The drive out to Sue Foley’s Buda home is one of contrasts: One minute you’re stuck in traffic on the
Interstate, and the next one you’re sailing through gently rolling
pastures in the town south of Austin. Buda’s too small to get lost in, and
Foley’s directions lead to a side street where Rose of Sharon bushes dangle
purple and white blooms by the driveway entrance. The exterior of the cozy
apartment she shares with country player Wayne “The Train” Hancock is straight
out of a Walker Evans photograph or a Dolly Parton song – rural, but neat and
full of love. Full of love, but even more full of promise.
If Sue Foley were playing alternative rock instead of blues, the music press
would be going to church over her. She’s a better guitarist than any of the
grrrls in vogue right now, her songwriting is as well-developed and accessible
as, say, Victoria Williams or Sheryl Crow, her knack for choosing material is
impressive, and she has the requisite chip on her shoulder about how to play
with the boys. She gets good marks critically but when Foley remarked, “I can
play as good as any man and I ain’t no rhythm player,” MTV missed out on a
great soundbite.
At 27, the Ottawa, Canada native seems none too anxious to grab the brass ring
from the 15 Minutes Hall of Fame carousel. She’s more content to go around on
tour, and on the eve of another European jaunt, Foley’s relaxing at home,
twisting her titian hair into a knot on her head as damp little tendrils trail
fetchingly down her neck. Hancock (“It’s not just Wayne the Train, it’s `The
Plane,’ `The Pain,’ `The Great Dane,’ and sometimes `that sonuvabitch,'” he
jokes) stands in the bedroom doorway, wearing the nonstop grin that can only be
described as good naturedly shit-eating. He apologizes croakily for not being
sociable – it’s this sore throat thing, he says, and he’s due to lay down some
tracks at Cedar Creek studios in a couple of days. Foley smiles sweetly at him,
murmuring sympathy. Hancock excuses himself. “Tell me if I play my music too
loud, okay?” he rasps, pointing the fan to blow cool air from the apartment’s
one AC unit toward the bedroom.
Next to where Foley reclines sits a bookshelf, its titles dominated by
biographies and autobiographies from Dorothy Parker and Ava Gardner to Pamela
Des Barres and Marianne Faithfull. “I love the tragic queens, all the
entertainers,” she says as her hand sweeps regally to the rows of books.
“Billie Holiday, Edith Piaf, Edie Sedgwick… Here’s Memphis Minnie – [hers] is
a little hard to read, kind of academic. Sometimes [biographies are] just
facts, facts, facts – who played which recording session, what songs they
played on. I want to know about their lives. I read Ray Charles’ in one
day – he told everything.”
There are Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart biographies next to an
Archie comic (“Wayne loves Archie comics”), but indeed the books
are mainly about tragic queens, notorious women who rebelled and were often
sexual outlaws of sorts, playing out the scenes of their professional and
personal lives in front of the press and cameras, on and offstage. They were
women who made their own rules in a man’s world. It’s a scenario with which
Foley becomes more and more familiar every day. “These are just the ones I
could fit out here,” she says. “I got another box full of books packed away. It
feels a little trashy to like the inside story, but I like to be the observer.
I can remember reading about Groucho Marx when I was about 13, but my new
favorite one is about Bob Dylan.”
No surprise that Foley holds Dylan in such high esteem; she did two of his
songs on her recent Big City Blues, the languid “To Be Alone With You”
and the raucously seductive “If You Gotta Go.” “The thing about Dylan,” Foley
says, as her small, sinewy fingers trace his profile on a full-page photo of
him, “is that it’s so stupid to talk about him and analyze his music. All I can
say is that I’m a fan and I respect what he’s contributed to music.” Foley’s
flat statement about Dylan goes a long way in explaining her own lack of
verbalizing about the music she plays. It’s not that Foley isn’t eloquent, but
how much more can you say about blues that hasn’t already been said? Foley, it
appears, would rather let her pink paisley Telecaster speak for itself on
stage.
