New Reviews, Spring 2016

•June 8, 2016 • Leave a Comment

New Reviews
Spring of 2016


Michael Wesley Hughes
Tryin’ To Come Back Home


On your heart and on your hands
Waging wars in foreign lands

One of the most poignant and also rocking anti-war statements to have emerged in years. A vivid masterpiece long brewing in the soul of this old soldier, and now emerging after years of playing the blues. Beloved as a brilliant bluesman and the songwriter of blues classics, Michael Hughes now shares his hidden crucible of song and survival. A Vietnam vet who was blown to kingdom come only to be sewn up and sent out to be blown up again, this is his real story, a rock and roll spiral directly into the unfathomable hell of war, and the world after the war, the long and enduring road back home. Although these are songs of outrage, they’re also redemption songs, the songs of an ultimate survivor. And don’t worry: these songs aren’t weepy or pedantic; the man rocks. As pointed and even political as these songs get, they never abandon the aim of good songwriting: compelling choruses, visceral verses and rich melodics ensue.

He’s an incendiary lead guitarist who wails with deep electric sorrow and redemptive joy to cut through the noise and transcend words. Several of his songs from his critically-acclaimed eBlues Highway (2009) were used in HBO’s “True Blood” (as those Southern vampires evidently dig authentic blues). His blues – the songs, singing and playing – spring from a source so deep and genuine that they resound like the first blues, like the songs of the ages.

This album digs as deep, but is a shift to a different kind of songwriting. Still it’s informed by the blues. Fortunately for fans, his electric guitar solos abound, and are as blistering as any on his blues records or live shows. He sounds like a man on fire. But that crying soul is crying about a whole other kind of American blues, that of the thousands of American sons sent to battle. Those who weren’t killed and were sent home found themselves forever chained to the horrors they endured, perpetually – as the title says – tryin’ to find their way home. There is no resolution, no answer to any of the fundamental questions that arise, because war is simply a crazy solution to any problem. Going crazy, as the famous Catch-22 dictates, is the most rational response to the insanity of war.

This is the sound of authenticity. It’s an unmistakable sound. Humans can sense when others are faking. Inherently and organically. Which is why his anthem of human phoniness – “Faking It” – is so perfect here, united around the whole crowd singing, “Fake you!” The sin is deep enough of sending sons to battle. But to do so based on lies – based on intentional falsehoods –– is even more egregiously evil. It’s an outrageous rock stomp about the powers that lie, those who wear, as he writes, “a third degree black belt in Bullshit.” Hughes burns through the song, both vocally and on guitar, while unleashing pure electric fury at the masters of war.

So accustomed are we to hearing music devoid of musical or lyrical substance, albums with little coherence but much filler, it’s like living on a diet of junk food. One yearns for something, anything, that’s real. So when you hear this, the raw power of a man singing from his soul, so revelatory of human drama, it resonates even more powerfully. With rampant frivolity and banality celebrated daily, and with more and more people making music with less and less substance, the sound of a true artist rings like a beautiful bell-tone through the noise.

The reason for the resonance is because it’s real. Through the history of American popular song, those songs which specify the real facts – the truth – are the ones that persist in resounding so powerfully. From the classic songs of Willie Dixon, who always said the blues were the facts of life, though songs such as “Coal Miner’s Daughter” by Loretta Lynn, “Pastures Of Plenty” and “Deportees” by Woody Guthrie or Merle Haggard’s “Mama Tried,” up to “Rehab” by Amy Winehouse and beyond, we find songs deriving their power by drawing on the truth itself, on real life as it is really lived.

These songs exemplify that musical highway of truth. These entail his excursion to hell, and his protracted emergence. A nightmare so brutal that it never left him. To this day. Nightmares. Like so many veterans, the nightmares never stop. Asked about honor, he answered soberly with no lack of sorrow: “There is no honor when you are carrying your friend’s body, and he’s been blown in two.” It’s that madness, and all that is too horrific to even remember let alone relate. There are, as he sings, “stories that I can’t tell.”
After all, when our fathers, and grandfathers, went to fight Hitler, the threat was real and understood. World War II was a war the directly affected America, and the entire world. The war was still hell, of course, as are all wars. But it was based on an equation that added up. When soldiers returned from the war, they were welcomed into the fold of American life again with love and gratitude. Their service and sacrifice was felt and understood, and the war was over.

Whereas fighting in a civil war in the swamps of Vietnam never made any sense because it was insensible. And when those soldiers were sent home, there was so resolution there, nothing won or resolved, no honor. And what have we learned since then? Iraq. Afghanistan. We continue to wage wars, far from our own shores. “All my dreams now undone,” he sings, “sent to a war that can’t be won.”

All of it and more, all these years later, now channeled into a charged and remarkable cycle of songs. Here is a man of heart trying revealing this madness in “Evil,” the album’s closing song, which he tells us in the liner notes, embraces the mission of transforming a “human with compassion” to a “trained killing machine.”

Produced dynamically by songwriter-producer Lisa Nemzo, the entire album surrounds Hughes in driving grooves, rich choirs of voices, and soulful rhythm beds on top of which his guitar gently – and powerfully – weeps. Nemzo powerfully connected with these songs and with their singer. Each is etched ideally to the artist’s contours, his voice and style. These are songs of great intensity, and the production directly embodies the character of each, and with great soulfulness. His singing has never sounded more vital, as electric as his combustible Hendrix meets B.B. King at the crossroads guitar playing throughout.

The  visceral “Stains” opens the album, and sings of the profound and indelible darkness forever imprinted on the spirits of all soldiers. A song of rage and sorrow, it’s crafted with cunning; it’s catchy, even when he’s singing of bombs raining on the innocent. It’s got a great melody, one that builds and builds with organic grace and rightness. It’s boldly audacious, especially in the blistering bridge – all emergent tension that keeps building and building until it explodes into a fiery guitar solo – not unlike “If I Had A Rocket-Launcher,” another fiery anti-war song, by Bruce Cockburn. When Hughes returns after the bridge and solo, he comes back with even more fervor than before, emblematic of his survival and emergence.

“Blind See” is a sound painting, based on his hallucinogenic ramblings after almost dying, his eyes blinded and bandaged, testifying of an angel who told him to see. And he did. He saw again, emerging from the nightmare of blindness to the light.

“Bullets, Bombs and Bodybags” is a compellingly melodic anthem of survival, which he wails. “Angel Without Wings” is a tender and unique story, a ballad of a soldier falling in love with his nurse, her loving care confused for love. “Arlington,” written by Nemzo with Artie Colatrella, is a poignant epic that is the album’s first single. It starts with a 500 mile drive to bring roses to the graves at Arlington. It’s a long distance to come to pay tribute to the fallen, and a long distance this nation has come since its first war for freedom. Sadly this “saddest acre in the nation” doesn’t stand as a reminder of something ancient, but a living memorial to those soldiers who have fallen through our history, and continue to fall today. The colors of the blood red roses and the cherry-blossoms draw a stark contrast to all the stone-white graves and crosses. We see the trees and flowers that still flourish where the world absorbs all the lives lost, here where “eternity keeps calling.”

It’s the most ancient kind of grief, even here in modern times, centuries removed from armies facing each other on bloody battlefields, the fact of mankind still embracing war. Still a young nation, we’ve waged wars through each chapter of our history. And here we have Arlington, and other fields of the fallen, all over America. On Mr. Hughes’ album cover, he’s shown in mirrored shades that reflect the sorrow in his eyes, and a vast field of white gravestones. Half of his face is painted with camouflage, like what he wore in the jungle. Half is unpainted, but engulfed still, among the tombstones, in this field of death. This isn’t war in the abstract. This is the reality, the outcome. Thousands dead. Generations decimated.

So it is with gratitude that we honor those who have survived, and those like Mr. Hughes who help us, though his words and music and especially, his soul, to make sense of this madness. That Mr. Hughes not only survived, but survived to write and sing these kind of songs, gives us all hope. This album helps us remember not to forget, to honor those who did for their country what their country asked them to do. It honors the fallen, those who paid the ultimate price even without knowing the reason. And it honors the dream of a world beyond war, a world where humans can learn the meaning of harmony, and the song of true peace.

To buy Trying To Get Back Home, click here.




1 Thom Bishop

Thom Bishop
The Amber Ages

Since I was a kid spinning 45 singles over and over, never feeling the need for a different song when I found a great one, I’ve always been drawn to the single. Not the hit necessarily, but the singular song that stands out from the rest and resonates with grace and greatness. And which not only stands up, but grows better and even more compelling with each listen. Not every album affords us this opportunity. But this one sure does, and it’s the title track, “The Amber Ages.” Thom wrote the lyrics, with beautiful cinematic music composed by Linn Brown. It is dedicated, I have learned, to his father, Thomas Bishop, Sr.

A multi-dimensional masterpiece, it’s hard to listen to this song without shedding any tears, as I’m also the son of a reluctant warrior who also fought in France, and whose life is over as mine goes on. That dynamic of yearning to hold onto the past resonates throughout my generation, as does the inclination to honor the bravery of these men – just boys then – sent overseas to save the world. Those who survived and came back were humble heroes, as was my father, rarely wanting to talk about it. The song contains that dynamic but so much more: it’s a timeless epic of remarkable proportions, a cinematic summation of recent human history, beautifully detailed. Dedicated to an unnamed soldier who also fought in France long ago, it is the song of a son for a father who peers over fading pages of old journals. Deeply felt and delivered, it’s beautifully underscored by piano. A sprawling song with a beautifully arching and elegiac melody, it’s deeply nostalgic and new at the same time, and grandly poignant.

“The parrots are rustling on Telegraph Hill
Your memory throbbing your spirit is still
And there in the corner defying the dust
Your proud suit of armor stands speckled with rust..”

From “The Amber Ages”
By Thom Bishop.

