Live Shots

REFLECTIONS ON WOODY GUTHRIE

Cleveland, Ohio, September 20-29

From September 20-29 “Hard Travelin’,” a series of events dealing with “The
Life and Legacy of Woody Guthrie,” was held in Cleveland, concluding with a
concert at Severance Hall, home of the Cleveland Orchestra — the most
prestigious music venue in town. Bruce Springsteen, Pete Seeger, Arlo Guthrie,
Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Billy Bragg, Joe Ely, Ani DiFranco, Country Joe
McDonald, the Indigo Girls, Syd Straw, and others appeared. Tim Robbins emceed.
On the previous night, Alejandro Escovedo, John Wesley Harding, Jimmy LaFave,
Jimmie Dale Gilmore, Paul Metsa, Straw and McDonald had appeared at a
hootenanny at a local club.
Over the ten days, an exhibition of Guthrie’s photographs hung at the Rock and
Roll Hall of Fame, an institution heavily involved in the entire celebration,
and the films Bound for Glory, Woody Guthrie: Hard Travelin‘, and
A Vision Shared: A Tribute To Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly were shown.
Other major organizers included Guthrie’s daughter, Nora, head of the new Woody
Guthrie Archives in New York (which received a portion of the income generated
by the events), and Case Western Reserve University.
The overwhelming majority of those attending were white and middle class; most
appeared affluent. You didn’t have to look far to spot the blue-haired ladies.
The working class and people of color that Guthrie championed did not appear in
strength — in fact they were rare as hen’s teeth. In the Forties and Fifties,
very few people of any kind were aware of Guthrie, as Harold Leventhal, his
manager, stated during a panel discussion. The working class bought the records
of Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Rosemary Clooney, Nat Cole, and Chuck Berry.
The Weavers, before being blacklisted, ironically did have a large popular
following because, despite their laudable idealism and controversial views,
they offered rather bland, slick music that appealed to a mass audience. Unlike
Guthrie, they did not have strong regional accents and their singing wasn’t
grainy. They weren’t folk artists; just popularizers of folk music. Though
later inducted into the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame and having had his
songs performed by Willie Nelson, Dolly Parton, and Emmylou Harris, Guthrie
didn’t even have much of a following among country music fans. His lyrics went
over their heads, his melodies seemed too old-fashioned, and his politics
offended them. Guthrie was a man of the people, but the people knew nothing
about him. He became popular only when those he’d influenced began making it
big — i.e., Bob Dylan.
Some events were held on the Case Western Reserve campus, including panel
discussions. One, “Woody’s Influence on American Music,” seems particularly
worthy of mention. Moderating was Charles McGovern, curator of 20th century
popular culture at the National Museum of American History, Smithsonian
Institution. Panelists included Anthony DeCurtis, former Rolling Stone editor, Robert Cantwell, Adjunct Professor of American Studies at the
University of North Carolina, and Fred Hellerman, an original Weaver and later,
a writer of film and TV music.
The subject of the discussion, Guthrie’s music, lyrics, and their influence,
was barely touched upon; the panelists ignored their mandate. Instead,
DeCurtis, Cantwell, and McGovern ran through a litany of clich�s
intended to solidify Guthrie’s status as an icon. Terms like
“post-industrialism and “post-modernism” were tossed around as they emphasized
the political, social, and even mythological rather than the artistic. The
aptly named Cantwell referred to Guthrie as a “Druidic figure… who tapped
into subconscious racial memories.” If the panelists had any knowledge of, or
interest in, harmony, melody, or rhythm it wasn’t evident. Maybe they think
music isn’t important enough to discuss as an end in itself.
Provocative moments were provided by Hellerman. An audible gasp could be heard
from the audience after he remarked that Guthrie’s music, as opposed to his
great lyrics, was not of great interest, that in this area he hadn’t advanced
beyond the Carter family. Hellerman implied that Guthrie’s knowledge of harmony
was rudimentary. He praised the Dust Bowl ballads, but suggested stuff he wrote
later wasn’t particularly interesting from a purely musical standpoint. Due to
Hellerman’s impeccable folkie credentials, he wasn’t lynched on the spot,
although audience members asked him some pretty pointed questions at their
first opportunity.
The Severance Hall concert contained a lot of good music, which was what the
conference was mainly about (they got that right!). For me the stars were the
Indigo Girls, DiFranco and Bragg. The latter wrote a couple of melodies for
lyrics found in Guthrie’s papers. Springsteen did a nice set, highlighted by
his “Across the Border,” dealing with the problems of illegal aliens. Then came
Arlo Guthrie, an intelligent, witty guy who, though brought up in New York
City, has been talking English with a rustic accent for at least 30 years, and
deliberately makes grammatical mistakes. (His sister, Nora, sounds like the
Eastern intellectual she is.) Finally, Pete Seeger jumped on stage to lead the
obligatory sing-along section, ending with, you guessed it, “This Land is Your
Land.”
After the concert, a select few were allowed backstage for wine and cheese.
Here, I was particularly impressed with Maurice B., a small, elderly, cheerful
waiter with a discolored shirt, who encouraged people to eat and generally was
quite helpful. He was one of the few working men in evidence that night, and
seemed like Guthrie’s kind of guy. — Harvey Pekar

