Dorkweed at full throttle

• ‘My Motor’ sacrifices gadgetry for more horsepower

By Steve Stav, for the Ballard News-Tribune, Seattle, 2000.

Every once in a while, you come across a CD that's so addictive, you eventually have to ration the spins in order to relieve pressure on the cranium and the delicate hearing instruments contained within.

Brent "Dorkweed" Amacher's last album, "No. 2 - Send These Shoes To Hell," was not one of those CDs. A loose, promising bundle of "experimental" electronic noise and an even more promising display of unorthodox songwriting, "No. 2" won over a substantial number of fans, but it was an effort that the mainstream might have politely described as "odd."'

Oklahoma native Amacher, known in certain Jet City circles as a mildly eccentric sound tinkerer, has been very busy in the garage since then. With three veteran mechanics -- Martin the drummer, Forrest the bass player, and J6ff Saltzman the producer -- and a stethoscope on the block, he's been tapping, twisting, fine-tuning the precision parts, smoothing errant hiccups into a low, throaty roar. Last week, Amacher and company turned their bombastic creation, "My Motor," loose on the public -- and, after rationing became a necessity, I corralled this unassuming band into an interview at the Sunset Tavern.

The conversation's first topic was Saltzman, who until recently was one of the driving forces behind Portland's Sunset Valley.

"He's a drill sergeant, the guy's brilliant," Amacher asserted. "It took a strong ego [to work with him]... he would come in and say, 'Why are you playing that? Is there a reason you're putting that part in there, or is that just to show off?'"

"'I don't hear that' -- he would say that all the time," interjected Memphis-born Forrest (no last name).

Guitarist Amacher continued, "I think it worked because I was such a big Sunset Valley fan to begin with, I listened to their last record, and thought, that style could work with the songs we're doing... these guys were a little skeptical."

"I was very skeptical, but it soon became apparent that he's a pro," Martin (the only Seattle native; also, no last name) said.

"I think we were lucky to share some of the same visions of the finished product ... we just happened to be on the same page," concluded Forrest.

Until a year ago, Dorkweed was a solo act, which began shortly after Amacher moved here from Dallas four years ago. He had kickstarted his foray into the Seattle scene by performing at the OK Hotel's open mic nights and

doing some guerrilla marketing, slapping up stickers in bathrooms across town. Shortly after releasing "No. 2" he placed an ad in The Rocket, searching for bandmates. After exhaustive tryouts, he decided upon Forrest and Martin, a rhythm section that had struggled with a previous group.

"The key thing with these guys was personality and bond," Amacher remembered. "I auditioned a lot of people, it was a pain in the ass... people could play well, but they had an attitude -- 'Hey, I'm cool.'"

Forrest said, "The first time I heard the CD ["No. 2"], I thought, this is pretty good, I could do this for a while."

"You had that attitude for a while," the guitarist interjected, laughing.

"But the more I listened to it, the more I liked it," the mild-mannered bassist responded. "After he explained to me how he comes up with some of the songs, it made sense, some of the songs write themselves."

"Did I explain that?" Amacher asked. "Forrest, how do I come up with songs?"

Playing along, the bassist explained, "Well, you sit home and practice guitar, and since you don't know anybody else's songs, you make up your own." Turning to me, Forrest intimated, "He really doesn't know how to play other people's songs."

"Yeah, that's true," the songwriter confirmed from across the table.

"His dad came to see us rehearse, he's probably in his 70s, and it the end of 'Pipe Bomb,' he said, 'is that about the time you blew the fish up in the back yard?' and Brent said, 'Yeah.'"

"The older he gets, the more he's gotten into the music thing," Amacher says of his retired father. "It's funny, because he's my artistic influence... when I was a little kid, we'd sing along into a microphone along with Jim Croce records -- that's who he was into -- I remember singing with him into a microphone, singing 'Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown.'"

One of the brilliant aspects of "My Motor" is the memorable, off-kilter lyrics that Amacher has somehow channeled into song. The man would give a psychiatrist fits playing the old word-association game.

"The songs come from either childhood or chicks," he said with a shrug. I brought up the dark-as-an-attic, deep-as-a-well feel to the new approach, which Amacher's low voice pulls off with great flair.

"I was tired of being the good guy, the 'good guy syndrome,' and it's worked so well," Amacher replied.

"Women really like that," Martin quipped.

"But have you really had your heart stepped on so much?" I asked. "It seems like you're drawing from a lot of turmoil."

"Well, I've had a lot of relationship issues," the songwriter said.

In one number, "Laundry Song," Amacher likens a relationship to underthings mixing in the dryer. His motivation for writing it?

"Girls keep leaving their underwear at my house," he explained with a straight face. "I'll find something and wonder whose it is, and sometimes I'll just throw it away, because you can't ask... you either throw it away or you collect it."

And "Starfish," a commentary on people paying a high price for success, wherein he likens someone to a starfish waiting to die in the sun?

"I'm surprised that people like that song. One of the things I liked about it was the stupid simplicity of it," Amacher said. "I remember being in the studio, I've got the headphones on and singing, and Jeff said, 'Brent, is there any more lyrics or is it just 'It sucks to be you' over and over? and I said, 'It's just 'It sucks to be you,' that's the humor of it,' and he just said, 'Okay.'

