Family is the one thing that you can never be rid of. Even if you cut yourself off from them completely, they still run through your veins and your thoughts at the most inconvenient moments. Family is the one thing that will simultaneously always and never let you down, and for most of us, they are the people we most desire to be like in the long run.

My mom and I haven’t had the easiest row to hoe. Girls and their mothers bring out the worst in each other, and we’re no different, but as the years have gone by, and time has mellowed us both, we’ve come to a place of understanding. We understand each other’s faults and frailties, and how they stand in contrast to our strengths and true nature. At one point I realized that being like her wouldn’t be such a bad thing, and rather than write that idea off as a sentimental brain turd, I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget it. My mom is my diamond in the rough.

04 Diamond In The Rough

She came along in a less than perfect world, where the stars still shine on ordinary girls,

With mousy hair and hands that apologize for all the sights that scream between her eyes.

She didn’t take the time to think it through; sometimes, it’s true, you are what you gotta do.

If it was paved in something more than she could see, she’d a missed that turn that drove towards reality and me.

All the things that she can’t change are born on a back bound to break from the weight of her own lack of dignity.

She’s a diamond in the rough and a lady I’d like to be.

A boy was born in 1971, sweet enough to be his mother’s son.

A brother came, then a lover, then a life. Some unseen tears, anger; strife.

I came along as the bridge was swept away. A momentary glimpse at saving grace,

But nothing’s sure, and sure as I stand, she packed her dreams in bags filled with sand and ran.

Now all those years she still regrets gave her a heavy heart she’s unsure how to mend.

She’s wary of that girl she used to be, Lord, she’s a diamond in the rough, but a lady I’d like to be.

And the decades flow beyond the afterglow of a reckoning precluding peace.

I can see her face, it’s with me everyday staring back at me. What a sight to see.

She came along in a less than perfect world, where stars still shine on ordinary girls.

Her days of starting out are at an end, so she laughs and takes reality by the hand again.

Now all those things that we can’t change are the little things that time can’t rearrange.

We’ve come to terms with what life seems to be for that diamond in the rough; that lady I’d like to be.

Download Love Letters

I have no idea how I came up with this song. They say that you should only write about what you know, and thankfully I have no idea about what it is like to be a cheater (or a cheatee, for that matter). It is fodder that has permeated every facet of world music since the dawn of time: after all, cheaters gonna cheat and haters gonna hate. In country music specifically, whenever a song deals with the idea of cheating, it’s always dealt with in a very explosive fashion, where the protagonist is tearing apart everything about the antagonist, who has in turn torn apart everything about our beloved protagonist.

Surely, this isn’t the case in every incidence of infidelity. Surely there has been someone who has said, “You know what? You have done me wrong, and you’re secret is out. I’m not an idiot; I know what you’re doing, but you owe me. You owe me one final chance to love me like you have been loving someone else. You’re gonna do this, just for my sake, and then you will truly feel like shit, and I will have had the final word.”

03 Lay Me Down

Put down your keys and lock the door; you’re not out of cigarettes.

Once upon a time, you were all mine; it’s not my fault I can’t forget.

Lay me down, lay me down

Love me just once like you love her all the time, then we’ll pretend again that you’re not mine.

In places where the whiskey just won’t hit, you’ve traded dignity.

I’m not the girl she seems to be, but you can do this just for me.

Download Love Letters Album

For the second installment of my Per a Request series, I’m scrawling out the lyrics to track two of Love Letters, “Hello Heartache”.

I recorded a country album, and there is no way of getting around that fact. I wrote sad folk songs, and once fleshed out by my very talented and musically diverse band, they turned into sad country songs. I know what you’re thinking:  no, you will never hear them on country radio. Not once do I mention how much I love Johnny, Waylon and Willie. My penchant for drinking Jack Daniels by the gallon and driving the back roads of my hometown is far eclipsed by my very real and tangible love for the occasional nip of Hendrick’s Gin. And fortunately, for the male population of East Nashville, I do not know how to properly wield a baseball bat. I love a well-crafted lyric and a soaring melody. I live for the whine of a steel guitar, and most importantly, in the stories of people just like me.

“Hello Heartache” was my first real crack at writing a song for Buck Owens. His music was swirling around my head at the time, and I wanted to put something down that would be worthy of him picking it up. I think I got close.

Hello Heartache

“Hello Heartache”

Hello Heartache, my, you’re looking fine; like a tall drink of water that’ll make my throat run dry.

Hello heartache, here we are again; stuck between a breath, gonna turn into a hell of a mess.

I’ve danced with you before, and when the dance was over you left me all alone on the floor.

I know what I’m in for, but I’ll think about it later while we dance a little more.

Hello heartache, tell me where you been? Were you looking for a love and a mother for a new best friend?

Well, I don’t need you when you’re not around, but you find me and my little heart begins to break back down.

I’ve danced with you before, and when the dance was over you left me all alone on the floor.

I know what I’m in for, but I’ll think about it later while we dance a little more.

Goodbye heartache, it’s time for you to go. Don’t forget to take the kisses you been leavin’ at my bedroom door.

Goodbye heartache, I have realized it takes more to make a fool of me than just your pretty, blue eyes.

You’ve dance with me before; you have spun me ’til I’m sick, feeling like I can’t get off the floor.

