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Midwesterners are known for being sensible, and it’s with this attitude that the 46-year-old Burton crafts his sound from the chunkiest R&B, country, and pop nuggets in his 45 collection. And in the Midwestern tell-it-like-it-is tradition of Abe Lincoln, William Jennings Bryan, and Harry Carey, he penned “Without My Woman (I’d Be a Worthless Sack of Shit).” That title alone should be worth at least a gold record, but Charlie Burton isn’t famous. Not really. Not yet.
Why not? Because he’s stubborn. He has integrity. His songs actually mean something to him, and he’s made it a lifelong endeavor to avoid trends wherever possible. This may make him seem bull-headed, irascible, and certainly iconoclastic, but to Burton, he’s just being himself. “I think I’ve pretty much stayed the same throughout most of my career,” he says. “What I have done has evolved, but I think I’ve stayed fairly idiosyncratic over the years. Usually when I see anything developing into any kind of trend, if I’m doing anything that I think is similar, it’s time to change the attack. I don’t want to be perceived as being part of any bandwagon or anything.”
He doesn’t have much to worry about there. First of all, he’s not out to please anybody but himself. “I’ve just pretty much tried to stay true to the vision — if you’ll pardon the expression — that I’ve had at any given time,” he says. “Like, the Stray Cats came along and everyone started getting tattoos and wearing their pomps. I’m not saying I ever tried that, but if I did, anyone that really knew me would come along and say, `Charlie, come on now.'”
He also holds himself to a higher standard than most. Plenty of contemporary songwriters are happy to write songs about their own lives, songs that basically boil down to what a burden it is being an entertainer. Burton isn’t biting. “I don’t write songs about being in bands,” he says. “That’s one of my big things. Most audience members would really give just about anything to not be an audience member, but instead be in front of the crowd, entertaining them, and holding the audience in the palm of their hand. When I hear singers complain about being in bands, or what a drag it is on the road, being lonely or whatever, I think, `You’re pretty fuckin’ lucky, pal. Most people would trade places with you in the wink of an eye, so quit your fuckin’ whining.'”
Burton, whose latest release, Rustic Fixer-Upper, is his sixth album (the other five having been self-released by Burton in his home state), writes songs like his father made harpsichords: It’s his life’s work. “If I’m not writing songs, making records, playing with people or something like that, I get very depressed,” he says. “I’m a songwriter, not a guitar player. I’m not a country guitar player, I’m not a rock & roll guitar player, I’m a songwriter, knock wood. I look at a song and I say, `Well, what kind of song is this?’ I don’t have any party line to tow, except being true to what the song tells me.”
Because Burton’s songs are often humorous — you try singing along to “She’s Out of My Hair (But Not Out of My Mind),” “I’m the Guy Who Let Miss Universe Slip Thru His Fingers,” or “Words Don’t Mean Words” without cracking a smile — and frequently odd (“Baby Let’s Play God” is an absolute hoot), he’s had to put up with people who don’t quite `get it,’ writing him off as a novelty type, possibly the only class of musician lower than `critic’s darling,’ another term Burton is all too familiar with.
“A song’s gotta be entertaining,” he says. “I like to be funny, I like to be amusing, but I’m no clown. I hear a lot of people compare me to Mojo Nixon, and I could never quite figure that out. I still can’t, except that we both wrote humorous songs about Elvis Presley fairly early, before everyone was doing it. Sometimes I think Mojo is kind of like the Three Stooges, and I’m kind of like the Marx Brothers written by S.J. Pearlman. We’re both funny, but I have a more intellectual, literate, kind of a thinking-man’s Mojo Nixon thing going on. We’re both trying to make people smile, but you’re not going to find me singing about Kelly Willis’ pussy. Probably.”
Burton, who married a local girl and moved to Austin in ’92 (“I came for the sex and stayed for the music”), remains confident in his niche as a songwriter, and with the release of his album expresses optimism that he may finally be able to share what he has to say with a wider audience. Songwriting, after all, has its advantages: It’s a profession that allows you to be as blunt and candid as possible and get away with it. Not every job is like that.
“I’m glad that I stopped being a writer,” Rolling Stone’s former country critic says. “Could you write an article on how Elvis Presley sucks? No, you couldn’t. But Trent Reznor, or Marilyn Manson? I think I would say, `This shit fuckin’ sucks.’ I think I would be honest, but I don’t think I would be able to hang on to a job.”
Lucky for him, he’s found one that suits him.
Charlie Burton opens for Mojo Nixon at the Continental Club, Saturday, May 3.
This article appears in April 18 • 1997 and April 18 • 1997 (Cover).