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GOLDEN AGE OF GOSPEL: 10 Essential LPs

Posted by mcorcoran on October 24, 2017

About twenty years ago, old black gospel music started being where I went when I wanted to lose the last bits of my mind each night. Where’s the notch up in intensity after Al Green? I found it in the SS groups- Soul Stirrers, Swan Silvertones and Staple Singers. It was there in that little package of evangelical dynamite Shirley Caesar of the Caravans. If music is the language of the soul, gospel spoke to me with a friggin’ megaphone. Where I used to end the night with “Whipping Post,” that Allman Brothers guitarathon became the opening act for the sacred steel of the Campbell Brothers and their protege Robert Randolph.

Before she went down to Muscle Shoals in ’67 to make her deal with the pop music devil, Aretha Franklin was considered a fairly good gospel singer, but she was no Mahalia Jackson or Bessie Griffin or Willie Mae Ford Smith. For every great church singer who went on to the pop charts, there are hundreds, thousands maybe, who refused to sing for encores instead of salvation, choosing to keep their deal with the Lord.

Which years constitute gospel’s golden age? They’re generally considered to be the ’40s and ’50s, though I think the glory years started in the late ’20s, when reformed juke joint piano player Thomas A. Dorsey followed the lead of Arizona Dranes to give gospel it’s bounce and became the Irving Berlin of spirituals. And I think you have to take it as far as the early ’70s, when three of gospel’s all-time greats- Mahalia Jackson, Sister Rosetta Tharpe and Clara Ward – all died within a year of each other and the Staple Singers defected (you don’t cross over from gospel) to pop.Here are 10 essential gospel albums on independent labels I assembled for eMusic in the early aughts. If you see them in CD bins, you’ll want to snatch them up.

  1. Golden Gate Quartet– Vol. 2 1938- 1939 (Document)

Elvis Presley’s favorite gospel group, this band of forceful voices from the Tidewater community of Virginia (also home to Silver Leaf Quartet and the Harmonizing Four) is the link between the Fisk Jubilee Singers – who tried to assimilate, but always killed with the old “Negro spirituals” – and the Motown-inventing Soul Stirrers. Though their definitive version of “Swing Down, Chariot” is not included here, there are 23 tracks that find the Gaters- the Mills Brothers of gospel – at the top of their game. Their vocal arrangements are impeccable.

  1. Mahalia Jackson– “Queen of Gospel” (Fabulous Orchard)

Mahalia. The Voice. The most powerful black woman in America during the ’50s and ’60s is well-represented on this collection that will both satiate and create a longing for more. Although raised a Baptist, Jackson credited seepage from the storefront Pentecostal churches of her New Orleans youth with lighting her vocal fire.

  1. Various Artists – “Kings of the Gospel Highway” (Shanachie)

This collection focuses on six of the greatest male singers in gospel history- Julius Cheeks, Archie Brownlee, R.H. Harris, Silas Steele, Kylo Turner and Claude Jeter. Harris’ Soul Stirrers get things started with “Walk Around,” their single from 1939 that provided the model for much quartet singing that would follow, but the set ends even more spectacularly with tracks from Brownlee’s Five Blind Boys of Mississippi and Cheeks’ Sensational Nightingales. The two greatest voices to ever wreck a church, Brownlee and Cheeks make Little Richard sound like Chubby Checker. Just listening to Brownlee on “Will My Jesus Be Waiting” and Cheeks on “Somewhere To Lay My Head” will make your throat sore.

  1. Sister Rosetta Tharpe – “Vol. 3 1946- 1947 (Document)

She played guitar like Blind Lemon Jefferson, sang with a ferocity that was almost sinful and defiantly explored big band jazz. This Pentecostal performer from Arkansas shook hands with the devil and brought that bastard to his knees with the sheer force of her gift from above. Sample the first minute of “Jesus Is Here To Stay,” with that superhuman guitar playing, and you’ll be hooked. Then it’s on to her swinging duets with Marie Knight, a mix of play and purpose. Of all the gospel greats who deserve to be more famous, you’d have to put this powerhouse at the top of the list.

  1. Soul Stirrers – “Shine On Me” (Specialty/ Fantasy)

If you can afford only one gospel quartet CD… you need to find a better job. This one, featuring Rebert Harris’ elastic falsetto on the title track, packs the best version of “Jesus Hits Like the Atom Bomb,” as well as the blueprint for Sam Cooke on “Christ Is All.” Far and away the most spine-tingling track is “By and By,” with the incredble tag team vocals of Harris and Paul Foster coaxing each other to a region of euphoria that sounds a lot like heaven. A decade and a half before these late 1940s recordings, Harris almost singlehandedly invented soul when he added a second lead singer and introduced such vocal techniques as drawing a single syllable over several notes and delayed-time phrasing. But this is the finest recording he left behind when he yielded to Cooke in 1950.

  1. Various Artists – “Gospel Women, Vol. 2” (Shanachie)

There’s more vocal athleticism on this gathering of Mahalias, Bessies, Marions and Ernestines than there are mushroom soup recipes in Minnesota. Compiled by Anthony Heilbut, whose “The Gospel Sound” book is “The Fountainhead” for gospel buffs (listening to Delois Barrett Campbell doth make the similes sprout), this CD is as notable for the great unknowns as for the icons. Imogene Green sounds anything but “Tired” on the tune of that name, Bessie Folk displays angelic control on “Only a Look” and “Get Right With God” by Ruth Davis outrocks them all.

  1. Various Artists – “15 Down Home Gospel Classics” (Arhoolie)

Choosing this set, which ranges from the scorching and soothing sacred steel of Aubrey Ghent and the Campbell Brothers to the gritty storefront soul of Rev. Louis Overstreet and Fred McDowell, frees up two or three slots on this list of 12. Standout tracks include Sonny Treadway’s serpentine steel work on “Jesus Will Fix It For You” and Black Ace’s gentle croon on “Farther Along.” If you want to hear more Overstreet- and you will after he torches “Workin’ On a Building” – you’ll do well to find “Rev. Louis Overstreet With His Sons And The Congregation Of St. Luke’s Powerhouse Church Of God In Christ.”

  1. Swan Silvertones– “Amen, Amen, Amen- the Essential Collection” (Archives Alive)

Nobody could go from ethereal to raging as quick as Claude Jeter, who joins Rebert Harris and Ira Tucker of the Dixie Hummingbirds in the holy trinity of original quartet leaders of the 1930s. Where the Soul Stirrers went on to usher a parade of lead singers through their ranks during the next seven decades, the Swans, based in Pittsburgh during their ’50s & ’60s heyday, were led by Jeter, who quit the group to become a minister in the late ’60s. Interesting tidbit: Jeter’s improvised line “I’ll be a bridge over deep water if you trust my name,” on “Oh Mary Don’t You Weep” inspired Swan fan Paul Simon’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” This is a fantastic 2015 reissue from Michael Ochs.

  1. Sallie Martin Singers/ Cora Martin– “Throw Out the Lifeline” (Specialty/ Fantasy)

The country migrates to the city in Sallie Martin’s curt vocal sassiness on “My God Is a Battle Axe,” while adopted daughter Cora provides a balance of sophistication and joins with organist Dave Weston and guest singer Brother Joe May for otherworldly hums and swoops of commentary. There’s a hint of downhome blues in the voice of Sallie Martin, known more for her music publishing acumen than her singing, but morning never sounds so much like Sunday when this CD plays. The arrangements are over-the-top and oddly unbridled, but this is what black folk heard in church in the early ’50s.

  1. Dorothy Love Coates and the Gospel Harmonettes – “Get On Board” (Specialty/ Fantasy)

Other female gospel singers, but not many, could out-belt this Alabama mama. Others could out-finesse the woman who walked side by side with Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. in Birmingham, and was similarly jailed. But no singer was more committed to her lyrics than Coates. When she sang “If you dig one ditch you better dig two/ The trap you set just might be for you” to deep South racists, you just knew she’d fight to the death. The first time I was every struck, I mean really moved, by the words of a gospel song, it was when Coates sang “99 and a half won’t do.” It was a call for full commitment to Jesus, but what I heard was that if you want to change your life for the better, you have to give it 100%. Gospel music hooked me with the fervor of the music, but after awhile, the words started to take hold.

 

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25,000 sets in 25 years: Saxon Pub sound man Richard Vannoy

Posted by mcorcoran on October 22, 2017

From 2015, Arts&Labor site, by Michael Corcoran

The Saxon Pub celebrates its 25th anniversary this month and for all but a few months in the beginning, Richard Vannoy has been the club’s sound man. For the first 13 years, the Abilene native worked seven nights a week, but after a run-in with the Monday night headliner in 2003, Vannoy has worked Tuesdays through Sundays. “I said something and Bob Schneider didn’t like it so he fired me,” Vannoy, 63, says with a laugh. “So now I play softball on  Mondays. I needed a night off anyway.”

Since the Saxon books three or four acts a night, and Vannoy has averaged 338 nights working per year, conservative math puts him in the sound booth for about 25,000 sets since 1990. That was the year Joe Ables and Craig Hillis opened the 150-capacity live music venue at 1320 S. Lamar Blvd. in the former home of neighborhood barfly incarnations the Boss’ Office, the Living Room and Madison’s.

Ables found the place when Madison’s was going out of business and hired the Angleton native, who had a small accounting practice, to audit their finances. “I knew Craig Hillis from Steamboat,” Ables said in 2010, “so I called him up and told him I’d found a club with some potential. He asked me ‘what do you see it as?’ and I said it could be a really good room for singer-songwriters. And he said ‘you mean like the old Saxon Pub?’ and the name just stuck.” The original Saxon Pub was an A-frame building on the Interstate 35 frontage road near 38 1/2 Street in the late ’60s/early ’70s.

