New Music from Old Friends

By Peter Rodman

I pretty much stopped doing record reviews the minute I could, which was...well, many millions of minutes ago.  They were my first 'way in' to the newsprint business, and very soon after that, I began doing feature stories on personalities as disparate as I could wrangle--or as I used to like to tout it, "from Ali to Zappa."
But you grow older, and now there's no room for an old fool like me on the radio, TV, or in newspapers (do they even exist?) anymore...so, like many folks my age, I do this just for fun now.
That's why some of these blogs run a little long--Hey, no editor to take a hatchet to my work!!!  And that's why I'll even drop an 'f-bomb' now and then, just to remind myself I can.
So, no...Peter Rodman doesn't do record reviews.
It's beneath him.

Okay.  Scratch that.
Maybe I do; yet another lesson learned.
Not one, but three old friends (and killer musicians) have recently issued CDs I thought you might like to hear about.  For one thing, I can relate--because although each is a bona fide working/touring musician, I get the distinct feeling these CDs were each made just because they felt like it.
So here are three fresh CD reviews, from a biased observer, who considers each of these guys a world-class player and a real friend, but who--remember, now--doesn't do record reviews.
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Be careful around Steve Conn.

In case you don't know him, he has eyes that look right through you. Some folks might find that scary about him, but the truth is, he's no 'bird of prey' at all--just "a soul who's intentions are good," as the song says, but one who's suffered the slings-and-arrows of every known scam and slight the music business has to offer--and after 40 years or so, he's a no-bullshit, no-compromises kinda guy.
His personal charm is in there, but again...you might not see the 'sweet spot,' if you don't look closely enough. 
Oh.  Just a second...I'm sorry!  I was talking about my friend Steve Conn, not the musician Steve Conn.
Forgive me.  That's all wrong, what you just read. 
Well...most of it, anyway.
Because within his music, you will find not only everything he wants to express, but a whole lot of what you want to say, too.  Watch one of his shows, especially from the front few rows, and just...listen.
You'll feel none of the aforementioned trepidation, only a welcome bath of stuff (charm? no, something deeper) that washes over your soul, in ways not too much new music does, these days. 
But before I get to his new album, Beautiful Dream, let me review a little personal history. And I'm not gonna bother googling anything.  It's just stuff I know, or I think I know, and it informs my view of this music in, hopefully, some way you mightn't have thought of, without my help.  

I first saw him back in the late '70s in Boulder, Colorado. He fronted a band of authentic gypsy players (no, not actual gypsies...dammit--bear with me, here!) who themselves played in other outfits around town (and elsewhere) for the money, but for whom "Gris-Gris" (Steve's band) became a musician's band. 

A refuge, if you will.
These days you see that a lot, especially here in Nashville--lotsa guys allegedly 'slumming,'  in what can only be called dressed-up 'tribute' (or oldies) bands, in conglomerations "outside of their regular gigs," that have somehow become their regular gigs. 
In some ways, it's become 'the senior circuit' for great players who couldn't figure out how else to coax their 50+ year-old friends off the couch and outta the house anymore, besides playin' other peoples' oldies.
But this is where Steve Conn's always been a little...well...different.  (For example, he calls his 'record company' Not Really Records.)
See, he was onto this "Let's just play some great stuff we like" thing, decades ago--not as an old man, but as a young man.  Or an 'old soul'...not sure which. 
Well, actually, I am sure which.
Infused with his Louisiana roots, Gris-Gris brought flavors to Boulder that even some seasoned music veterans (okay...I) hadn't yet seen, at that point.  



'The Mezzanine' at the Hotel Boulderado
That's the piano, beneath the second window.

For much of his decade-plus residency in Boulder, Conn manned the piano at the Hotel Boulderado's 'Mezzanine' bar --a classic, turn-of-the-century edifice that made Aspen's more fabled Hotel Jerome seem almost like a dump, by comparison.  And a funny thing happened along the way, during that punk/new wave/reggae/rowdy country-rock time:  
'The Mezz,' as we then called it, became a destination all its own, strictly because of Steve Conn. 
A place to hear something real. 
It was a place to put aside the trendy, remove your cowboy hat, forget about Elvis Costello for a minute (something even Elvis himself hadn't thought of...yet) and simply breathe out.  
You went to the Boulderado to let Steve do the drivin', and he'd deliver something different, every single night.
He only had a few 'originals' in his repertoire back then, but you got the sense there were lots more, in his pocket--they just hadn't made the cut.  (Apparently, those critical eyes work on him, too.) 
So, for six nights a week, he sat there--and basically ignored the few drunks from outta town on business, until the local scenesters began to drift in, for something beyond the beyond.  His between-song patter was kept to a minimum, invariably self-effacing, and just this side of cynical.

This was a man who knew who he was, even then--sitting at a piano, pouring his energy into nothing but the music, rarely even making eye contact, and busily crafting something you simply could not find anywhere else, with his eyes closed--and who knows, maybe even 'with one hand tied behind his back.'
He was that good. 
Folks like Bonnie Raitt and Beau Soleil knew it, but on a snowy Tuesday night in downtown Boulder, most of the action was down the street, at Potter's or the Blue Note--not up here, overlooking a hotel lobby. 

Still, this guy just showed up and played--and then he showed up and played some more, and he kept showing up, until he built a hard-core of followers (mostly those swoonin' wimmenfolk, for some-odd reason), until he'd outlasted them all.
Watching him sing or speak, it almost seemed like Steve knew something we didn't know  ("Thinking in Tongues" is one of his new titles, and that fits...) but some three decades later, I think I finally may have figured it out:  It's that history will select its winners, but those of us with our ears and eyes open will find the really important stuff. 
For Steve Conn, opportunity may have knocked a few times, but it didn't seem to have the secret password.  A rare few in this world are willing to forego the camaraderie of a large community of artists, to paint alone.
And that is how I always pictured Steve.