For that song alone, this would be well worth the price of admission. But there is much more. Beautifully lyrical and luminous songs abound from this Chicago son, including one called “Luminous.” A song about humans being human, that aspiration towards something singular, something special. Always there was a luminous quality in his singing, since he first emerged from the vital Chicago folk-music scene in the 70s. Playing acoustic guitar, he sang with a spirited, angelic tenor voice, delivering stunning, lyrical songs. The stunning songs remain, as does the angelic tenor, but on this song cycle he plays no guitar. The setting is more jazz than folk, speaking of Miles Davis’s famous embrace of silence, the space between the sounds, with Jeff Jenkin’s elegant piano at the heart of each track, fleshed out by Eric Thorin on lyrical double bass. Other colors are painted with warm pedal steel by John Macy, and soulfully haunted flugelhorn and trumpet passages by Gabriel Mervine.

The other shift here is that, unlike previous albums for which he wrote the songs alone, here he’s collaborated on many songs, writing the lyrics while various composers create the music, including Jude Swift, Ed Tossing, Gary Grundel and Linn Brown. And so these songs resound like new jazz standards – like something in the hip wheelhouse of Ben Sidran or Mose Allison. He does bring one of his older songs, the haunting “Mr. Arthur’s Place,” into this jazzy realm, and it comes alive in a new way. Its beautiful meandering melodics lay lovingly with the piano, and the delivery is all heart. It’s a song of great grace, of recapturing the essence of long ago love. Another beautiful song cycle by Thom Bishop, it’s united by the timeless and limitless power of song.


1 Jason Wilber echoes

Jason Wilber

Knowing that John Prine’s longtime multi-instrumentalist, the great Jason Wilber, had recorded an album of covers, bringing us new renditions of great old songs, I assumed it would be mostly folky songs, the kind most easily suited to an acoustic guitar-based artist. But as often happens, I was wrong. Instead he has chosen songs quite removed from the acoustic guitar as we know it – singular and remarkable songs originally rendered with production grand and dimensional, including piano-based and/or open-tuning derived chromatic excursions. But in Jason’s gentle hands, he returns us to the essence of each song – the words and melody – and brings them home in a brand new and poignant light.

The instrumentation is pure and unadorned throughout, with Jason on vocals, guitars and bass, and with touches of percussion by Paul Mahern, who also produced and engineered the album, and Devon Ashley. That simplicity beautifully frames these songs, and keeps the focus keenly on the lyrics and melody of these great songs.

Seeing that he’d included Joni Mitchell’s “Edith and The Kingpin,” from her vastly under-appreciated Hissing of Summer Lawns, I was surprised. Of all of her remarkable songs, it’s one that rarely gets celebrated, even by the most die-hard Joni fans, of which there are a multitude. Truth is not a lot of Joni songs ever get covered – not because they’re not amazing songs, but because they are so complex, so distinctive to her style, her voice, her open-tunings of guitar, that it would be a supreme challenge for all but the most gifted singer-musicians to do right. Prince famously covered “A Case Of You” with great love. But, sadly, there are few Princes around.

Jason, however, is an exceptional musician, most famous for his multi-instrumental role in the Prine band for decades now, and his easy penchant for bringing as much soul to a mandolin solo as to a harmonica refrain or guitar rhythm. His rendition of “Edith” is revelatory. It brings a softness to the sharp, angular contours of the song, and a sweetness that was always there but obscured by the sonics of the production. His vocal is relaxed, allowing this mysterious story to unfold in a whole other way. This is greatness. This is ambitious. If one can imagine Joni performing it solo, just voice and guitar, before making the album, it might sound like this. All those years with Prine seems to have taught him a lesson of great consequence: that when you have a song filled with rich, complex lyrics, it’s wise to keep the instrumentation simple so as not to get in the way.

He does it again with one of Stevie Wonder’s most exultant melodies and lyrics of sweet ardor, “Overjoyed.” This chord progression – like so much Stevie has created – is beyond complex. No normal musical logic holds it together; rather it is connected by Stevie’s singular genius, which bypasses all conventional ideas of harmony and chord structure to create a progression that propels this melody with transcendent beauty. It’s the kind of chromatic chord structure, not unlike Brian Wilson’s “God Only Knows,” which on paper would seem so complex as to be unfocused and desultory. But it’s the purity of melody which sails this vessel, so that all those chords line up in a sublime symmetry that never sounds unusual or complex, it just sounds right. And with Jason’s warm acoustic guitar playing and gentle voice, the genius inherent in this composition comes alive with humble, understatement, and the effect is stunning.

He similarly transforms another similarly complex song by another genius songwriter known like Stevie and Joni for intricately elaborate chord progressions, David Bowie. “All The Pretty Horses.” Again, a song that is rarely if ever covered, because the artist defined it so deeply already, and because it’s so complex. The chords, as in other songs of his, seem convoluted, even. But on acoustic guitar with a single gentle vocal at its heart, it rings with great grace and beauty.

He also delivers a song he’s performed himself thousands of times, Prine’s classic “Paradise.” He gives it a bluesy edge that is haunting, bending the famous melody into places where its sorrow rings like a church bell. It’s a keen kind of triumph, discovering a whole new depth in this song he’s done for decades, and outlining the paradigm shift in the lyrics – the American towns forever decimated by the coal industry – with a deep and perpetual sorrow.

Other unusual and great song choices are here, including a beautiful rendition of the Stones’ lovely ballad, “As Tears Go By,” as well Leon Russell’s “A Song For You,” and Big Star’s “I Am The Cosmos” by Alex Chilton and Chris Bell. In each he delivers the essence of the song with stunning clarity, letting us hear each word, each melody note, in a whole new way. This is new, unexpected and great record-making.


1 Hollie Stephenson

Hollie Stephenson
Hollie Stephenson

I have seen the future of R&B, and her name is Hollie Stephenson. This is greatness, an astounding debut. She’s a stunning singer who writes songs that resound like R&B standards. This is the heart of real soul, the sound of exultant, transcendent horn-charged R&B. It sparkles like the heart of Motown soul with a measure of pure Philly sound and  a modern, poignant edge. At first listening it resounds like Amy Winehouse but without the drugs, just pure soul and retro girl-group elation ideally suited for a new world. But the Amy comparisons fall away after listening over and over, and this is an album that invites constant listening like the classic records of yore. Her voice, with the warmth and piercing agility reminiscent of other great soul singers like Amy and Duffy and Dusty Springfield, is very much her own. At all of 17 years, she discovers and crafts new songs like an old soul, one deeply immersed in soul, R&B and classic songwriting.

It would be easy to listen to this and assume this young singer had chosen soul chestnuts, great standards of the past to belt out with tender romance. But, amazingly, these are all new classics.

These are the kinds of songs that songwriters spend their whole lives to write. She’s written them all before turning 18. It’s prodigious of the first degree. “Broken Heart Strings” starts good and just gets greater, with a chorus of great power. “Dried Out Lies” is set against a dizzying horn section and a tempo which quietly increases the singer’s passion simmers. “Pointless Rebellion,” the album opener, sparkles with bright yearning, delightfully delivering the title and all it implies with both whimsy and wonder.

She’s the discovery of Dave Stewart, who produced the album and co-wrote some of the songs, including the gorgeous “Sunday Morning.” Swelling with strings and a choir of voices, it’s a sumptuous ballad for the ages. Were she only a songwriter and not a vocalist, she’d be providing luminous and soulful songs for other singers. But as vocalist she rises to the high bar of her own material to deliver the kind of album we used to live for. This is a very rare debut, a soul masterpiece.


1 quiet life froggy
Quiet Life

Beautifully resonant and hypnotic roots rock. Quiet Life is a great Americana band who write songs for the ages, the kinds of songs that seem to have been around forever. Produced by Scott McMicken of Dr. Dog and recorded at his Mt. Slippery studio in Philly, it’s an album of much tenderness and charm. Songs like “Summer of ’16” and the title song, “Foggy,” resound with a warm wistfulness. Close harmonies and organic textures abound. The ghost of Jerry Garcia is evoked in the mystic and folky focus of these songs, starting simple but always with the promise of infinite expansion, that these songs never really stop, but keep spinning like galaxies into the mystic. It all starts with “Live Wire,” a compelling song of simplicity and grace. If The Band collaborated with Pink Floyd, it might touch a realm like this. Everything starts small, and gradually builds and builds, sending this humble song home wrapped in wonder. For this track alone, this would be one worth keeping.

Known to tour America in a fabled forest green Ford van which runs on used vegetable oil, this is a roots band for the 21st century. Foggy is an album perfect for the upcoming summer of ’16, already rendered iconic in advance. It’s music that makes you happy, but also evokes a whole world far beyond. It’s brand new and modern, yet forever connected to those great albums of the past which still deliver, even after all these years. This is one for the ages.






1 melinda-gibson-money-in-the-bank-ep
Melinda Gibson
Money In The Bank

Very great and unexpected. Fun, spirited, angularly singular songwriting abounds. Entirely on her own ground, Melinda Gibson is no folkie though often seen in their company: these are super-charged, fervently delivered rockers which have more to do with a raw, punk-fueled energy reminiscent of John Doe and Exene’s incendiary exhortations in X than anything unplugged. It’s powered by a muscular three-piece ensemble of Melinda on voice and guitars, Shawn Clawson on bass and vocals, and the ferocious David Rodgers on drums. She’s funny and serious as Patti Smith, with lyrics that cut through the sonics with a whimsical mingling of enlightenment and resignation. “Money In The Bank” is a brilliant reflection of modern times and the financial crosses we all bear: “You do what you have to do to get the money in the bank, the money in the bank…” “Madman” springs out of the gate on a galloping electric groove that seems one-part folk and one-part Bowie.

Written and produced with James Hurley, this is a delightful EP of five finely etched songs. She sings with soulful authority throughout, projecting the lyrics with pointed whimsy and soulful focus. With only one song in five that exceeds three minutes, she knows how to make a strong, essential statement without every overstaying her welcome. This is inspired and vigorous songwriting and robust record-making. The only weakness is that, unlike almost every album made these days, there’s not enough here. We want more! But kudos to the artist for bringing such essential power and punch on an album that reminds us just how good it can get. There’s no wasted moments here, no excess, no self-indulgence. Just the powerful purity of singular passion. Here’s hoping there’s much more to come.