In the beginning, the “new Saxon” continued the folksinging tradition, with such acts as Steve Fromholz and Shake Russell. The Bad Livers put the club on the map in the early ’90s with their Monday night bluegrass massacres, and then Rusty Wier and W.C. Clark were fave regulars.  It was the late Stephen Bruton’s endorsement that helped establish the Saxon as a place where world-class musicians could cut loose.

“Stephen came by one day, in ’96 I think, and he said ‘I can’t get a gig in town. Can I play here?’ And I said ‘I’ll not only book you, I’ll give you a key to the place,” said Ables, who had just bought out his partners. Not only did Bruton pack the club every Sunday with the Resentments (whose residency reaches 17 years on Sunday), but Bruton’s sets sometimes turned into superstar jam sessions, as he brought up former bosses Kris Kristofferson and Bonnie Raitt on occasion. Bobby Whitlock of Derek and the Dominoes plays every week and you’ll catch Red Young when he’s not on tour with the Animals, plus Denny Freeman, who was Bob Dylan’s guitarist for so many years.

The walls of rough cedar provided great acoustics for loud rock, as well as folkies. There’s something else unique about the Saxon: to accomodate a working clientele, Ables put the headliner in the middle slot, which was originally met with protest, but now seems the natural way to go.

Vannoy (pronounced with a V in front of “annoy”) has been a sound man since following a bunch of Abilene musicians to Austin in the early ’70s. “I was in a band with (drummer) Bill Maddox and (bassist) Noel Kelton in junior high,” Vannoy recalls. “They were so good, even as 14-year-olds, so I asked ‘how much do you guys practice?’ When they said 4-6 hours every day, I knew I could never match that so I started thinking of other ways to make it in the music business.” Maddox, murdered by a deranged neighbor in 2011, played in his father’s jazz band at age 11.

Maddox and Kelton had a band in Austin with fellow Abilenians- singer/guitarist Keith Landers and keyboardist Stephen Barber- called Cadillac, which gave Vannoy his first sound man gig. “Steve and Billy wanted to play jazz-rock fusion, so they left to form the Electromagnets with Eric Johnson and Kyle Brock (the bassist, also from Abilene). Keith and Noel wanted to keep playing rock, so they started Johnny Dee and the Rocket 88’s.” Vannoy ended up working with the ‘magnets from ’72- ’74 and the Rockets from ’76- ’84 and learned a lot from both. “I set up the gear, drove the truck, I was the only roadie,” Vannoy says of his start in the sound biz.

“The Electromagnets were such incredible musicians, every night someone would come up to me and compliment me on my sound mix,” Vannoy says. “But I wasn’t really doing anything special. It was all the band.” That taught him to stay out of the way and do as little as neccessary. Johnny Dee, meanwhile, was a group that relied on great singing, so providing a clear vocal mix became Vannoy’s obsession to this day. “The number one complaint for sound engineers is ‘I can’t hear the vocals,'” says Vannoy. “If you’ve got the vocals right, the instruments will usually fall into place.” Vannoy says his favorite acts to work with, such as Guy Forsyth and Patrice Pike, are talented singers.

Ables says such an affinity is a key to Vannoy’s longevity. “He’s such a music fan,” says the club owner, who’s looking to open a bigger Saxon Pub at a new development on St. Elmo Street, though the 1320 S. Lamar St. locale will remain open for at least another five years. “I still get calls from him when he’s excited about a new band. He digs hearing live music night after night.”

In nearly 25 years, Vannoy has taken only one vacation. He says he has to keep working because “rock and roll doesn’t have retirement benefits.” He’ll stay on at the Saxon at least until Social Security kicks in at age 66, but, he said “I’m still keeping my other job.” After working until 2 a.m. most nights, Vannoy goes home to sleep for a few hours, then goes off to a parttime job with a rare book restorer.

“It’s a 70-hour work week, but I’m loving it,” says Vannoy, who has his sound system so dialed-in that he can sometimes wander about or get a slice of pizza next door. But taped to the wall of his sound booth is a page with the names of acts handled by a certain manager who insists that Vannoy remain in the booth at all times during their sets. Vannoy shrugs that 95% of his job is in the setting up, but he abides. “They might want more monitor, but that’s about it,” he says of possible mid-set adjustments.

“Joe is the owner, but this is Richard’s club,” says bassist Bruce Hughes, who plays three residencies at the Saxon Pub each week- Monday with Schneider, Wednesdays with Johnny Nicholas and Sundays with the Resentments- as well as occasional gigs with his own band. “Almost all clubs are terrible places to just show up and try to get a sound. You never know what you’re gonna get. But you know with Richard it’s gonna be consistent. One of the reasons the Saxon Pub is one of my favorite places to play in the world.”

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1000-word history: Red River Street

Posted by mcorcoran on October 15, 2017

Tim Kerr mural based on my Red River Street history research. On 7th and Red River.

Red River Street was at the eastern edge of Austin when the street plan was laid out by Edwin Waller, Austin’s first mayor, in 1839. It became a main north-south thoroughfare because Red River is the only street north of Pecan (Sixth) Street and east of Congress Ave. that wasn’t uphill. Red River was home to wagon yards before automobile businesses like Raven’s Garage (605 Red River) opened in the 1920s.

The diverse neighborhood was nicknamed Germantown after the colony of immigrants who settled around 10th and Red River in the mid-1800s, with the German Free School and Aloes Wulz Grocery anchoring the community. Ida Pecht, the daughter of German immigrants, grew up on Red River between Hickory (8th St.) and Ash (9th St.) She married Andrew Zilker in 1888 and bore him four children. The family had planned to build a mansion on Barton Springs, but after Ida died in 1916, a distraught Zilker donated the land to the city as a park.

For most of the ‘50s, ‘60s and ‘70s, the strip was dominated by used furniture stores and junk shops with names like Williams Do-Rite Swap Shop, Fairyland Antiques, Dutch Meyer’s Trading Post, Red River Rats, Hurt’s Hunting Grounds and J.B. Branton. Most of those buildings are nightclubs today. Snooper’s Paradise, the inspiration of Doug Sahm’s Austin anthem “Groover’s Paradise,” at 705 Red River was later the location of country-western clubs, gay bars, hip hop clubs and rock bars. As the Cave Club, the location introduced industrial music to Texas in the ’80s. It’s been home to Elysium since 2001.

Although Red River began to be known as Austin’s live music district in the ‘90s, with Emo’s and Stubb’s leading the way for the Mohawk, Beerland, Club DeVille, Room 710 and others, this strip was where the earliest Austin hippies went before the Vulcan and the Armadillo opened. Red River gave birth to psychedelic rock in 1966, when the 13th Floor Elevators debuted their first single “You’re Gonna Miss Me” at the New Orleans Club. Janis Joplin sang just steps away at the 11th Door that same year. Those nascent Austin clubs were where Symphony Square is today.

Red River had an edge, but the flow was inclusion. During the era of segregration, black-owned businesses were next door to white-owned ones on Red River from Sixth to 15th Streets. This was as close to the East Side, both spiritually and physically, as you could get in downtown Austin.

Sam Lung, whose Cantonese father moved to Texas in the 1890s to work building railroads, opened Austin’s first Chinese restaurant at 1128 Red River in 1946. The menu of Lung’s Chinese Kitchen gave instructions on how to use chopsticks, as Austin’s ethnic/exotic food scene was born.

The Red River walk has always had a bit of an outlaw swagger. In the early ‘90s, the BYOB Cavity Club installed a half-pipe for skateboarders. Miss Laura of the Blue Flamingo turned her drag bar into a punk club, with the action spilling out onto the street. At 900 Red River, Chances was that rare lesbian bar that booked indie rock bands, like 16 Deluxe, Glass Eye and Sincola- a wild hybrid that brought different cultures together. That open clientele policy continues at Cheer-Up Charlies in the same former car lot office location.

Red River was where you could buy a stack of Playboys as a teenager and nobody would ask for an ID. Each shop had its own personality. Donald’s Used Furniture used to keep a 500-lb bale of cotton in the store. Dutch “the Mayor of Red River” Meyer proudly displayed a gruesome framed photo showing Mussolini just minutes after he was killed.

The 1915 Waller Creek Flood washed away a whole block of houses on E. 7th St., but that’s nothing compared to the early ‘70s wrecking balls that wiped away all of Red River from 10th St. to 19th St. (MLK today) as part of the Brackenridge Urban Renewal Project. Many of the displaced businesses were black-owned, causing detractors to term the project “urban removal.”

Simon Sidle, a son of freed slaves, helped establish Red River as “antique row” when he opened his first shop in 1917 at 807 Red River. That block, currently the site of Stubb’s, pending a name change, had housed a shop by dressmaker Marguerite Skillings in the late 1800s, with master shoemaker Martias Lohmuller setting up a couple doors down. The distinctive rockwork was done years later by Chester Burratti’s Mexican crew, many of whom camped on Waller Creek where Stubb’s outdoor stage is. When namesake Chris “Stubb” Stubblefield saw the homeless encampment behind his new BBQ joint in ’96, he declared it to be Hell’s Half Acre, “which makes it right for us.”