Photos of Steve Conn by Jack Spencer

Fast-forward to now.  We've both been here in Music City goin' on 20 years or so, and on those few occasions when I can coax him into my one-and-only party of the year, at Christmas time, he'll share a knowing glance, as the discussion turns to music. I've been out to his country home in the boonies, and it's everything you need, if you've decided to stop playin' the game, and do things your way.  

Fifteen years ago, I thought Steve Conn had already made his definitive album.
River of Madness was a disparate collection of original songs, which contained the requisite 'hit' I could persuade my programmers at Lightning 100 to play ("Mardi Gras Morning") and enough other good stuff to say it was definitely a keeper. But like the album title suggests, there was a disturbing quality to it all, as if to say, "I'm not really settled yet. This internal war I'm having isn't really over."
Ten years later, his "Katrina Christmas" single came out, with some seriously venomous lyrics about "hangin' Brownie from his toes" that, despite its jolly New Orleans gait (and my fervent agreement with its message) made it impossible to include, on my annual Christmas CD collection.  (Note to Steve: I do have elderly Aunts, you know...)
Anyway, I've only seen him a couple times in the past few years, but I must say, he seemed more at ease, and more affably bemused than offended, by the creaks of age.  And if his new collection of songs is any indication, he's more comfortable in his shoes than I've ever known him to be.  (My copy of the new CD came with a personal inscription on a "Viagra" post-it notepad, that says "Viagra...step up to the plate.")  

Most of us have enough music in our stashes now, that anything "new" had better say something we haven't already heard before.     
Steve Conn has achieved that and more, on the magnificent Beautiful Dream.

His inner dialogue (I always knew something was goin' on in there!) runs through every song, like this bit, from the radio-friendly "Trouble": 
"Should I mow the lawn?/Should I save the planet?" 
(As Dave Letterman likes to say on his show when he's just heard a great band, "That's all you need, right there.")
But it's the very next couplet takes it somewhere else: 
"Should I lose some weight?/Sometimes I wonder, 'What difference does it make?"
What starts as a simple reflection on one's place in the world, works its way back to mortality itself being your very best reason to let go and continue the slog-- i.e., enjoy this life, best ya' can. 
Don't let go because you're sick, or you're leaving, or you're bitter...just let go because you're still here, and all that other stuff simply doesn't matter anymore. 
This theme runs through much of the material on Beautiful Dream, but with melodies as pretty as "It's Just Not the Same," Conn has achieved a new level of beauty, not at all far from Randy Newman's best recent work.
"The Earth spins/the wind blows/the sky is blue/it's just not the same here, without you..." could stand beside almost anything I've heard in recent years, by anyone.
The first track I heard from this album was "Let the Rain Fall Down," recorded a couple years ago. I remember being pleasantly surprised at the whole piece--no, the whole peace--of it.  But as good as it was/is, I hadn't expected so many other new Steve Conn songs to come along and match it. 
Somebody's been busily 'holed up' out there in the sticks, writing what amounts to his definitive musical manifesto.  Conn's old mate Sonny Landreth is along for the ride on slide, as is a perfectly understated ensemble you'll hardly notice...until you do.  (The late Dennis Taylor appears on sax, as well.)
 
 

Key tracks: "Trouble," "It's Just Not the Same"
"Let the Rain Fall Down"
You can give this music a listen
 (and even, Holy Smokes, ORDER IT!) at:
http://www.facebook.com/#!/steveconnmusic

This is a man in full--finally, and almost gleefully expressing his melancholy, without bitterness or even pedestrian resignation. Nobody's gettin' hung by their toes anymore.
It's wisdom, man...that inadvertent reward that (hopefully) comes to us all, after enough burns on the proverbial stove.  
Conn's always had it, more than most--but as a pretentious dude who likes to think I possess a little of it myself, I must say, I've found more than a few 'teachable moments' on Beautiful Dream.  It's good enough to humble ya.  

My favorite albums of 2011 have almost all been by classic songwriters, updating their old material--Jimmy Webb, J.D. Souther, Jackson Browne, Ray Davies--each presenting freshly introspective readings of their best-known work, with arrangements better suited to older ears. 
Steve Conn's Beautiful Dream sits alongside any of them on my "best of" list--and that's with all new songs, not remakes.  That it can stand beside the aforementioned giants is indeed something.
This is not just a 'keeper' (I've always expected at least that much, from him)--it's an essential musical friend, added to my already-crowded collection of friends, which has now been welcomed into my life, for the duration. 
This is his very best work, and it's one CD you should definitely own.  When I first put it on my computer, the program described him as "Unknown Artist."
If that's ever going to change for Steve Conn--and it should--Beautiful Dream is about as good a reason as any.
A must-have.
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I guess I first met Russell Bizzett around 1974, when he was playing with the late guitar legend Tommy Bolin, in Boulder.  Back then, his perfectly sculpted 'fro was impeccably round, yet somehow--like Russell himself--elegantly understated.  
He always shared the stage with legends, and sometimes each of those legends would lose their cool...but never Russell.  Be it Freddie Hubbard, Bo Diddley, Bolin, Billy Preston, Jimmy Smith, Robben Ford, you name it--Bizzett's confident sweeps, from cymbals to toms, laid down a solid platform for them to leap from.
But as soft-spoken as he was, there were times during every show, when folks in the audience would stand aghast at some audacious move he pulled off, that nobody expected.
It was like, "Where did that come from!" 
This guy was clearly schooled in drums.  

