they might want to do. I really wanted Luther to do a blues tune. I picked out a couple of really old blues numbers for him, and he ended up choosing Howlin’ Wolf’s “Moanin’ at Midnight,” which turned out great.

Also, CMT has this new history of Sun starting next quarter, with actors playing Jerry Lee and Johnny Cash. Chuck Mead is the music director for that show, so I had him come in and bring in the actors who could really sing. They all did “Red Hot.” It was a lot of hoops to jump through, but I knew their TV show was going to start right around the time the record comes out and I thought it would be a fun tie-in. With Chuck, I was trying to think about what song he could really work with, and it just so happened that one of the songs they were doing in the show was “Red Hot,” so I thought, “Let’s just do that.”

For the Sun tribute, I gave the artists some ideas, but they all made the final decisions on their own. But with the Guy tribute, I was the one picking the songs. I didn’t leave much room for negotiations on that. Because I knew Guy’s catalog so well, I heard certain artists singing certain songs. He has this song called “Magdalene,” which is one of his newer songs. I just love it, and the only person I could hear doing that song is Kevin Welch. I asked Kevin if he would do it and he agreed. I love everything on that album, but that’s one of my favorites. He really made the song his own.

How does your understanding of people like Guy Clark and Sam Phillips change during that process?

Being a journalist, I tend to do a lot of research, so before I even go into the studio, I know so much about the songwriter and their work. So the recording of the music is just a continuation of that story. When we did Beautiful Dreamer, I had just started this nonprofit called American Roots Publishing with David Macias. It was his idea to do that album, and I thought certainly somebody had already done a Stephen Foster tribute. We looked and there was nothing that was Americana folk. It was all orchestral. So, before we started recording, I went back and listened to every Stephen Foster thing I could find. I went to the Stephen Foster Memorial Museum at University of Pittsburgh and looked through everything. I knew the same songs everybody else knew, but I just wanted to know more about him. He was the first professional songwriter in America that we know of. How did that happen? There was no recorded music or radio. It was all sheet music. But somehow “Oh, Susanna” made its way from the East Coast to the California Gold Rush. I wanted to know that story before we started recording, so that I was emotionally attached to Stephen Foster by the time we started laying down those songs.

Working on an artist who has been dead for 140 years must be very different from working with an artist like Kris Kristofferson, who is still alive and kicking.

Beautiful Dreamer was more of a history lesson, but the Kristofferson tribute was much more personal. We did that for his 70th birthday, which was 10 years ago. That was really my birthday present to him, so I wanted him to love it. Even though I had worked with him and know so much about him already, I went back and read everything I could get my hands on. I talked to Kris over and over, just kept asking him questions about the songs he had written, what he liked and what he didn’t like, what he wished he had done differently. Unlike Stephen Foster, he was somebody I could call whenever a thought popped into my head. By the time we recorded, I had a much richer understanding of him as a songwriter.

I remember when I got the final CD. We were shooting a video in the Mojave Desert for a song on This Old Road. We were sitting in this SUV, and I pulled out the final CD to show him. It has a photo of him as a young man, and the first line in the song “This Old Road” is, “Look at that old photograph, is that really me?” And that’s what he said when he saw the CD. “Look at that old photograph, is that really me?” And he started crying. I should mention that Kris does cry. He’s very emotional.

This is something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, with all the obituaries for George Michael and Carrie Fisher. I read these beautiful sentiments about how inspiring these people are, but it’s only after they’re dead. I started wondering why we aren’t saying those things to people when they’re alive. Obviously The Pilgrim isn’t the same as an obituary, but it serves a similar function.

Those of us who are music geeks know all about Kris’s songwriting catalog, but I don’t think many people know just how deep it is. I found this out working with him, but a lot of people know him as an actor. Of course he’s a great actor, but his real gift to the world is his songwriting. So it was great to honor that aspect of his life. It was the same thing with Guy. We were talking one day and I thought, “I have to do a tribute album while he’s still here.” And I think that made my biography better.

How so?

I was already familiar with Guy’s catalog from working on the book and just being friends with him, but I hadn’t really been in the studio with him. I had gone in a couple of times when he was recording, and I knew about his recording process a little bit. When I decided to do the tribute album, I decided that I was going to use the same recording process that Guy used. That really was my baby, so I knew which artists I wanted, which songs I wanted them to do, and I knew how I wanted to record it. I wanted to walk in Guy’s footsteps, doing things the way he did them and getting to know his songs in a different way — from a recording standpoint rather than just a listening standpoint.

Even though you have a plan whenever you go into the studio, you don’t know what’s going to happen. You’re creating everything on the spot. You’re recording live with a band, and the musicians are learning the songs at the same time that they’re recording them, and it’s a creative moment in the studio. I love that. I love when I have no idea how it’s going to sound, and then a couple of hours later, there it is. It’s a song that I already love because I love Guy and I love his version, but here’s this new version with a new singer. Here’s Lyle Lovett doing “Anyhow I Love You.” Here’s Shawn Colvin doing “All He Wants Is You,” which Guy did from a male perspective and now it’s a female perspective. And then Rosanne Cash doing “Better Days.” That was very important to Guy. He actually stopped singing that song after he wrote it because he didn’t like this one line in it. A few years later, he finally wrote a new line that he liked, so when it came time for Rosanne to record it, Guy called me at least three times to make sure she sang the new line. In his mind, the songs were never really finished.