Perhaps no business exemplifies the maverick spirit of the long, flat street than the One Knite, Austin’s most notorious dive bar. Opened in 1970, the O.K. corralled the local blues scene long before Clifford Antone opened his namesake club on Sixth Street in 1975. The Vaughan brothers, Marcia Ball, Jimmie Gilmore and many more got their starts at the One Knite. W.C. Clark quit his job in Joe Tex’s band and started a group with Angela Strehli when he experienced the One Knite scene. It was all about the blues, as one British band of note found out in 1971. Pink Floyd had just played a show at the Municipal Auditorium and the members wanted to unwind with a jam session. The music drew them to the One Knite, but when they said they didn’t know any Jimmy Reed or Freddie King, they were turned away from the stage and sulked in the dark side of the room. The Armadillo World Headquarters, which also opened in 1970, was getting all the press, but the scruffy One Knite, where Banditos bikers sat next to LBJ’s Secret Service, was where the Austin club scene, the one that lives on today, was being born.

 

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Margaret Moser 1954- 2017

Posted by mcorcoran on August 31, 2017

Photo by Todd V. Wolfson

A high school dropout with no discernible skill when she came to Austin as a 19-year-old in 1973, Margaret Moser used guile, guts and no small amounts of talent and instinct to become the most celebrated and influential female music journalist in Texas. Her 40-year career started with a music/gossip column in the Austin Sun in 1976 and was capped with a 4,000-word memoir of her unconventional life in the esteemed Oxford American magazine.

She came in through the back door, she said, so when she was welcomed at the front entrance, as Queen Bee of the Austin music scene, she’d always go to the back to see who else she could let in. One of those was Kevin Curtin, who continues the music news/gossip column in the Austin Chronicle Margaret started in 1981. “She believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself,” said Curtin, working at a head shop when Margaret saw something special.

That sentiment was echoed hundreds of times this week, after Margaret passed away from cancer, at 11:30 p.m. on Aug. 25. Everybody had a story of how Margaret went out of her way to be kind, how she helped them when she didn’t have to. Or they talked about an article she wrote that moved them to tears. It’s rare to see a music critic’s name on a grand marquee, but the Paramount Theater’s lit up “Margaret Moser 1954- 2017: The Patron Saint of Austin Music” on Saturday, when the news hit. She was 63.

“She made nurturing her true religion,” said John Cale of the Velvet Underground, who had a two-year fling with Margaret in the late ‘70s.

The “Margaret Loves John Cale” graffiti she wrote all over town has been faded or painted over, but the pair remained friends through the years. “If there’s anything to learn about true loyalty and a diehard love of life, she’s the master,” Cale said in a 20-page special section the Austin Chronicle published in tribute to Margaret in June, after she announced she was entering home hospice care in San Antonio.

But even as her condition worsened Margaret wasn’t done, presenting an exhibit at Antone’s on bluesman Robert Johnson, just two days after the Chronicle tribute section hit the streets. The show, presented earlier at the South Texas Museum of Popular Culture (or “TexPop”) in San Antonio, which Margaret founded in 2012, drew more than 150 of Margaret’s closest friends at the July 1 opening. Overwhelmed and sickly, Margaret lasted only a few minutes, but everyone got to see her one last time and that was the point. She never stepped inside an Austin nightclub again.

“Death has been my companion for awhile, so I’d rather make the most of it,” Margaret said in July about her four-plus years with terminal cancer. “I’m into the mystery of it, not the fear.”

Photo by Todd V. Wolfson

 

Margaret Romaine Moser was born in Chicago, where her father was attending seminary school, on May 16, 1954. As a Presbyterian minister based in New Orleans in the ‘60s, Dr. Willard Cummings Moser participated in several Civil Rights protests, including the march in Selma, where nonviolent protestors were beaten by police and state troopers as the world watched in horror. Those years instilled a rage against injustice in Margaret, the oldest of four.

Margaret was always smarter than the other kids. Instead of typical bedtime stories, her father read her Greek mythology. She skipped second grade and was always reading. But mother Phyllis noticed a change in her attitude about school in fifth grade. “She came home one day and said her teacher was the devil incarnate,” Phyllis recalled. Her time as an ideal student was over. There was also trouble at home when the parents started living separate lives. Willard realized he was gay, but the couple stayed together several years for the kids.

Margaret’s rebellion had a soundtrack. She was crazy for rock n’ roll and saw Jimi Hendrix in San Antonio at age 14. But her first rock star crush was Mark Lindsay of Paul Revere and the Raiders, whose face plastered her walls. Once after a bad report card, her parents tore down the pictures. They had doctorates and education was important. Margaret steamed, perhaps for years.

Margaret read all the teen beat magazines and wrote concert and album reviews in her journal. It didn’t occur to her that a female could be a music journalist or that anyone would ever care what she thought. She wrote because it gave her a greater connection to the music.

That first rush of being moved by music. Margaret never forgot that feeling. It ruled her life for a time and not content to be just fan, she found greater access to the mesmerizing power of music as a self-proclaimed groupie. Along the way, she found she could write and journalism became her connection to the muse. If Margaret profiled you in the Chronicle, it was like winning an award. She didn’t just write about the music that moved her, she championed it at all times. She’d grab your arm, sit you down and say “listen to THIS!” She had a way about her that was completely unique. Anybody who said they knew someone like Margaret was lying.

The goal of any true rock critic is to create music with his or her words, to not be just an accessory, but an artist themselves. Margaret achieved that with a unique writing voice as personal and candid and soulful as a deep track on a favorite LP. “Her words jumped off the page,” said Alejandro Escovedo, who met Margaret soon after he moved to town with Rank and File. “You have to understand,” Escovedo’s former True Believers mate Jon Dee Graham said in June. “(Margaret) was in the middle of any and everything interesting that went down.” Her business card could’ve read “Magic Chaser.”

Later in her life, she brought exposure and performing opportunities to teenagers with her Under 18 series with the Chronicle. “If you want to have a good audience,” she’d tell the kids, “BE a good audience” and she’d watch the young bands turn out for each other. Margaret was a community builder. Unable to have children after a hysterectomy in her ‘20s, Margaret became a mother-like figure, not only to musicians, but younger journalists like Andy Langer, Raoul Hernandez and Chris Gray. Folks gravitated towards Margaret for a simple reason: she was fun!    Outrageous singer Dino Lee saw that in the mid-‘80s when he tapped Margaret to be one of his naughty backup singers, the Jam and Jelly Girls.

“She was always the life of the party,” said singer-songwriter Lucinda Williams, a close friend since the ‘70s. “She was just this wild woman in the most brilliant way.” The Margaret laugh could be heard over the rumble of a five-piece band. That’s how you knew you were in the right place.

Photo by Margaret’s first husband Ken Hoge. With Dayna Blackwell

Her flashy entrances during her ‘70s and ‘80s nightlife heyday leading “the Texas Blondes” groupie troop have been compared to a hurricane force, so it was fitting that she passed just as category 4 Harvey started beating down on San Antonio, her childhood home, returned to. She knew her stage 4 colon cancer diagnosis in February 2013 was grim, but Margaret used her precious remaining years to prove she could also make a grand exit.

Margaret’s final all-access pass was to her own wake. The outpouring of emotion from the many whose lives she had touched was never more than what Margaret could handle. She knew she’d earned it.

In 2014, when Margaret retired from both the Austin Chronicle and the Austin Music Awards (which she founded in 1983), the City of Austin dedicated Margaret Moser Plaza on West Third Street. It’s right next to where Margaret once ruled the Austin Music Awards, when the site was the Austin Music Hall. The music awards ran on Margaret’s personality, giving it a campy prom feel. But her favorite part was booking special combinations of musicians: Roky Erickson backed by Okkervil River led to a lauded collaborative LP.

Margaret Moser ( C ) at the Austin Music Awards during SXSW on March 12, 2014 in Austin, Texas – USA.

 

“The Good Ship Margaret is a fleet unto itself,” wrote Louis Black in June. As editor of the Chronicle and Margaret’s booking consultant for the AMAs, Black knew her as well as anyone. She was not just one way, she was many. To experience all sides of this complicated soul, was to know tenderness and tenacity, kindness and cunning, and empathy you didn’t want to cross. You don’t survive in the music business as a female journalist for 40 years by being a pushover.

Even in a city known for individuality, Margaret was fiercely independent. As a 15-year-old, the year her parents divorced, she ran away from home and joined a cult. In 1974, the year after she arrived in Austin, her beloved father Willard, whose piano-playing was the first music Margaret ever heard, took his own life.

Margaret went about building a new family for herself, the Austin folks as crazy about music and partying as she was. The key word is “family.” The Austin music scene lost its big sister this week.

“She left an indelible mark,” said Cale. “Never to be removed.”

Margaret is survived by her husband Steve Chaney, mother Phyllis Jackson Stegall and brothers Stephen MacMillan Moser, Scott Cummings Moser and Willard “Bill” Jackson Moser. She also leaves behind musicians, writers, historians, artists who might not otherwise be doing what they do to enrich Central Texas. She was preceded in death by her father Willard, infant brother Peter Carson Moser and second husband Michael “Rollo Banks” Malone. Private family services will be held in Port Arthur and New Hope, PA, where her ashes will be interred in family plots.

Margaret did not forget about Austin friends and family. She wrote out details for her memorial celebration of life to be held at Antone’s on a Sunday afternoon to be named later. Music directors will be Charlie Sexton and Monte Warden, who she championed when they were kids more than 35 years ago. Let what Margaret Moser cultivated long live on.

by Michael Corcoran

Unattributed quotes are from the Austin Chronicle’s “The Importance of Being Margaret Moser” special section 6/30/17.

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“Where To Begin” by the Damnations

Posted by mcorcoran on August 24, 2017

Here’s “Where To Begin” from the 2006 Bruce Robison-produced Damnations LP which was never released.