There's no doubt that Boulder in the '70s was a musician's paradise, but to be honest, there were very few drummers allowed to paint with more than a few musical colors, back then.  There'd be your showy, country-rock stud; the jam-band wannabe; the rock-steady social climber, you know--they were all around, everywhere you looked.  But somewhere in there, Russell managed to ferret out the few who had an interest in something larger, something that might last beyond a single evening. (Truth be told, many Boulder evenings  all too literally stretched into another evening for some lesser players, back then.)

Any band in Colorado would have gladly had him, if only for his unusual reliability and professionalism.  But that was never the point.  Why prop up some lesser players, even if the money was good, only to support lesser music? 
Behind his casual front, this guy was serious about sound. 
All of the brightly colored hair feathers and guitar gadgets in the world wouldn't have kept Russell Bizzett's attention for a nano-second, had there not been an intriguing musical journey to join, with Tommy Bolin. 
There was, and he did.

When I think of Bizzett as a musician, I think of the word "standards."  Not in the classic sense, like songs that are standards...but more as in "standards you set, and achieve."
Bizzett's every appearance onstage, even back then, seemed to set a new standard.  I can remember his fellow drummers standing with me in sound booths at the back of a club, truly reveling in the joy his touch provided, from behind the kit.



Order Russell Bizzett's latest album at:
http://www.russellbizzett.com/DreamSt.html

Still, Boulder could not hold him.  Not only was the scene waning by the mid-80s, but it seemed Bizzett had bigger things in mind.  His personal journey had begun in Sioux City, Iowa--growing up near Bolin and many other eventual greats.  I won't recite his bio here (for that, you can visit www.russellbizzett.com), but his heart belonged to the musical legacy he'd heard throughout his family.  By the age of 20, he'd already backed up Chuck Berry and Muddy Waters.
Here's what's funny:
I always sorta knew he loved John Coltrane and McCoy Tyner, and all the other nitty-gritty greats everybody pays lip service to, but few really know.  I knew this, because when Russell was upstairs at The Good Earth (3rd floor) doing an afternoon soundcheck with Tommy, I might go upstairs, or he might come down, because my afternoon radio show (on KRNW, 2nd floor) often coincided with the load-in.
So when Bizzett showed up, he'd more or less gravitate toward our massive jazz collection (on vinyl, you'll remember).  That, plus more than a few musical hints, told me Mr. Bizzett's affinities and talents were not being fully mined, in the foothills of Colorado.

Enter L.A.; enter San Diego; add 25 years, and stir.
The Russell Bizzett Trio has just issued the marvelous Dream Street, which puts his compadres through their paces in fine fashion.  Pianist Joshua White has the light touch of Tyner and the chordal ghosts of Oscar Peterson well in hand, and bassist Rob Thorsen plays prodigiously (and fast) enough to remind me of the old Richard Pryor routine, wherein a guy in Patti LaBelle's band plays his ass off, but keeps urgently nodding to the rest, as if to say (in Pryor's words) "I'm witcha, M&tha f&%kas!" That, he is.


Bizzett has fashioned a highly listenable collection of challenging but satisfying stuff, which I like to call "Sunday music."  It's precisely what I like to listen to, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, with sun streaming in the windows, leaves falling outside, and a warm cup of tea to accompany a nice, long article...kinda like this one, mebbe?  Okay, mebbe not.

Bizzett's few solos aren't showy at all, but I dare anyone with less than his 40+ years at it to try any of it.  The trio's take on Irving Berlin's "Anything You Can Do" is nothing shy of brilliant.  I have no doubt that, were we still a listening society, this would be up there with anything that ever came out of the late '50s. 
These guys are sublime.
If you like jazz at all, novice or not, this should fit the bill...a perfect bass/drums/piano outfit, touching on, but never imitating the greats, because they're too busy creating something great, all their own. 
Highly recommended.
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There are certain characters in life you might never expect to get to know, but once you do, they bring something so unique to the table, that you realize you couldn't possibly replace that human being with anyone else. 
Jay Patten is one of those guys.
Oh, sure...he's got the resume.  After over 30 years on the road as Crystal Gayle's musical director, Jay's pedigree has taken him all over the world.  
Like all band leaders, he seems able to instill confidence even in the most under-rehearsed, unwieldy group of players--as he has, at every single Bluebird Cafe anniversary and Christmas show, for over two decades. 
For some reason, with Jay at the helm, everyone shines.

What's fascinating is that he could have made it just as a sax player, had he chosen that route.  By that I mean, he didn't have to be a band leader, at all--he's easily one of the best players on his chosen instrument, in the whole world.  And I don't say that lightly.

To sample or order tracks from Crystal Nights, go to:
http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/jaypatten4

But the thing about this guy, is that you really need to watch him for a whole evening (or more) on stage, before you can even begin to figure out what it is about him, that grabs you.
Once you do that, you'll realize that this fellow would be a great candidate for the back page of a Reader's Digest: 
"My most unforgettable character."