1 skipheller_sanfernandovalleyblues_cmb

Skip Heller
San Fernando Valley Blues

The man is prolific and engaged, and this is but one of many collections he’s recently created and released. But it’s so good I can’t get past it. He writes beautifully detailed, sensual songs, the kinds of songs people complain that nobody writes anymore. Both evoking retro ghosts but with his feet planted firmly in the now, this is seriously good. He sings with the calm confidence of Johnny Cash mixed with the wounded soul of Townes Van Zandt and a touch of Buddy Holly rockabilly swagger. Recorded at assorted homes and apartments spread through the vast urbanity of Los Angeles, it’s an album of much quiet grace and focus. When he sings, you want to listen – there’s a summoning, compelling dynamic to his voice that invites you to take in every word. It’s delicately attired by as assortment of musicians who revolve around the sun of his acoustic guitar like satellites, a dynamic cast of players including Paul Eckman, Wyatt Stone, DJ Bonebrake, Christopher Lockett, Jim Cavender, Dale Daniel and more. “With Me Everywhere I Go” resounds like a beautiful ballad Elvis would have loved, romantic and generous both. “I Used To Love California” is an essential exploration of a musician’s world, filled like love songs with symbols that lose their charm when the love ends. It brings to mind those musicians who blame the state itself, not the music industry or their own bad luck, on their lack of success, as in “I am outta here, dude – California has messed with me enough. I’m going back to [fill in name of any home-town] where they treat me better.”

“Duke Ellington’s Tears” is a remarkable rootsy country-stomp about the “quiet grace” of the maestro years past his heyday, on the great abyss, finding himself playing in a high school gymnasium. It’s a tribute to the fortitude of all musicians, of the hard roads traveled down decades for the few quick trips on the glory train. The sad fact that, as Shel Silverstein once wrote, even living legends have to live. “Too Hot To Sleep” is temperate and hypnotic.

“San Fernando Valley Blues” sounds like a modern blues standard, with perfect charged-blues phrasing on sad lines like “In Panorama City, she’s topless in some bar.” (Anyone who has spent any time in Panorama City knows just how sad that is.) In the vast desolation of the San Fernando Valley, what Van Dyke Parks once termed “an endless suburban nightmare,” there are infinite stories of hollow despair. But this crystallizes all of it, the perpetual yearning for stardom that brings some so close to the luminous core of Hollywood without ever attaining it.

It all ends up with the retro charm of “Tracy Lee,” a love song by an admitted fool that swings with rockabilly ardor. Skip Heller’s the real deal: a deeply committed and gifted songwriter who seems capable of just about anything. This is not only a great collection of perfectly conceived and executed songs, it’s a lot of fun. I want to put this in my car and drive through the valley all day long.

1 Ivas John
Ivas John
Good Days a Comin

It opens with spirited guitar and violin, like the early jazz flights of Django with Stephane Grappelli. That is until his voice comes in, a voice resonant as the earth, singing with a gentle warmth and delivering beautiful originals and some great covers. This is a beautifully intimate, warm song cycle all built on the simple foundation of his fine guitar playing with just a few delicate touches, such as the sparkling violin of Robert Bowlin.

Ivas’ guitar style is reminiscent of the late great Steve Goodman, who blended layers of fluid ragtime and jazz into a rainbow of country and folk, and could play leads and rhythm and sing all at the same time. Ivas seems cut from the same cloth, and with a voice like Goodman’s, of much amiable love. He brings us beautiful and timeless songs of his own which echo with a beautiful Americana purity, such as “Roll Mississippi” and “Here I Am,” the latter of which was co-written with Edward John. He also delivers some entrancing covers, including Merle Travis’ spectral “Dark As A Dungeon” and Tom Paxton’s great “Can’t Help But Wonder Where I’m Bound.” This is an artist of purity, a gifted and lyrical guitarist and songwriter. It’s an album you can live inside of for weeks, and never feel let down. This is soulful and solid stuff. Honoring the traditional ground from which he’s emerged, Ivas John embraces the source while reaching into the hopeful future, the good days he knows are a comin’.



1 Jared Rabin
Jared Rabin
Something Left To Say

An Americana masterpiece. A tender, beautifully realized and lyrical song cycle from Jared Rabin, founding member and lead singer-multi-instrumentalist of Chicago’s great Falldown. He writes perfect songs, beautiful melodic gems lovingly layered with rich vocal harmonies throughout, wed to compelling grooves. It all starts with the gently galloping “Something Left To Say,” a song about grabbing the reins of the present while they’re in your hands. He brings it home with a perfect couplet, like a great Paul Simon line, both simple and complex at the same time: “And I’ve got something left to say/Soon tomorrow will be yesterday.”

Produced by Jared with Rick Barnes at Chicago’s great Rax Trax studios, this is an album which shows off the multitudes of music which live in this one man. As those who have invited him for years into their bands and onto their tracks know well, he’s a remarkable multi-instrumentalist who brings a dynamic and delicate warmth to everything he touches. Unlike other gifted songwriters who leave guitar solos to others, he takes burning leads throughout, such as the fleetly fluid one in the center of “Eight Trips Around The Sun.” And besides the solos, he covers so many bases at once it’s staggering, like an Americana Stevie Wonder. Besides singing and writing all the songs, he plays acoustic and electric guitars, bass, mandolin, violin, banjo, piano, organ and harmonica.

Besides that the only musicians are drummer Jordan Kozner, as well as Dan Kristan, who plays double bass on two songs, and Kallie Palm on vocal harmonies. Percussionist Juan Pastor provides great tapestry rhythms and handclaps on the opening cut.

His music reflects a music lover who has seriously absorbed every kind of music his whole life, from old jazz and standards through folk and country to rock and far beyond. It all informs his music, which is deeply dimensional and richly rendered. “Nothing I Can Do” is a charged fiddle-based country stomp, like one part Jackson Browne and one part Charlie Daniels. “Ride the Wheel” is a slowly simmering anthem which closes the album with amazing guitar exhortations throughout set against an urgent pedal-tone bassline.

The effect is exultant and powerful, as if Hendrix sat in with the Eagles, even exploding at the end, after the harmonies are gone, into pure incendiary feedback. It’s an apt conclusion to this song cycle both tender and volatile, touching on every degree of this one artist’s vast musical spectrum. He seems like a guy who could do anything musically, and I look forward to what’s next. In the meanwhile I’ll keep spinning this disc, and keep it with my collection of classics.

Jill Freeman, “A Handmade Life.” A Review

•June 4, 2016 • Leave a Comment

1 Jill Freeman cover

A Review:

Jill Freeman

A Handmade Life


All Lyrics by JILL FREEMAN

I dress in rags, I suck on stones
Sometimes hunger shakes my bones
But deep inside, below the strife
I have a precious handmade

From “A Handmade Life”

A masterpiece of audacious proportions. A stunning, truly ambitious achievement. The kind of album songwriters talk about someday making. As in “Yeah, someday I am going to choose, like, thirteen of my favorite fairy-tales – including some really dark ones – and write a song about each.” And you go, yeah, yeah! Good idea. Some day.

Well, she’s done it. A Handmade Life is a remarkable journey through the mystic world of myth. Each song is lovingly and luminously inspired by a fable, some of which are ancient – while others, such as “Completely Unaware, ” based on The Wizard of Oz books by L. Frank Baum –  are slightly more modern. This is timeless and visionary stuff, resonant with the symbology of the ages, yet also brand new. Though many of these myths have been around for eons, they speak directly to modern times.

If Rickie Lee Jones, Lou Reed and Laura Nyro were to collaborate on songs with Kurt Weill and Edgar Allen Poe and made an album produced by Tom Waits and Daniel Lanois, they might create something like A Handmade Life. Or not. Words fail to define that which is beyond words, so we reach for convenient comparisons. But some things – including deeply felt, beautifully executed art – exist in a realm beyond words. And that’s why God invented song.  And songwriters like Jill Freeman to write them.

Mythic, mystic and magical, this is  a song-cycle that unfolds like a great theatrical spectacle. We meet a multitude of characters, some wounded, some wicked, all mysterious and essentially human. Within each story comes a distinct facet of  the human psyche, and the struggle to make sense of an illogical world. We journey through a great procession of stories, all united by the voice of “heartache’s daughter,” the deep yearning love in the heart of these songs. It’s a cycle that weds human darkness – and hopeful “bits of light” – with melodies of great heart, charm and mystery. At the start and end of this journey of much darkness, some murder, mayhem, hunger and death, there is redemption. There is the light at the end of the human tunnel.

My aching search
For loving kindness
Is the light that leads me there.

From “The Light That Leads Me There.”

A deeply gifted songwriter, she compresses these fables down into beautifully rhymed and metered verse like romantic poetry of yore, finding the essence of each myth and making it musical. She unwinds these tales with an elegant economy of language.  As in the core of great storytelling, there are no wasted words.

Crazy wisdom ancestor
Pit of my desire
Grant me your blessings
Give me eyes of fire

From “Eyes of Fire”

Other examples of language use both stark and stunning abound. “The Inside Room,” based on the Arthurian legend of “The Fisher King,” uses short, poignant haiku-like lines to embody this character of few words, forever fishing in the mystic:

Barefoot, cold rock
Drops of water
Midnight’s maiden
Heartache’s daughter
Hook, no barb
On a bamboo pole
In the deepening silence
I fish for my soul

From “The Inside Room.”

She’s long been beloved on the L.A. songwriting-singer scene. With the Life Is Grand Band and as a solo artist, she’s not only one of the best songwriters around, but also one of the finest singers. Bringing a powerfully poignant and focused tenderness to her lead singing, she’s also a remarkable harmony singer, lending a warm, loving blend to anything she touches.

Her vocals on this new album are resplendent:  ethereal and earthly, dynamically delicate, combining all the voices she has and more to tell these stories with all the darkness and co-mingled light intact. Sometimes it’s a voice jazzy and cagey, sometimes strong and pointed. Other times it’s wispy and vulnerable – like a little girl lost in the woods, abandoned maybe, as the sun starts going down. Her voice, raw and open, set against a single ukulele strum and the sounds of the world roaring around her, opens the show:

I have slept in cold and lonely places
With no comfort but the ground

From “The Light That Leads Me There”

But often it’s the omniscient voice of the story-teller, that ancient soul who has woven magic into our lives for centuries. The soul who dances in the forever joy of music itself, as in the great scat section of “No Hands,” just jamming, beyond words, celebrating the joy of life even without hands.