And it sounds like you’re never really finished working with these people, either. I heard that you are working on a documentary about Guy Clark.

I started working on it in 2014, but last year I didn’t do a thing on it because my book came out and, like I said, my mom died and Guy died. So that will be my first priority in 2017, getting back to work on that film.

 

For more insight into the producer’s mind, read Stephen’s interview with Buddy Miller.

Squared Roots: Luther Dickinson Carries the Torch for Jim Dickinson

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Jim Dickinson was a musician’s musician who worked with everyone from Bob Dylan to the Replacements to Sam & Dave. One of his earliest gigs was in the Dixie Flyers, a group much like the cats in Muscle Shoals who backed a multitude of great soul artists on big hits. But, on the advice of Duane Allman, Dickinson jumped ship in 1971 to go it alone. Though he made a few solo records — and various band records, as well — what Dickinson will likely be remembered for is his work as a side player and producer. Whether toiling alongside Ry Cooder or the Cramps, Dickinson always brought a little bit of Memphis with him.

He also passed that same Memphis mojo on to his sons, Luther and Cody. The two have spent the past 20 years as the North Mississippi Allstars, at least when Luther wasn't playing with the Black Crowes, producing records for Otha Turner, or working on solo records, like his recently released Blues and Ballads: A Folksinger's Songbook, Vol. 1 & 2 which finds him carrying on his dad's song collecting tradition.

I'm excited to talk to someone who has first-hand knowledge of the subject at hand. Usually, we're just speculating about “Why do you think Bobbie Gentry slinked away into obscurity?” or whatever. So … your dad was born in Little Rock, grew up in Chicago and Memphis. That's some blues cred, right there.

Yeah!

But he was so much more than just the blues. Did his passions run just as wide, or did he have a secret favorite style that he kept to himself?

You know, he was a song collector. When we were young and he started to teach us — because we were so interested, he said, “Okay, I gotta teach 'em.” He didn't force it on us. He started teaching us his repertoire and each song was a wildly different genre. But it all fell under roots music. There would be a Texas swing song into an R&B ballad to a country-honky tonk number to a blues song or a folk song or a jazz song that we were all struggling to get through. He just loved songs. And he really loved words. He was of a generation that really had its formative years without television, listening to the radio shows. Also, his vision was really bad, and he learned how to memorize what he heard because it was so hard for him to read. He just really had a way with words.

He was just a baby in Chicago … I think he was nine when he moved to Memphis. But growing up in Memphis — for a kid searching for, pre-rock 'n' roll … he'd hear some dixieland or some boogie-woogie that would have that feeling that the whole generation was reaching for. I think this is true of people from all walks of life: You can be a politician or a doctor or an athlete but, in that generation, the American cultures were really reaching for each other and music brought them together. Like on WDIA in Memphis, that's where he heard some R&B and some gospel, then found blues.

In the '60s blues revival, when the blues masters who were living in the South were rediscovered, that really changed everything. At this point, this is post-rock 'n' roll because the rock 'n' roll heyday was really short: Elvis went to the Army. Chuck Berry went to jail. Jerry Lee Lewis went to England. Carl Perkins had the crash. It was a really short explosion, but then folk music came and the song collecting came.

But, then … and this is what was so amazing … just the cultural phenomenon of North and South … the young music lovers from the North, they had the perspective to literally drive to the South and find the blues men and pluck them out of obscurity, rediscover them. Dad, you know, he'd listened to the records, he'd been to the library, he'd read about these men. And, through no fault of his own as a kid, the segregation was such that it took the musicians from the North to come down, to cross those lines. That's a beautiful thing, that perspective. Once that happened, that's when, in Memphis in the mid '60s, there's Furry Lewis, there's Sleepy John Estes, there's Bukka White, there's Reverend Robert Wilkins, there's Fred McDowell. It was unbelievable.

And, in Memphis, dad's generation … they weren't hippies. They were bohemians. They were behind the times. They didn't really like the hippies. They were a little bit older. When the art community and the blues men discovered each other in Memphis, a good time was had by all. [Laughs]

[Laughs] That's part of what I love about his career. He came up with the Dixie Flyers playing on all those great soul tracks with big artists. But he also championed underdogs, and found those folks who were either up-and-coming or somehow lost in the shuffle. He didn't just go for the gold. He really went for the music.

It's true. I think he felt like a bit of an outsider himself. That's part of how he perceived himself which becomes part of how you're perceived. But he left Memphis and went to college in Texas. He was so afraid of the draft, so he ended up going to Baylor because there was no ROTC. [Laughs] He didn't want ROTC. He didn't want fraternities. But he had to go to college to keep from getting drafted, so he went to Texas. When he came back, all of a sudden, he sees what is to become Stax. It took him a while to catch up.