      1. Where To Begin

The great cover of “Sally Go Round the Roses”

      2. 04 Sally Go Round The Roses

Here’s a more bluegrass track from the sessions. Title unknown. This is the kind of material the Damnations built their name on.

      3. Unknown title - Damnations

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Unsung Pioneers of Austin Music Mural

Posted by mcorcoran on August 10, 2017

Tim Kerr photo by Joe Salinas 8/10/17

As a musician, Tim Kerr has been on the ground floor of punk-funk (Big Boys, Bad Mutha Goose), grunge (Poison 13) and neo-soul (Now Time Delegation), so it’s fitting that he paint an homage to Austin music pioneers at the corner of E. 9th and Red River Streets. Commissioned by Public City, we worked together (me: research, Tim: paint) on bringing these obscure artists to life on the side of a building: Here are their stories:

 

Singer-pianist Ernie Mae Miller, born in 1927, grew up in East Austin royalty. Her grandfather, L.C. Anderson, is the namesake of Anderson High School, which was Austin black high school until closed by desegregation in 1971. (Anderson High reopened in 1973 on Mesa Drive as an integrated school.)

But none of Ernie Mae’s fans at such downtown joints as Dinty Moore’s and the Driskill Hotel knew her backstory- or cared. They came out for the songs, for Miller’s voice, for her piano playing.

She played saxophone in the Anderson High Yellow Jackets marching band, under the tutelage of legendary band director B.L. Joyce, who also mentored jazz trumpet great Kenny Dorham and Charlie Parker’s future bassist Gene Ramey. After graduating from Anderson in 1944, Ernie Mae attended Prairie View A&M, where she joined that school’s 16-piece, all-girl swing band, who toured the country in the summers, including a stint at the Apollo Theater in Harlem.

Miller’s home base from 1951- 1967 was the downstairs Creole Room of the New Orleans Club at 1122 Red River St. She played “The Saints Go Marching In” every night, but also sang standards made famous by Billie Holiday, who she was often compared to. On UT football game days, the N.O. Club would be packed and Ernie Mae would get everyone on their feet with “The Eyes of Texas.” She had the talent and the repertoire to play both fancy lounges and lowdown blues joints.

“Among Austin’s legendary pianists such as Robert Shaw, Erbie Bowser and Roosevelt “Grey Ghost” Williams, Ernie Mae Miller takes her place with everlasting honors,” wrote Margaret Moser in the Austin Chronicle on the occasion of Ernie Mae’s 80th birthday.

The great singer-pianist, who recorded a “Live At the New Orleans Club” LP in the 1960s, passed away three years after that 2010 cover story.

 

The Gant Family Singers have been called “Austin’s First Family of Song,” having recorded over 40 folk tunes for ballad hunter John A. Lomax and his son Alan for the Library of Congress in 1934 and ‘35. The Gants, led by mother Maggie, with her daughters on vocals and sons on guitars, were discovered by John Henry Faulk, who told UT classmate Alan Lomax about them. The Gants had a repertoire of about 200 genuine folk songs, ranging from jailhouse ballads to play ditties to cowboy songs and minstrel tunes. The most prominent of those, in retrospect, was “When First Unto This Country a Stranger I Came,” which Joan Baez and Bob Dylan sang live and Jerry Garcia and David Grisman recorded in 1993. They all learned it from the 1960s folkies the New Lost City Ramblers, who heard it from the Gants’ Library of Congress recordings.

The Lomaxes had just started recording the Gants when they left town with their prized discovery Leadbelly in 1936.

Even though their contribution was incomplete, the Gants left a body of work that puts them as “among the most important informants on traditional music that no one’s ever heard of,” says Minnesota musician/folklorist Lyle Lofgren.

In her 2008 memoir “Sing It Pretty,” John Lomax’s daughter Bess Lomax Hawes, who was 12 when she met the Gants, recalled that the family’s house on the Colorado River about half a mile west of Deep Eddy Pool, was constantly flooded. “But that old river never could stop the flow of their extraordinary repertory of Anglo-American balladry and folksong.”

The family proudly accepted an invitation to sing at the Texas Centennial in Dallas in 1936. Tragedy hit that same year, however, when oldest son Nephi was shot to death after a fight at Ollie’s Place at the corner of E. Fourth and Waller Streets. The family moved to Houston in the late ‘30s for jobs in the Ship Channel and never played in public again, aside from Mormon church functions.

Here’s how I found out about them.

 

Gilbert Askey left Austin for good at age 17 in 1942, but the former Motown arranger, who received an Oscar nomination for his work with Diana Ross on “Lady Sings the Blues,” told the American-Statesman in 2011, “Austin has never left me.”

Askey helped discover the Jackson 5 and was musical director on tours by the Four Tops, the Temptations, Gladys Knight and the Supremes. He co-wrote hits for Curtis Mayfield and Linda Clifford, and yet while in town from Australia, where he lived the last 30 years of his life, Askey wanted to talk more about musicians he played with on the Anderson High Yellow Jackets marching band, including Kenny Dorham, Roy and Alvin Patterson, Ray Murphy, Paris Jones, Warner “Rip” Ross and Buford Banks (trumpeter Martin’s dad).

What set Askey apart from all the other horn players of East Austin was a gift for arrangement and composition that he didn’t know he had until after getting out of the Army Air Corps in 1944 and enrolling first at the Boston Conservatory of Music and then the prestigious Harnett National Music Studios in Manhattan.

Askey got his first call from Motown in 1965 to produce and arrange the “Prime of My Life” album for Billy Eckstine. When the Supremes’ hits slowed down in 1967, Motown mastermind Berry Gordy decided to make a record that crossed over to an older Broadway crowd. He tapped Askey for “The Supremes Do Rodgers & Hart” and also appointed him the group’s musical director on live shows, including the 1970 “Farewell” performance in Las Vegas that was Ross’ last show before going solo. Askey was also an arranger on the legendary “Motown 25” show where M.J. debuted his moonwalk.He passed away in April 2014 at age 89.

Leon Payne was born in the Northeast Texas town of Alba in 1917, but learned to play music in Austin at the Texas School For the Blind, which he attended from ages 5- 18. One of his teachers was Henry Lebermann (the grandfather of future Austin Councilman Lowell Lebermann), whose pupils also included the famous whistler Fred Lowery and Pat Garrett’s daughter Elizabeth, who went on to write the state song of New Mexico.

After graduating, Payne was known as the Blind Hitchiker, and one of the buses that picked him up had “Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys” painted on the side. Payne played with the group in 1938, but soon set out with his own band the Lone Star Buddies. As a solo artist, Payne had a No. 1 country hit in 1949 with “I Love You Because,” written for his wife Myrtie, a former classmate at the School for the Blind he reconnected with and married in 1948. Payne is best known today as a songwriter, penning big hits for Hank Williams (“They’ll Never Take Her Love From Me,” “Lost Highway”), Dean Martin (“You’ve Still Got a Place In My Heart”), Jim Reeves (“Blue Side of Lonesome”), Carl Smith (“You Are the One,” later covered by Smith’s daughter Carlene Carter) and many more. “I Love You Because” was the first song Elvis Presley recorded for Sun Records.

Payne died in San Antonio in 1969 and was inducted into the Nashille Songwriters Hall of Fame the next year. But received his greatest honor in 1971, however, with the LP “George Jones Sings the Great Songs of Leon Payne.”

 

Blind George McClain was described as a cross between George Jones and Ray Charles. It was his R&B side that had a big influence on the Austin club scene. Jimmie Vaughan has said pianist McClain, who stomped out a beat in his stocking feet on a wooden board, was the musician who convinced him that the One Knite, at 801 Red River St., could be a blues club. Before Jimmie, brother Stevie Ray, Joe Tex’s guitarist W.C. Clark, Angela Stehli, Denny Freeman and others took over and made the One Knite the first blues club west of I-35, it was primarily a folk/country haven, with acts such as Kenneth Threadgill, Joe Ely, Alvin Crow and Bill Neely. Blind George was the link.

McClain, who worked by day at the state blind school where he graduated, was a fixture at such clubs as the Split Rail on South Lamar and Sit N’ Bull on Guadalupe St.. But his most notorious gig was at the Armadillo World Headquarters in 1973, when he opened for Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. A notorious crank, Zappa would’ve rather not had an opening act, but he made a compromise, stating that his opener be a solo act with no set-up requirements. McClain took his seat at the Armadillo piano that night and impressed Zappa so much that he took the blind piano player out on tour with him.

 

Camilo Cantu, the accordion great nicknamed “El Azote de Austin,” the Scourge From Austin, because he’d go to towns and blow everybody away, was never recorded. He gave up performing in 1963 to concentrate on the accordion repair business he ran out of his house in South Austin, and gave his songs to protégé Johnny Degollado. “He was up there with all the greats — Narciso Martinez, Valerio Longoria, Don Santiago Jimenez,” Degollado said in 1998, after Cantu died, at age 90.

It was a 1942 performance by Cantu at the old La Polkita joint in Del Valle that inspired a 7-year-old Degollado to learn the accordion. “I just stood there, watching Mr. Cantu’s fingers move and that big sound from the accordion,” J.D. said. “I was hooked.” Cantu later taught Degollado the “sordita” tuning that gave the accordion a fuller sound.

In Austin, Cantu played mainly at Janie’s Place on E. 7th Street, owned by his first wife. He wrote an instrumental in homage to the bar called “La Calle Siete,” one of his few compositions that he gave a title to because drunks would request it by singing (badly) the melody.