She’s always been a remarkable songwriter, one who – like John Prine and Randy Newman – can bring humor and sorrow to the same song. Beautifully poignant yet whimsical gems like “Everything Makes Me Cry,” about being a raw nerve in the world (aka artist), from her previous album, resound like standards.


But this might very well be her definitive album. Every artist at some point creates the one album that defines them forever. This is that album. It’s a dream nurtured and born, a vision realized.

Songs, and these songs especially, are the ideal vehicle for the surreal landscapes of fairy-tales. Written in meter and rhyme and wed to melody, these myths become even more potent than the spoken word. As revealed at every stop on this musical journey, within a song a full story can be contained. Revelations often emerge in the middle, in the chorus, like the sun around which all planets spin. The songform propels the narrative in a non-linear way, with time flowing from the center, as if in a series of dreams. The result is chilling and unforgettable.

Listen to “No Hands.” It’s all there. A jaunty and jazzy plea based on “The Handless Maiden” by The Brothers Grimm, it’s about a woman navigating the world without hands. Hands stolen by the haunted man inside of her. It’s dark, beautiful territory. And it swings with soul. It’s an extreme equation, this human so destitute in every way, forced to steal a pear from a tree, homeless, hungry and, yes, handless. Yet the character speaks with a simple and brave dignity. And with yearning for something so fundamental. These are bold and brilliant brush-strokes, crystallized with a powerfully simple yet visceral melody,and the picture is stunningly complete:

Oh God, to hold a hand in mine
Watch the fingers intertwine

To feel with my own fingertips
The softness of my lover’s lips…

From “No Hands.”

These tracks are all based on arrangedments by Jill, and produced by her husband, the great Joel Wachbrit. With sonics dynamic and dimensional throughout, the production of each song is as beguiling as the vocals and the songs. That the producer and artist are married makes sense, as the production here is intimate and perfect, so sensitive to every element of every element, like the beautiful symphonic splendor of the Oz song, “Completely Unaware,” with strings arranged by Jack Van Zandt. It’s absolutely sumptuous, as majestic and ageless as that mythic Emerald City. It’s an ending that’s absolutely exultant, with Jill scat-soaring over the orchestra of strings and muted horns, evoking such diverse spirits, from Oz itself to old Hollywood and beyond.

Get up and dance a jig with me, as if it was your last
I’m not trying to be coy, it’s essential
Then write down all your thoughts, quickly
Those future and those past
Don’t lie, don’t cheat
Here’s a pencil

From “Welcome To The Bonehouse.”

She explores the hidden interiors of these tales, the stories that resonate, and the reasons for that resonance. It’s about the child in all of us yearning always for stories. And some stories – that ones that last, speak directly to the deepest parts of our soul: the ancient, primal parts, the human essence forever fearful of forces too big or mysterious to fight.

“Letters From Murdertown” resounds like the theme song of the album, like notes from dreams sent to the waking self. It contains an understanding that some things we encounter are beyond understanding, some darkness perhaps too dark to fathom, and maybe even beyond capturing with words. But in songs the fullness of the dream can be captured, as it’s bolstered by this mesmeric ¾ dark waltz-time groove, both compelling and creepy. And Jill’s earnest vocals in the midst of it, like the last sane voice in a crowded asylum, is aching and perfect, as she sings in finely-detailed lines of perfect rhyme:

I miss my home of origin
That dusty cornered land of sin
Where good and evil all mix in
Cotton candy, bathtub gin
So if you see me smiling
All wistful and beguiling
You’ll know my heart is filing
Letters from Murdertown
Letters from Murdertown

From “Letters From Murdertown”

Add to that Mike Nelson’s outrageously elastic clarinet solo in the middle, set against a choir of Jills, and the result is like a great surreal movie, brand new and now and yet timeless, evoking ghosts which have been dormant for decades.

The musicianship throughout is stellar, led by Jill on acoustic guitar with Joel  on electric and acoustic guitars throughout. Debra Dobkin provides deep grooves throughout on  percussion and drums, with Steve Nelson on bass, Tommy Reeves on keyboards, Judy Rudin on harmonica, Claudia Russell, Aeone Watson and Severin Browne on harmony vocals, Bruce Kaplan on mandolin, George Landress on dobro and harmonium, Bob Sheppard on bass clarinet, the Eclipse String Quartet on strings, Mike Nelson on baritone sax, tenor sax and clarinet. The luminous April Hava Shenkman (aka my brilliant cousin) provides the manic voices in the head of “Welcome to the Bonehouse.”


As mentioned, this album of considerable darkness begins and ends  wrapped with light,  in the sweet top and tail of  “The Light That Leads Me There,” based on Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Ugly Duckling.” Set out in the wild in the opening, the sounds of bedlam brewing, by the end we have reached a peaceful place. Jill’s no longer alone in the wild world, but now joined beautifully by full band and then many voices, sharing this crucible of life, underscored hauntingly with Uillean pipes played by Dave Champagne.

I’ve seen many things on this brutal earth
The horrific and the sweet
From the way the violence tumbles forth
To the flowers at my feet

And I’ve pondered as I wandered
On the mystery of man
Why does such a privileged creature squander
All the gifts that he commands?

Still I shall find my way
And I will know my people
They’ll embrace me with deep care
You see my aching search for loving kindness
Is the light that leads me there.

From “The Light That Leads Me There.”

It brings to mind Warren Zevon’s excitable message to co-writer Jorge Calderon after writing another great song: “Jorge,” he said, “You know, this is high art.” He knew it, and it’s true. High art. It’s stuff for the ages. Both inventive and inspired, these are paintings by artists aiming for masterpieces. Gratitude abounds that even in these modern times, these times in which many declare the album format dead forever, there are still artists like Jill and Joel still aiming so high, still making the kinds of albums we always lived for.

For more on this album and this artist:




Rob Zombie at the Roxy

•April 15, 2016 • Leave a Comment

5 zombie

Words & Photos By PAUL ZOLLO


Seeing Rob Zombie and his band at the intimate Roxy on the Sunset Strip is akin to seeing a jet engine rev up and take off in a Starbucks. To behold that much sheer power in such a small space was staggering. Yet it was exhilarating and great, and Rob and the gang seemed to enjoy it as much as the audience. “It is weird playing here,” said Zombie. “Our rehearsal hall is bigger than this place.”

They usually tear into giant concert arenas, and are preparing for a concert tour with Korn this summer (July 24 Irvine Meadows here in Los Angeles), the ostensible reason for this, a voluminous valentine to those lucky fans who got in. It’s the first time he’s played in a club like this, he said, since the baby days of his first band White Zombie. Though the Zombie ensemble has about a fifth of the musicians as Springsteen’s band, it has as much if not more passion and pure, electric rock and roll energy. And it was thrilling to behold.

For his is a remarkable band, a quartet that plays together with the precision of an atomic clock, and with the propensity to explode at any moment. The fundamental rock equation of guitar, bass and drums, is locked together with a wild, untamed ferocity. Much of which stems from the fact that John 5 is an extraordinary guitarist, a musician of real multitudes, capable of providing visceral rhythm guitar on every song while simultaneously ripping off savage solos and pyrotechnic fills. With two hands and one guitar he often sounds like two guitarists, if not more.

6 john 5

Even before Ginger Fish would kick in with monster beats on the drums, a roar like a jet plane revving would fill the venue and start to swirl; it all came from the arsenal of John 5, who would lift the old club right off of Sunset simply with his left hand voicing partial chords, before his pick hand would slice into the strings and paint with colors so bold and brash it was blinding.

And he’d do this in motion, prowling the stage like a madman swinging his axe, his face often covered by a creepy translucent mask. A young fan in the crowd testified to the effect: “He is the greatest guitarist alive – and also the scariest! He terrifies me!”

4 John 5

7 zombie

Piggy D. laid down rapid-fire, machine-gun blasts of pounding bass with a look of manic glee, stomping around the stage, barely missing clocking front-rowers with the neck of his bass. At one point he came on with a bass fashioned like a crucifix out of weathered wood  from a wrecked raft, and lit it on fire (musically). He and Ginger worked bass and drums together like the supercharged engine of a mad machine, wildly raucous and yet fluidly refined. 2 John 5

Mr. Zombie was on fire all night, spinning like a dervish, resembling a biblical prophet wearing warpaint. He delivered the crowd-pleasing Zombie anthems with deep passion, none so resonant as “Living Dead Girl,” to which the entire audience bounces vertically in beat, singing the refrain. “Dragula” bursts out of that gate propelled by a deep, killer groove, as Ginger and Piggy laid down a rhythmic bed so solid that both Rob and John could rocket off of it, and yet return where they started. It’s a rock and roll lesson in abandon and restraint, as Rob and the electric guitar seem ready to careen off into orbit, while the drums and bass, like gravity, kept them tethered to the earth.

9 z0mbie

He kicked the night into an elevated gear immediately with the White Zombie classic, “More Human Than Human,” before breaking out in every direction – doing their anthemic cover of “American Band,” as well as new songs from the upcoming album The Electric Warlock Acid With Satanic Orgy Celebration Dispenser,including the exultant tribute to extraterrestrial carnal knowledge, “Everybody’s F—ing In a UFO.” Also performed like they had been doing it for decades, another new classic and crowd-delighter, “The Hideous Exhibitions of a Gore Whore.”

7 zombieOn came special guest Glenn Danzig like he was shot to the stage by a cannon, and with whom Zombie sparred in duet on the Misfit’s “Vampira,” two and a half minutes of pure intensity squared.

At one point Rob asked the crowd for some semblance of sanity, suggesting they all put down their cellphones for a moment to remember what the world was like before we drove over the digital edge. “Just give me five minutes to remember what it was like to be in a club 20 years ago. Learn how to have some fun.”

1 zombie

Though we were in a little club, the crowd didn’t hold back, and occasional moshing led to a few fans being propelled to the stage, where they would do a spastic dance before diving headlong back into the mob, while Rob and the band deftly danced around them.