"The beginning part of that song, the noise, comes from the nursing home where Curtis (Andreen -- friend and the Tremens' drummer extraordinaire) works," he continued, "I walked around with him carrying a DAT and recording background sounds. I like to just hang around, town, carrying my DAT, and just record stuff, and then when I record a CD, I have all of these sounds to work with."

"My Motor" has resurrected Shaky Records, which is operated by another member of the Tremens power trio, bassist John Mitchell (the third, Quentin Ertel, will be joining Amacher on guitar for a few shows). Shaky hasn't been active for a while, but is currently planning to re-release Dorkweed's last two CDs. Besides his admiration for Mitchell's business savvy, Amacher is delighted to be working with a good friend.

"Mitchell really knows what he's doing ... when he speaks, people listen," the guitarist/songwriter asserted.

Dorkweed has just begun to play around town in support of the new album, and is in the planning stages of a West Coast tour, as well as short jaunts around the Northwest. In just a couple of weeks, "My Motor" has received an enthusiastic response (it's starting to get airplay on band-making KCMU; the band will perform in "The Live Room" Dec. 9). and it's just beginning to sink in to Amacher and his genteel cohorts that their refined-yet-muscular, slight departure from "experimentation" might just become a huge success.

"['My Motor'] doesn't have nearly the weird sounds that the last one did," Amacher admits. "It's smoother, but that's because we had a really great producer. I'm excited, there seems to be a 'buzz' about it, which is great, because we all worked so, hard on it."

Dorkweed is in the middle slot of a Tractor Tavern show Oct. 26 that features Thee Heathen as well as Jason Trachtenburg, whose "Family Slideshow" incorporates estate-sale slides and his 6-year old daughter's drumming skills.

At press time, it was unknown whether his daughter will be able to perform at the Tractor but check it out, regardless. Trachtenburg has been getting a lot of attention lately.

Dorkweed • My Motor • 2000 • Dorkweed Records

Originally published in the Ballard News-Tribune, Seattle, Wash., 2000.

copyright 1997-2011, Steve Stav

Northwest Rock 101: The times they are a changin’

• In 1965, Northwest folkies plugged in, grew their hair and hit the road, and their music would never be the same again.

By Steve Stav, for The Rocket, Seattle, Sept. 2000.

By 1963, rock 'n' roll -- only about seven years old or so -- was dying. Elvis Presley was making more movies than records, Buddy Holly was long gone, and rock needed something new -- and rock was about to get exactly what it needed.

A wind started blowing in from the East -- the Beatles -- and from the California Coast -- the Beach Boys (ironically, John Lennon, Paul McCartney and Brian Wilson all were influenced by the same sounds: Chuck Berry-style R&B and American folk music). In the lonely, isolated land of the Pacific Northwest, local musicians were getting ideas of their own, re-inventing rock by seeing the rest of the world through rain-clouded visors, and interpreting those leaps-and-bounds developments in their own unique ways.

The folk music scene, particularly around Seattle's University District, was a quietly thriving, underground scene at the time.

"There has always been a direct connection between the UW and Berkeley," says former Daily Flash singer/guitarist Steve Lalor. Idealists, beatniks and comparatively square young people all gathered in coffeehouses, listening to Woody Guthrie and the Kingston Trio. It was harmless music and ingested by invisible people. "At the time, folk was a politically liberal, but socially acceptable art form," Lalor says.

It's difficult to pinpoint the catalyst -- and even the exact time --for the change in their weather, but most would agree that it started with Bob Dylan, a bonafide circuit hero whose "plugged in" 1965 milestone, Bringing It All Back Home, pulled the curtains back to expose a whole new realm of possibilities. Subsequently, Columbia producer Tom Wilson and engineer Roy Halees decision to flesh out Simon & Garfunkel's Sounds of Silence with Dylan session musicians opened the floodgates even wider.

For Steve Lalor, who left his highprofile gig on TV's "Seattle Center Hootenanny" to play the San Francisco scene with a folk group (that included "Hey Joe" writer Billy Roberts), another sound changed the way he looked at music: the 12-string ring of Roger McGuinn's electric guitar.

"I heard 'Mr. Tambourine Man' by the Byrds. and said to myself, 'I can do that: so I came back to Seattle and put the Daily Flash together," explains Lalor, who was familiar with McGuinn's earlier work with the Chad Mitchell Trio.

In a period of a couple years, there was an exodus of Northwest bands -- both fledgling and established -- who, having learned by the Fabulous Wailers' example that one couldn't get a decent record deal by staying around town, packed up and set off to see the world.

The Daily Flash, harried by an unsuccessful drug raid of Lalor's Capitol Hill digs, went to L.A. with nomad Danny O’Keefe -- initially staying at the Tropicana. The Crome Syrcus, who took music to new, psychedelic heights, lived in New York City for a time, performing a score for the Joffrey Ballet and playing gigs at the Filmore East. Portland's Kingsmen and Boise's Paul Revere & the Raiders all but left home, spending years on the road. Straight-ahead rockers Don & the Goodtimes found initial success in L.A. Jerry Miller, along with the Frantics, tried to leave, but a car accident in Oregon postponed the trip to San Francisco. Miller, along with drummer Jon Keliehor, were almost killed. Keliehor, seriously injured, was replaced by the Daily Flash's Don Stevenson.