When El Azote was inducted to the Conjunto Hall of Fame in 1987, he sent an emissary to pick up the award. “Mr. Cantu didn’t care about recognition,” said Degollado, who has recorded many of Cantu’s songs so they’d never be forgotten.

Long before Eric Johnson there was Oscar Moore, who blueprinted the role of jazz guitar in small combos when he backed Nat King Cole from 1937-1947. He and brother Johnny Moore, whose Three Blazers had a huge hit with “Driftin’ Blues” in 1946, learned guitar in Austin, where they lived on E. Fifth St. and Red River. The Moore family moved to Phoenix when Oscar was a teenager. Influenced by fellow-Texan Charlie Christian, Oscar Moore switched from blues to jazz in L.A., playing with Lionel Hampton and Art Tatum before Cole. He won Downbeat’s poll as best guitarist three years in a row.

He left the King Cole Trio after Nat’s new wife Maria convinced the singer to pay the other two members as sidemen, instead of splitting the money evenly, as they’d been doing. That ended up being a bad move for a proud and bitter Oscar, who didn’t have much success on his own. He worked as a bricklayer in his later years and died in Las Vegas in 1981 at age 65.
But when you listen to the original version of “The Christmas Song” by Nat King Cole, you’re hearing Oscar Moore (born Dec. 25, 1915) on guitar, so his sound lives on.

 

Pentecostal piano pounder Arizona Dranes (b. 1889) was probably the most influential musician Austin’s ever produced. Before she recorded for OKeh Records in Chicago in 1926, no one had ever played keyboards on a gospel record. Dranes is credited with inventing “the gospel beat,” which was revved up years later as rock n’ roll.
A native of Sherman, TX, Dranes attended the Institute for Blind Colored Youth off Bull Creek Road in Austin from age 7 until she was 21. Playing music was one of the main ways the blind could make a living, so Dranes began her training in first grade. By fourth grade she was playing classical music and singing arias. But her records were more barrelhouse than Beethoven. She was among the very first to put religious lyrics to secular sounds, which Thomas A. Dorsey, “the Father of Gospel Music” picked up on when he switched from blues to spirituals.

The first musical star of the Church of God In Christ, Dranes spent most of her career helping to open new COGIC ministries in Atlanta, Birmingham, Cleveland and Oklahoma. At Roberts Temple in Chicago, Dranes’ fiery performances, often playing piano with her elbows and leaping mid-song when the spirit overtook her, inspired a young churchgoer named Rosetta Nubin, who would later find fame as Sister Rosetta Tharpe.

Dranes’ obscurity today suggests the adage that what happens in church stays in church. Her last recording was in 1930, with a duet on “Fifty Miles of Elbow Room,” with fellow former Texan Rev. F.W. McGee. Dranes died in 1963 in Los Angeles, at age 74, with nary an obit to mark her passing- or her influence. But in 2012, a retrospective CD “He Is My Story: The Sanctified Soul of Arizona Dranes” was nominated for a Grammy as best historical recording.

 

 

 

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Make It Beautiful: the Bobby Doyle story

Posted by mcorcoran on August 8, 2017

“Seventh Son” by Bobby Doyle

      1. 11 Track 11-1

The blue TV at the corner of the bar had the Late Night show on as the man at the piano was taking a break.

David Letterman to country music icon Kenny Rogers: Who’s the greatest musician you’ve ever worked with?
Rogers, without hesitation: Bobby Doyle.

The night that show aired in 1996, Doyle was most likely playing a solo piano set at Ego’s, a South Congress dive in the parking garage of an apartment complex. Unlike his former bass player Rogers, Doyle had to work hard for little money, playing five or six nights a week for tips and, sometimes, a small guarantee.

But if Bobby Doyle was bitter, you wouldn’t know it. While the rest of the country was going “Bobby who?” this blind man in a jacket too nice for the room, was wailing on a Jerry Lee Lewis number, then crooning “Fly Me To the Moon” with an extended jazz piano solo, then thumping and testifying on “Rugged Old Cross” like it was a Leon Russell number. At times he sang like country Ray Charles and then he’d channel Mose Allison on some blues that wants to be jazz that wants to be blues. It didn’t matter that only a couple dozen drunks and floozies were on hand. When Bobby Doyle played, Ego’s was as cool as any Greenwich Village basement club.

Who would take fame over talent? Not Bobby Doyle.

It doesn’t happen very often, so when it does, it’s something you never forget. Going into a club for no real reason and getting blown away by someone you’ve never heard of. It happened to me at Ego’s in 1995 when I went to meet a friend who lived in the apartments. The first thing you realized about Bobby Doyle was that he knew he had IT. There’s that old line about someone playing a crappy bar like it was Madison Square Garden, but in Bobby’s inward eyes he was playing Carnegie Hall. A maestro’s palace.

Bobby sings on Playboy After Dark

One man, one mic, one piano: nobody could do it better than Bobby Doyle. Nobody. Yet, aside from a few brushes with fame- appearances in the 1960s on the Joey Bishop Show and Playboy After Dark were highlights- Doyle was a working musician with bills to pay. A man of hire who could light the fire.

“If Bobby was wearing his tuxedo and playing music for four hours, all was right in his world,” says Austin pianist Nick Connolly, who met Doyle in the early ‘80s on the piano bar circuit. Doyle played soft enough for it to be background music, understanding that everyone in the joint was trying to get laid that night, but his romps of soul no doubt made the sex better. “They want (the music) played for them,” Doyle told an interviewer in 2005. “Not on them or around them. For them.”

Austin is a town full of musicans who never quite make it big as their talent, but nobody was more overloaded with gifts than Doyle, who was a rock n’ roll piano prodigy busting out of McCallum High in the late ‘50s, played the jazz cocktail circuit nationwide and sang for Columbia Records in the ‘60s, replaced David Clayton Thomas in Blood Sweat & Tears for a minute in 1972 and then spent the last three decades of his career in the piano bars of Austin.

To the mainstream he’ll remain a footnote- the man who showed Kenny Rogers the way to a musical career. But to those of us lucky enough to sit so close to that musical force, Bobby Doyle left a lasting impression as a solo artist as intense as any five-piece band. He understood how to communicate a song. The rest is noise.

Tommy Laird, Roscoe Beck, Magda Trager and Bobby in 1975.

A heavy smoker, as were most of his fans, Doyle succumbed to lung cancer on July 30, 2006 at age 66. Folks that knew him well, like Threadgill’s owner Eddie Wilson, a former McCallum High classmate, said Doyle “was ready to go the day after (wife) Mary died” two years earlier. Mary Cockrill Doyle, who he wed in 1988, was much more than her husband’s eyes, providing vocal support near his side at every show. Their interplay made every gig fun.

After putting Ego’s on the map in the mid-‘90s, it turned into something else, a rock club, and Doyle left for gigs at Eddie V’s and the Driskill. His kind of places with his kind of people. He kept playing until he got the diagnosis that his cancer was terminal and became too weak. In March 2006, about five months before his death, Doyle set up a couple mics at his home in North Austin and invited his former musical partner Joyce Webb, whom he met in the ‘50s when she went to Austin High, to lay down some tracks.

The reason I’m writing about Bobby Doyle today is not because he’s expected to be featured in next month’s Kenny Rogers exhibit at the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville, which opens the day after Doyle would’ve turned 75. It’s because of the recordings Doyle made that day at his house when he was too frail to play gigs. He was known as a song interpreter, not a writer, but his composition “Beautiful” is one of the most haunting songs I’ve heard in some time. I played it over and over again, that tune about finding a balance between the loneliness that creativity requires and the need for human love. At least that’s the way I heard it.

“Beautful” by Bobby Doyle (March 2006 home recording)

      2. Beautiful02

 

Thanks to 91-year-old Fleetwood Richards of Onion Creek, whose association with Doyle goes back to Houston in the early ‘70s, I was able to copy several Doyle CDs that were never in print, as well as the terrific 1996 studio recording with engineer Spencer Starnes that Mary Doyle sold at gigs. My favorite of the seven CDs is probably “Live From the Roulette Club Houston 1973,” which features Doyle and Webb trading lead vocals for the first hour, then the whole quartet- including drummer Steve Kellar and bassist Bob Buelow- singing four-part harmonies on “Their Hearts Were Full of Spring” to close it out. This cover of the 1960 song by the Four Freshmen was the first song played at Doyle’s funeral- at the angels’ request.

I knew Bobby Doyle as a piano man, a lounge lizard, a soul belter. “Spring” told me I didn’t know Doyle at all, so I went searching into details from his life that might piece together some kind of a story. The Austin great was never the subject of a major feature.

He was born in Houston on Aug. 14, 1939 to Edward and Ella Doyle, a carpenter and a housewife. Robert Glen, the youngest of six children, was born blind, an affliction attributed to his mother contracting German measles while pregnant with him. When Bobby reached school age, the Doyles moved to Austin so he could attend the School for the Blind and Visually Impaired on W. 45th St.

Bobby wanted to be like the other kids, so he opted to attend high school at McCallum High, becoming the first blind graduate in 1958. The next year, a school organization that had raised $1,700 for a bus trip to Mexico instead donated the money to Doyle for a surgery that was thought might restore his eyesight.

It didn’t and Doyle had to be content with having, what Austin bassist Jon Blondell said was “the ears of a bat.” Eddie Wilson recalls Doyle with a transistor radio in his pocket in class, bopping to Clyde McPhatter or listening to his beloved baseball at a volume level the teacher couldn’t hear.

