A Spirit of Activism Informs Son Volt’s New ‘Union’

Jay Farrar took a field trip to make Union, Son Volt’s ninth studio album. Rather than book more sessions at Red Pill Recording Studio in St. Louis — where the long-running alt-country band recorded 2017’s Notes of Blue — he wanted to take his songs out into America and find fresh inspiration. So the band trekked west to Tulsa, where they cut tracks at the Woody Guthrie Center, then road-tripped north to Mt. Olive, Illinois, to record at the Mother Jones Museum.

The spirit of activism embodied by those two figures informs the thirteen songs on Union, an urgent and at times angry account of American life at the close of the 2010s. More naturally than on any other album, Farrar balances the political and the personal, penning songs about how the media-industrial complex profits by dividing the country alongside songs about how his children are growing into adults.

BGS: Why did you want to record at the Woody Guthrie Center and the Mother Jones Museum?

Farrar: I felt like it was a little too comfortable in the studio where I had recorded before. I was writing about topical issues, so I felt like some of the songs needed to be taken out of the studio. I wanted to take them out into the world. I wanted to record them in a more challenging environment, so we went to Tulsa and Mount Olive to remind ourselves of the contributions Mother Jones and Woody Guthrie made, how each in their own way helped get us where we are today. We just felt like we needed to be inspired.

Those are two very different places. How were those experiences different?

The Mother Jones Museum is pretty small. It’s connected to the City Hall, I think. It’s evolved a lot since I was younger. I remember seeing hand-painted signs on the side of Interstate 55 going north. It was like folk art. Over the years it’s evolved, and I guess they got some funding from the city. They’re continuing to grow and build on it. I think she’s buried in the cemetery there as well.

At the Woody Guthrie Center, they have the new Bob Dylan archives, and we were able go by there after the recording. Amazing stuff there — the tambourine that inspired “Mr. Tambourine Man,” Dylan’s address book from ’63 or ’64. He’s got Lenny Bruce in there. Stuff like that. We geeked out for sure. It’s pretty comprehensive, too, because they have everything archived digitally as well as the physical objects. They wouldn’t actually let us touch anything, of course.

That sounds amazing. And, as you said, inspiring.

It was. And we were looking through some of the materials and had a question about one of the videos we were watching. So the curator said, “Wait one minute and I’ll get an answer for you.” He called Bob Dylan’s business office and talked with someone there. He got an answer straight from the source.

How did those places inform the songs on Union?

The songs were ready to go prior to going in. I didn’t write anything there, but with some of the heavy topical subject matter, this batch of songs needed to be taken out of the studio where I recorded Notes of Blue. We needed to be challenged in every way, but maybe I was just looking for a field trip. But I think those two people really did inspire some of the writing, in a roundabout way. Mother Jones and Woody Guthrie really helped shape our society and really stressed the importance of pushing society forward and not backwards.

How much of a conscious decision is it to write topical songs? Do you sit down and think, “I’m going to write a song about the media”?

It goes in cycles for me. I’ve done some topical writing in the past, but this time around it felt like it was my job to take it on. There’s a lot of turmoil in our society right now. I did a lot of the writing in November 2016, right before Notes of Blue was released in the spring of 2017. So I had a few months to put pen to paper and woodshed, and that’s when a lot of these songs came out.

Probably midway through the writing process, I decided I needed some songs that represented a regular rock ethos — essentially, non-topical songs. There needed to be a balance between topical and non-topical songs. I was thinking about the Replacements, who would fall off the stage on the first note of a song. Or The Who. I was thinking about the essence of what a rock band is. “Devil May Care” came from that approach.

Do you find new shades of meaning the more you live with a song, the more you play it night after night after night?

These new songs will probably evolve a bit from rehearsals to when we start the tour. That’s always one aspect of being on the road that I enjoy: reinventing older songs and playing them in new ways, just to keep things interesting. Certain songs just want to evolve, especially if you’re playing them every day in rehearsals and soundchecks. “Windfall” is one that has changed a lot. There’s a CD out there called Artifacts that has a reggae version. We change that one up pretty regularly, and we changed it up again over the holidays. Actually I think we’ve got reggae versions of almost every Son Volt song. But that one in particular is so well-suited to that style that we put it out on a live CD.

Why reggae?

“Windfall” is conducive to reggae. It’s just a couple of chords. But I think from one day to the next you like to stretch out and just try out different kinds of music that you’re not necessarily playing every night. I think some of the guys in the band would probably like to try some experimental jazz-fusion versions of some songs.

Can we expect to hear “Caryatid Easy” done in the style of Bitches Brew?