It was on the road that these bands discovered that, while their clothes might raise eyebrows, the length of their hair raised blood pressures.

"If you had long hair, you were a hippie maggot," says Lalor, chuckling. "We got physically threatened by people with short hair. Long hair was a dangerous thing to have in those years, it was a badge that you wore.

"Between L.A. and San Francisco, there was this whole other world," he continues. "We had to go in pairs into stores, because people wouldn't serve us. Sometimes they wouldn't sell you a pack of gum. I had to send my girlfriend in to register for a motel room. When you got to San Francisco, you were in the tribe again, but between San Francisco and Eugene was yet another wasteland."

Jerry Miller remembers seeing some early hippies when the straight-edged Frantics first visited San Francisco.

"We thought we were pretty cool, we might have had hair past our ears -- really pushing things. Then we saw these guys with hair almost down to their butts, and said, 'Whoa!' We knew right then that this was a totally different scene," remembers Miller, who later made some fashion statements -- with the legendary Moby Grape.

Long hair was just the tip of the iceberg. Before people like Miller and Lalor knew it, a crack in the sky appeared, and suddenly, everything was a psychedelic free-for-all: free love, sometimes-free drugs, and a subsequent freeing of the mind. Some bands thrived in the new climate, and actually helped create it -- The Jimi Hendrix Experience principally. The Crome Syrcus' trippy 1967 album, Love Cycle was a bold move in the realm of psychedelia for any band-especially one from the Northwest. Miller and Stevenson, with Moby Grape, recorded one of the finest LPs of the period -- the band's eponymous 1967 debut.

Other Northwest acts faded or folded after a brief brush with fame -- The Daily Flash, who never recorded a full-length record, nonetheless influenced many bands as they toured the West Coast. The Viceroys (known for their regional hit "Granny's Pad"), after changing their name to Surprise Package, recorded some psychedelic material for Columbia and Lee Hazlewood's LH1 label before a lineup (and another name) change. Local guitar gods Rich Dangel and Joe Johansen's powerhouse psychedelic-blues venture, the Floating Bridge, recorded for Vault, but classic misfortunes quickly eroded their career. Legendary punk precursors the Sonics, one of the Northwest's most influential bands, began internal combustion in 1967, thwarted by, among other things, a lack of national success.

Like exhausted knights returning from the Crusades, most musicians eventually returned to the Northwest. Bands dissolved, lineups revamped, and some walked away from the rock business entirely, but a surprisingly large number of those artists continue to rock today. Others, unfortunately, are no longer with us.

The '60s, as everybody knows, claimed a freakishly large number of music casualties. The untimely departures of huge artists like Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix are well-known; the car-crash deaths of Rockin' Robin Roberts and Tom "Thumb" Blessing, along with the heroin overdose of Daily Flash bassist Don MacAllister, barely made the AP wire, but struck the music community like a hammer. Others managed to survive the '60s, only to pass away in the decades since: stellar Dave Lewis Trio/Floating Bridge guitarist Joe Johansen and B3 master Dave Lewis, who never reached the heights that their talents deserved. Others included Ventures drummer Mel Taylor, singing star Ron Holden and Waders multi-instrumentalist Ron Gardner (who was killed in a fire in '92).

These artists, and the musicians that remember them, are more than footnotes in Northwest rock history. However large or small their contributions might have been, everyone involved in making music in the turbulent '60s played a role in electrifying not only rock 'n' roll, but a culture that we take for granted today.

Editor’s note: This article, originally published in the Seattle music magazine The Rocket in Sept. 2000, was originally intended as an introduction piece to a series of articles about the history of Northwest rock, had the long running magazine not abruptly folded less than a month later.

   

Crome Syrcus • History of Northwest Rock, Vol. 3: Psychedelic Seattle • 2000 • Soundworks

copyright 1997-2011, Steve Stav

Case launches ‘Flying Saucer Blues’

• An interview with the former Plimsouls frontman

By Steve Stav, for the Ballard News-Tribune, Seattle, 2000.

Throughout his career, Peter Case has followed his own intuition, and the Midas-like results have always left the genre-hopping singer/songwriter sitting pretty.

Most music aficionados over the age of 25 remember Case as the rough-voiced frontman for the semi-legendary Plimsouls, whose 1983 album Everywhere At Once was considered by many to be among the best of the decade. Before that, he was in another L.A. group -- the Nerves, a groundbreaking punk band. And before that effort? Case started his musical odyssey by playing pretty much what he's been performing over the 15 years since the Plimsouls initially broke up -- folk and the blues.

Sound a bit far-fetched? Not really, when you consider that Case considers himself to be an American songwriter first and foremost -- to him, a style of music is simply a tool to get his ideas across. Case conveys his thoughts magnificently on his new CD, Flying Saucer Blues, an instrumentally rich departure from the bulk of his raw earlier works. Admittedly inspired by the Beatles' later forays into country-folk music, the album also draws from the workingman blues of Case's youth.

SS: We've had Tim Finn, Lloyd Cole, Stan Ridgway and Colin Hay - all singers who fronted bands in the '80s - roll through Seattle over the past six weeks. How does it feel to be a trendsetter for the pop star turned singer/songwriter movement?