His ever-present fedora belies a very un-casual approach to life.  Jay's an unsatisified soul--always thinking about the next gig, the next tour, the next arrangement, the next song.  
And while he loves a good joke, he's not one to laugh hysterically at all.  In fact, Jay always seems to be deep in thought, when he's not performing.
It's almost as if he'd feel guilty if he let go--because there's work to do, and dammit...somebody's gotta do it.   
In person, he has a slight hunch to the posture, as if he so loved Sinatra's saloon songs, he took on their every burden. 
And that's just it.  
Jay Patten's unburdening comes in only one place:  On stage.
He escapes all of life's trevails, and suddenly the guy you guessed was droopy or droll becomes twenty pounds lighter, thirty years younger, and in all honesty, pretty much timeless. 
Yeah, there's plenty of schtick:  Wife jokes, one-liners, and head-scratchers--like including the Elvis bathos, "Can't Help Falling in Love" on the current album, complete with an in-studio "Thankyouverrrymuch" at the end.
But Jay Patten without schtick would be like a Brown's hamburger, with no ketchup.
The sheer breadth of his own compositions is impressive. 
That's evident on the title track to Crystal Nights,  even as a few of his more croony efforts, like "Finally" and "Sinatra Sang our Song," take you to another whole time and place.
Offstage, though...he has perfected that "I'm just another schmo" attitude, almost as though everything else in life is simply the unbearable wait, until that next show.
I've made no secret in the past about my belief, that Wednesday nights at Brown's Diner are the most musical thing you can do, in Music City.
(Here's a link to the 19 minute video I made, documenting Jay's remarkable combo at Brown's Diner, on a typical Wednesday night: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=1633464679537)
In a dive bar that holds dozens, not hundreds, 'the Jay Patten Four' hold court, from 8:30 to 10:30, and there's no admission charge at all.  Every player in the band is extraordinary.
And if Crystal Nights doesn't embody the full bouqet of his live act, when it comes to Jay Patten's talents, it's certainly an album that'll make you feel better. 
It'll cure what ails ya.
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This article is Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman. All Rights Reserved.

October Letter from Nashville

By Peter Rodman

Some people hibernate in winter.
Me, I'm just waking up. 

Because there’s no time more vital to the soul, than autumn...when the night dips its toe into the chill, and spiders think you’ll stop using your front porch, if they just swoop down and scare the crap out of you.  Even the trees sprinkle their leafy reminders, that they too, are part of the family--and wouldn’t mind a little admiring glance, now 'n' then.
So, okay…that’s a bit lofty, I know.
Put another way?
My girly arms look much better in sweaters, than t-shirts.

Anyway, on one particular October evening in Music City, there were (as always) a myriad of great choices, if one wanted to go out. You could always go ‘high end,’ and vie for position, in the world of the 'tried-and-true. '

By this I mean, the “Americana Music Conference” has been in town all week--lauding the virtues of its own self-consciously, supposedly  genreless genre.
In truth though, there is perhaps a stricter orthodoxy to that whole thing than most of its backers wish to admit.

And while it’s not yet required that you live in trendy 'East Nashville' to participate, that most certainly would seem to be a plus.
To wit: 
Last year’s ‘Americana Awards Concert’ was held at the Ryman Auditorium.  It included Rodney Crowell, Buddy Miller, Emmylou of course, and surprise guest Robert Plant.
This year’s ‘Americana Awards Concert’ was held at the Ryman Auditorium.  It included Rodney Crowell, Buddy Miller, Emmylou of course, and surprise guest Robert Plant.



Robert Plant (either last year or this year)
Photo by Peter Rodman

Many years ago I popped into Al Bunetta’s Music Row office, on the day after one of their earliest awards shows--and just the night before, his client (John Prine) had (most deservedly) been given the “Artist of the Year” award--or maybe it was the “Legend of a Lifetime,” I’m not sure.
Neither was Al.
I excitedly congratulated him on this achievment, and from across his desk, John’s lifelong partner-in-crime, career guidance-counselor, record company president, and one of Nashville’s (and music’s) greatest all-time characters leaned toward me and said (jokingly):
“Artist of the Year!  Americana??  What the fuck does that mean!??  It’s like, 'Oh, thank you very much!’  I mean, it’s niiccccccccce….but…?”
He raised his open palms and shrugged, the way only true Italians do...as if to add, “We’d rather have a sandwich named after him, at Savarino’s!” (Which, incidentally, Al himself has...and by the way, it's quite tasty.)

My point, and I do have one, (c.1990 Ellen Degeneres) is that on this particular Thursday evening in Nashville, I could have attended the 'Americana Awards' show…or even the ‘Mummies on the Courthouse Lawn’ concert, or any number of high-profile musical events.
That's what makes this town so great.
I'm sure in 40 years, I'll be wishing I'd gotten my pitcha made, with the 'Here Come the Mummies' group.  I have no doubt their impact on music will be monumental.  (I'm being facetious; it won't.)
I don't mean this as a put-down at all.  I just can't picture remembering their name (or even my own!) ten years from now.  
Anyway, it wasn't my thing--but it was another great choice, and a free one at that--something else to do, in a town with a whole lot to do, musically, on any given night. 

I don't tend to favor concerts on lawns (or in fields), myself.
I love lawns, don't get me wrong--in fact, I obssess about my own lawn...but I do hate being on a lawn....or in a field...without a seat...watching a concert, from afar. 
Always have, always will.  

This is scary enough, thankyouverymuch.

 Case in point?  I gave away my Woodstock tickets, and have never regretted it.  This is in no small part (pun intended) because I am s-h-o-r-t.
I hold no hard feelings, for those who love to mingle...but maybe there should be a maximum age limit, for these types of shows.  Think of the risk we seniors pose, in this situation: Someone like me, who's well over 50, just might reflexively holler "Down in front!" in angrily earnest nursing home tones, even though it's a 'standing' show.  I'm tellin' ya, they shouldn't risk it!

The truth is...I want a SEAT, man. 
Preferably one with arm rests (read: boundaries) and most certainly not with other peoples' half-eaten chicken bones in boxes (or worse, out of boxes) next to me, on the ground. And this goes double, if people are wearing any kind of "costumes." 
Shoot me now, please. 