I know what I’m in for; I’m tired and I’ve decided I don’t wanna dance anymore.

To download the full album, click here:

https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/love-letters/id567547973

This is a special series of posts that will be added over the next few weeks, written especially for my dad. As a retired construction worker, one of the sacrifices he made to put food on the table was the loss of a significant portion of his hearing. It didn’t become apparent to me until I became a professional musician, because frankly, there was never a moment where he couldn’t read my lips as I spoke to him.

Let me be frank, my father is not deaf. We don’t communicate through American Sign Language, and our knowledge of hand signals pertain only to those that are used in the most dire of situations (like rush-hour traffic). He simply worked around loud power tools for too long. That being said, after all these years of recording songs and giving him albums, he has yet to understand what the hell I’ve been saying. Luckily for him, I haven’t had much to say…

This marks the first in a series of weekly posts that will list the lyrics to a particular song from my brief catalogue, beginning with my most recent release, October 2012′s Love Letters.

Dad, thanks for continuing to badger me to write these words down.

Trouble Fades

“Trouble Fades”

You came and went, just like a hit of cocaine, right to my head; just like a firecracker lit in my hands, as trouble fades. Trouble fades away.

Time stands still, as life goes rushing by my bare windowsill; those lifeless hours waiting ’round until my trouble fades. Trouble fades away

The bitter root bears some bitter fruit, and I’ve bitten off more than I can chew as trouble fades; does trouble fade?

Will trouble fade away?

To download the entire album, click here:

https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/love-letters/id567547973

35 Years of Hearing New Orleans Through The Horns Of The Dirty Dozen Brass Band

New Orleans. The name itself evokes a feeling of mystery and euphoria, wrapped up in endless revelry and strings of colored lights. Known as “The Big Easy”, it is the birthplace of some of America’s most fertile culture, from jambalaya to hot jazz, where everyone is welcome and the first thing they offer you is a cool beverage. Even the funerals are a party, with brass bands ushering the dead into the hereafter, before turning into a second line party down Rampart Street. A rebirth in the popularity of brass bands took hold in the late 70s when a group of young New Orleans musicians came together to form what is now the Dirty Dozen Brass Band. Hot off the release of their twelfth studio album, Twenty Dozen, their high-energy live show and genre-bending repertoire have kept both the city and it’s second line grooving for 35 years.

“The slaves got the instruments from when they came back from fighting the Civil War; they had all these instruments”, says Roger Lewis, baritone sax player of the Dirty Dozen Brass Band. “People got ahold of the instruments and learned how to play them, and I think that’s how the brass band thing got started.”  Brass bands have been a staple of the New Orleans music scene since the end of the Civil War, providing entertainment in conjunction with local benevolent societies and pleasure clubs. Before the Civil RIghts Act of 1964, benevolent societies were established to help the African-Americans of New Orleans cover healthcare and funeral costs, while also tending to the general well being of the community. A part of this included providing entertainment, via street parades and pleasure clubs. Brass bands lead parades through the streets of town that lasted for hours, while spectators gathered along the sides of the street to sing and dance. The establishment of pleasure clubs brought the party indoors, where people paid yearly dues to come in and get a drink and plate of food, while dancing the night away.

“Now, the Dirty Dozen, back in 1976…Dirty Dozen has a long history; first it was the Original Sixth Ward Dirty Dozen Brass Band, which really, the originator was a guy by the name of Benny Jones”, explains Lewis. Jones, along with Lewis, trumpet player Gregory Davis, trombonist Charles Joseph, Anthony “Tuba Fats” Lacen and Andrew Green began jamming together, often playing gigs at the Dirty Dozen Social and Pleasure Club. It wasn’t until Lewis approached Joseph, while the two were enrolled in some music theory classes, that the final Dirty Dozen line-up would take shape. “I said,‘Man, we always playin’ together, man’. We always playin’ regular gigs, you know, we’ve been in them and what not”, remembers Lewis. “I said, ‘We oughta get together and try to organize this thing, try to get somethin’ happening’, you know? So he said, ‘yeah that sounds like a good idea’, so him and I got together.”

The two gathered some of their friends from around town: Charles’ younger brother, Kirk Joseph, was recruited to play sousaphone. Kirk’s friend, Kevin Harris brought his tenor sax, while Gregory Davis was brought in to play trumpet and sing. The new line-up, along with Lewis and Jones, played it all; they rehearsed everything from traditional brass music to Count Basie, Charlie Parker and even Michael Jackson. They played anything they liked to listen to, working up intricate arrangements of everything from jazz to funk. Each musician brought his background to the mix, and nothing proved to be off limits. With arrangements that were tight as a drum, the band was rehearsing religiously, sometimes all day, everyday.

As they picked up gigs, the Dozen’s popularity around town caught on. Daryl’s gave them their first steady gig, and every week they brought the party, attracting more and more people as time wore on. From there, they moved on to The Glass House, which would prove to be their turning point.

The Glass House was off the beaten path. A small neighborhood dive, it offered patrons a drink and a plate of red beans and rice for a dollar. The price of admission also let them into the best party in town. “We used to have so many people in that place, we used to take chairs and put up in front of us to keep the dancers from running into us”, reminisces Lewis. Not just tourists, but locals and fellow musicians would pack into the little bar, hoping to catch a stray groove. On any given night, you could walk in and rub elbows with Fats Domino, while bumping into Dizzy Gillespie out on the dance floor. Folks in full New Orleans regalia- costumes, silks and feathers- were all there, dancing and enjoying the Crescent City’s easy-going camaraderie.

