Review Roulette: Dan Baird, Marshall Chapman, David Schnaufer, Tone Patrol (1990, 1993, 1995)

DAN BAIRD
Love Songs For the Hearing Impaired
(Def American)
    Former Georgia Satellite songwriter and frontman Dan Baird “fired” himself from that band after their wonderfully complex and darkly emotional third album and struck out on his own. That he should hit the often-traveled trail of the journeyman should certainly come as no surprise; the Satellites were always just a group of inspired journeymen at heart, as loose as a pick-up band in a one-night jam session, as tight and cohesive a unit as any well-practiced bar band could be. It should not come as any surprise, then,  that Baird’s solo debut would draw upon the same influences and inspiration as did the band’s best work: the Stones, Chuck Berry, The Faces...all those musical pioneers who defied the expectations of their time and defined an art form. Love Songs For the Hearing Impaired is no-frills, straight-ahead, gut-level, guitar-driven rock ‘n’ roll. A vastly underrated songwriter in a Woody Guthrie/Hank Williams “keep it simple but convey a lot of thought” vein, Baird has always had a flair for penning both lyrical and musical hooks, he provides both here in quantity. Tunes like “The One I Am,” “Jule + Lucky,” “Seriously Gone,” and the grammatically-correct “I Love You Period” are meat and potato tunes for fans who like their rock unpretentious and undiluted. From Baird, I would expect no less... (The Metro, 1993)

MARSHALL CHAPMAN
It’s About Time...Recorded Live At The Tennessee State Prison For Women
(Margaritaville Records)
    With two decades of toiling away in the music biz under her belt, Marshall Chapman has amassed a resume of songwriting credits and major and indie label releases that would make even the most hardcore alternative rocker blush with envy. The talents of Ms. Chapman have long been overlooked by all but her loyal legion of fans, however, making her one of Nashville’s best kept musical secrets. Only time will tell if It’s About Time...Recorded Live At The Tennessee State Prison For Women will win Chapman the long overdue success that she deserves, but one thing’s for certain: she’s a hell of a performer. Chapman’s blending of country, rock, and blues tends to make her too difficult to pigeonhole into any ready-made format, and that’s just the way that it should be. Chapman’s live delivery of songs like “Real Smart Man” or “Good-Bye Little Rock & Roller,” her throaty, sensual vocals, and energetic guitar playing as gleeful and electric as they were twenty years ago proving that there really is still magic to be found in the streets of the Music City. (T-Bone, 1995)

DAVID SCHNAUFER
Dulcimer Player
(S.F.L. Records)
    Dulcimer master David Schnaufer may well be one of the Music City’s best kept secrets…’tis a shame, too, because Dulcimer Player, Schnaufer’s second album for Nashville’s S.F.L. Records, is a sheer delight. This collection of tasteful originals and inspired covers offers a Celtic-flavored romp through the dulcet tones of Schnaufer’s dulcimer, a traditional instrument making a welcome comeback. With the help of skilled session folks such as Mark O’Connor, Tone Patrol’s talented Dave Pomeroy, “Cowboy” Jack Clement, and the Cactus Brothers (also known as members of Walk The West), Schnaufer expresses pure emotion through his instrument, creating a wonderful and spirited sound which needs no words to encumber the anarchistic freedom of its soaring notes. (The Metro, April 1990)

TONE PATROL
5.19.89
(Earwave Records)
    For those of you who caught Tone Patrol’s wonderful performance at The Metro’s Second Annual Nashville Music Awards show, then you’re already familiar with this talented quintet. For those of you who sadly missed the affair, this tape – recorded live at Nashville’s Douglas Corner – would serve as an excellent introduction. Stepping out from their various roles as session players, Tone Patrol’s Dave Pomeroy, Kenny Malone, Biff Watson, Larry Chaney, and Sam Bacco placed their creative skills together to deliver an energetic and mesmerizing performance, captured here in all of its beauty and grace. Tone Patrol performs an original and unique blend of jazz, rock, and so-called “New Age” music, instrumental tapestries delicately woven by the combined skills of the musicians, played to perfection in the spirit of the performance. I’d suggest catching these guys their next time out…and after you see them live, you’ll search high and low for a copy of this tape (as well you should). It’s creative efforts such as this which serve Nashville’s image as the “Music City” best. (The Metro, April 1990)

Vintage Review: Giles Reaves' Nothing Is Lost (1988)

It may surprise you, but Nashville is rapidly gaining a reputation as a hotbed of “space music,” that ethereal art form which includes a myriad of musical styles and genres, consisting mostly of instrumental pieces and including everything from experimental jazz and esoteric classical works to aggressive noise and electronic wizardry. Creative and innovative musicians such as Anthony Rian, Kirby Shelstad, and William Linton have put the Music City on the New Age music map. The best-known of all our local creators is Giles Reaves.

Reaves, known locally for his engineering skills while associated with the Castle studio, released his first collection of space music a year ago, the brilliant and effervescent album Wunjo. Inspired by the clairvoyant Nordic runes and performed on keyboards and synthesizers with the aid of a computer, Wunjo was a highly-textured and forceful work, and captured the attention and imagination of listeners all over the globe.

As wonderful as his previous album was, Reaves’ latest, Nothing Is Lost, is a more realized work. Exploring a different reality than that on his first recording, Reaves’ new album is a masterful and introspective creation, a rare combination of artistic vision and technical proficiency. Blending traditional instrumentation with synthesizers and the computer, Reaves has created a fully-developed, cohesive collection of pieces. Nothing Is Lost draws from a more diverse sphere of influences and inspiration than Wunjo. An Asian feel pervades side one, incorporating the rhythms and syncopations of the islands to create a textured veil of sound and sensory appeal not unlike the lesser-known works of Brian Eno or the magnificent, Malaysian-influenced dream works of Jon Hassell. The second side of Nothing Is Lost is equally enjoyable, more fragile and mystically oriented than the first side.

Reaves deserves any success or accolade heaped upon him and I, for one, hope that he continues to follow this particular muse in creating further works of this nature. Space Music composers are often ridiculed and patronized by lesser talents in other fields as mere panderers to spiritual muzak. But at their best, they are our generation’s equivalent to the classical composers of centuries past. Nothing Is Lost is no mere New Age snooze, but an intelligent and demanding work of art. It deserves to be listened to, judged and appreciated on these lofty terms of sophistication. It requires nothing less. (The Metro, 1988)

Vintage Review: The Cactus Brothers' The Cactus Brothers (1993)

The Nashville rock ‘n’ roll scene of the mid-’80s was an exciting and invigorating tonic of youthful innocence and energy, with unbridled creativity matched by awkward inexperience. One the many bands working to define this scene and garner world-wide critical acclaim (albeit without commercial success) was Walk The West. One of the area’s most popular outfits, these country-influenced rockers hung up their spurs at decade’s end. Their achievements included an excellent self-titled album for Capital (which has become a bona-fide collector’s item) and the creation of an innovative hybrid of country and rock which owed as much, thematically, to Johnny Cash as to the Byrds and Gram Parsons.

The nucleus of that band has been reincarnated as the Cactus Brothers, and both sides of the rock/country equation are much better for it. Their self-titled Liberty Records debut manages to capture the intimacy and acoustic-oriented style which made the Cactus Brothers a live draw equally as popular as their predecessors ever were. This is a band awash in instrumental talent, from master dulcimer player David Schnaufer to dobroist Sam Poland, from the multi-talented Tramp to the Goleman Brothers, Paul Kirby, and drummer David Kennedy...and they make the most of the talent they’ve got.