So for me, this "Mummy" show...coming as it did, a couple weeks before Halloween?
Out. of. the. question.

 And while I'm at it, I have an additional confession to make-- one which is slightly embarrassing: 
Halloween costumes actually scare me.
But it's not everybody who wears them, that I fear--only the adults, who seem to love them the most. 
These folks---y'know, the ones with the black lipstick, the so-called 'sexy' witch outfits, the tacky 'drag,' the ersatz "goth," fishnet stockings--I am scared, yes...but not "scared," in the classic sense.
I'm just scared to get close to these people at all.
(...in OR out of costume, now that I think of it...)

So it was kind of shocking to me to run into a couple I sorta know at the Sunset Grill, on this same night...who are actually getting married on October 29th, and encouraging everyone--bridesmaids, groomsmen, everyone--to (gasp!) come in costume!!!
Now, these are otherwise very charming, engaging, intellegent folks.  I honestly have no idea why they would do this, except that now that I think of it, wedding planners--and all of the details surrounding weddings--are such a nightmare, that they must have decided, "Hey, what the heck, let's just let this be everybody else's nightmare, instead!"
To me, any costumed event is almost as bad as that moment in some churches, where they make everybody turn to each other and grab both your hands, and say "God bless you." 
Sorry, I came to pray, and be peaceful...DON'T TOUCH ME!
I know, I know.  Isn't that awful?
But that's how I feel.  And God knows (at least I hope she does) I do love my fellow man--especially my fellow women.  But it's just...all this touchy-feely, 'in-your-face' business, I can't abide.
What restores my faith in God is Hand Sanitizer.

Anyway, I was actually planning to stay home Thursday night, and watch two apparently 'midwestern' baseball teams (Milwaukee and St. Louis) battle it out in Game 4 of the National League Championship Series.
Ho- hum...
I follow mostly the American League.
Yawn....and I...yawn again...felllllll.....................asleep.
(I’m a Yankee fan.)
BRRRRRRRIIIIIIING!!
(My phone rings.)


It’s Tom Hampton.
The guy's a classic road warrior.  

Nashville is another night on the road,  for Tom Hampton.

Despite having a baby and wife at home---or maybe because of it--he’s out on the road (not in airports, mind you--actually on the road) 300 days a year, driving from his native Pennsylvania, through New England to Maine one day, and down past West Virginia, overnight (with three hours sleep) to Nashville, the next.
Luminaries as diverse as Poco, Foster & Lloyd, and Jackson Browne know him well--as a fan, a professional, and a utility player, who can ‘fill the holes’ on lead guitar, mandolin, steel, or what-have-you--all in the service of lifting a show, from one level to a whole ‘nother.
That is who Tom Hampton is.
And whether it’s John Denver or Dan Fogelberg, he zealously protects the legacy of his heroes, too.


Jack Sundred (of Poco) on bass,
off the beaten path in Music City. 

 So much so, that Hampton recently schlepped hundreds of miles in his weather-beaten van on a single weekend, from eastern Pennsylvania to Peoria,  just to honor Fogelberg’s 60^th birthday, at two different concerts, 500 miles apart--in separate states, for separate bands, playing separate songs, and all for the love (and if the truth be told, the compulsion) that Fogelberg’s music signifys to his career, his life, his art, and most of all...his heart.
There are lots of wildly successful road musicians, in Nashville--lauded for their craft, and basking in adulation, from Norway to Tokyo, tonight.
Tom isn’t one of those.
He’s just a guy you call if you need to get it done, and get it done right. On time, in tune, ego-free, done right, and well tempered.
That’s Tom Hampton.
So when Tom called tonight (and woke me from my pre-game nap), I jumped at the chance to go see him, at the amazingly transformed ‘3^rd and Lindsley,’ here in Nashville.
He seemed almost apologetic, at first.
“It’s not an ‘official’ Americana Conference booking,” he said sheepishly, “but we did try to book around that series of events. And by the way, we‘ll be at Douglas Corner, Friday night.”
They'd driven all night Wednesday to get here, and by Saturday morning, they'll be on a 12 hour bus trip back to PA, for yet another series of gigs.
This is 'the life.'

As for 60 year old me (who gets tired just going to and from the refrigerator), I hadn’t quite planned to emerge yet, from my summer’s slumber.
But after a shower and shave, soon enough I was standing before “J.D.Malone and the Experts,” as they were called on this night, and there he was--Tom Hampton--off to the far left of the stage, playing steel guitar, behind Poco’s Jack Sundrud, Malone, Don Henry, and several others whose names I can’t recall, all good.
His grey hair almost looked like he'd slapped it on top of his head at the last minute.  His belly (like mine) gave away too many nights and mornings that morphed together, eating roadside diner food and room service specials. His silver goatee said, "Don't look at my chins, look at my instruments.  I'm busy here, and I'm serious about making this show fun!"  
He almost never looked up from the instrument, but proudly exchanged guitars, from a rack to his right, whenever necessary--totally at peace with his contribution to the proceedings, but never seeking--not for a moment--any recognition, whatsoever.
Although it looked sparsely attended, that was at least in part due to the newly expanded room itself, which would now require a couple hundred people just to seem half-full.
At some point I thought about all the people at the Ryman, just a few blocks away, seeing essentially the exact same show they (and I) saw last year. I thought of the outdoor concert on the courthouse lawn, and all the merriment...and ...uh oh...scary costumes!
But tonight, I got to see the music.
This band stayed onstage without a break for three hours, backin' up everybody from Henry to Sundred, to sub-groupings (like Idlewheel, another of Tom's projects) and more. 
As each act stepped up to the plate, these disparate gypsies--some from the north, some from the Carolinas, some from who-knows-where else--snapped into rythmn, as though they'd never played anything else.
THAT is music.