Doyle lettered in wrestling at McCallum, and also tried out for the team at University of Texas, which he attended from 1958-60 before dropping out to play music fulltime. “He told me once, ‘never let a blind man get his hands on you, because he’ll never let you go,’” recalls his old pal Fleetwood. “He was a wiry Irishman, not to be messed with.”

Kenny Rogers remembers, in his recent Luck Or Something Like It autobiography, that Doyle struggled with alcohol and once was so soused at a gig in Houston that he snubbed the great Tony Bennett, who had asked if he could sing a couple with the band. “In a minute, Tony,” Doyle said, going in to his next number while Rogers and drummer Don Russell shook their heads in apology. “But even at his worst,” Rogers wrote of a lit-up Doyle, “he was better than anyone else I’d ever heard.”

“Up On Cripple Creek”- Bobby’s return to the Blind School circa 1979

      3. Cripple Creek - Bobby Doyle

 

By the time Doyle formed his trio with Rogers in 1960, he’d already gone a few rounds with rock n’ roll. As a senior at McCallum and a member of the school’s Talent, Incorporated club, Doyle played a 15-minute set of rock and doo-wop on KVET-AM every Saturday. He was enlisted by fellow McCallum classmates to join the Spades, a white doo-wop group that soon changed their name to the Slades to shake negative racial connotations. Doyle played bass on the single “You Cheated,” a regional sensation that reached #42 on the Billboard charts. The song, written by singer Don Burch, would’ve done much better if a hastily-assembled black group called the Shields didn’t rush into an L.A. studio and record a version that beat the original to record shops and radio stations.

Kenny Rogers, upper left.

“You Cheated” was the only hit on Austin-based Domino Records, the we-can-do-it label which grew out of a class at the YWCA on Guadalupe Street. The night school teacher Jane Bowers, who was a bit of a local bigwig for penning “Remember the Alamo” for Tex Ritter, soon left Domino and took Doyle with her to Trinity Records, which she founded in San Antonio with her lawyer husband.

 

Doyle’s single on the label “Here Now” went nowhere and he followed his family back to Houston. There he came to the attention of notorious Duke/ Peacock label owner Don Robey, who had started the Back Beat label to cash in on the rock n’ roll craze. Robey’s off-shoot hit paydirt with “Treat Her Right” by Roy Head and the Traits, but Doyle was dropped after two singles on the label: “Pauline” b/w “Someone Else, Not Me” (9/59) and “Hot Seat” b/w “Unloved” (3/60).

Doyle used to sometimes compare his diverse musical interests to living in a house with many rooms, so you could say he spent 1960 walking the hall between rock/ doo-wop and vocal jazz. Doyle found Rogers, a struggling singer, in Houston and turned him into a bassist/high harmony singer in the Bobby Doyle Three. Drummer Russell sang as well on 1962’s In a Most Unusual Way (Columbia) which sounds almost psychedelic today for its over-the-top vocal arrangements.

It was a style which didn’t catch on with the mainstream, though the trio became popular on the cocktail jazz circuit across the country. When they played the Melody Room on Sunset Strip, better known today as the Viper Room, a young actor and piano fanatic named Clint Eastwood was in the audience every night. Before he was known as Dr. John, L.A. session player Mac Rebennack was another Doyle fan. The public had no idea who Bobby Doyle was, but the musicians knew.

“How could you be a player and watch Bobby and not be impressed?” says Nick Connolly. “He could play every kind of music imaginable for four hours and it was all in his head.”

After Rogers and Russell left to play in the more popular Kirby Stone Four, still riding that 1958 hit “Baubles, Bangles and Beads,” Doyle reconfigured the trio with Webb sharing leads. The new Bobby Doyle Three got a regular gig at a private club in L.A. called the Factory, where all the movie stars and other celebs went so they wouldn’t be mobbed. It was the Rat Pack’s West Coast haunt, and one night an impressed Sammy Davis Jr. offered an opening gig in Las Vegas.

Connolly says he was watching a documentary about Las Vegas in the 1960s recently when something in a tiny corner of the screen caught him. “They had a 1959 Cadillac convertible with a tripod in the back panning the marquees,” he says. “I rewinded a few seconds and paused it. Yep, right there, in a row, were the names ‘Frank Sinatra,’ ‘Buddy Hackett’ and ‘The Bobby Doyle Three.’”

 “Their Hearts Were Full of Spring”

      4. 04 Their Hearts Were Full of Spring

“Cryin’ Time”

      5. 12 Track 12 - Bobby Doyle

 

Doyle was a regular on the Strip and in nearby Lake Tahoe until he, first wife Sammie Lou (a Beaumont native he married in 1961) and their four young children moved back to Austin in the mid-‘70s. He got a gig four nights a week playing a Vegas-themed club named Caesar’s, which had recently opened at 1907 E. Riverside. After that club closed around 1978, he worked regularly at such joints as the North Forty, the Cloak Room, the Blue Parrot and the Ramada Inn on E. 11th. He was a journeyman with 88 keys in his toolbox.

He also traveled to Las Vegas on occasion for solo lounge gigs. He had flings and fathered a son out of wedlock, which may have led to his divorce around 1980. “Bobby had reconnected with his son before he died,” says his former drummer Tommy Laird. “His son was a musician and Bobby went to Vegas to see him.”

The pain in his songs became real in 1992 when Doyle lost his only daughter Kathleen to a suspected suicide at age 22. His three sons by first wife Sammie Lou still live in the Austin area, according to friends, but couldn’t be reached for this story. Joyce Webb reportedly recently got married and moved away from Wimberley, where she had a stained glass business for years.

Sadly, Doyle’s records are all out of print, including 1970’s “Nine Songs” on Bell Records, with Steve Cropper on guitar. Recorded at Sun Studios in Memphis, Doyle called “Nine Songs” a favorite of his records, but the Bobby Doyle Three was “the best band I’ve ever played in.” Bobby, Kenny and Don worked their tails off for five years.

Hopefully, some one will put together a proper Bobby Doyle reissue. A career retrospective for a guy who never had a hit and played out-of-fashion music for lonely people in dark rooms. But the musicians knew. Bobby Doyle was always a star among players. When Kenny Rogers flew Bobby to Los Angeles for a 50th birthday show in 1988, producer Quincy Jones was the first to his feet after Doyle’s segment, leading a rousing standing ovation.

Bobby Doyle knew he was the shit. That’s important. To have that much of a gift and never make it big is better than having only marginal talent and selling a million copies. That’s the true artist creed and Doyle lived it to the very end.

 

An interview with Bobby Doyle from 1975:

      6. Bobby Doyle interview 5-27-75 cleaned 32 bit rate

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Bassist/ Bookbinder: Glenn Fukunaga 2012

Posted by mcorcoran on August 7, 2017

Photo by Alberto Martinez AAS

Most people would feel lucky to master one art in their lifetime, but Austin’s Glenn Fukunaga is not only an in demand bass player (Robert Plant, Dixie Chicks), but he’s a noted restorer of rare books.

Playing bass and restoring books wouldn’t seem to have much in common, but Fukunaga says, “they both require an attention to detail and that you work well with your hands.” And the longer you do it, the better you get.

The Hawaii native, who’s been in Austin since 1974, has played in an estimated 300 recording sessions. But this year he released the first CD with his name on the front cover and not just in the liner notes. “Not a Word” is just that, an album of six jazz instrumentals, flavored by spooky exotica and sprawling rhythms. Moods range from somber and serene on “Song For Glenn,” written in homage to Glenn Fukunaga Jr., who lost a battle with cancer at age 39, to exuberantly experimental on “Drivin’ Into a Donut Hole.” The overall effect of this half hour of music is meditative, without being new age.

Fukunaga and his band of Joel Guzman on keyboards, Alex Coke on woodwinds, Kevin Flatt on brass and Dony Wynn on drums, celebrate the release of the CD this week with an in store appearance at Waterloo Records May 2 and a set at the Continental Club Gallery the next night. The May 3 event doubles as an art show opening for the album’s cover artist Dana Smith.

“After all these years of backing other people, I was getting a little frustrated with the rules of the session guy,” Fukunaga says from his book binding workshop behind the home in Barton Hills he shares with wife Sandy. “I wanted to make a record where no one was telling me to ‘walk to the four’ (a standard bassline),” he says.

Fukunaga says he didn’t give his seasoned bandmates any directions. “These are my favorite guys,” he says. “I just said ‘do what you do.’” Most tracks were recorded in three takes or less.

Wynn calls Fukunaga “the quintessential quiet storm,” who doesn’t need to say much because he’s fully able to express himself non-verbally. “His confidence in life, and thereby, on his instrument (shows) a master at work.”

Though he now specializes in standup bass, Fukunaga was not really a big jazz fan earlier in his career. His resume included blues (Lou Ann Barton), punk (Project Terror), folk (Terri Hendrix, Eliza Gilkyson), country (“Home” by the Dixie Chicks) and rock (James Burton), but almost no jazz.

“The big turning point was about 10 or 12 years ago. I was listening to KUT and they played a song by (jazz pianist) Bill Evans and it knocked me out,” he says. He started buying every Evans record he could find and studied up on the man and his bassist Scott LaFaro, perhaps Fukunaga’s biggest inluence besides Motown’s James Jamerson. “Bill Evans had this philosophy that everyone plays together, having a musical conversation, as opposed to one guy soloing and everyone else laying back.” This style of “collective improvisation” was the musical mindset of “Not a Word.”

Fukunaga grew up in Hilo on the island of Hawaii, which was not immune to Beatlemania. “Me and some friends all went from ukulele to guitar, but someone needed to play bass, so I volunteered under the condition that it would be for one year only,” Fukunaga says with a laugh. That was 1964. He overshot his limited period on bass by 47 years.

