Archive for the ‘independent radio’ category

Bob Dylan’s “Together Through Life”.

September 9, 2009

From the open dark doorway of a semi-public tavern in a narrow alley in the second city of an island in the Caribbean whose name can never quite be recalled, Whose shape is skated over by fingers on the map on their way to Jamaica, Cuba, Grand Cayman, Aruba, and which has never been bothered much by tourists, (and all that happy business with marimbas, congas and the like never made it there either), sometimes comes the sound of music wafting out to die against the soft ochre alley walls and dark cobblestones dissolving under the weighted tropic glare.

They play for the purest of reasons: to pass the time. They converse in a language of grunts, glances, knowing smiles and random words. Their most articulate, most ongoing conversations they make through their guitars, mandolin, accordion, and the like. The drummer plays a vestigial kit salvaged from the great hurricane of way back when. Sometimes a couple of the ever-present domino players are moved to rise from their endless game and blow along on their battered horns for a spell.

Old cronies, they’d learned about the blues long ago in the same way they learned about approaching weather: via shortwave radio, staticky, interrupted, far off. Without realizing it, they’ve developed their own sound over the years, in their isolation. A lazy tempo, heavy on the bottom end, guitar chords spreading out over the rhythm like a Japanese fan over pulsing coals, accordion’s long exhale, mandolin fluttering above, images of love rising from the singer’s smoky old voice, and those drowsy trumpets.

The singer had left the island out of curiosity many years ago and then returned after twenty five years of singing in second and third tier cities all over the U.S. Singing unloved songs in half deserted rooms where he and his ever-changing audience, if it could be called that, shared a mutual indifference. Curiosity satisfied, he returned to the island. His old acquaintances, friends, liaisons, were all there, playing the old songs in much the same old way. Their faces had sagged, their eyes grown rheumy, and there were fewer teeth among them.

His voice had changed during the last couple of years before his return. He’d struggled with it for a time, in an experience symmetrical with the voice change he’d gone through at 14. He and his new old voice had settled into each other comfortably by the time he returned home. He was taken back into his place in society without much fuss at all.

Sometimes, when a pretty girl, or two, recently come of age, happened down the alley on a sunny afternoon, an old familiar longing would rise up in the bass player and express itself as curiosity about far away places.

Once, as he and the singer stood side-by-side in the doorway to share a cigarette and watch two beauties stroll down the alley to the sun-bleached boulevard at the end, the bass player asked the singer, Why did you return?

The singer, his attention diverted by a savory gust from the ocean, said, with his nose to the wind, Beyond here lies nothing. Except the moon and stars, replied the bass player, glancing up at the glowering sky. It wasn’t necessary for the singer to reply, and he didn’t.
The soft clack of dominoes reminded them then of a song, an old song, a song they could play to pass the time.


The Night James McMurtry Came To Town

April 26, 2009

Saturday afternoon I was playing with Braydon, my brilliant, beautiful grandson, anticipating a quiet evening at home, when Scott called wanting to know if we were planning to go to James McMurtry at Cain’s that evening. Oops. Louise, especially, been looking forward to it for months because she has a thing for ‘smart badboys’, but we’d thought it was still weeks away. Yes, yes, yes! we replied. Scott was thrilled that he wouldn’t have to go alone. We called Braydon’s daddy and told him to come get Braydon by 8 o’clock because we had a prior engagement.

There followed no less than six frantic phone calls from Scott over the next two hours. They were sold out. They had only two tickets left, but there were three of us. He was going to pull the “Folk Salad Card”. He was preparing to beg. Begging had worked! He’d be at Sound Pony having a Marshall’s & could we bring him a Big Mac because he, the poor beggar, hadn’t had anything to eat. Louise put her lips on and we left. Soon we were sitting at the bar and Scott and I were having the McDonalds Happy Meal for Adults, which is a quarter pounder with cheese, French fries, and Marshall’s Pilsner. We shared our fries with Aaron the bartender. Louise ordered a tequila. “Do you want the salt and the lime?” “If it comes in a kit, I want the whole kit.” She drank two. Smart badgirl.

On to McMurtry. It was crowded but not to the extent that would alarm a fire inspector. McMurtry took the stage and delivered songs for the next two hours with the unmovable stern countenance of an old testament prophet with bad news for sinners. When the first song began, a woman had a seizure and was carried out through the crowd, neck arched, shoes missing. Let’s hope she was okay. He wore a dark fedora, shoulder length dark curly hair, spectacles, and a long goatee & moustache. Louise thought he looked like a rabbi. Rabbi McMurtry? Oy.

Looking around the room, Scott and I decided, by a logic that even we don’t understand, that the room was filled with the Folk Salad Demographic. These were surely our listeners. One other thing we noticed about the crowd. It was populated with an unusual number of large men. Why? It’s a mystery. What about James McMurtry’s music appeals to large men? Large men who insist on standing shoulder to shoulder between you and the stage? All we could see for most of the first set was a continent of backs grinding against each other like tectonic plates.