At the merch table, an array of CDs by the various acts were splayed for your perusal. "Have you got anything by Tom Hampton?" I asked. 

"Well, not exactly," said the merch guy. "But he played on this one, this one, and uhhh...this one."
I left the club glad to know someone doesn't mind all that work, just to entertain us.

He'll be out of Nashville by the time most of you read this--but thanks to our own Dave Pomeroy (head of the local musician's union), next time he comes through town, there'll be "MUSICIANS' LOADING ZONE" signs here, to help 'im out.

I like that.

A lot. 

I next headed down towards Hillsboro Village, and landed at a nifty nook called the Belcourt Taps and Tapas, where another sparse-but-adequate crowd was diggin' on the music of an incredible new band, The Barren River Trio.
Tending bar was Jimmy, the bass player from 'Everclear.'
"Only in Nashville!" I thought.

The trio consisted of three young men with accoustic instruments, and the kind of detailed harmony that would have made David Crosby himself blush.  Then again, David tends to blush a lot, when he's happy. 
They call their sound 'American Folk'...as opposed to Americana? 
It didn't matter.  
Here on the other side of town, their sound was so professional I immediately thought, "Wow!  These guys should be opening for somebody...at the Ryman!!!"
Then I remembered what was actually goin' on tonight, at the Ryman. 
An old hard-rock legend (Plant) was the top name. Middling-sellers of country and country rock, spanning 40 years or so, were the only veterans that need apply, at the 'Americana Awards' show.  

Other than a mere few token 'new' acts, not much changes from year to year, at this so-called dynamic new format's deification ceremony.
I'd dare say the CMA's are actually more exciting now, or at least somewhat less rigid, in their criteria...and that's a slightly damning statement, from one who was there at the inception of this whole 'Americana' concept.  This is not to take away from the show itself; just the orthodoxy that has grown on the format, like moss.

This city remains a music lover's delight--full of nightly choices, in the fresh crack of autumn's night air. 

I guess you could say I missed two big shows, last night.

But last night, in the very same town...I saw two great shows.

For my tastes at least, I had made the best choices, from among the many available to me.  

Reminds me of a lyric I wrote when I first got here, some 20+ years ago now...

"Every weathered lover

knows the leaves must fall...

but what they don't know is,

you can't collect them all."

That's the latest from Nashville, this October.


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The above column and photographs are Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman, except the 'Halloween Sluts' and 'Musicians Loading Zone' images.  All Rights Reserved.

What the President SHOULD Say Tonight

By Peter Rodman

Good Evening.
Tonight, there is only one thing everybody agrees upon:
The 'State of Our Union' is DIVIDED.
America, once the world’s leading economy, is at a crossroads.
Unfettered, unmitigated, and unregulated corporate greed has crippled the middle class, all but erasing the American Dream.
The top 65 richest people in this nation make as much as half of the rest of us, all put together.
And if you dare question it, they'll put you out of office--with a barrage of TV ads and smear campaigns financed by those who have the most to gain, by keeping everything just like it is.
Well, I am here to tell you tonight:  
The government hand-outs and free rides are over.
Not for the people at the bottom of the economic ladder...but for those at the top.  
THEY are the greatest 'Welfare Queens' of all, always insisting upon we "let the free market decide" ...until it collapses, like it did in 2008--and then, like hungry pups, they gather around the teat of the very same federal government they'll tell you they despise...begging for a hand-out. 
If we had let their 'free market' truly decide things for them, they'd all be on the streets today.
The things they despise--unions, workers' rights, higher minimum wages, liveable pensions, decent and affordable health care for all, paying their fair share of taxes, and government oversight of Wall Street's shenannigans--all those things have been under direct attack, by a certain faction that claims to know what is best for America.
The same faction that nearly took us all down, just five short years ago.  
 
Tonight, around the world we are watching developing countries--many of them with slave labor, the kind of which we eliminated nearly a century ago--manufacture all that we once created and invented.
But once upon a time, America invented the television you folks are watching at home, right now.

Automobiles. 
Interstates. 
Airplanes. 
Humungous dams, for the taming of waterways, and the creation of energy. 
Nuclear power itself, for the good of mankind, not the bad.
Vaccines. 
Movies. Jazz. 
And rock ‘n’ roll.
We introduced these things to the world, and the world embraced them.
But we also introduced the free marketplace, a more robust constitutional democracy than anybody had ever seen before, and the workplace and intellectual property rights that literally changed the world, brought it into the industrial age, and empowered workers at all levels to literally walk out without losing their jobs, if conditions on that job were so miserable as to constitute a form of slavery.
The right to organize? WE invented it, folks!
If terms were not agreed to by both parties--employers and workers--they, the workers, had a right to strike. And the simple protections, that allow for children not to be sitting over sewing machines, making clothing for the rest of us, 16 hours a day, in sweat shops and slave-like conditions?  We invented them.

 
Yes, we are 'capitalists.'
But we always recognized that the little guy needed protection… BY the people--their government; FOR the people--these workers, who actually drive the economy; and OF the people-- to shield them from the theft of their inventions, innovations, ideas, and incomes.
Everybody in this room--in fact everybody in every living room across America tonight-- knows that we have been under direct attack, by economic pressures that reward corporations who seek out the lowest common denominator, simply to improve their 'quarterly projections.'
As a result, even our minimum wage cannot compete with the near-nothing pittance provided to a peasant, somewhere overseas. 
Tonight, every one of us has heard the cry: WHERE ARE THE JOBS?
The sad truth is that too many "jobs," if you can even call them that anymore, have moved overseas.
And the shortfall can never be made up, no matter what we do here, until or unless we get serious about not allowing that to continue to happen.
My fellow Americans, I'm going to say out loud, what I think we all already know:
Our nation is bleeding jobs overseas.
In order to compete, we will need to begin to demand some loyalty from the bedrock American corporations who are shamelessly taking our tax breaks and financing overseas, not domestic, expansion.