The music here is a hybrid of country roots and rock spirit, with covers like Merle Travis’ “Sixteen Tons” and the Everly Brothers “The Price of Love” performed in a manner unlike any you’ve ever heard. Traditional instrumentals such as “Fisher’s Hornpipe” and “Blackberry Blossom” showcase the band’s musical abilities while the originals fall somewhere in between. Whereas singer/songwriter Paul Kirby comes across like a stone-cold country crooner on material like “Bubba Bubba” or “Crazy Heart,” songs like “Devil Wind” and “Big Train” are strongly reminiscent of Walk The West’s best stuff. All in all, The Cactus Brothers is a solid album, a fine introduction to a highly talented group of guys who have the vision, the skills, and the hard-won experience to achieve whatever they wish. (The Metro, 1993)

Vintage Review: Intruder's A Higher Form of Killing (1989)

Intruder may not have been Nashville’s first but they were definitely the city’s best-known thrash band. Veterans of various local punk and metal outfits, Intruder built upon the speed-metal sound pioneered by bands like Metallica and Megadeth, adding elements of what would later become known as “progressive metal” to their unrelenting aural attack. Fueled by the phenomenal virtuosity of guitarist Arthur Vinett, the throaty growl of vocalist James Hamilton, and the songwriting skills of drummer John Pieroni, Intruder built a large cult following across the United States and in Europe on the strength of their brutal live performances.

A Higher Form of Killing, the band’s second album and their first for Metal Blade Records, picks up the pace pretty much where Intruder had left off with their self-produced debut, Live To Die. Taking its title from the ground-breaking 1982 book on chemical and biological warfare by British journalists Robert Harris and Jeremy Paxman, Pieroni’s lyrics on A Higher Form of Killing mix a high-tech doom-and-gloom world view with a science-fiction landscape that has much in common with Voivod. “The Martyr” compares Middle Eastern suicide bombers with radical Christian fundamentalists, “Genetic Genocide” touches upon DNA therapy a decade or so before its widespread use and “Killing Winds explores the use of chemical weapons on the battlefields of Europe.

The high point of A Higher Form of Killing, however, is a manic cover of the Monkees’ hit “(I’m Not Your) Stepping Stone,” the pop/rock chestnut revved up and delivered with all the subtlety of the business end of a sledge-hammer. A strong collection of chainsaw speed-metal, A Higher Form of Killing put the so-called band from “Thrashville” on the musical map alongside genre giants like Nuclear Assault. (The Metro, 1989)

Review Roulette: F.U.C.T., The Grinning Plowman, Jet Black Factory, Today Is The Day (1990, 1995)

Welcome to the first “Review Roulette”column, a collection of various short album reviews of Nashville bands that were first published by The Metro magazine and other outlets during the 1980s and ‘90s…

F.U.C.T.
Dimensional Depth Perception
(Carlyle Records)
    Nashville’s bad boys of thrash set out their first CD with the expected results: Dimensional Depth Perception is a monster of a release, a no-holds-barred leap into the abyss of otherworldly reality; thirty-plus minutes of industrial strength rock ‘n’ roll fury. Set beneath the multi-decibel mix of howling guitars, pounding drums, and throbbing bass lines, you’ll find vocalist Clay’s twisted, painful King Hell vocals kicking out some serious jams about life, morality, society and our endangered existence upon this spinning, twirling sphere that we call home. Forever Ungratical Corinaric Technikilation have a whomping good time musically, but they also have a positive message to relate to their listeners with their songs. Hear it! (The Metro, August 1990)

THE GRINNING PLOWMAN
I Play Jupiter
(Carlyle Records)
    With their long-awaited second album, Nashville’s the Grinning Plowman tread much of the same stylistic ground as their first disc, but that’s good, for there’s so much territory to explore in the musical realms that they journey through. Their sound is dark and aggressive, like a soul on fire, with the music building from a somber funeral dirge to a frenzied, dervish-like howl within the space of a few seconds. The Grinning Plowman are redefining the boundaries of music, delivering material with a Gothic feel and a vague lyrical poetry akin to Lovecraft or Crowley. This is heady stuff, exhilarating yet disquieting, and well worth the wait. (The Metro, August 1990)

JET BLACK FACTORY
House Blessing
(391 Records)
Nobody was really watching, but even though it should have come as no surprise, while everyone was involved with – and enthralled by – a dozen-and-one other bands, Nashville’s Jet Black Factory quietly became one of the more creative forces to be found in the city. On the heels of two successful and widely-acclaimed EPs, House Blessing is Jet Black Factory’s first full-length album and their most mature and engaging creative effort to date. Dave Willie’s voice has grown into a magnificent instrument: dark, haunting vocals caressing the somber, oblique poetry that is the band’s lyrical forte. Bob German’s six-string work perfectly complements the material while the remainder of the band skillfully manipulates the texture and tone of the material. Treading a stylistic ground which owes as much to the Velvet Underground as it does Joy Division or R.E.M., Jet Black Factory has delivered a debut LP, of sorts, which is sure to make the coastal trendsetters sit up and take notice. (The Metro, April 1990)

TODAY IS THE DAY
Willpower    
(Amphetamine/Reptile)
I’ve been predicting that Today Is The Day will become the "next big thing" in alternative circles for a couple of years now, and there’s nothing about Willpower, their latest, to sway me from this opinion. This Nashville-based trio knocks down an exciting, high decibel blend of cacophonic instrumentation, metal-edged rock and industrial-strength noise that will blow the listener out of their seat. With vocals that sound like the singer is undergoing a root canal without the benefit of anesthesia and harsh backing music that walks a tightrope between bludgeon-like simplicity and razor-sharp complexity, Willpower provides an appropriate soundtrack for a society in decline. Throw these guys on tour with some like-minded big name like Nine Inch Nails and they’ll walk out of the joint with the audience in their back pockets ... bet on it. (R.A.D! zine, 1995)

Vintage Review: Pete Berwick's Ain't No Train Outta Nashville (2007)

A few years back, legend has it, a young punk rocker followed Jason Ringenberg’s trail out of Illinois and sojourned to Nashville with guitar in hand. This young man, like so many before him, was looking for fame and fortune in the Music City. He wrote the right songs, worked the right clubs and played the game like everyone told him he should but, tho’ not for lack of talent or ambition, he found naught but heartache in the hallowed home of country music.

This young man found a manager, a silver-tongued fool who talked a good game but did little to advance his career. The young man recorded an album full of fine songs that nobody got to hear. After years of trying, he found himself beaten, bruised and battered, chewed up in the gears of a star-making machine that has little regard for talent, heart and soul; pissed off and pissed on, this young man left town and went back home, leaving Nashville that much darker and less interesting a place…

Like too many faithful, Pete Berwick found that there ain’t no train outta Nashville. Hundreds of hopefuls flock to the Music City each year, and for every Tim McGraw or Faith Hill that finds fame, there are dozens that return home to Illinois, Oklahoma and points beyond, leaving behind their dreams and a piece of their soul. How many future Hank Williams or Patsy Clines have been denied the city’s embrace after spending years traipsing up and down Music Row, how many have given up their musical ambitions in the face of indifference and corporate ignorance?

In Pete Berwick’s case, there’s a happy ending to the story. Unlike many who give up music altogether after suffering through the traumatic experience of trying to make it…whether in Nashville, New York, Los Angeles or wherever…Berwick refuses to go quietly into that good night. Five years ago, when the urge to create new music became stronger than the beatdown he took in the Music City, Berwick wrote the songs that became Only Bleeding. A powerful album that seamlessly mixed rock and country with punk attitude unlike anybody since early Steve Earle or Jason & the Nashville Scorchers, Only Bleeding was a defiant message that Berwick’s Nashville experience may have left him bloodied, but definitely unbowed.      

After the release of Only Bleeding, Berwick spent a year or so banging it out on the Midwestern circuit, playing smoky clubs and funky honky-tonks before once again retreating from music. However, the muse is hard to deny, and Pete starting thinking about the “lost” album that he had recorded back in Nashville in ’93, the one that nobody got to hear. Taking it down from the shelf and listening to it with fresh ears and the benefits of hindsight, Berwick decided that it was too good a bunch of songs to let go to waste, and I agree with him.

Ain’t No Train Outta Nashville is a brilliant collection of hard-knock tales that reveal the Music City for the provincial small town that it remains in spite of its big city ambitions. These songs are about the lovable losers and hopeless dreamers that flee their one-horse towns every year to go somewhere, anywhere else in search of something that will break them free of their lives of quiet desperation. Although written a decade-and-a-half ago, these songs still resonate with truth and beauty and are just as true today, in the face of corporate homogenization and the “American Idolization” of music as they were when Pete wrote them between his shift at the car wash and “writer’s night” at some Nashville club. Although the words here apply to many nameless travelers going down that same road, I suspect that they are also more than a little autobiographical.   