Rob and crew encored with “Scum of the Earth,” Meet The Creeper, and a song for his wife Sheri Moon Zombie, who was in attendance, “Ging Gang Gong,” which became a final frantic sing-along.

9 z0mbie bw

Afterwards the fans, those still standing anyway, seemed stunned. One woman who had eyes wide open as if she had just seen a miracle, testified: “Man! Zombie. Roxy. Man! OH MY GOD!” Yes. That said it all.

5 zombie

Maurice White: The Bluerailroad Interview

•February 7, 2016 • 1 Comment


Shining Star 


He was the shining star, the drummer turned songwriter turned singer and producer extraordinaire, the heart in the heart of the soul, the founder of Earth, Wind & Fire.

Earth, Wind & Fire. The elemental poem, connecting the natural elements at play forever on his astrological map to form his universe of song.  Earth is the rhythmic bedrock, the groove, the foundation for the tower of soul. Wind is pure melody, notes in succession, the expression of the human soul,the voice, the tune forever flowing, and with  harmony entwined, perpetually in motion,  flowing forever forward. Fire is elemental passion, the heat in the blood that pumps the heart, the sparks that catch when words of love and spirit fuse with  groove and the melody and everything ignites. All these disparate elements he wired together, and connected like miracle clockwork. Everything to accentuate everything. Pure precision yet infused with authentic soul. He was the guy who did it. The unifier.

First came Gospel. He sang in church and he sang at home. Then came the drums, and the passion for pure rhythm which propelled  him on a forever path towards  one of the most essentially soulful, exultant musical experiences ever preserved on record: Earth, Wind & Fire. As the guiding light of this expansive group,  the unifier of all elements,  the heart in the heart of the soul, Maurice White wrote or co-wrote all of their signature songs, including “The Way of the World,” “September,” “Fantasy,” and “Shining Star.” He won seven Grammy awards, and a total of 21 nominations.

He was also an artist highly respected by his peers, and universally beloved by all those whose lives he touched.

But like other shining stars that burn so bright, his light is already gone. Just weeks past turning in the draft for this book, February 4, 2016, Maurice White died at the age of 74 in Los Angeles from Parkinson’s Disease.

But that shining star spirit shines forever bright  in his  chain of inspirational songs, and in those  deeply dimensional musical tracks he concocted, always anchored with solid grooves, and colored beautifully with horns, strings , synths and rich vocals. The sound Maurice made.

He was born into a musical family in the musical mecca of Memphis, 1941. His father was a doctor who also played saxophone, and his grandmother was a Gospel singer. Gospel was the only music he knew for years, and it was enough. Raised by his grandmother at first in the Foote Homes Projects in South Memphis, music infused his soul.

He started singing at six. At 12 he started playing drums. He took to them like he’d played them his whole life. His great rhythmic prowess on the snare itself inspired him to join the school marching band, becoming its shining star.

In time he moved to Chicago with his grandmother to be closer to his mother and step-father.  It’s there he fell in with Chess Records, or “Chess University,” as he called it, since it’s where he gained experience and wisdom about how great records are made, and how the business works.

At Chess, he became an in-demand house drummer, playing on records by their legion of legendary artists, including Etta James, Ramsey Lewis, Muddy Waters, Betty Everett, Buddy Guy and Sugar Pie DeSanto. In 1966, he went off to become the drummer in Ramsey Lewis’ trio.

His own band began to coalesce when he first teamed up as a songwriting trio in Chicago – to write jingles for commercials – with Wade Flemons and Don Whitehead. This lead to a record deal with Capitol as the Salty Peppers. Their first single was “La La Time.” When the second single failed to fly, they moved to Los Angeles to regroup.

Maurice renamed the band after the elements that united like harmony parts in his astrological chart, Earth, Wind & Fire. He was the main songwriter, lead and harmony vocalist, and producer. Always yearning for new equations of sounds to distinguish his tracks,  he began to weave in the acoustic kalimba – a thumb piano – with early Moog synths, rich horn sections and lush strings. It all came together like magic, and it was a magic that emanated from his singular soul.

Having momentously stepped out front from behind the drums, he was always impeccably and chromatically attired-  this shining star shone in shiny suits – and he danced his exultant way up the soul and pop charts, shaping the sound of the late 70s. In time his band would sell more than 90 million records.

Eventually the Parkinson’s caused him to cease touring with the band, but like Brian Wilson with his Beach Boys, Maurice stayed at home and wrote songs and produced records. The music never stopped flowing. He also wrote songs for and produced a host of great artists, including Minnie Riperton, Weather Report (he did the vocals on “Mr. Gone”), Barbra Streisand, Neil Diamond, and Barry Manilow. All turned to Maurice as the magic man, wanting an infusion of his chromatic soul in their music.

I always remember, personally, being in my freshman dorm room at Boston University, 1977. These were the days long before computers. We didn’t even have a TV in our room. We didn’t want one. We had a stereo. And my roommate – who was a terrific dancer – had Earth, Wind & Fire records. It’s when I discovered what true soul – the heart of R&B – with harmonies and synth textures transcendent – sounded like. It sounded like Maurice White and his band.

We spoke on a resplendently sunny day in Los Angeles, where he graciously and generously expounded on his remarkable life in music.




Maurice White: When I moved to Chicago, I was seventeen. In order to go to college.  I went to a junior college first, and then to Chicago Musical Conservatory. I wanted to be a schoolteacher.  I wanted to be a music teacher.

What happened?

What happened is that after about a year or so, I started to work at Chess Records.  Chess Records was like Chess University. [Laughs]

It gave me an opportunity to really spread my wings.  I got an opportunity to play with all of the artists I had dreamed about when I was a kid. I would pick up their records and follow their careers.  I had an opportunity to play with just about everybody.

Were you already writing songs before this time?

Well, what happened, as a result of being in the business, going to Chess every day I kind of got the knack of understanding the simple songwriting you know.  That was what it was really all about.

I kind of experimented a bit with some of my friends as far as songwriting but we just did like a local stuff. We did commercial jingles and things like that. So it wasn’t anything on a large level at that time.

And at Chess you got to work with Willie Dixon

Yes, I played with Willie. I got to play drums on a lot of his records, and he played stand-up bass.  I learned a lot from him.

Etta James? 

Yes, Etta James.  She was extraordinary. I worked with everybody on the roster.

And when you were playing drums, were you also beginning to produce and arrange?

Not at first. Mostly drumming at that time.  I was just getting my feet wet learning the structure of song, and learning how to apply it in the proper way.  It was like a university, man, it really was. All the production was done in one room and I just got a chance to pick it up.

How long were you at Chess?

For five years.

Longer than a college term-

Yes. And it was like college and graduate school all in one.

How did you hook up with Ramsey Lewis?

Ramsey Lewis was an artist on the label.  And he used to come down to Chess all the time and just watch the band.  Because we had a band that worked for Chess primarily.  And so he would down and just watch us. And we all knew each other.

When his own band broke up, he needed a drummer and a bass player.  So he called on me and a friend of mine, Cleveland Eaton, who played bass. And we’d go out on the road.  It started just an experimental trip to see how I would work out.  And we all gelled, so we decided to stay together, and I joined his band.  I worked with Ramsey for about four years.

Before Earth, Wind and Fire you started your own band?

Yes. What happened, during the time I was with Ramsey, I had a group on the side called the Salty Peppers. And we made a little record deal with Capitol Records.  We had a regional hit in the mid-western area with a song I wrote called “La La Time.” I wrote it with Don Whitehead and Wade Flemons.

What happened was when we wrapped up doing what was the formation of that band, and I didn’t know it at the time, but the members of that band the Salty Peppers became the original members of Earth, Wind & Fire.

How did that transition from Salty Peppers to Earth, Wind and Fire happen?

We all came out to Los Angeles after I quit Ramsey’s band as the Salty Peppers. So we changed our name to Earth Wind & Fire.

Your name?

Yes.  That’s my name.  I was looking for a name for the band because I wanted to change it from the Salty Peppers.  This all happened in Chicago before I had my astrological chart done. It was laid out on the table and I saw the elements that were in my chart, which were earth, air and fire.  I turned air to wind. The rest is history.

We all came out to Los Angeles to try to make it. There were six of us. In fact, we had a female in the band too.  Her name was Sherry Scott.

Then I augmented the band with some members I picked up out here.  But it was six of us from Chicago.  We stayed together for about 18 months.  Then my brother Verdine eventually joined that particular band as bass player. We began to augment and expand the band, and Verdine was a part of that.

In the band, you started by playing drums?

Yes, I was playing drums at first.  And I singing a little bit but I had to have some main singers because they was away from it.

By that time were you writing a lot of songs yourself?

By that time, because of circumstances,  and because I didn’t have any writers to depend on, there were two other writers for in the band, Don Whitehead and Wade Flemons; they had a lot more experience in commercial writing than I had.  But I picked up on it because of my experience of my playing, you know.

So we wrote all the songs together. And then Sherry Scott, she was a pretty good writer too.  She contributed heavily to the writing.

So the writing would be done in a collaboration of all of you working together?

Mostly the three of us, Whitehead, Flemons and myself.


Is it true your songs always start with music?

Yes.  The way I’ve always written is that we write the music first and then the music suggests the lyrics.  I’ve always written like that.

Do you write on keyboard now?  What do you generally usually use to write?

I usually write on keyboard now.  I usually collaborate with other people.  I like writing with other people.

There are only two songs that I wrote primarily from the piano by myself, “Head To The Sky” and “Devotion.”

But the band changed, and after 18 months we decided to go separate ways.  So I had to reform the band, and got Ralph Johnson as drummer, and I got Philip [Bailey] as a conga player and singer and Larry Dunn and Andrew Woolfolk and that was expanded from that point on.

How did you hear of Philip Bailey?

A real good friend, Perry Jones, was a friend of Philip’s and he turned me on to Philip.

What a perfect player for your music. And his voice and your voice are perfect together.

My intention in the beginning, when I got Philip in the band, was to put him out front.  I was not going to sing.  I was only just going to play drums in the back. But that didn’t work out because Philip’s range was a high range.   So I needed to balance that range.

Did you enjoy stepping out front from behind the drums?

