LEVON

LEVON

There are many brands of bullshit in every business—especially show business—and Levon Helm seemed to cut right through them, each and all.

The Great and Powerful Levon Helm 

It was the autumn of '69, and I was an eleven year old kid beginning to play in bands in Fredericksburg, Va., when the elastic funk of a wah-wah clavinet first bounced out the radio announcing the arrival of the train that would take us Up On Cripple Creek. The conductor called us on board with a sonorous Arkans-drawl, and a smitten country-wide collective gladly boarded. The beat was brawny and adult, the tale was crowed proudly, each syllable making every stop through the ululating pipes until it was laid before us all, resolute and unashamed. It was news: the sound, the message and the manner and everything but shy. It teemed with spirited energy while relaxed and playful. It was delivered plainly, self-assuredly and directly without being the least bit harsh, hostile or aggressive.

I now realize that we were then listening to a man presenting his heart and soul entirely with every word, every beat. The whole honest deal swirled before you, or rather sat in the saddle of celebration while digging in with the sophistication of the lived-in ages, crookedly smacking each rimshot, twisting his torso toward the thing that was undoubtedly the truth: the only prize worth clamoring  for instinctively, relentlessly-- the thing worthy of stumbling toward like a fool, if need be.

Levon Helm was known for crowing about what’s worth crowing about. He was able to do precisely that for a long time, but we wish it were for much longer. Wisdom seemed to have been born with him. He had that wonderful duality, at once the tenured wise beyond his years teenager and the old-timer with the rough and rowdy heart of foolish youth.

I’ve been fortunate to have performed with more than a few talented folks over the years (dumb-luckier than a per-chance spied evening meteor to have played with the man himself on a few occasions), and I’ve mostly endeavored, by his inspiration, to try and put the utmost heart and commitment into every note of each performance –enough so that there may be no doubt about being “all the way in”. It’s an ambitious and hopeful touchstone of an approach, and not always a successful one, but it was hearing and seeing Levon that showed me that if you stood in the ring squarely on both feet, looked the song in the eye, and brought your soul to its statement with total conviction, that an inarguable truth could be willed out. Damn—how could anyone up there get away with “phoning it in” while that dude was singing and playing? I dunno, is how. 

I've heard and seen Levon more times than I can count: of course with The Band as well as his other numerous projects (Levon and The Cate Brothers in the 80's was always a must) right up until last year. Throughout that time I heard, saw or sensed nary a false or halfhearted note or moment. I choose to believe there were none.
 

That‘s not to say that Levon was the guy to reel in a breakdown, stifle a gid, wag a finger, be a whip-cracker, task-master or buzz-killer in a studio or stage setting. The few times I remember proved contrary.  Although listening to him tell the tales from his early and then long career, or reading stories from his book, one might be sobered to learn that the glorious music was the end to the means, and up until, around and after that fact, there was much banality and pesky no-nonsense scenes to be seen to by those with level country heads such as his.  

But, before and after all, what is (good) music if not total joy, and what is a show, a gig or a session if not a great hang with other musicians? I was blessed to be able to hang out and be joyful with Levon on several occasions, mainly and thankfully due to my friend and brilliant songwriter Emory Joseph having hired me on, along with a few other longtime band-mates and buds Duke Levine, Dave Mattacks, Kevin Barry and the late great T-Bone Wolk for his recording sessions for Labor and Spirits, and to later perform a few years ago at Levon’s notorious Midnight Ramble house concert in Woodstock.

At the Ramble, I on keys for Emory's opening set, along with Steve Holly, Andy York & T-Bone doing tunes from his Robert Hunter collection Fennario, and his original Labor & Spirits. It was figuratively and literally a Thanksgiving celebration, but that night Levon contributed his spirit exclusively at the drum set as per doctors’ instructions, saving his voice for a better mended fit to crow day, which would indeed would arrive after that healing hiatus and others. 