Though the Dozen were packing the house every night, their popularity didn’t come without a price. Some members of the community considered it near sacrilege for a brass band to stray from it’s traditional roots. The idea of a second line playing jazz and Fats Domino tunes pitted some of New Orleans’ musical purists against Lewis and his comrades, but as is always the case, things continued to change. Innovators are those who shape the future by re-imagining the past, recreating it for the present. What separated the Dozen from every other band in town was not only their ability to freshen up the second-line tradition, but to pull together every sound that each member brought to the group, whether it be jazz, blues, rock and roll, gospel or caribbean influenced. “Before you know it, people said ‘you all changin’ the music of New Orleans’, not thinkin’ about tryin’ to change anything, just tryin’ to play the music we enjoyed and loved playin’”, says Lewis. Without realizing it, they were creating a whole new sound for New Orleans to call their own, and before long, they were taking it to the world.

Since 1984, The Dozen have gained international acclaim, having appeared on a number of European tours organized by legendary promoter, George Wein. They have wowed audiences throughout the US, touring with bands such as Widespread Panic and The Black Crowes. On top of their rigorous touring schedule, they have also put out numerous albums of original material, along with tribute albums to Jelly Roll Morton (Jelly, 1993) and both Marvin Gaye and the city of New Orleans, in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina (What’s Goin’ On?, 2006). The roster of artists they have worked with over the years attests to their importance in the evolution of popular song: Elvis Costello, The Black Crowes, Dave Bartholomew, and Wynton and Branford Marsalis to name a few. 2012 marks their 35th anniversary as the Dirty Dozen, and their twelfth studio album, aptly titled Twenty Dozen. Though their personnel, which now includes drummer Terrence Higgins and guitarist Kyle Roussel, has changed over the years,  their sound is just as vibrant as it was at their first show.

The first downbeat sets the tone for the entire album, marked by the smash of Higgins’ drum kit. The group launches into an energetic caribbean groove, punctuated by multiple sax and trumpet solos. The second track, “Jook” sets the course further southward, with a driving latin pulse. Lewis, Joseph and Harris dance around the driving melody of Davis’ and Towns’ unison trumpets. Whether it’s original compositions, such as “Git Up” or worked up renditions of old standards, the Dozen bring out the flavor in every ingredient. Their version of Rihanna’s “Please Don’t Stop The Music” is as danceable as the original, and their overall interpretation made it sound like a song never heard before.

Each song is a combination of choices by each member; take Lewis’ melody and add a solo by Davis. Punctuate Kirk’s sousaphone with a counterpoint melody by Efrem. Everything about the album, from the song choices to the construction and flow is a testament to the musicianship of each member and the flow of New Orleans culture. “It’s a little something, you know, then a little something. Pretty much, that’s how the album took shape. We kinda covered all the bases, we got the funk, we got the Caribbean thing happenin’, which is, New Orleans was a meltin’ pot of different cultures.”, explains Roger. “It’s a meltin’ pot of music, it’s a big ol’ musical gumbo, that’s what it really is, you know?”

The Dirty Dozen Brass Band continue to carve a niche for themselves and their city in popular culture. In the 35 years since they got together, similar bands have taken up their mantle, bringing fresh ears and hearts to a form of music that could have simply been relegated to funeral processions and antiquated memories. Thanks to them, bands such as the Soul Rebels and The Rebirth Jazz Band have been able to carry the torch further into the younger generations, while the Youngblood Brass Band have brought the Crescent CIty sound into the heartland of Wisconsin. There’s something about New Orleans that has gotten into the blood of her citizens; the food, the nightlife, the music- it’s contagious. Lewis lays it out like this: “You come here, you eat the food, talkin’ to the locals. Before you know it, you’re listenin’ to the music. Before you know it, the best night life and it’s 24 hours; you can always hear some music, there’s always somethin’ goin’ on. So what happens? You wind up stayin’; you never leave. You’re stuck, like Chuck! This place like a magnet!”

Before you know it, you’re part of the second line. You’ve caught the Dirty Dozen’s groove. You’re part of the New Orleans’ gumbo, so eat up. Lord knows, there’s plenty to go around.

A lot of today’s contemporary country music touches on themes of drifting, cotton picking, dancing, and other marks of the Old South. And while Blake Shelton or Toby Keith might be jotting down these stories in a Nashville loft, country swing legend Bob Wills actually lived out these grand tales of riding rails and picking fiddles.

Known as the “King of Country Swing,” Wills’ early life reads like a novel. Born James Robert Wills, his family nicknamed him Jim Rob, and counted on his hard work in the cotton fields to keep them financially a float. That was near the turn of the 20^th century in Kosse, Texas, and times were always kind of tough for cotton pickers. To earn extra money, Jim Rob’s father, John, played the fiddle for dances. Playing dances could earn the family extra money here or there, and by the time Jim Rob and his siblings were old enough to play, nearly all of them had picked up an instrument.