Ain’t No Train Outta Nashville kicks off with “Rebels and Cadillacs,” a rowdy rave-up with scorching guitar and honky-tonk piano that brings a traditional edge to this blistering portrayal of musical hypocrisy (perhaps more so than when Pete first sang these words). He decries the MTV star “with a diamond ring and a pure silk scarf, singing his concern about the homeless man,” adding “I couldn’t help but notice his Acapulco tan.” Over at CMT you’ll find “more of the same, some talking hat with a common name, singing a song about the poor man’s blues, while turning on the heel of his snakeskin boots,” the singer boldly declaring that “I don’t want to be no rebel in a Cadillac.” With this opening song, Berwick has staked his turf, drawn a line in the sand that is pure punk attitude with Hank Williams’ twang.   

“Six Pack Town” is more than a place, it’s a state of mind as well, the sort of place that people try to escape from to “find” themselves. Berwick’s description of the town as a “stop and half on the road from nowhere” is deceptive because although “there ain’t nothing going down,” it’s still home, a place where people know their neighbors and care about their neighborhood. “Six Pack Town” is working class, small-town America, the kind of place that produces soldiers and singers, dreamers and madmen…the kind of place that people have a love/hate relationship with, the kind of place that never leaves you, even when you’ve left it behind...

“The Years We Left Behind” is one of the most brilliant and moving songs that these ears have heard in nearly 50 years of listening to, and loving music. We’re every one of us getting older, and facing down a half-century of frustration, unfulfilled promise and lost opportunity brings with it the tendency to reminisce about “the good old days” that, to be honest, were mostly anything but good. Wise beyond his years, Berwick sings:  

“Everywhere I go these days, it seems I always hear;
People talk about desperation, heartache and despair.
The broken-hearted dream that died, the memory from the past;
The good old days, the glory days, the love that didn’t last,
And the childhood that disappeared too fast.

Sometimes at night when all is quiet, and I am all alone;
I hear the voice of yesterday through people I have known.
Some are laughing, some are crying, some of them have died.
I always thought the grass was greener on the other side,
I guess that’s why I can’t kiss the past goodbye…”  

“Time doesn’t wait for no one,” sings Berwick on the chorus, declaring that “it’s not patient, it’s not kind; it seems to me we see the future only through our eyes so blind,” concluding that “we’re living in the years we left behind.” Pete’s insight is both poetic and bleakly realistic – we can’t escape our past, no matter how hard we try, and our future is just the sum of the experience and heartache that we’ve lived through. None of us is unblemished by the past yet, when facing our inevitable mortality, we hang on to those memories like a life raft as the minutes tick by ever more loudly. Berwick addresses these concerns with dazzling beauty:  

“When nighttime turns to morning, still I’m clinging to the past.
I want to stop the clock some times, those hands just turn too fast.
I don’t want to get old; it’s a shame how fast time flies.
If heaven’s what we’re living for, then someone tell me why,
Why no one, why nobody, wants to die?”

You’d think that after a stroke of musical genius like “The Years We Left Behind,” that Ain’t No Train Outta Nashville would flicker and burn out from lack of energy. No, Berwick has lulled us into a warm, quiet remembrance only to kick us back awake with the jolting “Devil Knows His Name,” an eerie, Western-tinged tale of betrayal and escape. If the protagonist of the earlier song finds comfort and solace in his memories, the figure at the heart of “Devil Knows His Name” is trying to outrun the nightmares of his past. Washes of haunted instrumentation flow through the song like a tumbleweed until the guitar explodes and the song fades into an uncertain fate…

The album’s namesake, “Ain’t No Train Outta Nashville,” tells the story of every hopeful songwriter and singer that ever made their way to the Music City in search of something to build a life upon. With the lyrics set to a swinging rockabilly beat, the song’s truth lies beneath Berwick’s tongue-in-cheek delivery, the words summing up the songwriter’s experience. Describing a staggering blur of beer, cheap motels, bad jobs and dashed hopes, he sings, “I play most times for free, and sometimes I just play to eat.” There’s no way to escape intact, “once you’re here, you’re here to stay, if you’re a songwriter, they just throw the key away.”

The hauntingly beautiful “Only Bleeding” ties Ain’t No Train Outta Nashville with its predecessor and it fits perfectly well on either album as both recordings, in their own individual way, are primarily about the continued chase of fame in the face of constant rejection or, worse yet, lack of recognition. Displaying the same sort of defiance as Dylan’s “It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding),” Berwick’s Midwestern drawl sums up the intense loneliness and the darkness felt by every songwriter and poet in the face of indifference. The song’s protagonist is an almost divine figure, shouldering the sins of everyman and offering salvation through his own pain, as expressed by this, and every other song that touches upon the bleak fate that befalls us all, from Springsteen’s “Darkness On the Edge of Town” to Joe Grushecky’s “Blood On the Bricks.” In the end, however, by forgiving those who would sin against him, the poet triumphs against those who would try to silence his or her words.   

Fittingly, Ain’t No Train Outta Nashville ends with the one-two punch of “Rusted Ball and Chain” and “This Used To Be A Town.” Berwick searches for answers on “Rusted Ball and Chain,” finding nothing but more questions. He reaffirms his commitment, however – to life, to love, to music – singing “freedom’s just another word, if you ain’t got a dream. Without a dream, your freedom, it just don’t mean anything.” And for those who doubt his efforts, he adds, “people try to put me down, and throw me off my track, but I just keep on keeping on, there ain’t no turning back.” Roaring down the lost highway in that ghostly Cadillac, Berwick is in it for the long run and won’t be dissuaded by the obstacles that are thrown in the path of every creative person. While others would give up with a whimper, this singer carries on regardless of the weight.

In the end, the singer does escape, getting out of Nashville only to go home and discover that “This Used To Be A Town.” The memories of the past have been betrayed by the unrelenting march of “progress,” the kind of small-town development that tears down the past to rebuild every town in the image of every other town. “Time bulldozed it away, built a couple of malls, and they both look the same,” he sings, “don’t they realize the childhood that died when they tore it all down?” It’s an uneasy commentary on the state of America, a sad exclamation mark on the old saying that “nothing stays the same.” It’s also a down song to end the album on, reinforcing, perhaps, the idea that you can’t escape the past, so you may as well embrace it, protect its innocence lest somebody comes to take it away.      

The best album of 2007 was actually recorded in 1993 and, surprisingly, it was so damn far ahead of its time that it sounds as fresh, dynamic and topical today as it would have fourteen years ago; maybe more so. Too rock & roll for Nashville’s taste, too country for the coasts, Pete Berwick has nevertheless been on the verge of his “big break” for almost two decades now. Luckily, it hasn’t kept him from making great music. Ain’t No Train Outta Nashville is proof that you can’t keep a good man down, and if you ain’t listening to Pete Berwick, then you ain’t listening to shit… (Shotgun Records, released 2007)

Review originally published by Trademark of Quality (TMQ) blog, 2007

Vintage Review: Pete Berwick's Hell To Pay (1995)

Pete Berwick has been plugging away at the Nashville country music establishment for a number of years now, tragically too hard a rocker for their delicate sensibilities, too country to fit into any alternative rock straightjacket. He just keeps writing songs, though, good ones, too, full of heart and soul and fire. Hell To Pay slaps a handful of these tunes onto one demo tape that, if anyone in the industry had any ears (or balls) would get Berwick the major league try-out that he deserves. I’d be willing to bet that he’d hit it out of the park on the first swing, with cuts like the jaunty “Hell To Pay” or the striking “I Ain’t Him” good for at least an extra-base hit.