The Ramble’s stage/studio/barn/playhouse was packed with fans, friends and family. The stage was full of brilliant players and singers and revel truly rocked the hills while Levon beamed and walloped the kit with a  gladiator's zeal, exuberant as any man is allowed to be in this world, perhaps enjoying the tribal celebration and the venerated center spot of a cultural phenomenon to be savored and cherished within those moments. Like all others, they would come to pass and be no more, gone as quickly as their notice. 

After our set I sat on a radiator within yards of the widely grinning man in the starched collared shirt, wearing the short gloves that held the sticks so deftly, at times recklessly, passionately drilling home the deliberate but wiley ride cymbal, ballistic and balanced about the toms with each fill tumbling into rebirth in another verse or refrain, truly a wonder and one-time thrill. All eyes were on him, and every amazed gaze was glad and good. All hearts were soaring and it was as if he had the lot of us on his knee, children giddy-upping along on the whoop-whipping ride of our lives.

The recording sessions years earlier were yet another story to tell.

I had been on a few shows along with Levon, who performed on-- and was the voice for--a television series in the 90’s called The Road. I was participating as a band member with Mary Chapin Carpenter and Rodney Crowell. There were some roll-out shows at Opryland in Nashville, and I remember Levon--bearded and leading with his toothy smile and aviator shades, his lithe and seemingly frail frame swimming deep within a bright blue color coordinated warm-up suit. He sported the endearing charisma of a true bad-ass who could never escape his own sincerity, thus prohibiting him from ever coming off as a flippant, rude or lofty star. Levon seemed to me real, and a real good and cool cat.

Years later, in ‘98, at Longview Studios, a converted 1919 dairy farm in rural Massachusetts, Levon would arrive with a couple of his own closest friends to join us for a day of tracking on Emory’s Labor & Spirits record. He bounded amiably in, proceeded to make himself--and thereby all else there—comfortable and relaxed. Proceeding to wield and prepare organic substances he jovially credited with his remission from throat cancer, it was perhaps the pervasive nature of such a smoky realm that transformed the day into one of the most guffaw-filled and zany fun house rides that I’ve ever survived.

The day was summer sunny, hot and humid, dusty and buggy. I recall his remark that this was “heat that’ll follow you into the shade”, among many other stories, tales and asides. I must include the image of Funk legend Bernie Worrell who aimlessly ambled into our studio, having nothing to do while his sessions in the nearby larger barn studio were suspended due to a death in the family of one of the crew. I’ll forever kick myself for not taking a picture of Bernie wearing his tee shirt, head wrapped in a bright blue bandana, tenuously and daintily tooting notes on my new (to him) penny whistle. Bernie Worrell playing a penny whistle. Think about it. 

Back to the sessions.

It was decided that it wouldn’t be too insane to set up two drum kits, each facing the other, at which Levon and Dave Mattacks could respectively concoct a tandem groove. It came together like a sideways train on a sky bound track. Those familiar with the artistry and angles of Dave Mattacks can possibly imagine the resulting delight that was those two percussive worlds colluding. You can hear it on Emory Joseph’s Family Dog…

Much music, mirth and magic was made that day, and it all now exists forever, along with some extemporaneous outtakes that Emory was foolishly wise enough to include in the final master.

It was then time to lay down some background vocals on a few tunes (Rhum and Coffee and Family Dog) the first song written for and dedicated to the great Guy Clark. It’s a bouncy, rollicking proclamation and celebration of recipes promoting poetry and the autonomy of personal choices. That’s my read, at any rate. The second is a first-dog description of the canine ethos that you by now may have heard.

We all gathered around one microphone with Emory, T-Bone & Levon, whose hoarse voice was neither a disclaimer nor a discouragement. Once we were done clowning and were underway, every note from his challenged pipes was pure and perfectly pitched, a singer's singer in any circumstance.

Until then though, it was pretty much of a riot. I won’t delve way into it here, but suffice to say that a good joke is worth developing for as long as it promises to be funny, and Levon's efforts wouldn’t end until all was explored. 