Case: Yeah, I guess I was probably the first guy from that whole gang to quit my perfectly good rock band and go solo. For me, it felt really natural, it was something I had to do, it was dictated by the songs. The band was still gaining altitude, actually. Some people thought I was nuts to break it up, but it was sort of one of those musical decisions. I guess these days the label would have encouraged me to try to do both, but back then I felt that everyone really laid it on me -- I had to choose one direction or the other. I felt that I needed to write the songs I was supposed to be writing -- "true writing," the story-songs that popped up on the first album.

SS: Commercially that was certainly a bold move to make, embracing folk and blues in the mid-'80s. Was there ever a time where you were discouraged enough to think about quitting and trying something else?

Case: No, I had a really strong feeling that I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. It hasn't been easy, though. I've always been a musician, only for a few years I was in any sort of limelight. I used to be a street musician, and now I play these shows ... it's like I'm coming onto the radar of people who want to hear this sort of thing now.

SS: It must be nice to reach point in time where you have some people coming to your shows that have never heard of the Plimsouls.

Case: Yeah, that's been going on for a while now. There was a break ... I took some of the Plimsouls fans with me, but a lot of them just couldn't make the leap. It just might not a natural leap for everybody, but it was a natural leap for me, coming from where I came from. For a lot of the fans out here in California, they might not have gotten it. I had to build up a whole new thing. So, really, from the first album onward, there was a lot of people that liked it that never got into the Plimsouls. I feel that what I do now is a lot stronger than the Plimsouls. The Plimsouls were my first attempt to put anything together... it had a lot of power to it, we were a great live band, but I've written better songs than "A Million Miles Away."

SS: I read that you journeyed to North Beach as a teenager. People always associate San Francisco with psychedelia, but there sure was a lot of folk music there.

Case: There were a lot of folk musicians and blues musicians... You know, Sonny Terry and Doug Sahm were living there at the time, Jorma Kaukonen, the guys from the Charlatans as well. There, was a great folk club called the Coffee Gallery, which was the first place I played... an incredible scene of street musicians, a lot cooler than it is now. It was very exciting around '73.

SS: Growing up in upstate New York, did you ever see Dave Van Ronk play?

Case: Yeah, I saw Dave Van Ronk and other artists that were lesser known, like Cedric Smith, people from Canada... there was this whole folk scene up in Canada. I used to take off from home and hitchhike up to Ontario and see these guys. I also used to hitchhike to Boston, and see people like Lightnin' Hopkins play. There was this traveling R&B scene back then, these road shows that would come and play a while. Guys like Muddy Waters, or the Bo Diddley Band or Charlie and Inez Foxx, they would come to Buffalo and stay a week, play two-three sets a night ... that was a lot cooler than these onenighters.

SS: Do you still look for inspiration in old albums?

Case: Yeah, I do, actually. Especially the old blues guys... for years, I've listened to Sleepy John Estes, and I just re-purchased this album that I've had on vinyl forever.

SS: I've never heard of Sleepy John Estes.

Case: You've never heard of Sleepy John Estes? Dude, order this record called Broke and Hungry on Delmark. It's one of the greatest blues albums ever made. It's recorded as if Memphis was on the Nile or something.

SS: You're an excellent storyteller, which implies you're a good listener. Whose stories do you enjoy the most these days?

Case: I don't know, man... most of the stories in my songs are from people I know or things I've seen happen... like the story on my new album, "Two Heroes," that happened in the building a little while back, this guy I was writing songs with, he was the guy that broke up the robbery and went to jail. I had to listen to myself tell that story a few times, in different bars and places, until someone told me I had to put that to song.

SS: Are you touring solo, or will you have some accompaniment?

Case: I'm with my fiddle player, David Perales, he sings and plays violin, he's from San Antonio. He's a really great fiddle player with a deep tone, and he sings harmony as well.

SS: You recently met Sir George Martin (he performed with Martin and an orchestra). Have you ever met Sir Paul, or the most overlooked Beatle, George Harrison?

Case: No, I haven't. But I am really influenced by the Beatles on this record. I think part of it was due to that show with Martin, and hearing those songs, and singing them with all those people at the Hollywood Bowl. It really moved me -- the Beatles had a way of being deep and catchy at the same time, and that was what I was trying to catch on this album.

SS: Perhaps Lennon provided the "deep" and McCartney supplied the "catchy."

Case: I'm not so sure of that. I think Paul, in many ways, is a pretty powerful songwriter. The best song the Beatles ever wrote, in my opinion, is "Penny Lane" -- which I believe is Paul's song. It's inspired by Lennon, it's about his neighborhood... but it's possibly the closest they came to writing a Dylan-esque lyric, held together as in a poem.

Peter Case • Flying Saucer Blues • 2000 • Vanguard Records 

Originally published in the Ballard News-Tribune, Seattle, Wash., 2000.

copyright 1997-2011, Steve Stav

From Enz to ‘Say It Is So’

• An interview with Down Under pop icon Tim Finn

By Steve Stav, for the Ballard News-Tribune, Seattle, 2000.