Jim Rob was particularly talented on the fiddle, though. Although his father still out-shined him, at age 10, the young talent finally had an opportunity to play his first ranch dance. In 1915, Jim Rob arrived to a private home with his father’s instruments, preparing for the family to turn up. John Wills, however, got distracted by a corn liquor wagon and never showed up. Not wanting to lose the opportunity to earn extra money, Jim Rob picked up his fiddle and played every song he knew. His music library wasn’t yet as large as his father’s, but he played a fine set and the people danced.

Continuing to work on the family farm, Jim Rob never had aspirations to become a paid musician. Still, he enjoyed singing with the African American cotton pickers, and playing with the family band.

Cotton picking was hard though, and by age 16, Jim Rob couldn’t see anything in his future except for calloused feet and arthritic joints. He took the advice of a family friend and ran away from the family farm. He hopped a train that took him away from the farm, changed his name to Bob, and never looked back.

Bob’s drifting years were hard—perhaps just as difficult as farming. He was injured badly once when he fell off of a train, and almost died in the hospital. Riding the rails was the only way Bob could carve out a living, until 1929, when he joined up with guitarist Herman Arnspiger and finally started making money for his craft.

Together, Arnspiger and Wills recorded two projects with Brunswick Label—unfortunately, those songs never made it to the airwaves, and they are believed to have been destroyed. In 1930, brothers Milton and Derwood Brown joined up with Wills and Arnspiger, and the foursome created a group called the “Aladdin Laddies.” The Laddies had a spot on WBAP Fort Worth until Wills and Arnspiger left to start a new project. The music created by the Aladdin Laddies in that short two years is considered by some to be the first glimmers of a then-new genre called country swing.

In 1932, Arnspiger and Wills formed the Texas Playboys and traveled through Texas and Oklahoma, looking for their niche. They found it in Oklahoma, when they scored a 12:30 p.m. slot on KVOO in Tulsa. That spot launched the Texas Playboys into a position as the most popular act in the South.

In the next several years, The Texas Playboys added 16 members to their numbers, including some great talents, like steel guitarist Leon McAuliffe, guitarist Eldon Shamblin, and fiddler Jesse Ashlock. From 1935 until 1947, Bob Wills and his band enjoyed great success while recording with ARC/Vocalion/OKeh/Columbia. Most of their albums sold thousands of copies, with the exception of “San Antonio Rose,” which most likely hit sales in the millions.

During this time, Bob Wills married a very young Mary Louise Parker. The couple was only married for two years before they divorced, largely due to Bob’s heavy drinking and depression. The same year Wills divorced Parker, he met Betty Anderson, who later become his second wife.

Following the strength of his recording success, Wills moved to Hollywood to make western musicals in 1940. Unfortunately, not long after, band members started enlisting in the army, and the Texas Playboys fell apart. Wills even served for a few years, but he went back to making music in southern California as soon as he was discharged. By this time, Wills’ drinking was out of control, and singer Tommy Duncan left the band to start his own project. Wills still had the Texas Playboys, but not one of the original members was still a part of the group.

For the next twenty years, Wills managed to stay ahead of the trend—despite a nearly crippling drinking problem. In the 40s, he exchanged his brass and reed instruments for steel guitars, fiddles and mandolins. By the 1950s, western swing was back, so Wills relocated to Tulsa. His band expanded once again, and eventually Wills relocated to Las Vegas, where they played most of their gigs.

Wills’ success continued until the 1960s, when, unfortunately, the Texas Playboys finally disbanded. In 1969, Wills lead his last dance in California, continuing to break attendance records throughout the tour.

Thanks to his great contribution to the western swing genre, Bob Wills was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame in 1968. A few months later, he suffered a stroke that ended his performing days. In 1975, Bob Wills died from pneumonia, leaving behind a great legacy of swing dancing, cotton picking, and riding the rails until he found what he was looking for.

Before any pop fans out there get angry and refuse to even read this article, let me assure you that I in no way am planning on condemning all pop music from all time periods. On the contrary, I enjoy quite a bit of pop music. I definitely crank it up when my local “oldies” station puts on something from Michael Jackson’s “Off the Wall” or “Thriller” albums. I often put on a Buddy Holly record while I make my dinner. Heck, I even have Beyonce’s “Crazy In Love” on my iPod. But, I must say there is a distinct difference between the clever, well produced and well written popular song, performed by legitimately gifted performers and the thrown together, over-marketed, auto-tuned, gimmick-laden schemes that so inundate the pop world these days. As I am sure you have guessed from the title (and perhaps from my last article), I am a complete and self-professed folk fanatic. I have been in love with traditional song since my adolescence and it’s a love that has never wavered or dwindled. Naturally, I am always going to be a bit biased toward folk music but I am far from a narrow appreciator of song. I listen to some form of just about every genre of music (with perhaps the exception of metal and its various offshoots) and I am of the opinion that every genre can be done well. I am sure as a reader of music articles, you are probably somewhat weary of hipsters droning on about how dull and horrible music on the radio is these days, but that’s not entirely what I’m going to be getting at either. One night I was having a conversation with my good friend, Phil. He and I were talking about how we feel that all the best pop music out there has some sort of element or remnant of the folk tradition, whether it be melody, construction, sincere subject matter, chord progression, etc. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. Terrible, poorly constructed, soul-less pop music is the complete antithesis of the folk song.