To this day, it’s one of my personal all-time favorite outtake bits, and I wish I’d had the chance to laugh to it all over again with him. 

I like to call it Duckboy and The Day Visitors
(careful...intentionally offensive language)

This past few days since Levon’s exit from this world have been like that tough dream you must muddle through until you eventually awaken. You’d rather not be within it, but it’s too late now. It’s hard to peg this feeling, because it’s hard to tag the man, the artist, the voice, the legend. Every note he sang, strummed, picked or played was the whole picture: the picture with which Levon Helm was wholly familiar: the way of the world. 

 

There’s no doubt that The Band was one of music’s most influential forces, and even as an eleven year old, it was clear to me as I listened to other songs that were somehow too real, too honest and too important to become hits you heard on the radio repeatedly alongside Frankie Vallie, The Grassroots, Buckinghams, Monkees or--you get the picture—that these guys weren’t merely onto something that was special like a new sonic discovery or genre recipe. Instead they were continuing, developing and adding to a mountain of heart, soul and song that, without these responsible sentinels minding the other careless kids who were whistling through the candy store, might very well be whittled and weathered down to whispered ephemera. 

Theirs was a stewardship of almost holy proportion. Merely to illustrate the point further: The Night They Drove Old’ Dixie Down was the B-side of their sole top 40 hit Cripple Creek in ‘69. That was and is the  prevailing “wisdom” of commercial radio. 

As a band, the group contained profound multitudes, as any great band must. Multi instrumentalists, gifted storytelling and lyricism, singular and combined vocal magic made them distinctive, almost mystical. Danko’s frantically wavering tenor barely able to contain itself, Richard Manuel’s father time confessor of pain and purity, sincere energy from a darker place that maybe only he and Ray Charles could see—Robbie Robertson’s perfectly placed strums and licks economically serving those brilliant songs while he added vocal element X to the harmonies. And all that dressed up and launched heavenward by the illustrious operatic orchestrations of Garth Hudson's keys and reeds. Also, like any great ensemble, the sum of it all became one glorious sound, not to be easily analyzed or deconstructed, but accepted and appreciated like a golden rising moon.

But its front man, ambassador, pilot, admiral, spokesman, non-apologetic and all encompassing personae that stood undeniably on the shoulders of the sturdiest and most venerable truths of our earthly clan, was the scruffy rascal that knew how to put it across. He wasn’t slick or jive, posing or primping. He was a truth-teller with gusto, a crusader with class, a clarion call for all to fear not. Go on and have a REAL good time. Do a good job and tell it like it is.

He was what making music is about. He was what being alive is all about. 

Wow—a jewel is gone. Let all shine on.

~JC

To Folks Who Condemn Addicts on Moral Grounds

There is a fatal disease called drug addiction. Millions of people have it, and millions seek help --many working hard enough and being blessed enough to begin successful recovery.

Many are unsuccessful.

Many people who battle drug addiction (which some prefer to call "demons") have creativity, artistic expression and the quest for beauty as their raisin d'etre. Their status and cultural prominence as celebrities has them venerated as well as awarded with financial success (That Whitney was one of the greatest singers of all time is something most folks are capable of appreciating) but that is often fleeting as the disease is unrelenting and progressively defeating. It's reported that at the time of her death Ms. Houston was not only financially bankrupt but as anyone who's traveled to their own "bottom" of addictive descent can attest, she was more than likely just as physically and spiritually depleted.

 It is an insidious (and I reiterate, fatal) disease. It's cunning and baffling. Look it up. It is as clinically diagnosable as diabetes, hepatitis or cancer.