The brilliantly wicked “Rebels and Cadillacs” pisses on the entire entertainment biz with a few choice verses while “Vacancy In My Heart” is a spirited, rollicking recounting of love lost. Berwick’s material bristles with attitude and passion; stick him in a studio with a sympathetic producer and watch the ol’ boy kick the shit out of not only those Music Row cowboy wanna-bes but all those faeux punk rockers, as well. In a music world mostly comprised of watered down whiskey, Berwick is the 200 proof real thing. (Shotgun Records, 1995)
 
Review originally published by R.A.D! Review and Discussion of Rock & Roll zine, 1995 

Vintage Review: Pete Berwick's Only Bleeding (2002)

Like many a troubadour before him, Pete Berwick made his way to Nashville in search of fame and fortune. Also like many artists that walked that same road, he ended up returning home years later without much fame and even less fortune. Berwick did all the things expected of an artist in the Music City, playing his songs at “writer’s nights” in local clubs at night and working a day job at the car wash while waiting for his big break. He signed a songwriting deal with a storefront publisher and hooked up with a fly-by-night indie label. What seemed like a sure thing, a track placed in the River Phoenix movie The Thing Called Love, came to naught when his manager lacked the juice to get the song included on the soundtrack album.

After his Nashville fiasco, Berwick moved back to Chicago, older, wiser and just a little worse for the wear. He gave up music for a while, playing sporadically and writing a few songs. Luckily, the story doesn’t end with this tale of dashed hopes and broken dreams. The attraction of the muse is a strong one, and I’ve personally never met a serious artist who could be kept away from their creative outlet for long. Berwick gathered a group of grizzled Chicago rock-and-blues veterans to record one song in the studio; they ended up recording Only Bleeding, a ten-track reaffirmation of the power of rock ‘n’ roll, and a fresh start for Pete Berwick. A fiercely independent songwriter and performer who has found that he doesn’t need the corporate label system to make a musical statement, Berwick’s fourth album is the accumulation of almost a decade of artistic trials and tribulations.
      
Only Bleeding showcases all of Berwick’s various influences and incarnations, the songs mixing rock, country, and blues in the creation of a heady musical elixir. “Must Think She Loves Me” and the hilarious “Nuclear Boy” are energetic, punk-tinged rockers while “Cold Steel Gun” is a barroom weeper complete with T.C. Furlong’s delicious steel guitar and Berwick’s appropriately morose vocals. With the biker anthem “Outsider” Berwick has created a new musical genre – “metallic country” – the song a defiant declaration of alienation that matches Nashville twang with tasty power chords. The title track is a Dylanesque country blues tune with wonderful vocals, Berwick’s mournful mouth harp work and well-placed piano courtesy of Denny Daniels. The album-closing “Standing At the Gates of Hell” is a lively rocker with brilliant imagery, the story of a poor working class loser who dies and shows up “at the gates of hell” only to find that they won’t let him in. It sounds a lot like Jason & the Scorchers – another obvious influence – but with Berwick’s Rodney Dangerfield-like lyrics and dynamic delivery it’s a wonderful pairing of roots-rock and honky-tonk soul.    

It’s with “Gotta Get Out of Here,” the centerpiece of Only Bleeding, that Berwick hits that once-in-a-lifetime adrenaline O.D. where decades of rage and frustration are expressed perfectly in a three-minute rock song. In the tradition of Eric Burdon’s “We Gotta Get Out Of This Place” or Bruce Springsteen’s “Jackson Cage,” the song is about hopelessness and dashed dreams and, in a more personal vein, the torment of being a talented musician in a land of mundane mediocrity. When Berwick sings “I got a daytime job, teevee at night, if the boredom don’t kill me, then the cigarettes might,” he’s expressing the fears of every factory worker, slaughterhouse grunt and service industry wage slave who suspects that there must be something more to life. For Berwick, the song itself is an act of transcendence, its performance “getting” him out of here, his tortured vocals and screaming guitar allowing the artist a brief moment of escape. It’s a powerful musical moment, a solid example of why most of us started listening to rock ‘n’ roll in the first place.

Berwick sees the world of human relationships and frailties with a folkie’s sensitivity and writes about them with the poetic blue-collar perspective of a Steve Earle or Bruce Springsteen. A gifted songwriter and charismatic performer, Berwick is a true rock ‘n’ roll survivor, an artist of integrity and vision who never even stood a chance in the industry babylon that is Nashville. Only Bleeding offers an eclectic mix of styles that defies industry homogenization to deliver a strong and thoroughly enjoyable musical experience for the listener. Pete Berwick has been singing his songs for a small, if faithful audience for far too long; with Only Bleeding, people will be forced to listen. (Shotgun Records, released 2002)

Review originally published by Alt.Culture.Guide™, 2002 

Vintage Review: Max Vague's The Field (1996)

Rock ‘n’ roll has fielded its share of starry-eyed dreamers, insane geniuses and dedicated fools throughout the past four decades. Said artists have covered just about the entire gamut of available subject matter, from the usual lyrical staples like life, love and intoxicants to topics too disgusting for even these jaded ears. Precious few poets have really turned their eyes to the skies, however, and wondered aloud what might lie beyond this earthly dimension. The few who have usually tend to dance on the fringe of commercial acceptance, tagged forever with "cult favorite" status. For every Peter Gabriel, there's also a Roky Erikson or Nik Turner.

Whether Max Vague is a madman or a genius is not up for me to say. I suspect that there's a little of both residing in the man and artist – a certain musical genius, to be sure, but also a little foolishness for thinking that an album as lyrically vital, intelligently introspective and musically daring as The Field could find a receptive ear among the great gurus of radio and records. The Field is Vague's third album, following an impressive debut, Love In A Thousand Faces, and 1993's excellent S.O.S. The Party's Over. Vague is, perhaps, Nashville's most daring and adventurous artist. Although the home of country music, rhinestones and twanging guitars holds the promise of many rock & rollers who tend to walk on the proverbial edge – talents like Self or the Floating Men – Vague is not content to merely balance frightfully, preferring instead to crawl out and see just how far he can get on that branch before it snaps in two. With three albums under his belt, he's yet to take a tumble...  

A concept album twenty years past its prime and a good decade ahead of its time, The Field is a masterful collection, a song cycle that tells an unusual and haunting story about alien abduction. That it's a true story, told by an individual close to the band and filtered through Vague's mighty songwriting pen, makes The Field and its songs all that much more powerful. There are a lot of familiar musical elements that The Field shares with its predecessor, S.O.S. The Party's Over, but they serve as a connecting lifeline rather than a simple rehashing of material. S.O.S. is, indeed, an introduction to The Field, the two serving as bookends to frame a fantastic story.     

The Field begins with a disconcerting "Fever Dream," a low rumbling and jangled chiming leading almost immediately into "The Face In Your Window." Punctuated by a constantly repeating, wire taut guitar riff, "The Face In Your Window" launches the cycle, with our protagonist beginning their unearthly sojourn. From this point, the songs roll right by, a captivating, seemingly seamless composition made up of fourteen songs that sit separate and yet are melded together by a shared storyline and recurrent musical signatures. Among The Field'’s many moments, several nevertheless stand out.
    
"Epiphany" is an ethereal cry for sanity, the traveler captured by their own fear and growing sense of distance. "I will make it out of this 2x6 foot box," sings Vague, the line opening and closing the song with a distinct sense of terror and determination. "The Trade" illustrates the abductee's feelings of persecution and paranoia, with repeated abductions from childhood through adulthood not uncommon, creating in the individual a sense of disconnection and uncertainty: "Why do you keep coming back to me, haven't you had enough?" sings Vague in harsh, distorted vocals. "What is this preoccupation with me, haven't I suffered enough?" The disconnected "Rapture," with its echoed, dreamlike chorus of "we fall" repeated endlessly, creating a sense of floating while a gently strumming guitar supports Vague's lofty vocals.  

By the closing of The Field, Vague has brought our traveler full circle, through a myriad of thoughts and emotions, to a final confrontation with themselves. "I'm O.K." is a reaffirmation of life and purpose, a four minute musical struggle for identity in a psychological sea of confusion. "You sucked away my energy, you took the things that made me really me," sings Vague, "you roughed me up against my will, now tell me who the fuck I'm supposed to be." By the closing of the song, and the album, however, our protagonist has faced their demons and won, delivering a hearty lyrical 'piss-off' to those forces in the universe, both mundane and otherworldly, that seek to rob us of our dignity and individuality: "no compromise, no pity, no self help, no revelations from now on," Vague triumphantly delivers, just above the razor-sharp and repetitive riff that runs through the song and appears throughout The Field. "I made it all come out the day I faced your eyes and then refused to run. So you can take your fucking lights and your tables and your eyes and go away."