It was always hard to get out front.  I didn’t like it too much.  But after the girls started screaming and that stuff

Then you got used to it.

I got used to it. [Laughter]  It was pretty easy to get used to.

Also you got a fine drummer in Ralph Johnson. Early on you started using kalimba in your music.

I started playing kalimba while being with Ramsey. Because Ramsey gave me a great forum for exploring my talent.  Ramsey, every night during the concert, he would feature me as a drummer.  I had a twenty minute feature.  During that period, of course, I played the drums.  But then I started to introduce the kalimba as well.  That’s how the kalimba was discovered.

That’s such a great sound. You also began to write songs with Charles Stepney.

Charles Stepney was a great friend of mine.  He contributed heavily to my development.  During my years in Chicago playing jazz music, Charles and I used to have a trio.  We played jazz music.  Also, Charles was great as an orchestrator.  While working at Chess, Charles was an orchestrator there, and he knew about arranging and stuff. Once I got my band together, Charles contributed quite a bit to the sound of ours, as far as strings and horns.

So that’s why he has writing credit on “That’s the Way of the World”?

No. He has credit on that because he helped to write the melody. But he had started to work with me much earlier.  I think the first album was Open Our Eyes.   And he contributed very heavily to the orchestration because he was really good with that.  He was my first real co-producer.

On your records, not only is the songwriting great but the horn parts, harmonies and vocal arrangements are so beautifully conceived, as perfect as the songs themselves.

Yeah. Well, everything enhances, everything enhances the other. That’s our objective of it, to make sure everything fits hand to glove.
When you write a song, are you thinking in terms of the parts of the production or does that come afterward when you go to the studio?

First of all, I think in terms of the melody.  Melody and rhythm, that’s my first thing, the first thing that approaches me.  And then from that point on, I’ll start to think in terms of story.  But first, melody comes first for me.  Melody is always to me influenced by lyrics.

So you generally finish an entire melody before you even consider lyrics?

Yes I do.  And it’s worked for me all these years.

Yeah. It sure has.

Yeah, Pretty much.  The melody complements the words, and the words complement the music. And you also have a string melody that complements the horn melody. It all fits together.

Some songwriters keep the tape rolling while their writing.

Yeah, I like to do that too.  I do.

Do you generate melodies from chords, or do you work on the melody itself?

No.  From chords.  What I try to do is I try to push chords. I’m concerned sometimes when certain melodies will not fit up with certain chords.  And I’ll push real hard and try to make something fit.

There’s no really formula that I use, either than to start off first with melody or rhythm. I always start from that point, you know.



Speaking of melody, “That’s The Way Of The World” has such a sweet and enduring melody. It’s inspirational.

That melody was written by Charles Stepney, and from that melody and those chords, I wrote the words. The music influenced the lyrics.  It sounded in a way that suggested those words.

He wrote the melody and the chords some time before we really approached the song. And I knew it was great. It reaches a climax and just stays there. It was a great song from the beginning.  Some songs are just more inspirational than others. And that’s one of the few.

It sure is.

Yeah. When it comes on, I think what happened too is that all the pieces fit together perfectly. The melody, the strings, the horn melodies, everything works hand in hand.

It’s a song – and track – that never loses its greatness.

It just gets better and better and better. It really reaches the climax and it just stays there. And one point that made that record good was the contribution of Charles Stepney. Especially with the string lines and the horn lines. By that time he had really developed as a great string writer.

He also wrote “Reasons” with you?

Right.  He wrote “Reasons” with Philip [Bailey] and I. That came out of the same batch of songs.  There was “Reasons” and “That’s the Way of the World.” Those two melodies were two melodies that he played for me.

It was very interesting because during our time, that was a rather early time for the synthesizer.  And all melodies he had put on tape with the Moog synthesizer. Which was brand new and unknown still at that time.

So he didn’t sing them at all?

No.  They were all done with synthesizer.  And that was from the mid-seventies, ’75 or something like that.  That sound, the sound of the synthesizer, was very new.

On “That’s the Way of the World,” did that lyric come quickly or did you have to work on it for a while?

We had to work on it for a while.  The overall lyric came easy but the verses were something we had to labor for a while.  It wasn’t hard, but it took time.

“Shining Star”was written with Philip Bailey and Larry Dunn?

Yes. “Shining Star” was very easy to write because we came out, and we had just recorded a melody in the studio, like a funk melody and I was just walking. We actually did it in Nederland, Colorado at Caribou Ranch, where Chicago used to record.

I love Nederland.

So you know. It’s a beautiful place. We were just walking outside and the stars were so plentiful it was almost like you could reach in the sky and pluck one out.  And actually, it was having that experience of the stars in the sky being able to see them so clearly influenced me to the title “Shining Star.”

Had no idea! It’s a Colorado song!

Yeah.  The environment helped. Had we not been there, I don’t think that song would have happened. The stars don’t shine as brightly in L.A.

Not the ones in the sky anyway. [Laughter] Do you recall how “September” was born?

Yep.  That was written by Al McKay and myself and Allee Willis.

You came up with that melody?

Al McKay and myself.  That was written actually in Washington D.C. in the middle of a riot. We were checking into this hotel in Washington D.C. and I remember there was a riot going on outside. We were just trying to find something to do so in the middle of it, we just started to write a tune. [Laughter] We wrote it while looking outside the window at the riot.  And “September” was the song.

Yet that lyric wasn’t about the riot at all?

Oh no.

Why did you choose that title?

September had always been a favorite month.  For some reason.  I don’t know why.

That’s another great melody. 

That was another great one, yes. A ballad with big groove.

I understand that the last time the band went on tour that you stayed at home to work on the record?

Yeah, while they were on the road.  I am basically have retired from the road. And after 25 years on the road, that’s long enough for me. I’m getting more into production. I am basically a producer now.  It was the first time, and we wanted to see if they could do a performance without me.

You think it works okay without you in the band when they are out there?

It works pretty well.  I make an appearance every once in a while. [Laugher]  I stay at home and work on a live album.  We have a live album that’s coming out pretty soon. We recorded in Japan.  So at first I stayed home to work on that.

Many great artists, such as The Beatles, or Brian Wilson, did some of their greatest work when they stopped touring.  

Yeah.  You can really concentrate on the work.  Touring takes a lot out of you. It takes all your concentration.

Also, at the same time I’m dealing with a company now.  I’m actually building a studio right now.

Is there a favorite Earth Wind and Fire song of yours?

Probably “That’s the Way of the World”.


Probably is my favorite.  There’s another tune that I like pretty much.  It’s called “Lover’s Holiday.” I like that too.

It’s a great song.

Yeah.  We’ve recorded quite a number of tunes [laughter] throughout our career you know.


•December 30, 2015 • Leave a Comment


Marjorie Guthrie: The Bluerailroad Interview

•December 5, 2015 • Leave a Comment

On Life and Love with Woody Guthrie





Marjorie and Woody Guthrie, with the Martha Graham Troupe, 1947.

Marjorie and Woody Guthrie, together with the Martha Graham Troupe, 1940.



It’s New York City, 1981, and we’re more than twenty floors up above 57th Street and the everyday mayhem of Manhattan. But here there is calm. And joy. And music. It’s the office she shares with Harold Leventhal, famed manager of legendary folk stars like Pete Seeger, Arlo Guthrie (her son), Judy Collins, Peter, Paul & Mary, and others.

“You want to see something wonderful?” she asked, with an impish glint in her eyes. “Look at this one.” In her hands was a timeworn cherry-red spiral notebook. Inside were epic poems, song lyrics, romantic entreaties, expansive erotica, musings, jokes, sketches, drawings, all inscribed there by her late husband, Woody. Woody Guthrie.

For years they lived on Mermaid Avenue in Coney Island, where they raised their three kids, Nora, Arlo and Joady, and would take the train between there and Manhattan, where they worked. During those commutes, Woody would get busy, and devote all his exultant energy to filling entire notebooks thusly, dedicated to his beloved.

Now here I was, Woody’s notebooks and songs at my fingertips. I had somehow crossed the mystic river, and I was on the side where Woody was. Anything was possible. I could go to the source.

Woody’s old pal Pete Seeger said, “All songwriters are links in a chain.” And who did Pete learn to write songs from? Woody. Who so inspired and enervated a young Bob Dylan that he had to leave his Midwest home, change his name, and head east to start his life? Woody.


Marjorie Guthrie, 1977.

Marjorie Guthrie, 1966.

One of my very first jobs out of college was to work for Marjorie at CCHD – The Committee to Combat Huntington’s Disease – in New York City, 1981. She’d invented this organization to fight this disease which robbed not only Woody’s life, but the last decade of his life. They needed someone to do publicity and other chores. I signed on, not so much out of any great desire to battle this disease, but, admittedly, to be with Marjorie, and her treasure trove of Woody’s world – his abundant archives, overflowing not only with the thousands of songs he wrote, but with those beautiful notebooks of poetry and prose and erotica and cartoons. Also the tools of his genius were preserved so lovingly, his pens, pencils, crayons and notebooks. This proximity to the stuff of legend – to the cornucopia of expansive song wisdom and wonder that all poured out of this one miraculous little man –and the very crayons of this famous kid at heart – was all I needed to sustain me.

She was born Marjorie Greenblatt on October 6, 1917 in Atlantic City, and lived till March of 1983. She danced with the Martha Graham troupe starting in 1935 under the name Marjorie Mazia. She first met Woody in 1940, as described in the following, and was with him on and off till the end of his life on October 3, 1967. She was a brilliant and beautiful woman, who put up with Woody while he was alive though it was never easy. He wasn’t a man who stayed still for long. But long before he was gone, they both knew the legacy – the body of work – mattered. And though I was there before legions of great songwriters wrote new melodies to his unfinished songs, the lyrics which lived in the exalted archives, the recognition of his lasting legacy underscored all other endeavors. Like Dylan who came to be with Woody before he was gone forever, I wanted to get near this source too, and Marjorie was used to all sorts of folk-inspired pilgrims being drawn to all things Woody. So she kindly allowed me to interview about Woody on more than one occasion, a dialogue which I am happy to include here.