Many here and elsewhere are quick to condemn addicts on moral grounds--a sophomoric knee-jerk reflex which is utterly ignorant. There are some who are offended by an outpouring of sympathy, grief and over-appreciation of these victims as if it were the obsequious cloying of an adulatory public for a beloved artist or personality who meets an untimely end which they may consider to be self-inflicted. I  recoil wincing from the professional punditry (many of whom are not only relatively mediocre non-creative performers, but suffer from addictive disorders themselves) who serve up their judgemental sanctimony with moral indictments of the victim's character to their "followers" who collectively hoist them to some perversely procured pedestal.

But we should better mind and consider that this disease discriminates even less. It doesn't discriminate at all. 

With all that considered, addiction and self-destructive behavior, albeit collaterally pervasive for the family, friends and associates of the sufferer, are perhaps not as abjectly and overtly destructive as that of so many others' whom we admire, pardon and emulate while never acknowledging and accepting the simple truth that good folks oftentimes lose battles with profound diseases. Addiction is but one of those, regardless of the victim's soulful fortitude or strength of character.

~JC

On Chris Richard's Washington Post Grammy Review

It’s unfortunate that Chris Richards [Disjointed Grammys honor Whitney Houston] couldn't find more to appreciate positively about the evening. A live broadcast of a multiple-act performance oriented variety show will of course not have uniformly seamless transitions and as a whole, and will be technically "disjointed".  

With variety, one must expect some inconsistency.
 
The few positive remarks he did make were framed and diluted with cynically contextualized. He cites a few “moments of clarity”, while merely relating others without comment, reserving all his writer's eloquence for stabs and snarks.
 
His commentary on Springsteen's opening number “We Take Care of Our Own” (“given Houston’s death, an ill-considered opening line: “America, are you alive out there?”) was just plain opportunistic and trite.  
 
And Taylor Swift's number (which received a show-stopping standing ovation, hello...) was strong and masterfully rendered. "Sour grapes"...o.k., but that's indeed the theme of the song, man. 
 
If Richards feels the night's show was "something to be endured ...a ceremony riddled with disjointed collaborations that spanned genres and generations for the sake of ... what, exactly?"...
and a "missed opportunity" some 25-hours after the untimely and unfortunate death of one of the music world's all-time greats, then perhaps he's the one that's missing an opportunity to consider writing about something else.
 
I've seen, performed at, and attended numerous Grammy telecasts, and I felt this was one of the more memorable and richly enjoyable, warts and all.  

The WP Piece Here

In Response to WCP

As per dialogue concerning This Piece

Dear Jon & WCP~

You seem to have acknowledged the full dress of the issue, addressed it with articulate and consultative dialogue, than stitched it all together once more into a nice hat that more closely resembles a burlap sack then crammed it back over our head.

My problem, after all, is how the term singer-songwriter is presented as a sonic signifier as well as a genre dismissal. Not that all recordings begin or end with a song, but most do. And regardless of what that song is saying and how it’s being said, anything with lyrics is a written song whatever the genre. And someone is singing that written song.

To name a mere few: Leonard Cohen, Tom Waits, Paul Simon, Lou Reed, Coldplay, Bowie, Beefheart, Band of Skulls, Lola Jesus, Junip, Jesus and Mary Chain are each and all songwriters or bands with songwriters. Take your pick of most any recordings, and unless it’s strictly instrumental--and sometimes even then--you’ll see a song with lyrical content in there.

Are some edgier than others textually or sonically? One might easily neglectfully overlook one while knowingly dismissing the other. Some more pop-ier? Some folk-ier? Folksy-pop, maybe not an established genre--but what does that exactly mean?

If WCP is referring to acoustic, folk, spare or simple 3 to 4 chord starkly accompanied performing songwriters, you might state so more articulately, more specifically. You clearly wax colloquial in a time when labels are so blurred (you do acknowledge the mix tape/album ambiguity) that we’re ever-compelled to clamor for descriptive certainty. So this could be a discussion of semantics, but I fear it concerns something more formidable and more consequential. 

Is one to perceive WCP’s reiterated policy statement as an unwillingness to write about, promote or cover any artist whose principal element purveyed through their art is lyrical content? Should WCP then recuse itself from critical regarding the lyrical content within any of the genres they do cover, or at least admit that lyrics are the least and last aspect worth regard?