The first thing question that hit me was this: what is it that makes an Appalachian song from the 1800’s hit me in the heart, despite being so removed from its original author? The answer, for me, is that folk music is about the human condition and the nature of humanity never changes. So, when I hear a song like “Come All Ye Fair and Tender Maidens” or “Silver Dagger,” I think about all the times a man has lied to me, broken my heart, or chosen another lover over me. Even though I am not a tender maiden, living with my parents while my mother sleeps by my side with a silver dagger, the heart and soul of these songs is not lost on me because I can relate and put my own situations into them. More than that, I think any woman (or man) anywhere, regardless of race, class, religion, etc, who has been betrayed or disappointed somehow by a lover can listen to these songs (and so many others) and relate. In stark contrast, when I hear a lyric like “Won’t you meet me at the bar/respect big pimpin’/tell me how you feel/mama tell me what you sippin’/a certified dime piece/deserve Louis 1-3/150 a shot/3 for you 3 for me” I simply think to myself, “What. The. $%&*!?” It’s not because the person speaking is using slang that I don’t understand, and not because the person is at a bar picking up a random lady (well, ok partly that), but because WHO CAN AFFORD SIX SHOTS AT $150 PER SHOT? They are making no attempt to relate to any kind of common person on any real level. It seems to me modern day performers are a lot less concerned with connecting with their audience and a lot more concerned with convincing everyone how rich and awesome they are, or at least talking a lot about how rich and awesome they are (Pink’s “So What,” anyone?).

Modern pop songs don’t always give that connection that I so yearn for in music, but I will admit, there are exceptions to this. Adele is the first to come to mind. At the heart of “Rolling in the Deep” and “Someone Like You” are the very same things at the heart of the above mentioned folk tunes. Let’s be honest: at the end of the day, most songs are about love. Loss of love, desire for love, how awesome it is to be in love. People will always care about love, but subject matter alone is not enough to make a song good. Arguably, Justin Bieber’s “Baby” is about love, but I don’t think they’re handing out any awards for the construction of that chorus.

Which brings me to my next point: authenticity. It’s a thing. Record labels throw successful writers into a room and have them write a bunch of songs in a short period of time that they can pitch to artists, and it shows. Sure, they can be fun. They can be catchy, they can talk about love and all its trappings, but it is NEVER going to amount to the authenticity present in a song written by a talented writer, in the midst of the greatest heartbreak they’ve ever felt. Many of the songs on the radio are empty because they are so forced and cliche. Oh really? You would climb the highest mountain, swim the deepest ocean, walk across fire to be with your love? I’ve never heard that! Tell me more! I think some of this can also go hand in hand with the aforementioned self-puffery present in the songwriting. Such things often extend into a persona that’s so grandiose and absurd it’s like you’re not even watching/listening to a real human being anymore. I get it. It’s performance; it sells records. I don’t care. Lady Gaga can say she was born this way all she wants, but anyone with access to YouTube and the ability to type “Stefani Germanotta” into the search bar knows that’s a total lie. And please don’t compare it to Alice Cooper or Ziggy Stardust or I really will have to kill you. Yes, I know that in his Greenwich Village days Dylan told all sorts of lies about being in the circus and jumping on train cars and all that business, but even that’s a pretty far cry from claiming you live in an egg or have weird bones in your face that come out when you’re inspired. Then, of course there’s the whole “I’m the face/champion/messiah of the gay rights movement, but I am offering my new album exclusively at a retail store that is widely boycotted by the gay community, because of their tremendous donations to anti-gay politicians” thing. I digress. People may enjoy a good show or a catchy tune, but ultimately they know when someone is phony baloney. It’s fun for now, but it gets old and gets tossed to the side.

Speaking of old, how old is the song “Clementine?” How old is “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad?” Old. Really old. Guess what: you all know those songs, and you don’t know them because they were sleekly packaged, placed in various advertisements and shoved down your throat again and again on the radio thanks to payola. You know them because your mom sung them to you, your grandma sung them to you, you sang them at preschool and you probably sing them to your kids now or will sing them to your future children. Will you sing “I Kissed a Girl” to your kids? Probably not. You know why? Other than the obvious non-appropriate factor, admit it, you don’t care about it. You don’t care if the next generation knows that song or not. The folk songs we remember today have gone through the crucible of time. They were handed down because they meant something to people and people made the effort to preserve them. They are good and they are worth saving and cherishing. The thing about pop music is when you make something expressly to be a product for profit to be purchased and consumed, it gets consumed, digested and flushed down the toilet.

Yes, some pop songs endure. They endure because they are good, they have heart and people don’t stop loving them, but sadly, a lot of what’s out there today doesn’t pass that test. Somewhere in Scotland or England or something five or six hundred years ago, someone penned the earliest version of “Barbara Allen”, and then five or six hundred years later, someone wrote the play “Dark of the Moon.” It certainly wasn’t because the tune just makes you want to get up and dance or because the person who first performed it wore a cool costume. It’s beautiful, it’s tragic and it’s truth. After all truth and beauty are things we desperately want to cling to. Or at least we should.

Fifty Years of Grooving to “Green Onions.”

Accidents happen. Whether it’s a 13-car pileup or a plate of spaghetti all over a nice white carpet, no one escapes this life unscathed. The one similarity that all accidents share is a need for the right conditions: one person not paying attention while they’re texting, another not noticing that skateboard left in the middle of the living room. Sometimes, that most exciting and joyful of all accidents, serendipity, deals a hand even the house didn’t see coming. This year marks the 50th anniversary of the release of Stax Records’  “Green Onions”, a song that helped put a company, a genre and a culture into the ears of an audience, hungry for a new, yet familiar groove to call their own.