That’s one song we plan on resurrecting for the tour, so who knows?

Can you talk about “The Reason”? That song seems to suggest that travel and music can be salves in hard times, which makes me think it’s somewhere between topical and non-topical.

That song reminds me of Dylan’s “Forever Young” or Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’.” I think it relates to watching your kids become adults, that sort of sentiment. It’s certainly informed by them, to the same degree that those Dylan and Petty songs were informed by their kids. But yeah, in troubled times getting out and traveling is good. You have to find hope wherever you can.

On the other hand, “Union” was inspired by my dad. The chorus goes, “He said national service will keep the union together.” National service is something my dad used to advocate for. Maybe he’s right, I don’t know. There’s a lot of money being made today by media conglomerates hawking divisiveness. It seems like there needs to be a counterbalance somewhere.

You’ve written topical songs in the past, with Uncle Tupelo and on 2005’s Okemah and the Melody of Riot. How different is it to write this kind of song in 2019 than when either of the Bushes were in office?

It’s not the process itself that was different, although I will say I was more focused this time. I had a block of time and was thinking about these issues, so I could be more focused on getting these songs written, maybe more so than I had been in the past. A few topical songs wound up on records in the past, maybe one or two. Okemah had a good amount of them. I guess I’ll keep cranking them out.


Photo credit: David McClister

LISTEN: Andy Hedges, “Song of the Cuckoo”

Artist: Andy Hedges
Hometown: Lubbock, Texas
Song: “Song of the Cuckoo”
Album: Shadow of a Cowboy
Release Date: April 16, 2019

In Their Words: “I first heard the name Billy Faier in Ramblin’ Jack Elliott’s song ‘912 Greens’ about an epic road trip he and some friends made across the Southern United States. I met Billy after playing a show in Alpine, Texas, immediately recognizing his name from ‘912 Greens.’ Billy was born in Brooklyn, spent most of his life based in Woodstock, but always wanted to live in the desert so as an old man he moved to Marathon, Texas. Billy had traveled with Ramblin’ Jack and Woody Guthrie on Woody’s last trip across the US. He was the first person to interview Dylan on the radio. He taught a song to Dave Van Ronk and Pete Seeger once said that he was the best banjo player he had ever heard. Billy and I became fast friends and had some great adventures together. When he passed a few years ago, I ended up with his beautiful old guitar. I played Billy’s guitar on this recording of his song and it seemed fitting to tag it with a line from ‘912 Greens,’ the song that connected me to Billy in the first place: ‘Did you ever stand and shiver just because you were lookin’ at a river?'” — Andy Hedges


Photo credit: David Tau

LISTEN: The Nell & Jim Band, “Dime in My Pocket”

Artist: The Nell & Jim Band (Nell Robinson and Jim Nunally)
Hometown: Bay Area, California
Song: “Dime in My Pocket”
Album: Steel
Release: February 15, 2019
Label: Whippoorwill Arts

In Their Words: “‘Dime in My Pocket’ was written as an exercise in songwriting, and inspired by the book Will You Miss Me When I’m Gone?, the story of the Carter Family. I wanted to try to write a song about A.P. Carter and his feelings about Sara that I gathered from the book. I borrowed a melody, like Woody Guthrie would, which was ‘Rollin’ On’ from the Monroe Brothers, which I recorded with the David Grisman Bluegrass Experience. I changed a few notes of the melody and a couple chords and there you go. I put the words to that and there you have ‘Dime in My Pocket.'” –Jim Nunally, The Nell & Jim Band


Photo credit: Jay Blakesburg

MIXTAPE: Cordovas’ Unknown Legends

The playlist is called Unknown Legends because each song carries a factor of the unknown; be it a somewhat unknown version (“Connection”), artist (Altyrone Deno Brown) or even origin (“Statesboro Blues”). These compositions and singers are the backbone of American weirdness, the reason we love our country’s music. – Cordovas

“Shake Sugaree” — Elizabeth Cotton

Cotton’s “Shake Sugaree” is crucial. Hard to find anyone that good at being a singer songwriter in the early 1900s but she was. Perfectly written, this song is a masterpiece of American music. This Carolina girl was an unknown legend

“Sweet Pea” — Altyrone Deno Brown

Just look at the picture of the dude. He could slay drums and he was 9 or 10 when he got signed. They want him to be the next Michael Jackson. Listen to his vibrato and the tenderness in his voice. The way he heard other singers seems to come out.

“The End of the World” — Skeeter Davis

This perfect melody. So sweet. Skeeter. Heartbroken and gettin’ over it by singing the blues. Some dynamite two part she throws down.