It would be refreshing to sense a more positive eagerness to welcome a field of potential critics to cover “singer-songwriters”, rather than beholding your skepticism-laced frontloaded naysay based on your two-year history with the paper. In any vibrant arts city--especially this Capital one—any apparent ongoing intransigent policy or a status quo smells very uncreative, inartistic, unadventurous, unliberated, stodgy— etc. and ew.

Art reviewers--music reviewers in particular—can sometimes understandably frustrate and unnerve an artist for they enjoy the privileged license to impart the first and last official word regarding works whose very creation was something in which they had no direct hand. That’s not meant disrespectfully, or as a dismissal. Critical review is essential to a healthy artistic process, within and without, published or not.

Many a critic’s names have become household words. The great Edmund Wilson was a well admired and respected writer, although mostly known for his abundant critical reviews and pieces. He had enough inherent and cultivated taste and judgmental skills as well as earned erudite credibility to be a trusted source for literary appraisal. He, too, had a dismissive side. He, too, felt some types of writing were not worth consideration. He also believed that all writing--even critiques—should be good enough to be considered literature.

I’ve heard other music critics state proudly that their primary concern is to provide their readership with something colorful, enticing and entertaining. H.L. Mencken, Christopher Hitchens, Martin Amis (certainly a novelist first) each discerning to barbed degrees, always manage to be fun to read.

Yes, a critic’s job contains multitudes. It should never be taken lightly. Perhaps you feel that critical commentary on the work of singer-songwriters doesn’t offer enough fuel for that sort of fire.  

Critics have the ironic power of the written word with which to express an informed, informing and seasoned opinion of a work with the intention of aiding and influencing the audience’s approach to it, possibly hastening a decision whether to approach at all. It can and often does pass as entertaining reading. In fact, words and their crafted scan and sequence combine for an eerily powerful commodity.  Any songwriter known for their songs would more than likely attest to them being if not the most important aspect of their work, than the one requiring the most focused and intensely invested effort.  

The creative process is a painstaking and subjective one. So is the act of critically reviewing, assessing and assailing, praising or poo-pooing the resultant work. Each process can be fulfilling, endearing, gratifying and righteous or unsettling, dyspeptic, vindictive and torturous.

But for WCP to proudly brandish categorical and sweeping subjectivity as a policy statement (furthered in the guise of speculation that no one with “the chops” will likely come forth to mollify the situation) is pure bigotry, somewhat poorly articulated, at that.

Today’s social networking platforms can create the unfortunate illusion that one’s proximal and encircling universe is the only universe. A newspaper (a City Paper) has the task (and you largely rise to it) of transcending that phenomenon and unifying—magnifying-- a city’s diverse art scene into our one proud corner of the sky. Within that though, exclusionary policies based on vague terminology will prove counterintuitive. You notably and generally do excel at this mission--the title of your piece was the inviting inquiry, “so how’d we do?” which is, on one hand, amiable, admirable and encouraging--unmistakably in the spirit of convivial inclusion and pluralistic awareness. One the other hand, it contrasts into an unfriendly and unbecoming light the reiterated intent to banish a huge--and I believe legitimate--faction of our arts community to the literary elsewhere.

‘What is hip? Tell me, tell me if you think you know…”

I’ve been around long enough to know what isn’t: bigotry and uninformed dismissiveness. We might all strive to be cooler in that regard.

Thanks for indulging my far too many words, and many thanks for all you do! I’m digging the 2011 list of salient artists and recordings from 2011.

I can also chime, apart from this bit of a blip, job well done!

May yours and other area publications along with the efforts of all the artistic players in the Washington DC area continue to be a hearty, mindful and soulful collaboration toward an ever-more realized, flourishing and thriving artistic community.  