Musically, The Field mixes the familiar influence of a half a dozen artists – I won't insult the artist by making comparisons – you'll just have to get the disc and figure it out for yourself. I will say that there's plenty to discover musically hidden beneath these lyrics, the multi-layered and complex soundtrack of The Field yielding something new with every listen. The music is mesmerizing, an alluring combination of deceptive electric ambiance and passionate rock & roll fury. The guitars are thick and omnipresent in the mix, the percussion understated and purposeful while a consistent bass line supports the entire process. The band that Vague put together for The Field is top notch, with all of the players – guitarist Steve Green, drummer Robert Kamm, and bassist Ross Smith, a seasoned Nashville veteran of local legend Aashid Himmons' various bands – have an undeniable chemistry and a cohesion that belies their brief time together. A relative neophyte in the studio, Vague has grown as a producer over the course of three albums; his work on The Field is quite impressive given its complexity and dimension. 

The Field is a carefully-crafted piece of art, a heady tale of trial and redemption told through the eyes of an alien abductee. Although Vague has created a specific story, he has also unwittingly delivered a wonderful metaphor for life itself, the traveler of The Field representing every single one of us who views life from the outside looking in, with all of the attending uncertainty, doubt and psychic obstacles that accompanies such alienation (whether chosen or imposed). Released under Vague's own MetroLord Records imprint, The Field is a triumph of form over fashion, of honesty and sincerity over trite trendiness and musical pretension. At some time over the course of the past few years, I stated publicly  that Max Vague was too damn good to get signed by a major label, too unique to receive significant radio airplay. I stand by that statement today. It still remains to be seen whether or not anyone will prove me wrong. Until then, I can only sum up The Field thus: fucking brilliant! (MetroLord Records, 1996)

Review originally published by R.A.D! Review & Discussion of Rock & Roll zine, 1996

Vintage Review: Ken McMahan's That's Your Reality (1997)

The last time that Ken McMahan checked in here at the ConMedia world HQ, he was delivering a fine initial solo effort, Ken McMahan & Slumpy Boy on the French Dixie Frog label. Produced by ex-Georgia Satellite frontman Dan Baird and including the talents of folks like Stan Lynch, Terry Anderson, and Bill Lloyd, the disc was a steamy slab of blues-infused roots-rock. Needless to say, even with the fine pedigree the album brought along with it, Kenny couldn’t get in the back door at RecordCoAmerica, that one great major label whose A & R poseurs were too damn busy trying to find the next great alt.rock breakthrough to get their heads out of their collective behinds long enough to actually listen to some GREAT FUCKING ROCK ‘N’ ROLL rather than miring themselves in martinis and misanthropy.

Now McMahan – former axeman of the much-beloved Southeastern power blues trio the dusters – has put together a permanent touring version of Slumpy Boy, knocked out That’s Your Reality, his second disc for Dixie Frog, and is now poised to play live in your hometown. I recommend that you ring up your local neighborhood baby-sitter, draw a few dollars out of the ATM and roll on down to the club to catch Slumpy Boy ‘cause, if That’s Your Reality is any indication of what the band will be delivering live and on-stage, then we’re all in for an evening of good old-fashioned rock ‘n’ roll the way that it was meant to be, with lots of guitars and heavy amplification.

That’s Your Reality, you see, is no wimpy “my life sucks, think I’ll grow a beard” carbon-copy “alternative” crapola, no sir, this 12 song collections rocks relentlessly from start to finish. At the proper volume, it’ll peel the paint off your living room walls and blow the windows out of your neighbor’s house. Play it in your car stereo and it’ll super-charge your engine like a set of racing cams and a tank of Turbo Blue™, melting the tar on the highway behind you. McMahan has picked up a little more of the songwriting duties this time out, and by god, I think that the boy’s got it all figured out. As good as his first solo disc was, That’s Your Reality is even better, the material highlighting McMahan’s growing ability as a wordsmith. Cuts like the rollicking “Fredonia,” the introspective “Everything Turns To Dust,” or the piss-off, get lost good-bye of “Reality” showcase an artistic maturity above his previous efforts.

Musically, McMahan is a vastly underrated guitarist, bringing a freshness and vitality to his material, deriving strength from his influences without ever mimicking them. Every cut here is a fat, multi-layered, guitar-driven rocker, evoking the best of almost half a century of rock ‘n’ roll history, throwing in just enough elements of country and the blues to keep it honest and interesting. If you prefer your rock to be of the two-fisted, hairy-chested variety, if you worship at the alter of bands like Humble Pie, the Georgia Satellites, the Faces or Lynyrd Skynyrd, then That’s Your Reality is right up your alley. With That’s Your Reality, Ken McMahan & Slumpy Boy deliver a disc that burns like a four-alarm fire and hits like a drunken prize-fighter. (Dixie Frog Records, released 1997)

Review originally published by Thora-Zine (Austin TX), 1997

Vintage Review: Ken McMahan's Ball & Chain (1998)

Ken McMahan is a friend of mine. In the interest of honesty, I have to begin any review of his work with such a disclaimer. I’ve gotten drunk with Ken, broken bread with him (or, in our case, shared pizza), talked about music, his career, the universe in general. He’s a great guy…and with all that ethical bullshit out of the way, I can also honestly say that McMahan is one hell of a rocker as well.

Case in point: Ball & Chain, McMahan’s third album for the French Dixie Frog label. With each subsequent outing, Kenny’s songwriting gets tighter, more structured, and more interesting. His consistently invigorating six-string work improves with each album and on Ball & Chain he’s added some interesting flourishes, musical dimensions that are absent from his earlier work. Throw in a backing band that’s as tight as a fist and as scary as an I.R.S. audit and add the musical and intellectual contributions of McMahan’s partner-in-crime, Dan Baird, and you’ve got one helluva foot-stomping rock ‘n’ roll record.    

With his former band, the power-blues trio the dusters, McMahan earned a well-deserved reputation across the Southeast as a fine blues guitarist. His solo stuff tends to run more towards the rock end of the spectrum, however, Kenny cranking up Ball & Chain with “Way of the World,” a fiery little number that sets the tone for the rest of the set. The world-weary lyrics of “Something I’ll Never Know” are punctuated by constant swamp-rock guitar riff that is literally drenched in saltwater and cypress. McMahan’s traditional cover song this time out is Robert Johnson’s “Kindhearted Woman,” a song Kenny claims for his own with a fat, looping guitar line that creates an instrumental cadence for the vocals.

The title track is one of two McMahan co-wrote with fellow Nashville talent Tommy Womack. Opening with some nifty honky-tonk piano, the song becomes a rollicking working-class anthem, a sort of “why me, Lord?” plea for the everyman. My favorite cut on the album, however, is “Wicked World.” Written by Dan Baird, ex-Georgia Satellite, acclaimed solo artist and member of Nashville band Betty Rocker, Baird knows his way around a song, and “Wicked World” is no exception. A bad-ass slice of dark-hued rock, McMahan’s haunted vocals and the accompanying concertina-wire sharp guitar licks combine to make for a powerful musical moment. McMahan sounds like he’s got Robert Johnson’s fabled hell-hounds on his trail, his guitar howling while bassist Kyle Miller and former dusters’ drummer Jeff Perkins provide a steady heartbeat to fuel Baird’s tale of secular woe and spiritual despair.