And for Sue Foley, onstage says it all. Backed by longtime bassist Jon Penner
and veteran blues drummer Fredde Walden, she cuts loose with a barrage of
sassy, smoky blues licks that come from more than simply an ability to play;
they come from a deep respect and love for the music itself. But even as a
blues lover, she’s not afraid to drop Dylan into an album mix or step out of
the spotlight and play lead behind the bawdy, barroom blues of Candye Kane. Her
guitar playing is fearless, and in a town where the waiting list is long, Sue
Foley’s number is being called.
Foley’s early years wouldn’t
be much grist for a scandalous, tell-all biography, but her fortuitous meeting
with Clifford Antone is the stuff of legends. It’s difficult to imagine the
delicate young woman with gorgeous red-gold hair, ivory skin, and china blue
eyes as a tomboy, but growing up with three brothers in a musical family says a
lot about her ease in playing what is basically the good ol’ boys’ game. She
asked for a guitar at 13 (“I never doubted for a minute that I wanted to play
music.”), was sneaking around to local clubs at 15, and by 17 was joining in
blues jams. That gave her the impetus to try tours into the U.S.; one such
jaunt led to Memphis, where she was seen by Clifford Antone while sitting in
with Duke Robillard at the W.C.Handy Awards.
“Clifford came up and said `Hi,’ and told me to send him a demo tape when I
got back,” recalls Foley in her distinctive Canadian twang. “So when I got
back, I sent him one I’d written, a lowdown, Muddy Waters/Lightnin’ Slim kind
of thing called `Gone Blind’. He called me right back and asked me what I was
doin’. `Nothing’, I told him – I’d just split with my band after being on the
road for a year. `Are you ready to come down here?’, he asked.
“Two weeks later I was in Austin. I came down here in February 1990 –
Valentine’s Day, I’ll never forget that. The band followed in July. That lineup
has changed but Penner’s still with me. He’s been everywhere with me.
Everywhere but to bed….” Her lips curl mischievously at the joke. “There’s
nowhere else in the States I’d want to live, but I’m definitely a Canadian.
Still, there’s something about Texas, it must be the wide-open spaces. It’s got
a strong image, it says `We’re Texas, fuck you!’ and I like that,” she teases.
“Here was George Rains, Jimmie Vaughan, Doug Sahm, Kim Wilson, Junior Brown…
all in one town. I was totally intimidated. I guess I’m kind of a lightweight
about that….” she smiles weakly. But even with Clifford Antone’s seal of
approval, breaking into the Antone’s ranks was a challenge.
By 1992 however, Foley was much less intimidated, having earned her stripes
playing and touring endlessly, as well releasing her debut Young Girl
Blues on the Antone’s label. It was a serviceable if not particularly
auspicious album with three of Foley’s own notable compositions – including
“Gone Blind” – peppered between covers from Slim Harpo, Memphis Minnie, and Ike
Turner. Still, it gave notice that Foley was not to be dismissed. The
subsequent Without a Warning in 1993 was more successful, as well as
aptly titled: She had picked up her own gauntlet, thrown down by the oft-quoted
remark that she could play as good as any man, by blasting through 13 cuts,
including eight of her own.
Suddenly, Foley was hot. A trip to Europe resulted in foaming-at-the-mouth
praise for Foley, who was unaware of the buzz she was creating. “They were out
there chanting, `Sue, Sue, Sue’ and I thought, `That’s for me?” says Foley of a
pivotal MIDEM showcase in Paris. Around the same time, the young guitarist was
nominated for a Juno Award (the Canadian equivalent of a Grammy), while also
unseating longtime “Best Blues Band” winner W.C. Clark in the 1993-94 Austin
Music Awards back here at home. And there was, of course, the nonstop
touring.