“Sign Language” — Eric Clapton

Clapton is obviously very well-known but this is a lesser known song. Featuring lead guitar by Robbie Robertson, harmonies by Richard Manuel, and a verse by Dylan himself, this is a beautiful scene in some movie. Two lovers. “You Speak to me in sign language as I’m eating a sandwich in a small café at a quarter to three.” So simple.

“Jesus I’ll Never Forget” — Forbes Family

Gospel Vocal groups. They believe. They lift their voices. This one has some epic 5 part harmony. It gets us singing in exaltation “Jesus I’ll Never forget” in the van as we ramble on. We are atheists.

“Piney Mountains” — Bruce Molsky

Jump up on the flat wheel car and let this fiddle tune take you up into the u-pined hills. “My hands can’t fiddle and my heart’s been broke, lord, and my time ain’t long.” Brother Bruce.

“Runs in the Family” — The Roches

The Roches have a masterpiece here. They address here the things we pass down in our families and in our ways and ambitions. Our desires. Through and through, concept, arrangement, feeling, this one is so well thought out and executed. On the idea of the sisters themselves coming of age the Roches sing, “Something about the danger zone, wouldn’t leave the bunch of us alone”

“Matty Groves” — Fairport Convention

This is a reworking of the old English ballad that tells a tale of lust, deceit and revenge in a renaissance setting. Sandy Denny’s powerful, convincing vocals are flanked by 20 year old Richard Thompson’s innovative, unpredictable guitar lines and Dave Swarbricks masterful electric fiddle, tying the tradition to a new era.

“Shady Grove” — Doc Watson

An Appalachian folk ballad by Doc Watson. There are some 300 stanzas collected reaching back to the 1800’s. There have been a vast amount of versions recorded and documented of this song, but Doc Watson’s version would come to be known through the folk revival period of the 1960s and making its mark into popular music by way of Jerry Garcia and David Grisman.

“Statesboro Blues” — Blind Willie McTell

This song came about from his many trips to a tobacco warehouse during harvest season in Statesboro, Georgia. He collected change from the laborers in a tin cup tied to the neck of his 12 string guitar that could be heard right outside the loading docks. “Reach over in the corner mama, grab my traveling shoes”.

“Going Down the Road Feelin’ Bad” — Woody Guthrie

Accompanied by Sonny Terry (harmonica) and Cisco Houston (mandolin, vocals) Guthrie’s rendition would provide the template for many subsequent versions of the song in both the bluegrass and the folk rock genres. Alan Lomax recorded this for the library of Congress.

“Connection” — Ramblin’ Jack Elliott

“Connection” is a Jagger/Richards song about being stuck while traveling, wanting to be home. Covered by NRPS among others, the song is on Elliott’s Reprise debut where it takes new life, now sung by a gunslinger-type.

“Tamp’ Em Up Solid” — Ry Cooder

Cooder’s “Paradise and Lunch” is a collection of older tunes, some somewhat unknown, including songs by McTell, Philips, and more. “Tamp’ Em Up Solid” is a traditional, attacked by Cooder in his unique style.


Photo credit: Alysse Gafkjen

Another Ring in the Tree: A Conversation with Ketch Secor

Maybe it’s true in life, but it’s certainly true in writing about music that the longer you do it, the more often you hear echoes of the past — not only in the music itself, but in artists’ attitudes and, especially, in their stories. Hearing Old Crow Medicine Show’s Ketch Secor recount the odyssey that preceded the band’s settling in Nashville, it’s easy to be reminded of the contintent-spanning journey taken by Western swing ensemble Asleep at the Wheel some 30 years earlier. Like AATW, who eventually were embraced by all but the most benighted purveyors of authenticity — and with whom they recorded a blistering “Tiger Rag” in 2015 — Old Crow have made their way into the heart of hillbilly music’s most cherished institutions, signified by their 2013 induction into the Grand Ole Opry cast.

Yet the group’s ascension to Opry membership was hardly predictable, much less preordained. Old Crow’s stature in the country music world has been built on a determination to make their own sound that’s every bit as strong as their allegiance to the broad swath of hillbilly music music that forms its foundation. When Marty Stuart invited them to join the Opry, he mentioned an early description of the radio barn dance as a “good-natured riot,” and it’s a description that obviously applies to the band’s shows, too — a simultaneous looking back and looking forward that has made legit fans out of the likes of bluegrass Hall of Famer Del McCoury. With Volunteer marking the group’s 20th anniversary, it seemed like a good time to look back at how they got from there to here.

The press release mentions this is the 20th anniversary of the band.

That’s no joke, brother.