In the summer of 1962, conditions were ripe for a breakthrough at Stax. The release of, and subsequent success of “Last Night” in 1961, had brought the fledgling studio into the national spotlight, followed by William Bell’s first charting single, “You Don’t Miss Your Water” by early 1962. Things were picking up, with a batch of musicians that would soon become the nexus of the Stax sound, backing up everyone who walked through the door. “I was called down to Stax”, says bassist Lewie Steinberg. “They said, ‘We got a session we wanna cut on a country-western artist, name of Billy Riley’. I think it was Billy Riley. We sat in there and we fumbled around him, and fumbled around him, and it just wasn’t workin’”. Rather than waste what was left of the session after Riley left, Steinberg, along with Al Jackson Jr., Booker T. Jones and Steve Cropper began jamming.

“Now, the studio time was already paid for, so we took a little break, and came back in there”, continues Steinberg. “We were just sittin’ around and I told Al and Booker, I said, ‘Tell you what let’s do, while we just sittin’ up here killin’ time, let’s play some blues’. I says, ‘play us some good old-fashioned blues’. And that’s when we played “Behave Yourself”. Hearing something he liked, Jim Stewart, Stax co-founder and head engineer at the time, began to roll tape.”We didn’t even know he was recording it”, said Steve Cropper, in Rob Bowman’s book, Soulsville U.S.A: The Story of Stax Records. After the guys finished their second run through, he called them into the control room to listen to the finished product. Sensing a hit, Stewart sent them back into the studio to cut a B-side. What ensued is nothing short of a miracle.

Tim Sampson, Communications Director at the Stax Museum and Soulsville Foundation, outlines what happened next: “They had recorded it, and Jim Stewart liked it, but he told them he couldn’t release a 45 with only one song on it; they needed something on the other side. So, they started playing on a riff that Booker T. Jones had written not long before that. They just did it, recorded it, gave it a name”. Originally christened “Funky Onions” by Steinberg, Estelle Axton, co-founder of Stax and head of the adjoining Satellite Record Shop, put her foot down. “Miss Axton said, ‘Now Lewie, you know we can’t put that out like that, ‘funky’. You know you can’t put that’’, Steinberg reminisces. “The public wasn’t ready for that then. So, she changed it to ‘Green Onions’”.

As musicians know, not every song you put out is as good as it could be, but when it is, there’s no doubt. Cropper and the rest of the guys knew that the second cut of that session was far more important than the original blues cut. Stewart wasn’t convinced that “Green Onions” should be the A-side, but on Tuesday morning, Cropper took it down to Reuben Washington at WLOK to give it a listen. One spin on the turntable lit the phones up, and they didn’t stop. Back at Satellite, they couldn’t pick up the phone fast enough: people wanted to know where to find what they just heard on the radio!

Stax put the single out on their subsidiary label, Volt, and “Green Onions” was released as Volt 102, b/w “Behave Yourself”. In an effort to spread the word beyond Memphis, Cropper hit the road and handed out promotional copies to every radio station within a 200 mile radius. Soon enough, they caught the attention of Jerry Wexler at Atlantic Records, Stax’ distribution partner. Due to the recent successes on the Stax label, he recommended pulling “Green Onions” from Volt and reissuing it on Stax. On August 4, 1962, Stax and Atlantic took out an ad in Billboard Magazine, in support of Stax 127, “Green Onions”, which went on to reach number one on the Billboard R&B chart and number three on the pop chart. By the end of 1962, “Green Onions” was coasting on sales of 700,000 copies.

Despite being labeled as “serendipitous” by everyone involved, there is more to the story than that. Accidents always have a back story; there are always factors that play into the outcome of any situation. First of all, the musicianship that had evolved in Memphis, was of such a rare caliber that it made the creative process feel as natural as breathing. Booker T. was a musical genius, having picked up and mastered guitar, bass, organ, piano, baritone saxophone and trombone by the age of 17. He could regularly be found in the Satellite record shop, listening in to what was happening in the studio. When he wasn’t there, he was playing in either Willie Mitchell’s or Ben Branch’s bands around Memphis. Alongside Booker T. were two of Memphis’ finest and most sought after rhythm players: drummer Al Jackson Jr. and bassist Lewie Steinberg. Both Jackson and Steinberg came from whole families full of musical progeny. Steinberg, in particular, came from a long line of talent, starting with his father, who held the piano chair at PeeWee’s Saloon, on Beale Street. The elder Steinberg was the piano player when W.C. Handy, the “Father Of The Blues” wrote his famous “Memphis Blues” and “St. Louis Blues”, right there in the bar. Lewie’s sister Nan, along with his brothers Luther, Morris and Wilbur, all played with greats such as Cab Calloway, Lionel Hampton and Fats Waller. Steinberg himself was well-known around Memphis as a go-to bass player, being one of the first in Memphis to pick up electric bass, and playing with such notable acts as Phineus Newborn and Rufus Thomas, among others. Steve Cropper had been around Stax since the beginning, becoming Stewart’s right-hand man in the studio. Cropper took over A/R duties and took part in almost every recording Stax put out before 1970, as either an engineer, player or both. The combination of these four forces may have been accidental, but the combined chops each brought to the studio accounted for years of precision mastery, allowing each of them to know how the other would move.