Tim Finn, you might recall, was the driving force behind Split Enz, a group known for its avant garde performances and songs such as "Dirty Creatures," "I Got You," and "Six Months In A Leaky Boat."

Tim brought his brother Neil into the band just as the sensation known as "New Wave" was starting to reach large numbers of American listeners; before Split Enz could fully capitalize on the trend that they helped create, the band dissolved.

Neil Finn shaped remnants of this influential group into Crowded House; Tim launched a solo career.

Darting and dabbling here and there for years, the elder Finn released infrequent albums, and immersed himself in critically acclaimed side projects. He rejoined his brother in Crowded House for one wonderfully moody CD, "Woodface," and also on the recent "Finn Brothers" effort.

The singer/songwriter's new CD, "Say It Is So," is undoubtedly his finest work yet. Recorded in Nashville with noted producer Jay Joyce, it's a refreshingly vital blend of his trademark pop stylings and offbeat, subtly complex musical landscapes. "Say It Is So" is the kind of recording that takes two or three plays to fully appreciate; after that, you're hooked.

Finn's slightly eccentric tendencies are well-documented, and I came ear-to-ear with the earnest individual who was, surprisingly, interested in talking about his fascinating past.

SS: In your press kit, you state that "Nashville was the last place on earth that I would ever have thought of going to record." How so?

Finn: Well, I only had the knowledge of the cliche of Nashville. I had never toured through here; like anybody else in our part of the world, we just think of it as a place where hokey, formulaic music comes from -- it's known as a music factory. You forget about the ancient past; the last 10-15 years have created this impression. That's an impression based on ignorance, really... it didn't seem like a place that has anything much to do with pop. Sometimes when you go to the least likely place, that's where you find exactly what you were looking for.

I guess the person I was looking for was Jay Joyce, but I wouldn't have known he was living here. I didn't know of him, I didn't know his work. I met him through a friend of a friend once we got here. Really, my wife and little boy and I came here on an intrepid adventure in a funny way -- I'd been trying to make this record in Australia, and I'd recorded 20 tracks and thrown them all away. I wasn't happy, and really didn't know where to go next, and a friend of mine said to me, 'You must go to Nashville.' It was a weird thing, it struck me the right way... but the first month or so here we weren't sure why we came.

SS: Do you find that you have to reintroduce yourself to mainstream America every time you come here?

Finn: Yeah, because I come here so rarely. I mean, the last time I toured here solo was about six years ago. I've done a Finn Brothers tour since then, and I've toured around with this Irish band called ALT. I've jumped around from style to style, band to band, and it would be hard to imagine that people would remember who Tim Finn is every time. I accept that, I'm not interested in careerbuilding. I've never actually thought of it as a career, it's not a career, it has no logic or path or payoff. I'm a songwriter and I've found incredible richness in my life in pursuing that; there have been times where I've been frustrated -- with Split Enz, all those years ago.

That was a band I believed in with all my soul and like with any band, you have the desire to conquer the world, be the best band -- if you don't feel that way, it's probably not worth continuing. But that was a shared quest; on my own, it's been more of a stumbling, rambling journey... and I've accepted that now, and I take what comes.

SS: Do you ever run into your contemporaries Down Under -- like Paul Kelly or Mental As Anything, or Men At Work anymore?

Finn: Oddly enough, I actually saw the guys from Mental As Anything just the other day. There was a big event in Sydney where they're trying to bring about some sort of reconciliation between the Aboriginal people and the European people... it's a terribly painful, protracted sort of thing that will go on for a number of decades, I'm sure. There was a big march across the Sydney Harbor Bridge -- maybe 200,000 people -- and there was a series of free concerts afterwards, and I was part of that with Mental As Anything. It was really good to catch up with those guys, I feel completely part of their world somehow.

SS: What's your position on reconciliation? Have you been actively involved in that issue?

Finn: Not a politically active part. As an artist, I've been asked to do several things, like concerts. I've grown to love Australia, though I'm a New Zealander. I feel a part of that place. I've met Aboriginal songwriters through the years, people like Archie Roach, Yothu Yindi; when you actually meet these people and have a chat with them, you begin to feel it.

SS: Everything you do is compared to Split Enz. I imagine you would get tired of people bringing up that experience.

Finn: Absolutely not. I'm not jaded about that at all. I love Split Enz, I love the fact that I did it. If people talk about it, that's great; if that's the greatest thing I ever do in my life. I don't agree, but that's fine if people think that. I don't have a problem, with any of it.

SS: Describe growing up in New Zealand, and the surroundings that shaped your early musical career.

Finn: There was always music in the house. I think we grew up knowing that live music was exciting, and that it tended to make people loosen up, go crazy, do things they normally wouldn't do. I'm talking about when I was a very young child; the whiskey would come out, there would be a guy playing piano in a corner of the room, stubbing out his cigarettes on the piano, because he couldn't stop to butt out his cigarettes. That kind of intensity of performance... women flirting with priests, parents letting us do anything we liked, that sort of subversion of normal roles... the energy and heat was not coming from the alcohol, but the music.

Falling in love with Beatles records, and hovering around the record player at school -- someone would bring in the latest Beatles record, and 40-50 boys would gather 'round -- that sort of intensity, a devotion to pop music... that's how I grew up. I played and sang live music in school and wherever I could.