Does the band have a hard start date — a day you could point to and say, “This is the day the band was formed”?

Well, the band left — that’s the day the wheels turned, and we left our home — in October of 1998, because grape season was over, and we had money. We had picked enough, and raised enough, and washed enough dishes, and cleaned enough attics, and played enough nursing homes, and bought enough cartons of cigarettes to get across the border in style.

I was thinking about this because the occasion for this interview is the release of a new record and, 20 years ago, the record industry and the music industry looked a lot different than it does now. And you guys have become what you are during this period of tremendous change and turmoil.

For example, when we crossed that border and finally got waved through into Canada in the fall of 1998, one of the things we had packed was our boombox, so that we could dub our tapes. Because this band sold cassettes. In 1998, this band sold cassettes on the street corner for $10 — Canadian. That was crazy. We were selling them, too. Our tape was flying out of the box — we had a shoebox full.

Why was that?

Well, it was not the quality of the tape. The tape wasn’t very good. We recorded it with one microphone hung from the ceiling, on a four-track recorder. It sounded really, really shitty — low-fi, low quality. That tape was called Trans:Mission. It was the time to dream, with your body, the things that you wanted to have happen. It was the time to read Bound for Glory by Woody Guthrie and think, “I’m going to get on that boxcar, too, goddammit; I’m going to hobo. I’m going to thumb it, I’m going to flag the diesel down. I’m gonna go West.” A good time in life to take that risk, and drop out. Isn’t that what it’s all about? Isn’t that where all of the magic lies, in that moment of deciding that you’d rather wear a mask — and pick a really great one?

So you made your way to Nashville …

That happened three or four years later. Now, I had already been to Nashville before I got to Ottawa. I had been here with another band in 1997, and played on the street corner here. I was gonna busk! I’ve been busking Nashville for like 23 years, or something stupid like that.

What’s the value of busking? I mean, aside from the financial.

Well, we can’t all play like Del McCoury, or anyone in that band — particularly when we’re kids. But we had the passion. It’s the same passion. I was never gonna get as good at playing the fiddle as Jason Carter, but I had the same drive to play as hard as Jason plays. And I couldn’t get onto a stage anywhere because … well, one, I was drunk. I had taken this old-time loyalty oath that made me fiercely pro-old-time and anti-bluegrass, so I didn’t play well with others. I was rabble-rousing. And also, I sucked. So where was I gonna go, with all of that energy and drive, but none of that finesse? And I was somewhat unapproachable. I might have smelled bad. I might have had blood on my shirt, or on my mouth. That was part of the mask I wore, was unapproachability.

Being in Tennessee seems to be important to the band, at this point. Is that a fair statement?

Yeah. I think, as soon as we got to Tennessee, it got a lot more legit.

In what way?

It got legit because it got more focused on the idea that, all right, this band is the soap box. In the chapter previous to our move to Nashville as Old Crow — which is the chapter that runs from about 1999 to about 2000-and-a-half — in that chapter, we were probably as interested in farming and making whiskey and planting by the lunar signs as we were about playing live shows. And that was where learning about early hillbilly and country music was as much an engagement with the landscape of the music as it was with the actual performance of the music. When it got to Nashville, then it became about doing that in Nashville, which had a different musical landscape.

So, in our journeying, we start with the quixotic journey, which is the fire, the odyssey. And then we end up in this sort of hillbilly monastery up in east Tennessee and west North Carolina. And then we come to Nashville, and we end up in this crack house kind of mentality of revolving doors of freaky people, motel rooms, and rent money going out and booze coming in, and songs, and percolation, and Del McCoury, and the road. The beginnings of the way the road would look. It became more vocational and less about kind of artistic presence and disturbance. As buskers, we were as much protesters as we were entertainers.

You guys still feel that way?

Yeah.

How does it express itself? Musically?

Oh, there’s a ferocity to what we do, and an intensity. I mean, I’m feeling it right now, which is why I’m jacked up. But I’m jacked up always. I’m always jacked up, when I talk about the fiddle, and when I talk about John Hartford and Del McCoury. I’m always jacked up because that stuff’s just so powerful.

When I hear “volunteer,” especially in a music-related setting, I think of the Volunteer State — Tennessee. Is the title a reflection, in part or in whole, of the environment in which you’re in now? Or does it have some other significance?

What I think it means is that it hearkens to the pack mentality of our youth. The band really took this oath, this pledge, and we all volunteered to risk our lives, to sacrifice personal identities, personal goals, for collectivity. To be very much a band. The way that we lived together — it’s like we had all signed up, that we would do it come hell or high water. And it turned out it was both.