Second, the cultural conditions were prime for reaching an expanded audience. 1962 found America in the throughs of the Civil Rights movement: sit-ins and church bombings. Rock and roll and grabbed it’s youth culture by the throat and teens had the buying power to make it last. New dances were being created everyday on national television to keep teens going for their wallets. The backbeat was king, with Memphis as it’s gilded palace, and while Memphis continued doing what it had done in it’s clubs all along, more and more people were itching for it on the radio, color line be damned. Yet, despite the color blindness of the studio atmosphere, it was still too taboo for bands to integrate on the bandstand. According to Steinberg, “You could cut a session in a day, and the same guys could be, you know.  And you playin’ across town somewhere, I couldn’t come sit in with you. I couldn’t play with you”. One can look at the success of “Green Onions”, and the ensuing successes of Booker T and The MGs, as one more step in the undoing of segregation. By 1965, the Civil Rights Bill did away with legal public separation, allowing members of the musical community to take what they were creating in the studio live to the masses. “Without them even knowing it at the time, it was a pretty big step in the civil rights movement”, adds Sampson. “Booker T. and the MGs were integrated, and Memphis at the time was so segregated, there were a lot of places they couldn’t go together. They couldn’t go to the zoo together, they couldn’t eat at the same places together, they couldn’t stay at the same hotels, but inside Stax Records they were a family. I think the fact that this integrated band had a million-selling hit was something that would have reverberations years later, and still today”.

Finally, there’s something oddly familiar about the underlying riff. It’s been said that there’s nothing new under the sun. Culture is always feeding off of sources, both foreign and familiar, putting new spins on old ideas. In the process of researching this article, I found myself in Memphis, at the Stax Museum. I picked up a copy of Green Onions on vinyl, admittedly having never listened to the entire album. I got home and threw it on the turntable to find what came out of the speakers was not what I had been expecting. What I heard was a chipmunk-esque organ, squealing over a bass line thumping at breakneck speed. Upon further inspection, I realized that I had the speed of my turntable cranked up to 45RPM, instead of the necessary 33RPM speed used to cut the album. I kept listening. In fact, I flipped the needle back and listened again. There was something so familiar about what I was hearing: I’ve heard that bass line somewhere else, but where? It wasn’t on a record; maybe it was in a movie, or on TV; I’m still not sure. I invite feedback on this point, for anyone who wants to try an experiment of their own, but I digress. The point is, I bet I’m not the only one to pick up on that. Once I put the record on at the right speed, I could still hear traces of that vaguely familiar groove, echoed in Cropper’s snarling guitar tone and subtly rocking back and forth between Jackson’s ride cymbal. People are drawn to the familiar, and if I caught onto it 50 years after the fact, imagine what it sounded like to the kids hearing it for the first time, in real time.

The events that transpired at Stax on that summer day in 1962 began as nothing more than four men doing what they do best: playing music. They held no allusions of grandeur; they were killing time. And why not? It was one more opportunity to develop a melodic idea, one more chance to play a lick that had been nagging at the back of someone’s mind, one more excuse to stick around just a little bit longer. The thing about   a good song is that you can’t predict when and where it will happen, but when the conditions are right, it only takes one to change the course of history. “It doesn’t take but one”, adds Steinberg, “the right one. You know, it’s a miracle and a blessing, that you can take a song that can last over fifty years and still sound as good today as it did then”.

Further Reading

Bowman, Rob, Soulsville U.S.A.: The Story of Stax Records, Schirmer Trade Books, New Tork, 1997

Guralnik, Peter, Sweet Soul Music: Rhythm and Blues and the Southern Dream of Freedom, Back Bay Books, New York, 1986, pp. 112-128.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I know nothing about Madonna.
Before writing this, I knew that Madonna: sang “Material Girl” and “Like A Virgin,”
played “All the Way” Mae in A League of Their Own, and tongue-kissed Britney Spears.
At first, my lack of knowledge about the Queen of Pop was discouraging and, frankly, a
little embarrassing. People try to make you feel that way about music , like your
experience as a human life-form could not possibly be complete without listening to
some Springsteen song while sitting on a tailgate drinking your first beer. I think it comes
from a genuine place, from a desire to share our lives with each other or something. And I
desired that. So I threw off the shackles of my Madonnian virginity, Wikipedia-ing her
relentlessly and creating a playlist, forcing everyone at work to listen to an unnerving 90-
minute Madonna medley. I wanted to be a part of the Madonna experience—the flirty
pop anthems, the razor-sharp club-movers, the groundbreaking sex ballads, the fame, the
fortune, the sex!

My discouragement and shame melted away as I eased into the Madonna
discography; I learned the songs, sent out a few “Dude! Have you ever jammed to
‘Vogue?’ So good!” texts, and prepped myself for the plunge into the affirming circle of
life-sharing that is being a Madonna fan. I found just one small problem: no one cares
about Madonna.

My original assignment was to investigate how and why Madonna is still relevant,
particularly to the impressionable demographic of teenage girls. And while I knew that
Madonna’s “let’s-talk-about-sex!” songs had thrown open doors for femininity in the ‘80s
and early ‘90s, I suspected that today’s teens—born after the Erotica era to mothers
nearly Madonna’s age—could not care any less.