Even though much of what McMahan sings about is, well, kind of depressing – stuff like lost and unrequited love, romantic betrayal, and a man’s burden to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders – he does so with such style and energy that you never realize the somber nature of the material. Unlike a lot of today’s wet-behind-the-ears “one hit wonders,” young musicians who have barely ventured outside their hometown, McMahan has experienced a bit of the world. He’s been following the dream longer than he’d probably care to admit, but what comes across in his music and on CD is the sheer, unadulterated joy of being able to play rock ‘n’ roll. It’s this element that’s missing from contemporary music and it’s something that McMahan has in abundance. Ball & Chain is a strong tonic, a fresh breath of life for a flaccid rock corpse in sore need of the stiff kick in the ass McMahan provides. Now, will somebody stateside please pick up this record before I have to come to your house and do something impolite? (Dixie Frog Records, 1998)   

Review originally published by Alt.Culture.Guide™, 1998

Vintage Review: Max Vague's Love In A Thousand Faces (1983)

Amid the thousand and one faceless metallic hair bands which grace the "Music City" there stands Max Vague, a Nashville newcomer, and a welcome anomaly - a singer/songwriter of considerable talent, an artist who is neither country or hard rock. Love In A Thousand Faces is Vague's impressive debut, a 14 song collection showcasing Vague's lyrical prowess and immense musical skills. The songs presented here, hard-edged pop/rock replete with melodic experimentation, evince a variety of influences – the Beatles, Peter Gabriel, many electric British folkies – but are freshly original and completely uncategorizable.

It is difficult to pigeonhole Vague, which is good (preferable, actually) for a young artist. At times this debut overwhelms with Vague's interpretation of the pop format, other times it amazes the listener with his tendency (and ability) to take musical chances. You'll often find yourself saying, "what was that I heard?" Play it for your friends and they'll be saying, "what is that I'm hearing?" Love In A Thousand Faces is a thoroughly engaging disc and a fine introduction to one of Nashville's newest talents. (MetroLord Records, released 1983)

Review originally published by The Metro, 1983

Another Side of Nashville: Kris Kristofferson, Billy Joe Shaver, Shooter Jennings (2007)

Kris Kristofferson - Live From Austin TX (New West Records)
In the annals of country music, the company he’s kept has often overshadowed Kris Kristofferson’s achievements. After all, it’s hard to hang out with heavyweights like Willie, Waylon and JC without suffering by comparison. However, Kristofferson’s friendship with those giants was built on his status as an equal. More than a mere songwriter – even if he has had some 500 songs recorded by other artists – Kristofferson built his own legacy over the past four decades by being one of the most original and influential voices in country music.  
    Part of the excellent Austin City Limits series, Live From Austin TX captures a dynamic Kristofferson performance from September 1981. Sure, the sixteen songs featured include the expected hits, one-of-a-kind songs like “Loving Her Was Easier” and “Help Me Make It Through The Night,” but it also offers much more. Drawing from his ’81 album To the Bone, songs like “Magdalene” and “Star Crossed” document Kristofferson’s divorce from singer Rita Coolidge and uncertainty over his future and career. It’s heady stuff, Kristofferson’s marvelous baritone supported by a whipsmart band that includes guitarist Stephen Bruton and keyboard wizard Donnie Fritts. With a back catalog in serious disarray, Live From Austin TX is a fine snapshot of the greatness of singer, songwriter and performer Kris Kristofferson.

Billy Joe Shaver - Greatest Hits (Compadre Records)
Many of country music’s greatest talents have considered him their favorite tunesmith, and his songs have been recorded by everybody from Bobby Bare and Kris Kristofferson to Elvis Presley. Chance are that you’re probably familiar with Billy Joe Shaver’s songs even if you have no idea of who the man is himself. Suffice it to say that what makes Shaver a great songwriter is that, for good or for bad, he puts a large part of himself into each of his autobiographical songs. As such, listening to Billy Joe Shaver’s Greatest Hits is like opening a book and looking at a cracked and faded old portrait of the artist.
    Shaver is a Texas storyteller in the vein of Guy Clark or Townes Van Zandt. He’s grizzled and gruff, humbled by too many miles and sobered by too much alcohol, and he pours his life into every song. Greatest Hits includes some of Shaver’s best known material, like “Georgia On A Fast Train” and “Old Chunk Of Coal,” as well as some of his best songs in “Old Five and Dimers” and “I Couldn’t Be Me Without You.” The album also offers up two previously-unreleased songs, but it’s the recent remake of the high-flying “Live Forever,” recorded with Big & Rich, that best showcases Shaver’s warm voice above his songwriting skills. Billy Joe Shaver’s Greatest Hits offers up old-school honky-tonk country with a bit of Lone Star spirit for both new and old listeners alike.

Billy Joe Shaver - Everybody’s Brother (Compadre Records)
There’s often a fine line between sin and salvation and, like most outlaws, Billy Joe Shaver has one foot in the honky-tonk and one in the church pew. Shaver has long expressed the desire to record a “gospel” album and it’s fitting…the same weathered voice that speaks convincingly of barrooms and broken hearts is also perfectly suited for singing the praises of Jesus. And it’s not like religion is a little-traveled path for Shaver; he has typically included a spiritual song on each album through the years.
    With Everybody’s Brother, however, Shaver focuses more on salvation, bringing friends like Kris Kristofferson, John Anderson, Marty Stuart, Bill Miller and Tanya Tucker along for the joyous ride. Listeners expecting a collection of staid church hymns will be disappointed; although Everybody’s Brother has its loftier moments, much of the material approaches God from the sinner’s side of the fence, and songs like the rollicking duet with Stuart, “Winning Again,” wouldn’t feel out of place in a beer-soaked honky-tonk. Shaver’s performances, captured by producer John Carter Cash, are heartfelt and passionate while the album’s closer, a late-70s duet with Johnny Cash and a 15-year-old Eddy Shaver burning up the guitar, will put a smile on the face of any listener.

Shooter Jennings -The Wolf (Universal South)
For a musician, living up to a famous father’s legacy can be tough – just ask Hank Junior, or even J.C. Cash. It’s album number three for Shooter Jennings, not counting last year’s pitch-perfect live set, and it seems that Waylon’s boy done got it right…just forge your own path and let the comparisons be damned. In the past, Jennings has dealt with the looming presence of Waylon’s shadow either by rocking hard or by defiantly picking up the country outlaw torch. With The Wolf, Jennings seems to have hit the sweet spot, an artistic middle ground. There are fewer references to his infamous daddy in the grooves, and more musical experimentation. Jennings’ vocals are softer and more soulful, albeit stronger and more assured than on his first two albums, and sound less like Waylon than they ever have.
    In fact, The Wolf seems less inspired by the ‘70s “outlaw movement” than by the work of Texas wordsmiths like Guy Clark and Townes Van Zandt. The slow story-song “Concrete Cowboys” waltzes to the sound of weeping pedal steel while the rocking talking blues of the autobiographical “This Ol’ Wheel” shoots straight to the heart of Jennings’ birthright. A solid cover of Dire Straits’ “Walk of Life” is juiced up with spry fiddle and energetic vocals while “Old Friend” mixes some damn fine bluesy guitar work with Mariachi-flavor. Not to say that Jennings doesn’t get rowdy with his friends every now and then. “Higher” kicks up some dust with a swampy Southern rock vibe and the title cut is a grand, epic musical journey with swells of sound and crashing instrumentation. With The Wolf, Shooter Jennings continues to evolve as an artist and songwriter, doing it his own way…and of that, I’m sure his daddy would be proud.

All reviews published by Country Standard Time, 2007

Vintage Review: Max Vague's Timing (1998)

For Timing, his fourth release, Max Vague has pulled a few new musical twists out of the seemingly endless bag of tricks of his, mixing healthy portions of Britpop influence with his usual ethereal progressive fare. Songs like the stunning “Cold As This Machine” or “Paralyzed” show an increased vigor to Vague's songwriting, a maturity that incorporates even more diverse influences that ever before. With more melodies and livelier song structure added to his trademark musical marksmanship, Vague has developed into a world class tunesmith.