There’s an audience connected to old-time and bluegrass and country music — all the variety that gets presented on the Opry — by virtue of where they were born, who they grew up with, and the community they live in. And then there are whole other audiences who are drawn by maybe musical affinity, or some kind of cultural signifying. One of the features of our world in the last few years has been that the differences between all these people has become more apparent and the edges become a lot sharper. You guys are also heading for your fifth anniversary as Opry cast members. You play the Opry, which is still kind of a focal point for one community, and then you go out and tour and play for all these other audiences. It feels to me like that’s reflected in some way in this record. Is that true?

When we play the Opry, we’re mostly playing for tourists. But we’re also playing in a kind of center of all of hillbillydom. And when we play the “Wabash Cannonball” on the Grand Ole Opry, we sound more like the Woody Guthrie role than we do the Montgomery Gentry role, or even the Roy Acuff role. Roy is kind of the same as Woody. He’s a good example because, though politically, he’s certainly on the right — he’s from East Tennessee, he’s a Republican, he’s a conservative dude, he wants to shut down the Opry because he doesn’t want to share the same locale as the peep shows and the drug dealers, so he advocates moving it out. But he’s singing music that makes you want to desegregate a school, because that’s the power of the “Great Speckle Bird,” that’s the power of the “Wabash Cannonball.” They’re actually very front-line songs, really excited, rabble-rousing kind of proletariat sounds.

That’s the thing about country music: The people, en masse, who believe in the power of folk music, just by nature of having an underserved class being championed by a music — that’s a very expansive concept, one that can’t be pigeonholed in any particular political realm. We played the Budweiser stage last week, and most people were about 25 years old or younger. We’ll play gigs this summer where everybody’s 25 or older, 50 or older — we’ll see crowds from Delaware to Red Rocks and everything in between. We’ll play in Oklahoma to drunk leftists, and we’ll play in New York City to conservative lawyers. And everywhere we go, we will allow people to step into a world that has no political affiliation. That is the world of Old Crow, the entertainer. And the Old Crow who’s an entertainer, I always think of him as this top hat-wearing bartender that’s serving it up to the people, no matter what the color of the skin is, or who they voted for. Because the Old Crow, he doesn’t vote. He just pours.

So what’s the connection between Old Crow, the entertainer, and that volunteer collective that stepped up and took its oath? What you described as the fundamental nature of the band — of you coming together and making this choice to pursue something — seems to imply a certain kind of purposiveness that goes beyond being an entertainer.

The political party here is, live music is better. The revival tent, or the voting booth, or the campaign rally is one in which you believe that live music has the power to change the world. I like records fine, but we’re a live band. What we do is play the music that we play in the moment that you’re hearing it. If you’re on your phone getting a message from a friend, you missed it. Sorry, dude. If you go to the beer line, that’s cool, we’re going to keep doing it. You don’t have to hang on every word. But this is our tent here. It’s the live music hour. That’s what we do.

We’re having this conversation, in part, because you made a record. So if live music is where it’s at, and that’s one of the changes in the music industry over those 20 years, and that records no longer occupy the same position in the music world, what are you wanting to do with this record?

Put another ring in the tree upon which this Old Crow has been precariously perched these 20 years. It’s just another ring in the tree, another notch in the belt.


Photo credit: Danny Clinch

Joan Baez: Turning the Glass Upside Down

Joan Baez admits there’s a gaffe in “Civil War,” a harrowing song of uprisings, both personal and public, on her new album, Whistle Down the Wind. “There are a couple of words that come out funny,” she says, “and there’s one where I sound like I have a big lisp.” It’s hard to catch that particular mispronunciation, especially as the lyrics are littered with sibilant S’s (“… this civil war”) that might blur her words together, and those mistakes may not be apparent to a casual listener or even an obsessive fan. But Baez hears them every time.

Partly, those blemishes are the byproduct of the recording process, which was loose, casual, and largely unrehearsed. Baez made the trip from her home in the Bay Area down to producer Joe Henry’s studio in Los Angeles, where she worked with a band of session musicians who have become regulars on the albums he has helmed for Solomon Burke, Lizz Wright, Bettye LaVette, and Over the Rhine. She would play a song a few times for them, enough to give them a sense of the piece and the ideas she wanted to convey. “I didn’t stop to say, ‘Listen, we’re going to hold this note for this long and do this thing here,’” says Baez. “I just didn’t know any of that. We just pieced everything together.” As a result, “We’ve got mistakes all over the place, and we didn’t bother to fix them, because the feeling was right. We didn’t want to sacrifice that feeling in the song for some technicality.”