When it came time to record album number three, Foley and producer/performer
Stephen Bruton polished 11 gems; four of Foley’s songs and seven covers,
including ones from Howlin’ Wolf, Bob Dylan, and Buddy Guy. Bursting with
road-tested confidence, fortified with the dynamic duo of Jon Penner and Fredde
Walden, and steeped in the gossamer of newfound love, Big City Blues was
the album Foley was born to make. Released in February of 1995, it more than
lived up to the standard of contemporary blues recordings, amply demonstrating
Foley’s maturation as a guitarist, singer, and writer. Big City Blues is
by turns sultry and aggressive, frankly sexual on no-bullshit terms, and weds
Delta blues, Texas roots, and the inevitable Chicago influence with her own
whoop-it-up originals. It also put Foley firmly in the ranks of guitar heroes
Bonnie Raitt and Albert Collins’ guitarist Debbie Davies, though Foley might be
quicker to cite Sister Rosetta Tharp and her beloved Memphis Minnie as role
models. More than just a big step forward, Big City Blues signaled
Foley’s arrival. But new releases – especially such superlative ones – mean
touring. Lots of touring.
Foley’s previous international tours, including Japan, Norway, Denmark,
France, Germany, and various other countries, had been successful, but wised
her up quickly about traveling the Continent. “In Europe, the last time we had
a van; the time before we traveled by train.” The look that crosses Foley’s
face at the memory of touring makes it clear she prefers the train. “A van,”
she chooses her words carefully, “is not exactly what you want to see when you
get over there. It’s like, `Oh, fuck, the same old thing: Back in the van. Here
we go.’ Plus, their vans don’t go as fast as ours.” Foley grimaces at the
thought, then grins. “This time it’s me and Jon and Fredde, and Lewis
Cowdrey.
“Sometimes the audiences there drive me crazy. They’re withdrawn and quiet,
more observant, kind of like Canadian audiences. You wonder if you’re getting
to them. But one thing I’ve learned is that if there’s one set of ears, you
have an audience. I’m Sue Foley; I’ll never be a Muddy Waters but part of my
job is to turn people on to Memphis Minnie or Earl Hooker or some unsung hero
of guitar. And that’s a pretty cool thing to do.”
Like most musicians, Foley
finds the unavoidable chapter on the business end of music daunting, and says
so with a candor that makes you realize this guitarist hasn’t ignored the
lessons learned at Roads University. “Business sucks,” says Foley flatly. “And
I gave up the road management because it was not managing me. The music… wow,
the music’s great. It’s the bizness that kills you. The bizness
values money, numbers, sales. Money, money, money. Power and money. What does
that have to do with music? The biggest lesson has been for me to learn
everything myself. I’m sorry, it’s really hard to trust someone with
your money. Your money is your power, and you give your power to somebody else,
and eventually… well, I just think it’s good to learn it yourself.
“The worst part is that it can kill your spirit. A lot of the new young bands
are literally garage bands one minute then stars. It’s like, where did they
come from? They’re thrown immediately into that machine, and that is a
vicious machine. A lot of them, like Kurt Cobain, become casualties. I
mean, he might have killed himself anyway, but I’m sure he was damaged by that
machine. How many bands today can carry on from record to record, who have a
career when they’re young, like Joni Mitchell or Bob Dylan, and 20 years later
they’re still making records? Bands are so disposable… When I was 19, I said
I couldn’t wait ’til I’m 40, ’cause – especially for women – when you get past
your twenties, you’re not some little chick, this little fluff. Like Bonnie
Raitt, she’s a great role model. She’s done the road and that’s rough,
especially on us girls. We are not the same.
“It’s tough to keep my health together, you start the raggin’ and shit, then
emotional turmoil, and it’s like, AAAH! I know every woman isn’t like that, but
the road’s like that for me. Freak-outs in the hotel rooms, crying in the
pillow… but a lot of that was being 18, 19, and on the road. You have to give
up a lot – men and women both have to give things up – but the reward can be
there at the end.”
And those rewards are hard-earned, as the stories lining the wall of Sue
Foley’s bookshelf will attest. “I’m a rambling woman/I’ll prob’ly never act
right,” she sings on her own “Highway Bound.” That’s okay, Sue. It’ll make
a hell of a biography. n
This article appears in June 30 • 1995 and June 30 • 1995 (Cover).