The title track, however, might well be Vague's finest moment. With its sneering throwaway line “you've come this far, you might as well swallow,” the song is a near-perfect accounting of the struggle an artist faces in retaining their integrity as well as a wickedly satirical look at an industry that devours lives and creativity alike. Originally conceived as an eight song EP, Vague and bassist Ross Smith flew off the deep end into insanity, ending Timing with a twenty-eight minute instrumental opus. There's a method to their musical madness, however. Dark, eerie, provocative and deceptively mesmerizing, “Crack In The Sky” serves as an excellent bookend to Timing, carrying the listener beyond the dreams spun with the preceding songs, sojourning into the dreamland from whence they came. (MetroLord Records, released 1998)

Review originally published by Thora-Zine (Austin TX), 1998

Album Review: Shadow 15's Days of Innocence 1983-85 (2023)

Back in the early daze of ye olde Gnashville, when Pilgrims were still burning witches at communal bonfires fueled by squid oil, the city’s corporate music scene was blitzed by groups of youthful guitar-wielding hooligans and sonic thugz whose idea of a good time was poking popular local DJ and armadillo farmer Ralph Emory with a cattle prod. Of all these shouty gangs of droogs commandeering the city stages, few had the original chops and songs to break out beyond the regional college concert scene. Shadow 15 was an anomaly, the band bringing the goods night after night, but they got little more than a sniff from the major label loan sharks, and only released a single four-song EP, Far Away, in 1985 for Tim Lee’s (The Windbreakers) independent Big Monkey Records label. An expanded 21-track version of Far Away was released on CD by Spat Records in 2008, receiving favorable-to-raveable reviews before Shadow 15 disappeared once again into the inky blackness of rock ‘n’ roll obscurity…

Shadow 15’s Days of Innocence 1983-85

Thankfully, Take The City Records from Spain has released Days of Innocence 1983-85, a ten-song vinyl compilation that hits the sweet middle spot between the Far Away EP and the previously-released CD. Collecting a representative sample of Shadow 15’s immense talents, Days of Innocence displays a band heavily influenced by Bob Mould and Hüsker Dü but one also jumping up and down with cool, innovative musical ideas of its own that stand tall even today. Album-opener “Time Dies” is one such example, with a rat-a-tat machinegun drumbeats and ethereal guitar licks leading into a general cacophony from which singer Scott Feinstein’s vocals leap out with punkish intensity. The short, sharp mid-song guitar solo is a thing of haunting beauty, and the entire melodic frenzy makes one wonder if label A&R drones had steel wool crammed into their orifices when first hearing Shadow 15.

Every track on Days of Innocence is equally, if not more compelling, Shadow 15 intuitively blending punk-rock fury with metallic Sturm und Drang to create incendiary performances like “So Far Today,” Feinstein’s guitar wonderfully intertwined with Shannon Ligon’s inspired fretwork (including a touch of Dick Dale-styled surf twang) while bassist Barry Nelson and drummer Chris Feinstein support the song with a Godzilla-strength rhythmic foundation. With its grungy, MC5 vibe and no-frills jive, “The Last Forever” is the great lost college rock hit, Shadow 15 kicking out the jams with an energy and enthusiasm that I’ve only witnessed from Sonic’s Rendezvous Band…and that’s just the first side of Days of Innocence!

Side two’s overclocked rock ‘n’ roll elixir will peel the wallpaper from your dingy walls, starting with the nuclear explosion of “A Room With You,” the band coaxing unnatural sounds from their axes, which ride below, above, and alongside the song’s melody, or “Endless Day,” which sports an alluring succubus six-string intro, or “Return,” which blends Detroit ‘guitar army’ lightning with British Goth thunder (think Ted Nugent shining Andrew Eldtritch’s boots), or…well, you get the picture.
 

The Reverend’s Bottom Line

Shadow 15 was a band a good decade ahead of its time, too raw and musically adventurous to appeal to the flocks of glam-metal sheep and too legit to fit into a hardcore straitjacket. They would have knocked ‘em dead in 1991 or ’92, but that was then and this is now and it’s not too late for fans of REAL ‘80s rock ‘n’ roll to rediscover Shadow 15. RIYL Hüsker Dü, The Wipers, Sonic Rendezvous Band, The Replacements, SST Records, Hammer Studio horror films, 1960s-era biker flicks (or any Russ Meyers movies), Mad magazine, or EC Comics. Grade: A+   BUY! (Take The City Records, Spain) 

Vintage Review: Max Vague's S.O.S. The Party's Over (1993)

Nashville is a hotbed of rock ‘n’ roll talent, but not in the way that one might think. Outside of the so-called “alternative” throngs – bands trying to chase the trend of the moment -- are a handful of musicians who are taking risks, ignoring the popular currents, and following their own artistic vision. One such artist is Max Vague...

A Music City immigrant by way of Los Angeles, Vague brought with him some curious baggage, such as artistic integrity, a distinct musical style and the tools and ability to bring his vision to fruition. Vague made a splash earlier this year with the pop-flavored Love In A Thousand Faces, his impressive debut CD. Hot on the heels of that musical triumph, Vague closes 1993 with the release of S.O.S. The Party’s Over.

Musically, S.O.S. draws from a veritable wellspring of influences: Peter Gabriel, Eno, Pink Floyd...all pulled together into a cohesive musical whole. Vague provides nearly all of the instrumentation here, creating a lush, complex landscape that is a wonder in its beauty, awe-inspiring in its diversity and breathtaking in its scope. Upon this soundtrack, Vague has embroidered his lyrical poetry.

Imaginative, colorful, and intriguing, the songs on S.O.S. are like a puzzle box whose solution awaits discovery. Whereas some of the cuts are more straightforward in their understanding – the title cut’s theme of modern alienation, for example – others, such as the haunting “Home” (with its fatalistic refrain, “we slide into obscurity with drugs and MTV, we know too much, we can’t survive, they’ll never let us out alive, our only option is to hide and let them roll on by”) require a bit more thought. The rose-colored glasses on the disc’s cover may provide Vague with a different take on life, but even they can’t hide the political reality presented in cuts like “Believe” (“we focus on the sleight of hand in some foreign land and when our minds return we’ve forgotten what we’ve learned...”).

Vague is one of the most exciting artists working in rock today, an uncompromising musician and songwriter following his own muse through a commercial no-man’s land, consequences be damned. As good as his debut disc may have been (and make no mistake, it is quite impressive), S.O.S. The Party’s Over is miles ahead of that effort, showing a remarkable artistic evolution and maturity. That Vague pulls off these recorded hat tricks with just a little help from his friends (MetroLord being his own, self-financed imprint) is even more remarkable yet. But then, the guy’s too damn good for a major label...they wouldn’t know how to handle something this original. (MetroLord Records, released 1993)

Review originally published by R.A.D! Review and Discussion of Rock ‘n’ Roll zine, December 1993

Vintage Article: Life, The Universe & The Metro (1987)

This was written, only slightly tongue-in-cheek, for the second anniversary issue of The Metro in August 1987. If I only knew then what I know now...who’d have thought that The Metro would make it two years, much less enjoy its fifth anniversary in 1990, to finally peter-out somewhere between year six and seven? Gus sold the remnants of the rag to Radio Lightning in 1992, a deal brokered by Ned Horton, who became the publisher, bringing on Daryl Sanders as editor and eventually changing the name to Bone Music Magazine.

For all the criticism leveled at Palas, however, one fact remains true – nobody else has published a magazine focusing on Nashville’s non-country music scene longer that Gus and The Metro, and many have tried in the years since. Even today, with the Nashville rock scene thriving as never before, with a highly-regarded national reputation, there is no publication like The Metro to champion the scene...and ‘tis more the shame. Left unsaid in this article was how it took mountains of cocaine and gallons of beer and booze to cobble together a new issue every two weeks. Still, we accomplished quite a bit on a shoestring budget and little or no institutional support in the early years...    

A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away… (Naw, that won’t work…it’s been used before).

Once upon a time, in a magic kingdom lived a... (Though none the worse for the wear, it’s somehow inappropriate).

Let’s try this one more time...

Gus Palas had a dream…not just your garden-variety, earthshaking, wet-the-bed kinda dream, but a vision of great magnitude and magnificence. He was going to start publishing a music magazine…and not just any kind of music mag. GVPIII was going to create a rag that featured Nashville’s fledgling rock ‘n’ roll performers in its pages, the local scene mixed, editorially, with coverage of the growing indie/college radio performers and the ever-changing world of big-league pop music. Throw in a dash of soul, a soupcon of jazz, and a healthy dose of “new-kid-on-the-block” brashness, mix well and serve: The Metro.