Henry agrees, arguing that a mistake isn’t a mistake, if it actually strengthens the song: “To me, it’s only a mistake if it breaks the story and takes you out of the trance. I don’t hear that happening anywhere on the album, because people are playing together. They’re in a real-time conversation, musically speaking. They’re in a moment of discovery together, in real time. Nobody is playing anything by rote.”

Least of all Baez. Sixty years into a storied career, she is still searching, still discovering. Whistle Down the Wind is her first album in 10 years, and she has intimated that it may be her last. If so, it will be a remarkable swan song: a collection that gauges the tenor of 2018 just as intuitively and authoritatively as her self-titled debut did in 1960 or Diamonds & Rust did in 1975.

Baez speaks through the songs of other writers, bending them to the present moment or finding new implications buried in the lyrics and melodies. There are two Tom Waits character studies, odes to personal stubbornness, whose melodies and sentiments fit so well with Baez’s delivery that you’d think he wrote them specifically for her. She covers Zoe Mulford’s “The President Sang ‘Amazing Grace,’” about President Obama’s impromptu performance of an old Sacred Harp hymn at the funeral of Rev. Clementa Pinckney. Josh Ritter’s “Silver Blade” sounds like a response to the traditional ballad “Silver Dagger,” which has haunted Baez’s set lists for half-a-century.

Whistle Down the Wind is not interested in replaying old glories or indulging any nostalgia for the heyday of folk music. And that’s why those technical mistakes matter so much. Even if you don’t hear them, they nevertheless act on your subconscious. They increase the intimacy of the recording, making these songs sound more direct, more forthright, more urgent. Moreover, they speak to the messiness of what has become Baez’s truest subject: the times. Certain ideas and issues — whether it’s civil rights in the 1960s or gun control in the 2010s — are much more complicated and unwieldy than the means by which we choose to address them. It is less the fault of the song than the singer. As well intentioned and as righteous as an artist may be, the implication is that she or he remains an imperfect vessel for the song and the ideas contained within. Leaving that lisp in “Civil War” is Baez’s way of acknowledging that fact.

The miracle of her long career is that she still believes mightily that such songs are still worth singing, that they can speak to their historical moment, that music still has a function in the everyday life of a community or a nation or a planet. “It’s community building,” Baez says. “It’s empathy building.”

In the 1960s, that belief placed her at the epicenter of the folk revival, when she played demonstrations as routinely as she booked concerts. Like Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger, she was armed with a guitar, an encyclopedic history of folk music, and a strident sense of mission. Unlike those two influences, she had a high-flying voice, one that swooped playfully around her upper register. In recent years, age has robbed her voice of its former agility, but on Whistle Down the Wind, it has grown deeper, taking on a slightly rougher texture, yet retaining its original authority and compassion.

Her peers might have taken determined steps away from the responsibilities of protest music, but Baez simply expanded her scope and subject matter. Especially in the 1970s, she found new ways to mix the personal and the political. Never a confessional singer/songwriter — at least not in the way the West Coast folkies were — she still put a lot of herself in her songs, whether they were about her own personal relationships or those between communities. “I don’t know how I would have done that stuff back then without the music,” she says. “That was such a big part of it.”

Few folk musicians of her generation managed to keep the audience rooted in the foreground of her music. Her songs speak to “you,” but in most cases that “you” is plural. On her cover of “Another World,” by Anohni, who previously performed as Antony & the Johnsons, Baez bangs softly on the frets of her guitar, creating a gently frenzied pulse for lyrics about leaving this world and finding a new one. Her version is an ecological warning, a life-size take on a planet-size woe.

“I’m gonna miss the snow,” Baez sings. “I’m gonna miss the bees.” As the song continues, that guitar thrum becomes a timer counting down the end of a life or possibly the end of all life. “The song is as dark as it is beautiful and as beautiful as it is dark,” says Baez. “It’s spellbinding. [Anohni] turns the glass upside down. It’s not half-full or half-empty, but upside down.”

Baez changes the song in one crucial way. In her original, Anohni sings, “I’m gonna miss you all.” Baez adds a new word: “I’m gonna miss you all, everyone.” It’s a small change that doesn’t disrupt that melody or change the song in any dramatic way, but it does give an idea of the audience Baez (and Anohni) imagines for herself. She is addressing that “everyone.” “Joan understands very well that music is about community,” says Henry. “It’s about gathering people in real time to a pointed moment. It’s always and only about community for her.”