SS: Your musical relationship with Neil has been off-and-on over the years, and there's always been speculation about an Everly Brothers-type feud... What sort of hurdles do you have to leap when the two of you collaborate on something?

Finn: We don't have tq leap any hurdles... if the time is right, and we both seem to know when it is -- and it isn't very often -- it just happens like magic. That's what it was like with 'Woodface' and the 'Finn Brothers' album, we worked up the songs very quickly, and we didn't have to struggle with themes or ideas, they just came up. I guess the timing is everything, there's no point in trying to force it or rush it. When we get in a room with our guitars, it's just so easy to tap in -- tap in to shared memories -- not that we sing about them, though sometimes we might touch on things that come from our past directly. Mostly, it's just knowing it's there like a wellspring, and then we can draw inspiration from it at ease. It's a very easy thing for us to do...

Eddie Vedder lives there in Seattle, right? We bumped into Pearl Jam in New Zealand once, got up and sang 'I Got You' with them, it was really a blast... I was just jazzed to get up and play some of those Split Enz songs with Pearl Jam, 'cause it was heavier than they'd ever sounded, and they sounded great.

Tim Finn • Say It Is So • 2000 • What Are? Records

Originally published in the Ballard News-Tribune, Seattle, Wash., 2000.

copyright 1997-2011, Steve Stav

The Girl-Next-Door

• Tremendous talent doesn’t corrupt ‘down-to-earth’ chanteuse Heather Duby

By Steve Stav, for the Ballard News-Tribune, Seattle, 2000.

To put it quite simply, Heather Duby has a beautiful voice. Frequently compared to Everything But The Girl's Tracey Thorn, the 26-year-old chanteuse's delivery is at once delicate and powerful. Haunting and seductive, it soars and dips, enveloping the listener in a strangely warm haze.

Last year, esteemed producer Steve Fisk put her voice in front of Massive Attack/Pet Shop Boys-style electronica -- and the collaborative result, Post To Wire, was lauded by many critics as one of the best Northwest CDs of 1999.

One might surmise that Duby might have affected an aloof, Eurochic attitude to match the sophistication of her moody songwriting, but, in fact, she's remarkably well-grounded. In spite of her soaring career, Duby comes across as the girl-next-door -- a girl-next-door that could very well be an international star by this time next year.

SS: You came to Seattle from Portland when you were 20. What were you doing the first couple of years you were here?

Duby: I was a barista, I had various coffee jobs and played solo-acoustic gigs with my guitar, working on my songwriting and arrangements. I played at the Colourbox and other small places. Then I formed a band, Clementine (which included Reggie Watts, now Maktub's frontman) and started playing bigger venues, like the Crocodile.

SS: Were you involved in music growing up?

Duby: Yes, I played a lot of piano at home. I sang a lot, I was into choir and theater and dance.

SS: Did you fit in well in high school? Were you a moody kid?

Duby: Moody? [laughs]. Probably. In school, I couldn't really identify what sect I came from, because I managed to get along with everybody. It was really strange... I didn't really enjoy high school, if that's what you're asking. It was probably the worst four years of my life.

SS: Back then, did you listen to the 4AD ['80s mood/gothic/ambient label] stuff that you're compared to now?

Duby: Uh-huh, I listened to a lot of the Cocteau Twins, and lots of different things. I was a big Erasure fan when I was younger, and I got into punk, kind of sporadically -- Pegboy, the Dead Kennedys. I listened to the Pixies, New Order, the Cure, the usual stuff. I'd go to shows, see the Dead Milkmen and Pigface.

Portland has a really good independent music scene, and it's accessible to underage kids. They've got the bars in the back, but the kids could still come in and see the show. Seattle should operate that way, it would keep the live music scene busy.

SS: The end of last year finds Post To Wire in everybody's best-of lists, and you were getting regular airplay -- was there a time when the attention started to freak you out?

Duby: Mmm, no. It was pretty exciting... what's strange is -- because l still work in a restaurant -- people will come in there and recognize me. I’ve worked there for four years, bussing tables and everything, there's nothing glamorous about that!

It's been hard to stay in that position, and at the same time, be changing as a person. You get kind of frustrated, you just want to tell people, I have a record out, dammit! The reason I've stayed there so long is the people who work there are so good, they're wonderful, but ...

SS: When you actually got down to recording the album, was it hard to contradict Steve Fisk, a producer with so much experience?

Duby: It was really difficult. Fortunately, there wasn't much I had to contradict him on. I mean, Steve's a great producer in the sense that he's good at helping artists access their own ideas. He's very supportive and open. At the same time, however, he's got strong opinions about the things he thinks will work ... he's got 15-20 years on me, so it was very intimidating at first -- he's pretty much a genius [laughs].

It was a daunting task for me to enter into, especially since I'd had no experience with electronic music -- I'd only been in a three-piece band, and that was only for a year and a half. It was difficult, but I think it was the only way I'd ever want to do it, because I learned so much.

SS: With lyrics that seem to be so personal, was it strange to get up in front of a room full of people and sing them?