Companies we once called 'our own' are now openly profiting from the export of American jobs, in record numbers--so that even your loyal purchase of so-called 'American' goods means that everything from ketchup to bananas, to cars to drywall is now being made elsewhere.
Americans need not apply.
This would be bad enough, if we had the resolve--or the unity--to tackle it.
But we don’t. 
Tonight, as hard as it is to believe in America, there are actually voices within this very chamber, who have advocated possibly abandoning our workers' protections; scuttling the minimum wage; and loosening our safety and environmental regulations beyond recognition. 
But the answer is not to lower America's standard of living, to meet that of a peasant, in some faraway place.  It's to PROTECT the integrity of our domestic industrial system, at least enough to end the downward spiral in wages and benefits.  The answer is NOT to further crush unions, nor to undo decades of collective bargaining advances, or relax our health and safety standards, in the name of creating jobs.
That hasn't worked.
Neither have the trillions in corporate tax loopholes, or the so-called 'free trade' plans that have shrunk our automobile industry, to the very brink of extinction.

When I decided to give this speech, the cable news chatter--and all the pundits--were essentially divided into two camps:
Either I lay out a bold plan I knew would fail to pass both Houses of Congress...or I gingerly navigate the nooks and crannies, along the edges, hoping that even the most intransigent naysayers would somehow find it in their hearts not to be offended, and to help.
To help America, that is.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized I have a greater responsibility still.
I was told, “Hey, if you say certain things about the stubbornness of Congress, you might just see some of those members get up and stage a walk out!”
So for the longest time, I labored to craft something I thought might somehow avoid offending the radical elements in this room, who have held America hostage through even the simplest discussions, even about things like whether to provide emergency assistance, to the victims of Hurricane Irene, Superstorm Sandy, and even veterans' benefits.
In short, I could have bored you all silly walkin’ on eggshells tonight, to try to appear more reasonable, more pliable, more ‘compromisey’ than the other guys.
I could have shaped my entire jobs program--knowing ahead of time, because they’ve said so--that it’ll be rejected out-of-hand…and simply delivered it like a good boy, and gone home--happy nobody walked out, I guess.
Happy for myself.
Happy to have avoided yet another, in the preposterous series of disgraceful confrontations provoked by radicals, in the House of Representatives.
But tonight, my fellow Americans…I am speaking as one of YOU.
Because saving MY job is not nearly as important as saving yours.
So, to those naysayers who’ve held a gun to America’s head-- on everything from debt ceilings, to health care, to simple corporate regulations that would preclude another 2008 meltdown, to the most basic government function of all--raising the revenue needed to provide for its citizens in time of need, and to defend our borders…
Tonight I say to you, right here in this chamber, if this offends you...go ahead.
If you have no plan to stand with us, and fight for the resurgence of America, go ahead:
Walk out.
Walk out on your country.
Walk out on your constituents.
Walk out on our future.
Because your days of holding us hostage are OVER.

You have become America's "enemy within."
And with every last bone in my body, I will fight you.
On the issues of workers’ rights, minimum wage, religious freedoms, closing tax loopholes and givewaways to the rich, protecting consumers, and rebuilding our schools and bridges, I will fight you.
I will fight your intransigence until you cry 'uncle,’ and every American is protected from the exporting of our jobs and our livelihoods.
I will fight your insistence that the mega-wealthy--let’s not even call them millionaires, I’m talking about ZILLIONAIRES, here--not pay an equal percentage of taxes that average workers do.
I will fight your very well-funded insistence that they not pay their fair share, under the false ruse that they are “job creators,” one and all--when in fact no jobs have come from the trillions in gifts we’ve offered up to the mega-rich for over a decade, on that collection plate they passed out to us in 2003, that some of you in this House insisted we extend in 2010.
There will be NO MORE GIFTS FROM THE POOR TO THE RICH. 
There are some who like to say our stimulus packages didn’t work. 
They said I was 'socializing' GM, in a government takeover.
'Socializing' medicine, they said...
Every possible boogeyman term has been attached to our programs, in order to both declare and predict, as well as encourage failure.  But they conveniently forget the unprecedented mess we were handed, when we took the keys to the office of the presidency.

Once upon a time, you knew every soul in this House--no matter what party they belonged to--wanted to see America succeed, regardless of our politics.
Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to say it:
Tonight, that is not true.

There are those within this House who have outwardly spoken about wanting to see our country default on its obligations; shut down the government; change medicare to a voucher system; close the department of education, the environmental protection agency, even FEMA!
Yes…those things have been said--by idealogues so lost, they can only smell their own political victories in these proposals, not America’s own defeat.
No more, I say!
No more obstructionism, while America crumbles!
No more running the country like it’s a radio talk show!
No more tearing down of the bedrock safety nets--like Social Security and Medicare, which assure us all that there is life after work.
Read my lips:
I will not replace our Chevrolet retirement system with a Yugo, no matter how often you tell me “We’re broke.”
If we’re broke, then let’s raise some money to fix ourselves!