That idea is ingrained in her vast catalog, although it grows more poignant now that her career appears to be winding down. “When I go tootling around the world, I’m seeing so many different audiences,” Baez says. “I’ve played a lot of festivals in Germany and adopted France as a second country. I do five songs in French for them. I have a song for each country, or sometimes it’s just a line. It means so much to people, if you sing something to them in their own language. It’s hard work, but it’s a way to thank people for showing up.”

It’s also a way of speaking to them more clearly. In 2009, she recorded a simple YouTube clip of herself, presumably seated in her kitchen, singing a version of the old spiritual “We Shall Overcome.” It’s a song she’d sung countless times, but this version was both in English and Farsi, and she dedicated it to the people of Iran, who were protesting the contested election of President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. “The lyrics were written out phonetically. I couldn’t possibly remember them. And they don’t have the same scales, which meant I couldn’t get the notes right. They just didn’t exist in my vocabulary of notes.”

For Baez, music not only speaks to these communities; it binds them together and can, in some ways, define them. Every movement demands a soundtrack, and Baez is under no illusion she can provide one for March for Our Lives or Black Lives Matter or #MeToo. “We need a brilliant anthem so people have something to sing, so they don’t have to shout so much. I wish I could write that kind of thing. But it’s so hard. Still, I think it will come.”


Illustration by Zachary Johnson

LISTEN: John McCutcheon, ‘When My Fight for Life Is Over’

Artist: John McCutcheon
Hometown: Smoke Rise, GA
Song: “When My Fight for Life Is Over”
Album: Ghost Light
Release Date: February 9, 2018
Label: Appalsongs

In Their Words: “One of the great treats and honors of my life has been to work with some of Woody Guthrie’s lyrics. This one was especially challenging because the lyrics were obviously incomplete — it was up to me to flesh out both lyrics and melody. But after a lifetime of being ‘schooled’ by Guthrie’s work, I though I might be ready. Taking it to Tim, Kathy, Stuart, and Richard was the icing on the cake.” — John McCutcheon


Photo credit: Irene Young

LISTEN: Country Joe McDonald, Arlo Guthrie, Jack Elliott, & Pete Seeger,

Artists: Country Joe McDonald, Arlo Guthrie, Jack Elliott, & Pete Seeger
Song: “Goin’ Down the Road (Ain’t Gonna Be Treated This A-Way)”
Album: Woody Guthrie: The Tribute Concerts
Release Date: September 22, 2017
Label: Bear Family

In Their Words: “On Sundays, my father would come home from the hospital and lots of musicians would come over for a hootenany. Old friends, young-uns … you never knew who was going to show. It was a mix of talents and instruments — bring something, play something, sing something. This track reminds me so much of those days. Here, Pete Seeger is backed by a young Ry Cooder, trading verses and breaks with Country Joe McDonald and Swampwater fiddler Gib Gilbeau. Jack Elliott and Arlo hold it together because, hey, like Dylan, they’re usually the ones who know all the words!

That’s what Woody’s original 1940s hootenanies were like when the young-uns then included Pete Seeger, backed by elders Woody or Lead Belly. ‘Goin’ Down the Road’ is a perfect example of this classic, easy-going approach to music learning, which spurred the ’60s community of folk and folk-rock musicians who continued to ‘hoot up’ (aka jam) on this song.” — Nora Guthrie

3×3: Cordovas on Brautigan, Baseball Cards, and Buck Owens Back Tattoos

Artist: Lucca Soria (of Cordovas)
Hometown: Joe’s from Charlotte, NC; Jon’s from Macon, GA; Graham’s from Orange County, CA; and I’m from Des Moines, IA.
Latest Album: That Santa Fe Channel
Personal Nicknames: Monstruo niño

If you had to live the life of a character in a song, which song would you choose?

“Thankful N’ Thoughtful” by Sly & the Family Stone

Where would you most like to live or visit that you haven’t yet?

Osaka, Kyoto, Tokyo — Japan in Spring

What was the last thing that made you really mad?

Reading about the proposed “health care” bill.

If you had to get a tattoo of someone’s face, who would it be?

When I just now turned to my girlfriend Kelsey and asked, “Whose face should be tattooed on my back?” she said, “Buck Owens” and I think that’s a good answer.

Whose career do you admire the most?

Willie Dixon’s, Woody Guthrie’s

What are you reading right now?

I just finished The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens this morning and plan on reading either In Watermelon Sugar by Richard Brautigan or The American Claimant by Twain.

 

Summer Tour dates are up at cordovasband.com including @familywash 7/3—see y’all soon #Nashville #NYC

A post shared by Cordovas (@cordovasband) on

Are you an introvert or an extrovert?

Extrovert because I think anyone singing and playing in front of people becomes one.

What’s your favorite culinary spice?