Liberty Lunch, October 14

There were one or two problems. Shocked’s guitar completely cut out during
“I’ve Come a Long Way” and she had to steal one from her band to make it
through “If Love Was a Train.” Then she tried to work out the beginning of
“Cotton Eyed Joe” a couple of times (“That sounds like shit,” said Shocked),
stopping to let the audience know that there was a groove somewhere and if we
could all find it, things would begin to sound just fine. Whoa, whoops! Maybe
you ought to use that capo there, Michelle, and get in the same key as the rest
of the guys. That might help the sound. Actually there were a few other
problems, some technical, some not. (Most notably, perhaps, was the crowd,
which at only a couple of hundred was a noticeable drop-off from Shocked’s
packed local shows of a few years ago.) After a lethargic version of
“Homestead,” Shocked figured she was better off just winging it, blowing off
the set list and, launching into “Cold Comfort” despite the fact that her horn
section didn’t have sheet music for it and didn’t come up with the dynamite
improvs for which she’d hoped. Nevertheless, Shocked played longer than what
many artists try to pass off as a headliner-length set, so her capitulating to
her own frustration and subsequent aborting of the show brought the night not
to a premature end, but an oddly abrupt one. She gave one more song, some disco
dance lessons, and then left. No encore. Can you argue with the performer when
she flat-out says that it’s just not her night? Well, that’s the real problem.
None of the little problems were terribly annoying and the cumulative effect of
them gave the players an unassuming badge of perseverance. What may have pissed
off the performer was generally lost on or overlooked by the audience, which
put a weird spin on what was otherwise a completely adequate show. Maybe
Shocked should have stopped trying to fix what wasn’t terribly broken, letting
the people enjoy what they could — her voice. At least she asked for
forgiveness in advance before leaving the stage. — Michael Bertin

Live Oak Theatre, October 11-12

Okay, so it wasn’t Carnegie Hall. Neither was it Jazz at the Lincoln Center.
Elephant Room? Nope. In fact, to some, this annual two-night showcasing of
Austin’s “Women in Jazz” might not have even been real jazz — which is
ultimately what made it so totally and completely Austin. This being the case,
it would be only too easy to concentrate on the negatives: both nights’ opening
sets, 20 minutes by LaMonica Lewis on Friday and Sheila Sanders on Saturday,
were too short for either singer to get settled; Tina Marsh, minus her
fearless Arkestra (John Mills notwithstanding), was declawed; Mady Kaye could
have been singing for tips in any hotel bar while Friday’s headliner, Carmen
Bradford, belonged at Harrah’s in Lake Tahoe, and Saturday’s mid-set anchor,
Karen Chavis, had obviously mistaken the Live Oak for some joint in Vegas.
Willie Nicholson and Connie Kirk closed Saturday night with powerhouse sets —
too bad they belonged at Antone’s on a hot and sweaty night. There. A total of
eight shitty hours, right? Not quite. On the real jazz side there was
Hope Morgan, delivering her 30-minute set as if she were every great jazz diva
rolled into one; Pamela Hart evoking Billie Holiday with her pure, sweet
vulnerability; the piano playing of James Polk on Friday and Fredrick Sanders
on Saturday; even the emcee, Doc Burns from KAJZ, made the quick transitions
between acts (six ladies each evening) even quicker. Oh, so it was a mixed bag,
eh? Not quite. Not so black-and-white. Take for example Mady Kaye’s set, which
could just as easily been written up as a modern extension of Rosemary Clooney.
Or Karen Chavis, who might have come off as too That’s Entertainment for
some (me), yet garnered one of the best audience responses (several hundred
each night) over both nights. And what about Willie Nicholson, built for
comfort not speed, with her rich, spacious voice that went Aretha-goes-revival
on the raucous “Million Dollar Secret”? Or Connie Kirk, more Redd Foxx than
Ella Fitzgerald, and she still taught every woman there what it is to be a jazz
singer. And what exactly is a jazz singer? There isn’t one set definition. It’s
an all-encompassing style defined mostly by improvisation and pure soul. And in
that definition, not only was 1996’s “Women in Jazz” concert pure Austin, it
was also Carnegie Hall, Jazz at the Lincoln Center, and especially the