His concept of “Memphis music” was that it was a group of outcasts making music in the middle of the night. And it goes back to Sam Phillips, really, because he was so ahead of his time. Sam Phillips and Dewey Phillips … Dewey Phillips was a disc jockey who would play any genre of music and that's, really, where that comes from. In dad's book that we're just now working on a deal for, he talks about how Dewey Phillips addressed his audience on the radio as “good people.” It was, “Hey, good people.” It wasn't a Black audience. It wasn't a white audience. It was just good people, and he would play any type of music — blues next to Hank Williams next to gospel.

But Sam Phillips, man … he was really searching for something and he pushed these people to invent rock 'n' roll. He discovered Howlin' Wolf in 1951. In Memphis, to enable the African-American artists like that is so heavy. Sam said discovering Wolf was more important to him than discovering Elvis. So, he recorded the blues catalog. But then, he found the young white kids and everyone searching for a new sound and he's turning them onto the catalog … it's the oral tradition. That's the American roots art — the oral tradition of the lyrics. He was searching for what became rock 'n' roll. He was trying to bring the cultures together to make a new thing.

And your dad was deep in all of that with a bunch of different bands. It seems like being just a side player wasn't quite enough for him.

Ohhhh … that was his favorite! He loved that.

Was it? So, when it was all said and done, was the level of success and respect he achieved enough for him? Or did he have bigger ambitions that never quite materialized?

Well, he was so happy to have played with the Rolling Stones on “Wild Horses.” He definitely wished that he could have toured with them. But, he did play on “Wild Horses,” and he loved it. He was also so thrilled when he did Time Out of Mind with Bob Dylan because that was one of his ambitions that he fulfilled. And it was so fulfilling. He would say, “A lot of things in life disappoint. Bob Dylan is not one of them.” He was thrilled. In typical Dylan form … dad was standing in the parking lot one day, smoking a joint, and Bob wandered over and said, “Hey, man, you know Sleepy John Estes, right? How do you make that C-chord, man? How do you play that lick in 'Drop Down Mama'?” [Laughs] So they hit it off!

Of all the many projects he played on, what's your favorite — the one that you always go back to or the one that you can't get over the fact that it's your dad on it?

Oh, man. Wow. [Pauses] You know, the Ry Cooder records, Boomer's Story and Into the Purple Valley, are really, really cornerstones. It's that whole idea of … I mentioned song collectors and the idea of repertoire in roots music — meaning anything from blues to country to gospel to jazz to anything under the umbrella — and reinterpreting it. With his band, they would improvise and play the music so loosely and unrehearsed and aggressively interpretive, they thought of playing roots music as jazz. So, that's one thing.

But the Ry Cooder records … Cooder was a song collector, but he had that California twist. He had the whole of Hollywood musicians and instruments in the palm of his hand. He could get the best musicians playing the most exotic instruments with a phone call. When Cooder recognized dad for who he was and what he knew and was capable of in the recording studio and hired him as a producer, they really made some great folk-rock records that still … there's just nothing like them.

What was interesting for us … we grew up learning Furry Lewis and Bukka White and Sleepy John Estes from our father and his friends. And his friends' sons all became musicians. The scene was so strong. Their band was Mudboy and the Neutrons. Our band is Sons of Mudboy and we keep the repertoire alive. The repertoire is what has to be protected and carried on. It can be interpreted however you like — that's the freedom. It's just about the melodies and the poetry.

The blues was something secondhand to us. We learned it through our parents. But, then, in the early '90s, I discovered Otha Turner and his family. And that was a lovely thing. But they played fife and drum music. Then, Kenny Brown, who was our friend and was a guitar player. But THEN, when I finally heard R.L. Burnside and went to Junior Kimbrough's Juke Joint, it was multi-generational, electrified country-blues in my backyard.

R.L. Burnside took me under his wing and took me on the road. He and Kenny showed me the ropes in '97, and we've been touring ever since. He literally took me out of town. [Laughs] I'd never been anywhere before. What blew dad's mind was that the blues exchange happened again. He didn't think that his sons would be able to learn and play with real blues men.

It just keeps going.

Yeah. You know what's something else? There was a period of time when they all passed away and we were all recovering. Everyone — the blues men, our father, his friends. It's just part of growing up and regaining your feet. I like writing songs about people, championing them as folk heroes in my art. Because Stagger Lee and Casey Jones were men who walked the earth, once upon a time. It was the songs that made them legends, so you sing the legend. [Laughs]

[Laughs] Exactly. Larger than life. Let 'em live on.

Exactly! The repertoire and the new songs about them.

So when I came home to the Hill Country Picnic, which is when everybody in Mississippi gets together, I couldn't believe there was this whole group of young kids playing with Gary Burnside, Dave Kimbrough, Duwayne Burnside … driving them around and letting them borrow their equipment, giving them lunch money. These kids, they didn't know R.L. and Junior. But, to them, Gary, Dave, and Duwayne are R.L. and Junior. It's happening again!

Luther Dickinson photo by Don VanCleave. Jim Dickinson photo by