Duby: I really don't think so, if you've done it enough in different venues. I don't really know of any music that isn't personal in some way... it pretty much comes with the territory. I do think it's been difficult to translate the album into a live project, because it was such a studio piece of work. The concessions and compromises you have to make when you deal with different people -- it's a totally different environment. I really don't want to do everything off of a DAT, and if we were trying to approximate the album's sound, that's what, we'd have to do.

The people in the band are my very best friends... they're wonderful people to work with, and it's been a very fun and positive experience. In terms of being the person in charge, and the person who's supposed to be running things -- which I don't necessarily do well -- it's been a real education, because I'm used to being by myself.

SS: I hear you've done some recording lately. Will you have a new album out shortly?

Duby: We're working on a split-EP with Elemental, which is Reggie Watts' live drum-and-bass project. We're going to be doing some touring this summer, and once we're done with that, I'll start working on the next album ... it won't be for a while yet.

SS: You'll be playing the Tractor soon. The Crocodile and the Showbox are your usual clubs -- are you a little nervous about journeying to the Wild West?

Duby: No, I'm actually excited. I really like Ballard, I like the Tractor, I think it's a great showcase room. It will be a nice change of pace.

SS: Since you started singing professionally, what's the best piece of advice you've gotten?

Duby: Stay in school [laughs], go to college. Doing this is not easy.

Heather Duby • Post to Wire • 1999 • SubPop Records

Originally published in the Ballard News-Tribune, Seattle, 2000.

copyright 1997-2011, Steve Stav

O’Keefe still has the blues

 • Singer/songwriter divides time between music, raising environmental awareness through his Songbird Foundation

By Steve Stav, for the Ballard News-Tribune, Seattle, 2000.
 

Over the years, Danny O'Keefe's mystique has been amplified by his infrequent album releases. Of course, O'Keefe was, not exactly an instant sensation to begin with. After graduating from Wenatchee High School in 1961, it took this supremely talented singer/songwriter 10 years to finally capture the music industry's attention -- stepping up to the spotlight with the modern standard, "Good Time Charlie's Got The Blues" from 1972's Danny O'Keefe album.

O'Keefe followed that smash with 73's Breezy Stories, and its famous pulp fiction cover; six years passed before he reemerged with The Global Blues. His next, The Day to Day, was presented in 1984, and re-issued (and re-recorded) in 1989's Redux. This handful of recordings all had one thing in common: they were fantastic, with unforgettable, introspective songs sung with a unique, unforgettable voice.

The world has seen very little of this legendary artist over the past decade -- but his relative seclusion has recently come to an end. He's got another fabulous CD, Runnin’ From The Devil (Miramar) on the shelves; on May 2, he hosted a benefit for his Songbird Foundation in Philadelphia that featured Bonnie Raitt and Jackson Browne.

O'Keefe spoke to me via telephone from his Vashon Island home, where he was preparing for an upcoming Songbird benefit performance at the Tractor Tavern, which will also feature Colin Hay of Men at Work fame, as well as veteran power pop-rocker Tommy Tutone.

SS: Ten years is a long time to be absent from the public eye. What kept you busy in the '90s?

O'Keefe: For a period of time, I wrote for a couple of different publishing companies as a contract writer -- one of those companies was one owned by Bob Dylan. I wrote a song with him during that time, "Well, Well, Well," which is on my new CD. Five of the last 10 years, I worked in Nashville with other writers -- several of those songs are on the CD as well.

About three years ago, I started a nonprofit organization called the Songbird Foundation, to essentially deal with issues of sustainability, but particularly as they apply to the migratory songbird populations that in many cases are rapidly declining... and the relationship to coffee agriculture.

It sounds very complicated, but it really isn't -- when you cut down the trees in "coffeeland," you begin to lose birds, because that's where they go for their winter migration. It's part of a pattern that we see worldwide... most people are, or choose to be, completely unaware of it.

SS: How did you become interested in this cause?

O'Keefe: It kind of goes back to one of the fundamental works in conservation, Rachel Carson's "Silent Spring." There's a profound question that's asked in the context of this book, a question that I felt was being asked of me several years ago, which is: these other creatures, they provide delight in our lives, but more than that, they have a fundamental, existential right to be alive, and is it immoral to create processes that destroy their web of life?

If all of this was happening because of our appetite for coffee there seemed the potential... if you informed the coffee drinker about the choice of drinking sustainably (shade, or traditionally-grown coffee) and preserving habitat and helping people earn more than a subsistence living -- which are the coffee workers -- that people would pay a little more for a cup of coffee if they knew that would help that process. A lot of other groups are working towards this ideal, as well.

SS: How did Colin Hay and Tommy Tutone get involved in this benefit show?

O'Keefe: Tommy Tutone is an old friend of mine. We initially met through agents in common, and Tommy's agent now also works with Colin Hay. He suggested that Colin would fit in well in this showcase, and could help raise some money for the Foundation as well. Colin said, "Sure"... I haven't seen him perform by himself, I'm really looking forward to it. Men at Work's song, "The Land Down Under," is going to be the theme for the Olympics this summer, so were going to hear a lot from Colin Hay.

SS: Tommy Tutone is going to do an acoustic set as well?

O'Keefe: Yeah, he'll open, I'll play second and Colin will close the show... and in between, we'll try to tell people a little bit about the Foundation.

SS: You've been with a few different labels. How's your relationship with Miramar coming along?