After all, Pete Seeger was our hero growing up.  He was in our world. But he always spoke and sang of Woody. And perhaps he cleaned up the dark aspects of Woody’s outlook more than necessary – Woody was no saint, after all- but what was undeniable was Pete’s respect for Woody as a songwriter. As the songwriter.

“Woody is just Woody,” John Steinbeck wrote. “He is a voice with a guitar. He sings the songs of a people and I suspect that he is, in a way, that people… there is nothing sweet about Woody, and there is nothing sweet about the songs he sings. But there is something more important for those who will listen. There is the will of a people to endure and fight against oppression. I think we call this the American spirit.”

Woody Guthrie

Woody Guthrie

Woody’s work was remarkable some 2000 amazing songs  songs of love, outrage, beauty, faith, humor, death, sex and pretty much every other human experience under the sun. Some became famous, such as “This Land Is Your Land,”  “So Long, It’s Been Good To Know You,” “Roll On Columbia,” “Deportees,” “Union Maid” and “Do Re Mi,” but most of his songs have hardly been heard once, if ever. And there was also so much else that he created:  volumes of poetry, love letters, journals of erotica, books, drawings, doodles, paintings, and stories.

When he was married to Marjorie , he was so thoroughly in love with her that he’d write her entire inspired daily notebooks of love poetry and cosmic musings while on the subway, hurtling through the subterranean tunnels and overland tracks towards their Coney Island home. Marjorie kept all of these, and every letter he ever wrote, and every song he composed, along with every crayon, pencil and pen he used to conjure his magic, in her New York archives, where she’d share it with his admirers, a legion of artists, musicians and vagabonds that increased every year, and continues to expand.

Born in the heart of the Dust Bowl – Okemah, Oklahoma – in 1912, his childhood was spent in the oil-boom town of Pampa, Texas. In the depression-ravaged Thirties he hitched and rode the rails along with thousands to reach the world of their dreams, the promised land – California.

Of all those wanderers, thousands more than there were jobs, Woody was one of the fortunate few, able to make money by singing, playing guitar, and painting signs. He managed to get a 15-minute daily radio show which paid him a dollar per show. And when he wasn’t broadcasting he could be found singing at saloons, parking lots, rallies, and union meetings — anywhere people would listen. Their struggles were the impetus for his talent – he always knew that his mission was to translate their hearts and minds into song. Using what his pal Pete Seeger called the “folk process” – writing new words to old songs – he gave these people a voice.

Radio gave many people their first taste of Woody’s songs. One listener, Ed Robbin, commentator for the Communist newspaper People’s World, was surprised to discover that the man he had pegged as a hillbilly was actually quite politically savvy. He invited Woody to perform at rallies, first warning him that they were left wing. “Left wing or chicken wing, it’s all the same to me,” Woody said. And with that he connected with a new audience, one that was charmed and inspired by his unique fusion of country simplicity, Okie humor and political sophistication. His popularity spread quickly across the country and even preceded him to New York City, where he eventually fell in with new friends such as Josh White, Leadbelly and the actor Will Geer.

Opportunity kept knocking. In an attempt to cash in on the popularity of John Steinbeck’s novel The Grapes of Wrath, Victor Records hired Woody to write a song about it. Though he didn’t read the book, Woody saw and loved the film, and understood its subject matter better than most. With his guitar and a jug of wine, he got behind a typewriter in Pete Seeger’s apartment and proceeded to work into the night. The next morning Pete found him slumped over the typewriter with 26 verses of “The Ballad of Tom Joad” still in the typewriter.

“I learned a lot about songwriting from Woody,” Pete said. “I learned something that was awful important. And that was: don’t be so all-fired concerned about being original. You hear an old song you like but you want to change it a little, there’s no crime in that.”

By today’s standards, Woody’s records sound rough. Mostly guitar and a ragged, often off-tune voice, recording on the spot by Moses Asch for his Folkways label. But each of these recordings contains the essence of pure and brilliant songwriting, the dynamic and delicate marriage of music with words.

Woody well-understood the inherent power of this combination – words to express the timely and timeless needs of the people, and music to underscore that expression while engaging the soul and lifting the spirit. He knew few forces were as effective in uniting people as a good song, and as he constantly traversed America by walking, hitching or riding the rails, he would constantly connect with new people and translate their lives and dreams into songs.

Woody wrote his most famous song, “This Land Is Your Land,” as a response to Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America.” Woody felt Berlin got it wrong – that America was already blessed by God, and wrote  “God Blessed America For Me.” He kept fiddling with it for a full decade, and eventually realized that if he substituted the line “This land was made for you and me” for his title line, that he had a song not just about himself, but about all of America. Not only was he a great thinker, he was a crafty songwriter.

He died in 1967 at the age of 55. But his songs have lived on, performed and championed by a big range of singers, including Arlo, Dylan and Seeger, but also by Ani DiFranco, Bruce Springsteen, Ry Cooder, and even U2, who cut Woody’s song “Jesus Christ.” Though Woody’s been gone now for so many decades, his songs, and the spirit of human hope instilled in them, have been resounding with more force than they have for years. “The worst thing that can happen is to cut yourself loose from the people,” he wrote. “And the best thing is to vaccinate yourself right into the big streams and blood of the people.”

I conducted this interview on a sunny autumn day in Manhattan. She sat at her big desk, always calm and joyful many floors above the tumult of a New York City business day, with the archives of Woody’s songs and writings always within easy reach.

It’s been suggested that, for both Martha Graham and Woody Guthrie, you were the organizer behind the genius.

Marjorie Guthrie: This is true. Some people felt that Martha Graham was difficult to work with, but when you know you are in the company of a great artist, you minimize their negative aspects and are grateful for the opportunity to see how a true artist works. Let me say that she was a very good rehearsal for Woody Guthrie.

When did you first meet Woody?

On one of the Martha Graham tours, in St. Louis. My sister called me from Columbia, Missouri and wanted me to visit her. So I got Martha graham to let me leave the company for a day and I took the bus over to Columbia, and when I got there my sister said, “Oh Marge, I have to play something for you.”

And it is so vivid to this day: I sat on the arm of a chair and she played Woody’s “Ballad of Tom Joad” – first time I had heard his voice. And I was so moved, when it got to the end, I started to cry. I am an emotional person, and I love being emotional, and when he got to the end, I was just in tears.

I said to my sister, “How does anyone put into words what I’m thinking about myself?” Funny, I related it to myself: growing up, going through the Depression, seeing what happened to our family, coming to New York. Then Sophie Maslow, who was with Martha Graham, had choreographed two of Woody’s songs from that same album,  I Ain’t Got No Home and Dusty Old Dust, and she said to me, “Guess what – instead of using the record, I’m going to use Woody Guthrie, if he’ll do it, because he is in town. And I’m going to ask him to appear on stage with us and sing those two. “ And I practically fainted and said, “Woody Guthrie is in town? Sophie, I’m coming with you!”

I went with her and we came to what was then the Almanac Singer’s Center on 6th Avenue, a big loft with great big wide posts. First of all, they didn’t want to let us in. Finally, they did and I saw Woody from the back first.

He was looking out the window at 6th Avenue and he was nothing anything in stature like the way I pictured him. When I had heard his voice I thought of this tall, Lincolnesque figure with a cowboy hat. But then he turned around and he had this wonderful face. I loved his face immediately.

I don’t remember anything he said. I just kept looking at that face. And then remembering that voice and the quality of those songs. I fell in love with him right then and then. And he said to me late that when Sophie and I came up he was talking to her but looking at me. And I was looking at him.

In a few days he started to rehearse with us.. He was to be both a narrator and a singer in a production called “Folksay.” And here I loved this guy and everyone was picking on him. Why? Because he sings the song differently each time. Here we have twelve people on the stage and he puts in an extra verse, he takes out a verse. What do you do? Everyone was angry with him. I was just dying for him.

What I did was to take cardboard sheets and type up all the words of the songs and put them in measures and say, “Woody, why can’t you sing it just like the record?” He would say, “The day we made that record, Lee Hays has asthma, someone had just given us $300, and we were on our way to California. I don’t have asthma, I don’t have $300 and I’m not going to California, so I can’t play it the same way.” But I worked with him, using these little cards and before you knew it, we were living together.

Woody and Marjorie with the Martha Graham troupe.

Woody and Marjorie with the Martha Graham troupe.


“He was looking out the window at 6th Avenue and he was nothing anything in stature like the way I pictured him. When I had heard his voice I thought of this tall, Lincolnesque figure with a cowboy hat. But then he turned around and he had this wonderful face. I loved his face immediately.”


What was he writing during this period?

That was the year he was writing Bound for Glory. He would be writing – by hand – and I would come home in the evening and he would read me what he had written. Then we would take turns, reading and typing. It was then that I first learned about his mother and all of her problems, and that she had Huntington’s Disease.

Was he a disciplined writer?

Oh yes. Take a look at any of his notebooks. He loved to write. He had great respect for his work. He signed every piece of paper and dated almost everything and wrote a little background about each song, like why he had written it. He did have a highly organized mind.

So he had an understanding of his own historical significance?

Absolutely. We used to tease about it. He would say, “We can be poor now, but maybe someday this stuff will be worth something.” But you see, even knowing that didn’t stop him from doing things the way he wanted to. And that was something else that I loved about him. You see, in the Thirties and the Forties dancers were the poorest people on the cultural ladder, and I didn’t have much. But that didn’t matter to me because the dancing was so important.

Woody had that same feeling. It wasn’t important whether everyone loved him or every songs made money. It was important that he was doing what he wanted to do, and what he was compelled to do. He couldn’t have done anything else anyway.

Did he have moments of self-doubt?

Very few, I have to tell you. He had confidence in what he was doing, that there were important songs, not whether they were commercial successes or not. That he didn’t know about. But what he knew was that in his songs were the voices of people he had known, and he felt better suited to represent these people than anyone.

Could he take criticism of his work?

He would argue with me. Very rarely would he change something. In the song “Jesus Christ,” I felt that one verse was wrong, that it misinterpreted Christ. He argued with me about it and won the argument. But he let me argue.

Did you have a sense of how famous he would become?