Red pepper

What was your favorite childhood toy?

Either my baseball card collection or Star Wars action figures.


Photo credit: Rebecca Ward

Won’t You Be a Neighbor? (Op-ed)

It all started in the Hague. I was backstage getting ready for the first night of tour with the Mastersons when the Dutch venue crew turned on a live broadcast of the inauguration. I’d hoped that touring Europe during the early days of the new administration would offer a bit of relief from the constant media bombardment that I’d been experiencing in America, but it turned out that the opposite was true. American politics are world politics, and so the rest of the trip was spent responding to questions about current events that had no good answers.

There was a sense of dread every time I connected to a hotel WiFi network. What executive order had been signed since the last time I had Internet access? Who was the president attacking now? What progress was being undone? Dressing room conversations often centered around feelings of frustration and helplessness at being so far away from home during such a tumultuous time. My friends were back in the States protesting, but outside of attending the Women’s March in Amsterdam, there seemed to be little I could do to participate. That changed after a backstage chat with Shovels & Rope in Gothenburg, Sweden, though. I left the venue that night feeling fired up and reinvigorated about the power of music and what I could do as an artist to make my voice count, and I decided the minute I got home, I would start work on the Won’t You Be My Neighbor? EP.

This group of songs is my attempt at channeling all of the anxiety and energy and negativity of 2017 into something productive and positive. I wanted to bring together a diverse group of artists I admired and create a collection of political music for a cause I believe in, but I also wanted to push on the idea of what exactly makes a song political. The tracks here are a mix of covers and originals reimagined for a year in which kindness and empathy have become their own form of political statements. I remember lying in a hotel bed in London watching the Super Bowl and reading about the uproar from conservative outlets about commercials that advocated for treating immigrants and the poor with civility and respect. Displays of human decency were being treated as attacks on Trump. (How that doesn’t give his supporters pause to consider which side of history they’re on, I may never understand.)

The collection opens with “This Land Is Your Land,” which includes background vocals contributed by Josh Ritter, but it’s perhaps not the version you’re used to hearing. I peppered it with samples of American political speeches from George Wallace to Donald Trump to highlight that the struggle for equality — whether it be in regard to race, religion, sexual orientation, nationality, etc — is an ongoing one, not simply a part of our past. I also used Woody Guthrie’s full 1940 lyrics, in which he denounces walls and bears witness to the struggle of the poor. “As they stood hungry, I stood there wondering if this land was made for you and me,” he pondered. We don’t teach those verses in school, but I think they’re important. Being patriotic means holding the country you love accountable to its own ideals and asking the tough questions.

The song feels even more prescient in light of the president’s decision to withdraw from the Paris climate accord. Guthrie’s not just singing about the concept of “America” here; he’s very literally singing about the trees and the air and the water. If these things do, indeed, belong to all of us, then it’s our duty to be responsible stewards of them. This land doesn’t just belong to us; it belongs to the countless generations yet to come.

Some of the songs I covered surprised me as I dug into them. Bob Marley’s “One Love,” for instance, revealed itself to be entirely devoid of rhyme. Separated from the music, the lyrics felt like a prayer or recitation (in no small part because some of them are lifted from the Bible), so I decided to recast them over a very solemn, hymn-like arrangement. I’d always been a fan of Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down,” but with a professional bully in the Oval Office, the urgency of those verse lyrics hit me harder than I expected. And I’m not sure “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” has ever served as a protest anthem, but in these days of refugee bans, ICE raids, and border walls, I can’t hear it as anything else.

All profits from sales of this collection will be donated to the International Rescue Committee to help fund their efforts aiding refugees around the world. Everything was recorded at no cost in bedrooms and home studios around the country, and all the guests contributed their time and talent out of the goodness of their hearts. Even the packaging is made with recycled cardboard and is handpainted at home in Brooklyn. I hope that folks enjoy the collection and think about what the songs have to say, and I hope that the money we raise with it can do some real good for people who are in desperate need around the world. I know a project like this is a small gesture in the grand scheme of things, but I truly believe that every little bit counts in the fight for what’s right.

See you around the neighborhood,
Anthony D’Amato

For the Won’t You Be My Neighbor? charity EP, Anthony D’Amato created a stripped-down collection of reimagined political music to benefit the International Rescue Committee’s refugee aid efforts. Musical pals — including Josh Ritter, Sean Watkins, Israel Nash, Michaela Anne, the Mastersons, Lizzie No, and MiWi La Lupa — contributed background vocals. Donate to the cause and pick up a handprinted copy of the EP here.


Photo credit: tinto via Foter.com / CC BY