I'll give you one clear example of something that has shut down more stores than any other single factor:  The internet. 
In recent years, nearly every American has purchased a growing percentage of our Christmas gifts and other items, online. 
But do any of you recall paying any SALES TAX on those items until very recently, at amazon.com?
Very few states demand it. 
The federal government still allows these purchases to go scot-free, in most cases. 
And yet, American workers in stores from coast to coast have seen retail shops close by the thousands, and lost their jobs--simply because of the unfair advantage given online buyers and sellers, who for the most part STILL pay no sales tax.
Think of the trillions in government revenue, totally lost, because of this simple loophole!
Are you telling me we cannot charge sales tax for online purchases, in this country?
If not, I ask you...why not???
Why should old fashioned stores and shops all over this country pay their fair share, and then be put at a potentially fatal pricing disadvantage, while the online market runs like a third-world street bazaar, answering to no one?
To my friends on the right, it seems ALL tax revenues are some sort of philisophical poison, or anethma. 
But good government needs revenue to survive--to serve, to protect, and to advance its people.

We have had ENOUGH "cuts" forced upon this country lately, simply because we've been bullied into it, at every turn.
American workers want to know that the American Dream will be there for them, if they work hard. Continually moving the goalposts by reducing benefits, tearing up union contracts, or shortening school days does not constitute reform.
It’s a cheat--it cheats us out of a promise we made to ourselves, as enlightened people...and I will not do it.
Yes, we’re on the canvas...and there are many complicated reasons why.
But I believe we will get ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and fight back harder than ever--and if you don’t... If your idea of success is to make us fail, then go ahead--take insult at my words, and walk out on America.
We want to know who you are, so we can get on with the task at hand, and repair what’s wrong--not cower in the face of your constant, never-ending threats.
Bob Dylan once said, “Your old road is rapidly aging. So get out of the new one, if you can’t lend a hand, cause the Times They Are A-Changin.”
He was right.
We need you to get out of the way, if your vision is one of failure, and of this endless hacking away at the budget of our federal government, which protects us all.
We tired of hearing that we're "too broke" to build a firehouse or a schoolhouse in Ohio, but just fine with building one in Iraq, or elsewhere.
We've had enough of being told we're "too broke" to raise the pay of our teachers and soldiers, but never too broke to pay shadowy mercenaries like Blackwater and Haliburton billions upon billions, to do our business under the table, in foreign lands.
That is NOT the America we grew up in.

Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I can tell you: 
AMERICA IS NOT "BROKE"...IT'S BROKEN.

We need to reinforce our infrastructure.
RAISE the revenues to PAY for our wars, and bridges and schools, and stop relying on bake sales for books, as if America can't find a dime to invest in its future.
How pathetic is that, as a vision of America?
Give us all a break from your radio talk show rhetoric and your "No, we can't" philosophy.
I still say YES WE CAN.
And we will.

As I said at the start of this talk, we've been in a dive, lately.  But any pilot can tell you, you do not correct that situation by giving up control of the airplane to people who want to re-write the entire pilots' handbook, then and there, on the way down. The only way to 'right the ship' is to provide the professionals in control the tools and the resources to do the job right.

You, at home:  Tell your congressman or woman you will vote them out of office, if they continue to refusing all compromise--including on taxes--and obstructing all progress, going forward.
By constantly threatening to crash this plane, they have paralyzed this nation in recent times, with fear.  In the world of private enterprise they like to tout, THEY'D BE FIRED  if they used anything even remotely like these tactics.
The fear to act.  The fear to tax.  The fear to regulate.  The fear to reform.
I say we fire them at the polls.
Enough is enough.
We need to shine a bright light on the cowards who've held us at gun point, on such basic matters as meeting the federal payroll. 
Let us never forget:  Government workers are Americans, too. 
And tonight, my fellow public servants--both within this chamber, and at every station and department around this land...
I SALUTE YOU, AND THE WORK YOU DO!
You are patriots.  And we will no longer stand for the denigration of your contribution, to our society.

The obstructionists like to say, "Business wants certainty."
I say, let them be certain that we WILL regulate safety and environmental issues; that we WILL tax the export of our jobs; that we WILL track down the unseen profits hidden offshore and drained from our economy by heartless thieves, stealing us blind, and not paying their fair share. 
We WILL close every loophole they've snaked around, to avoid paying into our system, at home.
Enough is enough.

It's on.
You want America to succeed, or fail?
Choose.

Because ten years after 9/11, we're being terrorized by some elements in this very room.  Our system has been paralyzed by radical rebels who would take us down, rather than let us reinvest in America's future, and fly again.

Tonight, when we leave here--or even before we leave here--the pundits will set about legitimizing two points of view, but in truth, there is only one.  Either you want America to stand up and fight the tyranny of intransigence and economic stagnancy and succeed, or maybe you just aren't on our side, at all.

Tomorrow morning, I will submit a major stimulus program--even larger than the one my opponents have claimed was a failure, but which kept us from sliding into a depression.
America, we need to FIGHT.
The enemy is among us.
Now is the time.
We need to get this done.

Oh, and one more thing. 
You might be wondering why there's been no mention of immigration reform, or the gun control we so desperately need, now that school and mall shootings are a near-daily occurance.
I'll tell you why I'm not going to waste the peoples' time talking anymore:
Because regardless of what I do or you do here in this body, the public HAS spoken.
And the demographic train will get done what you and I have failed to do, which includes not only those vital issues, but eventually driving your radical movement of oppression right into extinction.
I truly trust America will do the right thing, at the ballot box next year.
So good night, America... 
And for those of you seated here in this chamber I'll see you right here, in the morning. 
It's about time we got to work, so everybody else can return to work, too.
Be here at 9 a.m....ALL of you...
And may God bless the United States of America.

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Copyright 2011 by Peter Rodman.  All Rights Reserved.