Last year Fukunaga was enlisted to play bass with one of his early rock heroes, Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin. “It was only one show in Marfa,” Fukunaga says of his time in Crown Vic, which also featured Patty Griffin, Michael Ramos, David Grissom and drummer Wynn (who played with Robert Palmer for two decades). “But it was a pretty amazing experience. There’s nothing like hitting the stage in front of a great crowd.”

Especially when you’ve spent all day rescuing tattered and crumbling books. “We used to have a storefront on South Lamar and we’d always get people coming in with their family Bibles falling apart,” Fukunaga recalls. “I’d look them over and say ‘that’s about 10 hours worth of work, so you’re looking at $650’ and they’d look at me horrified. ‘I thought it would be twenty dollars.’ Thank God we’re out of the Bible business.” Fukunaga sold the storefront six years ago and works from home mainly with longtime clients, including Austin-based Mark Twain collector Kevin MacDonnell. Recent tasks for Fukunaga included binding special books for Mark Twain Award for American Humor winners Tina Fey and Bill Cosby.

Fukunaga’s introduction to the world of rare books was entirely coincidental. Being a broke musician when he arrived in Austin in the mid-70s at the behest of booking agent Charlie Hatchet (who caught Fukunaga’s touring cover band Bamboo in Amarillo), Fukunaga hired on as a UT shuttle bus driver, then a chauffeur. One of his first limo clients was notorious rare book dealer and publisher John Holmes Jenkins, who kept the multi-million dollar Eberstadt Collection of books and papers in a vault in the corrugated metal building on South I-35 that currently has the seven-foot high letters “XXX” on the side.

“Mr. Jenkins was quite a character,” Fukunaga says of the high stakes poker player nicknamed “Austin Squatty” in Las Vegas for the way he sat at a card table with his legs crossed under him. Jenkins died in 1989 near Bastrop from a gunshot wound to the back of the head which was ruled a suicide, though the gun was never found.

Though Jenkins hired his driver Fukunaga as a book binder, it was a restoration expert from Switzerland called Mr. Brunner who taught him the tricks of the trade.

A born perfectionist, Fukunaga took to the craft right away. “There were three or four of us working on the books and after a few months, clients started asking for me,” he says. It’s a slow process that requires a deft touch and complete concentration. One mistake could knock thousands of dollars off a rare book’s value. Fukunaga has worked on million dollar projects, such as restoring a dozen first edition copies of the Book of Mormon, worth about $90,000 a copy.

“It’s funny. I could do this deaf,” he says, slowiy raising the spine of an old and tender book. “And I could do that blind,” gesturing to the standup bass he always keeps by his side in his workshop.

Sometimes he’ll think of a piece of music when he’s repairing a book and he’ll get behind the bass taller than him and work it out. But he’s got book deadlines, so he’s back at the big table before too long.

“I’ve definitely made more money with books than music in the past, but it’s getting to be 50/50,” says Fukunaga.

Hand in hand. Whether on stage, in the studio or in his workshop table piled with decaying literary classics, Fukunaga has enjoyed a life of exquisite balance.

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Patty Griffin 2002: Let Her Fly

Posted by mcorcoran on August 5, 2017

From the Austin-American Statesman, April 2002

by Michael Corcoran

She was raised in a small town in Maine, graduated to Boston, where she fell in with the rock crowd and then it was on to Nashville after a solo career blossomed. But for the past four years 38-year-old singer Patty Griffin, the eternal up-and-comer who’ll soon be released from major label limbo when her first album since ’98’s “Flaming Red” hits stores, has called Austin home. Practically invisible to the local music scene, where her concert appearances are rare, the nationally-prominent singer lives in a modest, charming Hyde Park duplex close to the constant roar of the 45th St. east-west thoroughfare.

Like Griffin’s songs, her living room is spare, tasteful, airy, detail driven. But it’s not comfortable. The chairs are straight-back with minimal padding, the couch a vinyl ’50s number. There’s no CD collection to peruse as a conversation starter, no place to curl up on a rainy night with a good book. What’s more, a small, black, dog named Bean, comes in and out of the house through a tear in the screen door, yipping and scurrying all the way, every minute or so. During the course of a 90-minute interview, Griffin never loses track of the Bean, who uses his barkette like sonar. At one point, she’s talking about how Austin feels right for her, but then stops in mid-sentence and pricks up her ears when the dog’s yip comes from the side of the house and is perhaps delivered in an unusual cadence. A few seconds later Bean is back in front and Griffin continues her thought. “I’m inspired by all the people in Austin who are working on their stuff. Not just music, but visual arts, theater, film- there’s a creative spirit here that I find very appealing.”

Griffin’s gorgeous new “1000 Kisses,” which comes out Tuesday on Dave Matthews’ ATO label, is an album without distractions. At first all you hear is that voice, so dominating is its pure, breathy magnificence, singing words to hang on to for dear life. “It’s hard to know when to give up the fight/ The things you want that will never be right” she sings on “Rain,” the album’s first single to radio. “Ain’t nothing left at all in the end of being proud” she sings as a wife standing over the casket of her husband of 40 years in “Long Ride Home.” When Griffin and her ensemble played its first show in more than a year March 7 at the Mercury, the club had a poster made that showed a heart surrounded by snippets of Griffin lyrics. She liked that.

But getting Griffin to talk about her lyrics is like asking Gary Condit to characterize his relationship with Chandra Levy. She’ll say that “Tony,” the tragic character who “got a gun and blew himself away” on “Flaming Red” was a real person, but she’ll leave it at that. Ask for parallels and she’ll move laterally, explaining that the new LP’s “Chief” is “a guy from Maine who came back from the war and used to march night and day.” But what’s it all mean?

“My songs aren’t poems,” she says on a recent morning, slightly overinsulated in her living room in a thrift store coat. “They’re lyrics meant to be sung. I write words that will feel special coming out of me when I sing them.”

There’s no denying, however, that Griffin, like her songwriting heroes Springsteen and Waits, has the ability to explore grand themes with her little stories of everyday people. “Making Pies” is a plum example as Griffin uses the hard, lonely life of an early morning bakery worker to reflect on the dignity of moving forward and living life when there’s seemingly nothing to live for. “You could cry, or die, or just make pies all day/ I’m making pies,” she sings in a voice that’s anything but mundane.

“1000 Kisses” is cathartic, soothing and a direct reaction to the kind of radio-driven music her former major label wanted Griffin to record. Just by tacking on “Mil Besos,” a traditional Spanish song she first heard by Little Joe y la Familia, attests that this one was made completely without label input.

“As far as record story horror stories go, mine was pretty mild,” Griffin says with a laugh. The plot went this way: About a month after A&M released “Flaming Red,” the rocking counterpart to the ’96 solo acoustic debut “Living With Ghosts,” the label was swallowed whole by Universal Music. Griffin was shipped off to Interscope, which had been built on hard rock and gangsta rap.”The timing couldn’t have been worse,” says manager Ken Levitan. “We were able to finally convince them to work one more single to radio, but then they let it drop.” Many of those who did hear “One Big Love” on the radio probably went out and bought a Sheryl Crowe record instead – it sounds that much like Patty’s A&M labelmate who was getting a big push.

More bad timing came when Griffin delivered her next album “Silver Bell” in the spring of 2000, just weeks after the huge international Vivendi conglomerate bought Universal. “When these corporations acquire other corporations they end up owing billions and billions of dollars,” Griffin says. “They’re not gonna make that kind of money back with records by folks like me. “Silver Bell,” which included Griffin’s French Canadian mother on guest vocals, was returned to a heartbroken Griffin with a terse instruction: write ten new songs that could be played on the radio.

“That was pretty suffocating because that’s not how I like to write songs,” Griffin says. In the meantime, Griffin had a financial windfall when the Dixie Chicks recorded her song “Let Him Fly” on their 10-million selling 1999 album “Fly.” Touting Griffin as their favorite songwriter, the Chicks took the red-haired songbird on tour. “It was a lot of fun hanging out with the Chicks, but not very musically satisfying playing in hockey arenas,” Griffin says. Back home after the three-month stint, she got back to writing new songs, but when she sent the demos to Jimmy Iovine, the Interscope honcho still didn’t hear a million-seller. In March of 2001, a year after “Silver Bell” had been finished, Levitan had a meeting with Iovine and other label brass that he says “just didn’t feel right” and soon he was negotiating a way out of Griffin’s contract. As part of the agreement to let her go, Griffin would have to buy back the masters if she wanted to shop “Silver Bell” to another label. Also, she could re-record only five songs from “Bell” without payment to the label.

“The thing that no one would say, but I’d bet they were all thinking it was that I’m 38 years old,” Griffin says. “It’s a kids game now and the feeling is that if I hadn’t made it by now, I wasn’t going to make it.” But seeing the likes of Britney Spears at #1 only inspired Griffin to make the sort of dark and introspective (i.e. uncommercial) record that was inside her.

Griffin decided to start again from scratch and make a completely different album than the one which had led to such an aggravating time in her life. Where “Silver Bell” had 15 tracks, from all over the musical spectrum, “1000 Kisses” would have only nine , and they would flow seamlessly together like sweet dreams. Songs would be stripped to their essence and the backing tracks would create an atmosphere of warmth. What’s more, this would be a record that no one in the music industry would hear until it was completely finished.

“We were all so completely into this project,” Ramos says of the musicians on “1000 Kisses.” “When we played our first show after making the record (Mar 7 at the Mercury) we were all so nervous, but it was a good kind of nervous. We knew we were about to go on this emotional musical adventure and when the new songs went over with the crowd we all got chills.” Ramos says the band was so drained after the show, which followed weeks of hardcore rehearsals, that they all suffered flu-like symptoms.