Elephant Room. — Raoul Hernandez

Mayfair Ballroom, Portland, Oregon, October 17

Every music festival must have a super-secret all-star jam — think Golden
Smog at South by Southwest a couple years ago or the surprise
Trent-Reznor-and-friends convergence at CMJ this year. North by Northwest was
no exception. Brought to you by the makers of SXSW, this fledging festival in
its second year wasn’t hush-hushing this show, however. Hell, no. This was an
event. Not one that guitarist Mike McCready from Pearl Jam could be
bothered to show up for, nor one where you might encounter Steve Berlin of Los
Lobos, but an event nonetheless. And the only reason for mentioning these two
gentleman is because they’re in Tuatara — along with Peter Buck from
R.E.M., Barrett Martin from Screaming Trees, Luna bassist Justin Harwood, and
saxitarist Skerrick Walton from Critters Buggin’. “Ethnic, acoustic,
soundtrack-record type” music is what Buck termed it in Rolling Stone recently. You mean lounge music? Why, yes! Only with a tropical twist!
Tiki music. As Hawaiian as Don Ho, exotic as Carmen Miranda, or swinging as
Jackie Gleason. The real deal! Carefree and light-hearted like the Fifties. No
wonder Epic is releasing their album in February. The music’s just too
important, nevermind who’s in the band. Nevermind that I missed the Friends of
Dean Martinez to see three-quarters of the Gits backing another screamer in
Speed Queen (brutal). Nevermind recent Warner Bros. signees Sky Cries Mary,
whose Dead Can Dance as alternative rock roar was enthralling. Nevermind John
Cale. Nevermind every baby band that mattered. “The main reason I’m in this
band is because I wasn’t afraid to make a fool of myself,” said Buck valiantly
in RS. No, Peter, you sure weren’t. Wish I’d caught Eddie Vedder’s
wife’s band, Hovercraft, instead. — Raoul Hernandez

Blondie’s, October 19

What do you do if you’re broke and want to hear some live guitar rock? Easy.
Raid your laundry lucre cache, grab some beverages, and head down to Blondie’s
on Saturdays for free music. Blondie’s has moved its skate gear and snow board
accoutrements shop from their previous walk-in closet location on Guadalupe to
its current industrial incarnation between Fifth and Sixth. The new digs have
breathing room — so much so that Blondie’s was able to add a stage, giving
local bands another venue to hone their skills. And hone they do. While it was
obvious that Squid Vicious were suffering a case of butterflies, their basement
brand of Tarantino surf was well worth a listen, even though the difference in
playing demeanors between the guitarist and the rhythm section undercut the
music itself; the guitarist seemed literally to play to the beat of a different
drummer (a drummer that was a few steps behind). The result: Royale with Melted
Cream Cheese instead of Dick Dale on a snowboard. Even after seeing Piltdowns I
don’t know why they named themselves after a skull used in an elaborate
anthropological fraud. It’s not that they were trying to pull a musical fast
one, but then again it didn’t seem as though they were convincing themselves
very well either. When they were on they vaguely brought to mind old Dinosaur
Jr., but then again that might have been the Theme from Barney I heard. Bo Bud
Greene, a facsimile of a quasi-Nirvana cover band sans spark, drew a
decent number of folks at the start of their set, but I’m at a loss to know
why. So here comes Wookie to save the gig. They demonstrated their rightful
place as headliners, producing the most interesting music in the house. This is
not to say they broke the trend of wearing influences on their sleeve, they
were just the least clich� of the four bands. Perhaps it was an extra
guitarist/vocalist who added more texture to the well-trodden alternative song
format. The audience? Well, the crowd showed their appreciation for all four
bands in their own unique way (if you can’t visualize this given the venue and
bands playing, I refer you to the crowd in the “Homerpallooza” episode of
The Simpsons). Yes, the Nirvana Poltergeist was in the house, but there
were some strains to break free of it and for that I have hope for the future. — David Lynch

This article appears in October 25 • 1996 and October 25 • 1996 (Cover).