When I first met Gus back in the summer of ‘85, he told me of his dream. I, for one, thought that he’d spun this fantasy after a late-night snack of spicy anchovy burritos…and you know what kind of dreams that will produce! But whereas I dream of Sybil Danning in a Jacuzzi filled with butterscotch pudding, Gus whipped up some ridiculous ideas about founding a publishing empire.

Go figure...

Shrugging away my misgivings, I got involved with The Metro in those long and hot early days before the first issue. After all, I’d been involved with speculative publishing projects before, from Thom King’s groundbreaking Take One magazine, Nashville’s first alternative rag, to The Nashville Gazette, to a host of other magazines, tabloids, and one-sheeters. It’s not often that one gets a chance to participate in another’s dream, and even if Gus was an odds-challenging loony-toon, well, I possess more than my own share of genetically-mutated mental illness myself.

The first issue of The Metro hit the stands on or around August 16th, 1985 and featured yet-to-become superstar Jon Bon Jovi and local talents In Pursuit on the cover. That first issue was mild, if not calculated. We tossed in the Music City’s longest-lived rockers, the White Animals, along with a handful of record reviews and some local news. Sixteen pages chock full o’ fun, and it only took us a couple of months of protracted labor after several months of pregnancy to give birth to the monster. On the seventh day, we looked at it, and it was good.

Then we all went out and got obscenely drunk...

That next morning, Gus was rattling our cages and rudely shook us from our collective stupors. “Time to work on Number Two!,” he screamed, or something to that effect (memories are foggy after much time and abuse). “Well, isn’t this a fine kettle of fish,” we, the staff, thought. “We slave and sweat to put out the first issue and now this clownhole Palas actually wants us to begin work on a second one?” Surely, though, with the experience garnered from the mistakes of the previous endeavor, we’d be able to whip together a second Metro in little or no time at all…

Right enough, that second issue was a breeze. Sort of like trying to change a tire while utilizing a pair of toothpicks in place of the jack. Not unlike squeezing toothpaste back into the tube.

Not any easier...

After the proper two-week gestation period, the second issue of The Metro hit the streets, and what a King Hell mutant baby it was! The honeymoon was over, kiddies, we were here to kick your rears and open your ears. We began writing rock ‘n’ roll history in those pages, as we not only became the first publication in the known universe to slap the beautiful Screamin’ Sirens on our cover in an exclusive pre-tour interview (they played Nashville a couple of days after the issue appeared, creating a legion of ‘Music City Sirens Love Slaves’ with their charm and talent). The Metro was also the first rag to review John Cougar Mellencamp’s breakthrough album, Scarecrow. We threw in features on Nashville faves Jason and the Scorchers and Bill Lloyd’s phenomenal Sgt. Arms band and went home feeling good about the job we’d done.

With the third issue, we changed from the digest format that we’d used on the first two in favor of a larger, tabloid style that allowed us to offer you, the reader, more features, more reviews, and more news than any other rock rag in the Southeast. We set yet another pair of dual milestones with that one as we introduced you to both Webb Wilder and the Georgia Satellites in features by Bill Spicer and myself. Webb has become somewhat of a local legend, and is soon to be an international smash (could it be any other way?); and although we were the first magazine in the U.S.A. to discover the Satellites (after their historical reunion show at the sadly defunct Cantrell’s), the rest of the world now knows them after a Number Two single and a Top Ten, Gold-selling debut album. The Satellites’ success led to tours with Bob Seger and Tom Petty…and placed another feather in our caps.

From that time on, The Metro became a staple in Nashville. Sure, the issues were still hard to produce and, as some weeks proved to be longer than others, I was often accosted in public with cries of “Hey, Gordon ya scumbag, when’s the next Metro gonna be out, huh??” After taming these anxious readers with a large and pointy stick, I assured them that the next issue would be in their hot little hands soon enough. And it always was, give or take a week or two…

That first year of The Metro saw an evolution in rock and pop music as college radio grew from a cultish, big-school plaything to a major force in presenting new talent. During those weeks and months, the pages of The Metro remained on the cutting edge of creativity, not content to follow the trends and cover the established and old-hat, but rather create the trends and discover tomorrow’s superstars, yesterday. The Metro boldly trod where no publication had feared tread before, offering interviews and features on the likes of Motley Crue, Omar & the Howlers, Love Tractor, Amy Grant, Heart, Robyn Hitchcock, Rosanne Cash, the dB’s, Green On Red, NRBQ, and countless others, long before you read about them elsewhere.

And, oh those record reviews…where else but in The Metro could one find the diversity of style and taste that would include coverage of such mainstream acts as Jon Butcher, Stevie Wonder, Rush, ZZ Top, and Elton John with such off-the-beaten path talent as Billy Bragg, Julian Cope, Mofungo, Kate Bush, Lou Miami, Mojo Nixon, Eugene Chadbourne, the Smithereens, etc, etc. We unearthed the Meatmen! We found Adolph Hitler living in Argentina! WE DISCOVERED THE BEATLES!! (Oops, sorry…I got a little carried away. I’m much better now.)

From that very first issue, The Metro has attempted to accurately reflect and support Nashville’s talented and every-growing local music scene. From those early days when a mere handful of bands were playing an equal number of clubs, we’ve seen the local scene evolve from an embryonic idea to a minor aggravation to those who would keep Nashville pure, country, and mediocre to a fully-bloomed, nationally-recognized hotbed of creative radicalism.

For every local talent scarfed up by the major labels, from Jason and the Scorchers to the Sluggers, as well as immigrants like John Hiatt, the Georgia Satellites, and Billy Chinnock, there are a dozen and one as-of-yet unsigned talents like Threk Michaels, the Questionnaires, and Raging Fire. We’ve tried to cover them all, from In Pursuit to Afrikan Dreamland, from Bill Lloyd to Webb Wilder, from the Royal Court of China to Walk The West and beyond. Above all, we’ve tried to be Nashville’s music magazine, and if that means turning you on to the talents of Dessau, Will Rambeaux, or John Jackson, so be it.

The Metro has never been afraid to take a bold editorial stand, however popular or unpopular it may prove to be. We’ve taken great pains to foster originality and creativity, not just publish press releases and ad copy opinion. When the Missus of Tennessee’s erstwhile Presidential candidate, Tipper (and her cohorts), attempted to castrate rock lyrics, we spoke loudly in opposition to any form of censorship. The Metro came out, in print, against the evil apartheid regime of the white-minority ruled South Africa, and stated its disdain, in no uncertain terms, towards racism in any way, shape or form, both within the music industry and beyond. We supported Bernie Walters in his attempts to have the rock ‘n’ roll museum located in Nashville…and provided valuable coverage to the Nashville Entertainment Association’s Music Extravaganzas and the annual Summer Lights festival.

The second year of The Metro proved to be as ground-breaking and seminal in influence as the first. Among other gems, the magazine published pieces on the Psychedelic Furs, George Carlin, Otis Blackwell, the local jazz scene as represented by Café Unique and JC’s, profiles of Mickey Basil, Stan Lassiter, a historical remembrance of the Byrds’ Gram Parsons, and exclusive coverage of Bubba Skynyrd’s takeover of KDF.

As The Metro enters its third year, the magazine continues to grow in vision and importance. We’ve switched from bi-monthly, increased circulation and distribution, and are no longer the unproven kid in diapers. The Metro has passed the audition and has become one of the longest-lived and influential publications of its kind, with copies finding their way into hands across the United States and the world, receiving a fair amount of international acclaim and accolades from such far-strewn locals as Germany, Poland, and France. The Metro celebrates its second anniversary with this issue, even thought the odds are still against its survival…

…and your humble writer is still along for the ride. ‘Cause it’s not every day that you get to participate in someone else’s dream…and even if two years at the helm of a gang of assorted loonies, artistic thugs, and creative malcontents may have warped his sense of reality only slightly, I’m still betting that Gus can pull it off. And even if he doesn’t, it’ll be a hell of a ride!

Won’t you join us?

Keith A. Gordon
Somewhere on Lower Broad
August 1st, 1987