In the week following Super Bowl XXXLVLII, while everyone got to swim
around in the tepid baby pool water of Eli Manning’s legacy, Gisele’s f-bombs, M.I.A.’s
finger, Madonna’s hyper-homosexual take on 300, and the slack-line guy, I quizzed many
people, young and old, about Madonna. Mostly, no one in my general age group had any
interesting opinions. I acknowledge that my casual research isn’t the stuff of mind-
splintering journalism, but my shallow foraging does say a lot: everyone knows about
her, but not because of any meaningful, firsthand experience.

For people born in the ‘80s and early ‘90s, Madonna is the musical equivalent of,
say, Larry Bird. Now, before you start pointing out major discrepancies in this theory,
noting that Larry Legend never would have simulated masturbation in public and that
Bird’s ‘stache-and-fro look was contrary to Madonna’s edgy aesthetic, let me stop you
right there. I get it: If Bird’s hometown of French Lick, Indiana, were on the
undiscovered planet Xarzon00003, Bird and Madonna could not be further apart. But for
us, children of the Internet or whatever, we experience these two blondies—they both
have blonde hair!—the same.

The Celtics superstar, by any metric you want to use, is among the five greatest
basketball players ever. You hear guys like my dad laud Bird; they’ve got old Celtics t-
shirts and highlight tapes and their own Where were you when Larry hit the shot?
memories. Maybe they weren’t at the Boston Garden, but they were alive for the Bird
Show. And because of that, because of old fans and those greatest-of-all-time lists and
highlights that you’ve seen six hundred times, you feel like you experienced Larry Bird
(while of course you didn’t). It’s the same with Madonna.

Madonna is the greatest female pop artist we’ve ever seen. There are arguments to
be made against that, I’m sure; but there are also equally palatable arguments to be made
for Madonna being the greatest pop artist period, taking into account the basic metric: did
the artist in question go beaver-shit crazy at some point in life? Her first album dropped
almost thirty years ago. She has more Billboard top ten hits than any musician ever. She
changed the face of fashion a handful of times, and ushered in a paradigm-shattering
view of sexuality that challenged the Church and anti-feminist world views (remember,
this was the ‘80s: this shit was crazy). Her glamorous halftime performance was the
most-watched in Super Bowl history. And yet, for many of us, Madonna is just the
surprisingly spry 53 year-old who provided background music for America’s biggest
pizza party: we saw her up there, and remembered, vaguely—“Oh yeah! That’s that one
song!”—that we were watching the woman who made pop music. We remember
Madonna, sure, from summer days when we weren’t supposed to be watching VH1, but
we didn’t experience her.

Now, despite our lack of cognitive memories, we can all agree that Larry Bird and
Madonna belong in the same conversation: the Hall of Fame, the pyramid of legends, the
very pinnacle of their respective fields. Bird has remained in the public eye as President
of the Indiana Pacers, that after coaching the team for three years, morosely hovering
around the bench and calling plays for Reggie Miller. But how did Madonna get here?
And I don’t mean how she got famous—anyone can do anything to get famous at any
moment: make a sex tape, make a YouTube video, make a sex tape and upload it to
YouTube, be an Asian-American basketball player with a surname that linds itself to puns
(Okay! I’ll stop). Although this is sort of important, her road to pop music domination
has been written about by every fledgling music writer with a laptop and a set of
headphones: her blow-the-doors-off sexuality; her blueprint-creating pop songs; her
constant reinvention; her knack for, somehow, despite the reinvention, “staying true to
herself.”

The truly interesting thing about Madonna is how she differs from Bird, how she
climbed so far into the celebrosphere that everyone benignly forgot about her. It bears
repeating: Madonna became so famous that people started blithely ignoring her. At some
point in her career, she entered the strange, no-man’s land of uber-fame. Bird took a few
subtle steps down—from player to coach to executive—but Madonna just sort of kept at
it, making radio-ready pop hits, staying off the home page of TMZ, merging over and
letting Britney, Beyonce, and Rihanna careen past her in the fast lane. Like an aging
basketball player with diminishing skills, she changed her game, started picking her spots
and deferring to her “teammates” more (Justin Timberlake and Kanye assist on 2008’s
Hard Candy, and her new single “Give Me All Your Luvin’” is a three-woman-weave
between her, M.I.A., and Nicki Minaj). She still pops up here and there with big plays
and club-bangers, reminding us that she still is, in fact, Madonna. But the shtick is over,
for the most part: the sexed-up videos, the determined button-pushing, the knack for
getting people to point and look and get their morality panties in a wad.

And so it almost seems sad that Madonna has ended up here: the provocative
Madonna gone, the new one forgotten; her tag-teams with hip-hop’s hottest meriting
nothing more than a few eye-rolls from the cooler-than-thou’s, the blasé teenagers and
Pitchfork critics. But what do we make of a 53 year-old boldly out-extravagance-ing the
Super Bowl? She didn’t sing any of her hot button songs or assert her sexual power, but
maybe “doing what she wants” simply means getting to push 114 million people’s
buttons in a garish reminder that she’s still here. So perhaps Madonna hasn’t gone
anywhere, after all. And perhaps we haven’t forgotten.