Most of his set was songs from his latest “Just Us Kids” which I hadn’t yet listened to. He’s a brilliant lyricist, on a par with Townes Van Zandt. He’s also a first rate guitarist. The music –Two guitars, bass and drums— is very lean, with a powerful, driving, purifying groove. Many of the crowd knew all the words to all the songs. The song everyone was waiting for, of course, was the Oklahoma epic, “Choctaw Bingo”, and when we first heard those opening chords a mighty roar rose up. Large men pumped their fists into the air and high-fived. And the line in that song that everyone was especially waiting for, the line about getting in between his two sexpot cousins with a hard-on like a bodark fencepost that you could hang a gate from, brought the crowd to a fever pitch. Hats were thrown into the air. Women howled. A fight erupted up front when two plates collided, which surprised and amused McMurtry enough to force a quick grin. I’m not making any of this up.

When the set ended, McMurtry thanked the crowd, stepped offstage, the lights came up, and he fended off well-wishers without breaking stride or making eye contact as he strode to the bar, ordered a whiskey, and exited to the greenroom. The band had managed to slip away while all eyes were on him. He enjoyed his drink (we presume) in a leisurely fashion as the crowd chanted his name over the house music. After several minutes, long enough to make us wonder, he re-emerged for his encore. This is how an encore really should be done, don’t you think? Make ‘em wonder.

We left during the encore. It was not quite midnight when we got into bed. “The room is spinning,” Louise said. “Close your eyes,” I replied.

Review of Gurf Morlix CD- Last Exit To Happyland

January 26, 2009

Gurf Morlix new cd LAST EXIT TO HAPPYLAND is anything but, unless he missed the ramp. Don’t get me wrong it is an exquisitely beautiful work in it’s bare bones simplicity, but there is a theme of regret that runs through the songs.

Nothing illustrates this more than the opening track, “One More Second”. It is a cautionary tale of a man who sets out to do murder and is filled with remorse the instant he pulls the trigger. Then there is the song “Crossroads”, where we are given another take on the old blues fable of encountering the devil at the crossroads and striking a deal.

It is timely, because in these days we are all more acutely aware of the collective cost of our lust for more of the world. He reminds us there is a price to pay for making that deal, as he sings, “you’re gonna get cut and you’re gonna bleed.”

This theme of regret doesn’t just lurk in the hearts of murderers and those who make deals with devil, for Gurf captures the universal experience of lost love perfectly in the song “She’s A River.” It is a beautiful sad lament about a relationship that’s ended and the sometimes fragile, transient nature of love. This is a missed love that like a river has moved on and the regret is palpable, made even more so by the accompanying harmony vocal from Patty Griffin.

Gurf is known probably more for his production skills than his songwriting, but he is accomplished at both, having released five solo CD’s and played on, engineered and produced artists like Lucinda Williams, Ray Wylie Hubbard, Slaid Cleaves, Mary Gauthier, Peter Case, Robert Earl Keen, Jim Lauderdale, Tom Russell, and Ruthie Foster. That is just a partial list, go to <a href=" “>Gurf Discograhy for the complete discography.

It is easy to see why he is such a sought after producer, for the production on “Last Exit To Happyland” is sparse, yet the effect is not bone-chilling, rather it is as if he has stripped the song down deeper than bone to the life-giving marrow that sustains the structure of the song, pulsing right through to our hearts.

If you wish to hear an audio review of the Gurf Morlix CD “Last Exit To Happyland”, then go to <a href=" “>CD REVIEW where you will find a review with snippets of the songs mentioned in this review as well as reviews of Patty Griffin, The Wailin’ Jennys, Joan Osborne, Ray Wylie Hubbard and others.

Red Dirt Music in the New York Times

January 25, 2009

Okay, this isn’t exactly news, but it’s news to us. We were browsing on Cross Canadian Ragweed’s website and found a link to a really well done article on the Red Dirt Music scene from the New York Times, November, 2007. Thought we’d share. For some reason, we can’t seem to manage to actually insert the link here, so just copy & paste the following url to read the NYT article:


Folk Salad On KOSU!

January 11, 2009

We are delighted to announce that starting on January 3, 2009, Folk Salad is now being broadcast over Oklahoma Public Radio’s network of stations, in addition to our longtime flagship station at Public Radio Tulsa, KWGS, 89.5fm.

Oklahoma Public Radio’s stations, and our timeslot:

KOSU Stillwater, 91.7fm, Saturdays at 8:00pm

KOSN Bartlesville, 107.5fm, Saturdays at 8:00pm

KOSU Okmulgee, 101.9fm, Saturdays at 8:00pm

Public Radio Tulsa, and our ongoing timeslot:

KWGS Tulsa, 89.5fm, Sundays at 7:00pm

This means that you can now listen to Folk Salad throughout most of Oklahoma, and parts of Kansas, Missouri, and Arkansas.

And, of course, we stream live on the worldwide web at the above-noted times.

Please visit our newspage for more information.