~Jon Carroll  Songwriter, Musician  www.joncarroll.org

On Media's Obsessive Take On Tim Tebow

Again, spirituality becomes merely another type of "condition" rendering someone or something remarkable and apart from most.

There has been and will always be race, sex, creed bigotry--the cause of the deliberation most folks make--repeatedly-- in deciding to what extent they should or shouldn't be overt in the expression of their identities.

As fans or as media monkeys, we seem to have stigmatized Tebow-cast a different colored spotlight than that which shines on the nominally prominent sports figure. We've made him extra special--moreover, peculiar. 

But I'll wager that he is much more inclusive in his assessment and analysis of his team's successes: Jesus on the main line, yes...but shouldn't we also cite the FRONT line?  Believers? How about those receivers? That's one great congregation out there (Matthew 18:20, indeed) and I'm sure Tim would demure from taking all that credit, even when offering the overall to the Almighty. 

There's a spirit moving in and through all of us, and that's regardless of how, why and where we may kneel.

 ~JC 

(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction

SATISFACTION From The BandHouse Gigs Tribute to the British Invasion.

 Everybody cooks on this. Yeah.

Note to Pete--Amis's & Avlon's, King's & Kingsley's

Hey Pete, Dreadful Show~

I have to weigh in with a bit of a raised eyebrow that you weren’t aware of author Martin Amis when John Avlon brought him up yesterday. Fair enough, as it’s always refreshing to hear you (and too few others) own and confess to areas of expertise and erudition where you, as well as all of us, sometimes find ourselves lacking or without more formidable knowledge. Curiosity is a golden resource, which you recognize and remind your listeners of regularly. I’m now a reader of over a dozen new writers/journalists with whom you and your listeners have made me familiar.

I was a bit surprised, because you seem to put a high premium on soul-stirring and mind/game changing narratives, and in the wake of Vaclav Havel’s recent passing, which in fact was the context of your and Johns’ conversation, there is acknowledgement of the worth of great artists—writers, thinkers, poets, musicians as well as eloquent activists--in the realization of real societal change--they, the real warriors in the battle for hearts and minds, if you will. Amis is truly one of those.

I was happily surprised to hear that John A and Martin A were buds.  I’ve read many, but not all, of Martin's books, fiction and non-fiction, and have just completed The House of Meetings…which is a wonderful novel tale of a love triangle involving brothers who each spent time in Stalin’s camps. I feel that London Fields is his most sure-handed and most realized accomplishment, although all his books are masterfully written, full of wit, irony, tears, and magnificent and masterful wordcraft.  Time’s Arrow is, unfortunately, the one book that is read by many whom only have read one of his works. It is a gem, though.

An added irony is that Llewellyn King, who like John, was subbing for you while you were on vacation, was listing authors whose language and philosophies served as salient examples of great language and societal examination. I was compelled to call in when he mentioned Kingsley Amis (Martin’s father), as one of his favorites (the English teacher from Texas, as I recall, was unaware of him) and I was eager to discuss language—linguistics in particular. I waited...and waited until The King connected, apologised, then was his usual gracious and affable self, albeit in the last minute of his show.

In my travels as a performer, I cross paths with many journalists, statesmen and politicos, collaborate with some, and have cultivated lasting friendships with a handful. Two in particular, on different occasions, were slow to recognize Llewellyn King’s name when I brought it up, as I do frequently due to my highest regard for his work, as well as his wonderfully entertaining style of commentary. They came to, of course, when I mentioned his show, White House Chronicle. He is a golden resource in a field of tinfoil, and POTUS is smart to enlist his gifts. Folks will be ever increasingly aware of him, thanks to you all.

Pick up on Martin Amis, you’ll be very glad you did.

And, speaking of narrative and framing, and if you’ve yet to do so, please see about getting linguist George Lakoff onto the show. Hell, why not Martin Amis? He and Avlon together would be profoundly wondrous.

Gratefully Yours~

Jon Carroll           Jon in Leesburg, Va           www.joncarroll.org