I never thought of him being famous commercially. I always had the feeling that when you speak for the down-trodden, you might be famous among the down-trodden but nobody else hears about you. And again, I don’t care. I wanted him to do what he was doing, and I felt that what he was saying was important. But the first hint of his real importance didn’t come from me or him. It came from Alan Lomax. It was Alan who said to me one day, “Don’t throw anything away. Save everything.” And  looked at him as if to say, “Why?” And he said, “Woody is going to be very important.”

I knew that what Woody wrote was good because it moved me. But it would move other people too, and maybe cause them to want to be “wherever little children are hungry and cry.”[From “Tom Joad.”] When Alan said that to me, it was the beginning of my appreciation that other people loved what Woody was saying.

He already had a little recognition when he came to New York. I was not yet involved with him; he was here with (his first wife) Mary. He had a radio show, the “Back Where I Come From” show, and he was commercially successful.  But he left this show and he let me know why. “They wouldn’t let me say what I wanted to say, or sing what I wanted to sing, so who needs them?”

He gradually started receiving recognition, especially after the publication of Bound for Glory. Did that change him at all?

It didn’t change him, but he was very pleased. He wrote “My first copy” in the first edition of it. He was very proud of himself, especially when people began reading it and enjoying it.

Besides writing songs, he was always writing letters and poems and doing drawings. Which was most important to him?

The songs were most important. They came first. He had a wonderfully organized system, something most people don’t realize. Every morning he read the paper first thing. Then he would tear out of the paper things that he wanted to write songs about, and then make a list of songs that he was going to write. Then he would write a few songs, read some of the books that he had gotten from the library, usually two or three at a time. He would read standing up because he got tired of sitting. Then he might sit down again and do some writing.

Yes, there were times when he did so some drinking and when he did, it had a very bad effect because of the Huntington’s  Disease. HD puts you off-balance and drinking puts you more off-balance, so Woody was sometimes  very off-balance.

Old pals Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie.

Old pals Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie.

His writing has a dizzying, almost drunken power to it. Do you think the HD affected his style?

No. I don’t agree at all with the suggestion that Woody wrote the way he did because he had HD. It does sound logical, but even with Martha Graham I saw the same kind of intensity and determination and creativity that Woody had. And look at Whitman and Jack London. They didn’t have HD and yet they had similar writing styles.

Also, he was encouraged by Joy Home, who edited Bound for Glory. She said to him, “Woody, don’t worry about what I’m going to cut out. Whatever comes to your mind, just do it.”  And he enjoyed that freedom to just let it go.

I read that she’d suggest a few changes and he’d return with a hundred new pages.

That’s right. And she would say, “Woody, why didn’t you bring them in yesterday?” And he would say, “Well, because I hadn’t written them yet.”

Did he talk the same way that he wrote?

Nothing like that. Nothing like his writing. We were opposites; I am as verbal as anyone can be, and he was just the opposite.

If he were sitting with us right now and you were interviewing him, he would probably answer in a very slow, halting voice, kind of like [very slowly], “Yeah… welllll…. Way back…” Nothing like the flowing quality of his writing. He simply loved to write. He loved pencils, paper, typewriters. You know, I have to show you something. [Brings a box of pens and colored pencils.] This is all Woody’s. He loved this stuff.

Did he have dry spells ever, times he wasn’t inspired to write?

Very few. He was always churning them out, as you can see by the archives, which hold about two thousand of his songs. And he was just as creative a father as he was a musician. He could spend a whole day of the beach, starting with just our three kids around. By the end of the day he would have these tremendous sand castles, and about thirty kids who helped him build them. And they were beautiful, really beautiful.

Was it because he was so much of a kid at heart, himself, that made him so great with kids?

Yes, for sure. He had a great sense of playfulness, of fun. And both of us have great respect for young people because you are tomorrow, you are it. Anything we had is going to die and go away before you know it, but you have years ahead of you.

It is true that Woody and your mother wrote a song together?

My mother, who was a Yiddish poetess, wrote the words to a song and he corrected her. They didn’t write it together. It was called “I Gave My Sons To The Country,” and he was opposed to it. “Why do you want to give your songs to the country?” he asked. “Shouldn’t that be the question?” But my mother was really a much better writer in Yiddish and Woody never really knew this.

I was astounded when you showed me all the letters he wrote you, and the full notebooks of love letters and poetry and erotica he would fill up for you.

Every night when I would come home (commuting from Manhattan to Coney Island), I would look forward to two or three letters from Woody, especially when he was in the Army. I was a woman alone and it was wonderful to have these. But you know, I am a prude and I used to die from embarrassment all by myself. Nobody would be in the room but I would be reading those sexy letters and I would be dying.

And then he would say to me, “Why don’t you write back in turn?” And I would say, “I can’t write those kind of letters!”

I know Woody was a great fan of Chaplin. He always seemed Chaplinesque himself—

You’re right, he was very Chaplinesque. You know, he used to play the harmonica and dance at school when he was a kid. And don’t you think Arlo did the same thing when he was a kid? Certain people have that elfin quality. Arlo had it as a child; Woody had it all his life. Kind of half-singing, half-dancing, I’m the little guy on the block, but I’m no dumb-bell.


Woody with the kids on the beach at Coney Island, circa 1954.

Woody with the kids on the beach at Coney Island, circa 1954, Nora, Arlo & Joady. 


In 1969, Arthur Penn made a movie out of Arlo’s great song, “Alice’s Restaurant,” starring Arlo.

Yes. I loved that film, because there was a lot of truth in it.

There’s a scene in the film where Pete Seeger and Arlo come to Woody’s hospital room and sing, “Car Car.” I’ve read that Woody loved hearing the song “Hobo’s Lullaby” the most.

They sang all those songs and more. They sang a lot of songs. The only thing that wasn’t accurate was showing Woody in a private room. How I wish he had a private room and his own nurse!

I know that in addition to Pete and Arlo, a lot of other musicians came to Woody’s bedside during that last decade when he was at Greystone in New Jersey. Most famously, Bob Dylan made the trek to meet his hero. What were your impressions of Dylan from then?

He impressed me with his quality and intensity. I knew that he was determined. I didn’t like his diction when he sang, and I couldn’t understand the words. But I loved many of his songs and I felt that he was a creative artist who was going through, even now, the ups and downs that an artist must go through. Everything that you do isn’t always top-notch.

At first did he seem like just another Woody imitator?

Well, I had already spent a couple of good years with [Rambling] Jack Elliot, who Woody said was more like Woody than he was! But I had no resentment whatsoever of people imitating Woody, because if you are around a great artist, their influence is bound to get to you. It’s like osmosis. Later in your life maybe you can find your own style. After all, I learned to love dance from someone who learned to love dance from someone who learned to love dance and so on. You must carry on the tradition of whatever you are doing and do so with integrity. I think Bob did that.

Marjorie and Woody Guthrie, 1967.

              Marjorie and Woody Guthrie with Arlo in the middle, at                            Greystone, 1967.

Woody’s life ended too early, and during his last years he wasn’t able to work. Had he more years, what do you think he would have done with them?

I can’t answer that easily. Woody would have changed with the times like everybody else to a certain extent. And Woody loved all kinds of music, something that not everybody knows. Moses Asch, who was a kind of mentor to Woody, gave him many free classical albums, and often I would come home and find him listening to Prokofiev. He knew Romeo and Juliet backwards and forwards.

He liked all different kinds of music, depending on what time of day it was or what he was doing right then. Nothing can better express the essence of the moment. Music is the soul of man. Woody used to borrow music from everywhere and change it around a little for his own songs. But it was the honesty and the quality of the songs that mattered.

Marjorie dancing with the Martha Graham troupe, 1946.

Marjorie Guthrie, forever dancing with the Martha Graham troupe, 1946.

Kiefer Sutherland Band at the Watermark

•November 5, 2015 • Leave a Comment

Words & Photos by KK RYDER


Kiefer. You know him as an actor. But have you heard his music? It was standing room only for the music of Kiefer Sutherland at the historic Watermark in Ventura, California on October 23rd, 2015.

The Watermark is a charming brick historic building that dates back to the 1920’s. The staff are all as classy and friendly as the building looks and feels. A night of good old Americana with a hint of country going straight to the rock and roll heart. Kiefer was accommodating to his fans that he wanted to be positioned in the bar so he could see and be seen by all of the concert-goers. Strapping on his acoustic guitar he thanks everyone for coming, and we were in for a treat. This band has some great original songs,each one different than the next with varying tempos. With an appealing way of letting you get wrapped up in his lyrics, his voice is a baritone, smokey and bluesy sound. The band members complement his laid back stage style and are smoking hot on their instruments. On the song “I’ll do Anything” I got a kick out of watching some of the ladies in the crowd scream when Kiefer would repeat the chorus lyrics. Another crowd-pleaser was the catchy “Can’t Stay Away.”

Before the show ended, I decided to go outside and take in the total ambiance of this rooftop room concert. I crossed the street and looked up towards the glow of the windows of the Watermark in its inviting charm, listening to Kiefer and his band playing  “Calling Out Your Name,” with a  romantic slow groove, A young couple was holding each other and swaying back and forth to the music above them.

This five-piece band is not only fun to watch, but the songs are great. There were a few bad ass songs original songs that sound as if they belong in a Joel Schumacher film and they also played a few cover tunes while the crowd sang along with Gordon Lightfoot’s “The Edmund Fitzgerald,” Bob Dylan’s “Knockin’ on Heavens Door” and  “Put Your Lights On,” originally recorded by Santana featuring Everlast.

I know what you are thinking: where can I get all of this great music? The answer is that they have been busy recording and will be releasing a CD on their own independent label early next year. Kiefer and his long time music pal singer-songwriter producer Jude Cole started a label called Ironworks Music because they wanted to give independent artists that they believe strongly in an outlet, such as Rocco Delucca and the Burden. The evening’s opening act was the very great band Gone Wayside.

After the show, Kiefer laughed and signed autographs for his fans. Joel Schumacher, who has worked with Sutherland on several films, called him a “born character actor. He can become anyone he wants to. He can be good guy, bad guy, crazy guy. He’ll always work.”

Kiefer Sutherland was a presenter last night at the 2015 CMA Awards. But live he created a night we will never forget, as timeless as his movies.