The youngest of seven children of an Irish father and French Canadian mother, both schoolteachers, Griffin grew up singing. “My mother was a great singer, still is. My grandmother could really sing, too,” she says. “I didn’t think my voice was anything special when I was young because everybody around me could sing, except for a couple of siblings who are tone deaf.” As a teenager, Griffin sang in a new wave cover band Patty and the Executives. “It was all that stuff on MTV in the early days- Blondie, Pat Benatar. The band was a bunch of teenaged guys in business suits,” she says, laughing. Although Griffin had been writing songs since age 16 when she got her first guitar, she was too shy to sing in front of anybody until she started taking guitar lessons and had to. Her teacher, John Curtis, was astonished at his charge’s immaculate vocals and asked her if she wanted to start a duet.

Even though she’d broken the ice as a singer-songwriter, Griffin did not see that as a serious pursuit for several more years. She moved to Boston, was married briefly and, from ’86- ’91 waited tables at the Cambridge franchise of Pizzeria Uno.

“Have you seen ‘Office Space’ where there’s this big, stupid discussion about how much flair the waitress is wearing? Well, it was like that at Uno. We had to wear two watches- one with the time and the other with the time 20 minutes later so we could tell customers when their pizza would be ready. Like we couldn’t add 20 to whatever the time was.” Griffin says that when Jennifer Aniston’s character gave her boss the finger in the movie, she let out a big “YEAH!” That finger, she says, was for former waitresses everywhere.

“That job didn’t really support the dignity that I needed to get up in front of people and sing,” she says. So she quit and, after a short stint as a Harvard telephone operator, decided to concentrate on a career in music. The timing was perfect.

“In 1994, Lisa Loeb and Sheryl Crowe had big hits, so the labels were all of a sudden signing all these women,” Griffin says, “and I caught that wave.” Based on a group of solo acoustic demos recorded in a basement studio, Griffin was signed to A&M in early ’95 and went to Daniel Lanois’ Kingsway studio in New Orleans to record her debut. “I was uncomfortable with the whole situation,” she says. “The hype machine was in overdrive and people were talking about conquering the marketplace and I just wanted to make a good record so I could tour and make a living.”

A&M hated the Malcolm Burn-produced, full-band treatment of Griffin’s demo songs, so they asked her to start over on another record. “I was too depressed to get back in the studio, so I said, ‘You loved the demos so much, why not just put them out?'” The resulting “Living With Ghosts” received critical raves and made great strides with Americana radio stations like Austin’s KGSR.

But although she considered herself a rocker- and “Ghosts” was simply her “Nebraska” – Griffin was lumped in with the touchy-feely chick folksinger crowd. “I hate the perception of female acoustic artists, that we belong in the fields with the daisies or baking tollhouse cookies. There are real hard and heavy issues that women have to deal with, like rape and domestic abuse and everyday sexism. These are not la-la fantasies.”

Griffin’s next album opened with a blaze of kick drums and caterwauling guitars. An update on Hans Christian Anderson’s “The Red Shoes,” the title track of “Flaming Red” was a vitriolic spit in the face of attitudes that murdered prostitues or raped party girls deserved their fate. Where the fable, in which a girl puts on a pair of red dancing shoes, to the chagrin of pious townspeople, is a cautionary tale that ends in tragedy, Griffin’s take is that the defiant twirl of individuality is worth it. “So many women are working so hard to be everything to everyone, but in the end they find just how ineffective that is.”

Her dog Bean has finally settled in her lap and Griffin has somehow managed to slink down in the stiff chair. Ramos says that in the eight years he’s known Griffin she’s never been as centered, as content with her place in the world as she is now.

“That whole ordeal with Universal seemed really frustrating at the time,” she says, “but looking back I’m glad it all happened. I wouldn’t be where I am today. That’s the lesson I learned from all that- in the end you get what you need.”

She decided to call her album, the one she made all on her own with a small circle of friends, “1000 Kisses” when Ramos told her what “Mil Besos” means. Produced by Ramos in the style of a 40’s cabaret song from Madrid, the tune grew in significance when Griffin, who doesn’t speak Spanish, asked Ramos what she was singing. “I lost my heart on the thousand kisses that I left on your lips,” Ramos translated. “I have to keep loving you until my heart comes back.”

“That just blew me away,” says Griffin. The Bean suddenly springs from her lap and hits the hardwood floor with a skid. “I think what the song is saying is that pain doesn’t go away. Life doesn’t get easier, but you just have to keep living it.”

“I don’t think you can ever get comfortable in this world,” she says, “but you can get dignity.”

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Damnations “Heart Like a Hotel” bio

Posted by mcorcoran on August 3, 2017

Note: this was written in 2005 for an album that never came out. The Damnations broke up soon after.

They’re one of the hippest bands in a hip scene, able to channel the Minutemen and the Carter Family, sometimes on the same song, but ask the Damnations which recordings influenced their third album “Heart Like a Hotel” and for a second there you’d think you posed the question to a feather-haired cover band from 1978.

“We would go up to Bruce’s (co-producer Robison) office and listen to records like “Rumours” by Fleetwood Mac, just to key on certain sounds that they were getting down,” says Deborah Kelly, who fronts the band vocally with sister Amy Boone.

They’ve been pegged “the Everly Sisters” by one critic for shimmering harmonies such as those on album-opening “Where To Begin,” but Kelly and Boone sang together in unison, not harmony, on the new LP’s “Shoulda Been Water,” an effect they learned from the Mac.

At the other end of the listening spectrum was Frank Sinatra’s “One For My Baby,” which set the model for the moody piano on “Fool’s Errand,” a song that exemplifies the expansion of repertoire on “Heart Like a Hotel.” The black and white keys add new colors to the country and rock forms explored so engagingly on the Damnations previous albums, “Half Mad Moon” from 1999 and 2002’s “Where It Lands.”

The records in Robison’s collection that best define “Heart” are by artists like Dusty Springfield and Bobbie Gentry.

L-R Deborah Kelly, Amy Boone-Corcoran, Rob Bernard

This is the latest in a growth pattern fans have followed since the band almost instantly became an Austin club sensation, then a major label act, soon after forming in 1997. The Damnations are the typical Austin music story in reverse. Where many talented bands struggle for years for a big break, the Damnations were signed to Sire Records less than a year after ace guitarist Rob Bernard joined to solidify the lineup.

But now, after recording two albums on Sire’s dime, the band is getting the scuffling days they were deprived of by the quick ascent that landed them on “Conan O’Brien” in 1999 and on a cross-country jaunt members jokingly called the Star of David tour because tracing the route looked like a five-pointed diagram.

“We knew we weren’t ready,” Boone says of the major label deal, “but it’s hard to say ‘no’ to someone who wants to give you money to make records.” The sisters from Schoharie, New York, who moved to Austin in the early ’90s, were having the times of their lives, touring with Cake, recording “Sally Go Round the Roses” for the soundtrack to “A Walk On The Moon,” and being hailed as hometown heroes when they returned to sold out dates. It all happened so fast.

“Our manager wanted us to be famous,” Kelly says, “but we were just happy to have a band and to be able to make money from playing music.”

After getting some airplay with the soulful “Unholy Train” from the debut, the pressure was on to sell records with album #2. Although the band loves the results of “Where It Lands,” they were ready to get off the major label merry-go-round so they asked Sire president Seymour Stein if they could take the finished album as a parting gift and he generously agreed.

But that silver lining was soon consumed by a black cloud. Just as “Where It Lands” was picking up steam, getting major airplay in Austin on both mainstream country (KVET) and Americana (KGSR), the band’s distributor Southwest Wholesale crashed into Chapter 7 bankruptcy, owing the band several thousands dollars in unpaid royalties. Band members had to re-enter the work force to help pay off the debt created when the cash flow dried up.

Fried and frazzled by the music biz experience, the band found solace, as always, in their songs. When they had a few they liked, the stepped into the studio with Jim Eno of Spoon, who’s long been a fan. But after laying down tracks for three numbers, Eno’s home studio was shut down for several months for expansion.

Another musician fan of the Damnations, hit songwriter Bruce Robison (“Angry All the Time,” “Travelin’ Soldier”) heard the demos and asked the band if they wanted to make their album at his new analog studio, Premium Recording Service.

Robison understands that what sets the Damnations apart are the vocals of Kelly and Boone, which meld together like a warm spoon and sherbet, so he enlisted the help of engineer Mike McCarthy (Spoon, Trail of Dead, Fastball), a master of mic placement. Robison also made full use of his natural reverb room, which helps give the album an overall warm sound.

In Robison, the Damnations found a kindred musical spirit, who had also been through the major label wringer. “He’s so open-minded,” says Boone. “He didn’t try to push us to do something that didn’t feel right to us.” Kelly, Boone, Bernard and drummer Conrad Choucroun may be somewhat shy and soft-spoken off-stage, but they know exactly what they want to do when it comes to their music. Their vision does not suffer tampering gladly.

By understanding that, Robison has gracefully pulled a wonderfully engaging album out a group that defies labeling.

They are now completely ready for their major label deal, but even though none is forthcoming, and “Heart Like a Hotel” will be released (date) on Robison’s Premium Records, the Damnations do finally feel blessed in the area of timing.

There’s financial debt and creative debt. The Damnations are not ashamed to admit that they’re still saving for a new van. But “Heart Like a Hotel” finds their inspiration level shooting way into the black.

 

 

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