O'Keefe: I'm a hard sell, because I have been away for so long. With this album, I didn't intend it to be one loaded with "hits" -- it's a personal experience, and it's always harder to sell something that's perhaps more intensely personal and not designed with a commercial intent. I think that Miramar's doing an admirable job, considering what they have to work with [laughs].

SS: Are you going to have a video on VH1 again? ("Along For The Ride," from Redux, was filmed around Conway, Wash.)

O'Keefe: I don't know if well do a video, I think the internet is the experience that we're looking for... perhaps a half hour concert.

SS: "Good Time Charlie's Got The Blues" is still being covered. To what do you attribute that song's longevity?

O'Keefe: It's two essential elements: it's very simple, and everyone relates to it. There's a certain inherent "identifiability," a truth, if you would, to it. It's almost like haiku, it's so simple -- although it's not as poetic as haiku. Everybody's had that experience, a dislocation. You come from, say, a peer group; and that peer group's started to fragment and go its own way, and you have to make a choice: which will be the road taken, or not taken.

SS: Was it a song that you wrote while you were preparing the Danny O'Keefe album or did you have it in your repertoire for awhile?

O'Keefe: "Good Time Charlie" is what essentially got me the deal with Ahmet [Ertegun] at Atlantic. I realized it was a piece of business fairly soon after I wrote it. It was one of those things where it was one of three songs that you audition for people, and that was the one that smelled like money to them. "Good Time Charlie" was never written that way, though; it was literally a gift that came through me in about a half hour or 45 minutes of just sitting there with a guitar, writing notes and... bam! there it was.

"Running From the Devil" • Danny O'Keefe • 1999 • Miramar Records

Originally published in the Ballard News-Tribune, Seattle, Wash., 2001.

copyright 1997-2011, Steve Stav

Of tube radios and AM airwaves

• A candid conversation with Deke Dickerson

By Steve Stav, for the Ballard News-Tribune, Seattle, 2000.

Missouri native Deke Dickerson has the distinction of having garnered a cult following with three different groups.

In the late 1980s, his band Untamed Youth cut its own niche out of the then-underground surf/garage scene. Then, in 1991, he embraced his lifelong passion for rockabilly and classic country with the critically praised Dave and Deke Combo.

Following that group's breakup, Dickerson took that passion one step further. The singer and guitarist has released two CDs with the top-notch band the Ecco-Fonics ("Number One Hit Record" and "More Million Sellers"), putting his own unmistakable stamp on a sound that originated almost 50 years ago.

The singer and guitarist, like some sort of New Age channeler, taps into the pure vitality, the essence of early rock'n' roll and '50s country. The result is incredibly authentic-the only thing missing is the hum of a tube radio and the crackle of AM airwaves.

When I spoke to Dickerson last week, the band was en route to a gig in Kansas City, Mo. The band will be making a stop at the Tractor Tavern this Saturday night.

SS: Deke, with all of the legendary artists that you get to play on your CDs, you must be like a kid in a candy store?

Deke: As a kid, you'd never think you'd be able to hire the guy that did the 'Beverly Hillbillies" theme song to perform on your CD, but it's not that hard.

SS: Once you get started?

Deke: Yeah, as with the first CD, I sort of sat down with a list of people that I wanted on it, and I wound up getting everyone on my list.

SS: How did the duet with 86 year-old singer and actress Hadda Brooks, ["You're My Cadillac"] come about?

Deke: I've got a lot of Hadda's old records, and I just thought it would be a real kick to get her on the album doing a rockabilly sort of thing. I knew she was still kicking around L.A., and it really only took about two phone calls to get her manager on the phone. The next thing you know, she's down in the studio singing with me.

SS: Musicians like former Bill Haley and the Comets' saxophonist Joey D'Ambrosio and boogiewoogie pianist Carl Sonny Leyland make such an impact on your albums. Have you considered putting on an all-star show in L.A. where you could feature some of these people with the Ecco-Fonics?

Deke: I've tried, believe me, I've tried, but unfortunately, it's just impossible, everybody's got their own schedule. It's one of those things that you can assemble it in the studio, but it would never happen live.

SS: What are some of the musicians on your next "guest list"?

Deke: Acually, as much fun as I've had with the whole "guest star" thing, I definitely want to downplay that on my next CD. I've heard so many people -- critics, mostly -- that seem to think that if you have a good time, if you have guest stars and that sort of thing, that it's some kind of novelty act or something.

SS: Thats a load of crap.

Deke: Well, that's what I think, but what I'd like to do with the next CD is to get one really amazing guest. I'm actually trying to get Chuck Berry to do something with me, which is kind of funny because one of my old high school teachers here in Missouri is good friends with him, so we're working on him that way. If that works out, I'd like Chuck to do one song with me, and then have the rest of the album proving just how me and my band kicks ass on our own.

SS: Your recent tour with Mike Ness must have expanded your fan base some?

Deke: [Laughing] On this trip, we get at least 10 or 15 punk-rocker types per show coming up and saying, 'I saw with you with Mike Ness last summer, now I'm a big fan.' It's pretty funny.

SS: There's a song on your new CD, "My Name Is Deke." What's it like to have achieved a one-name status, like Prince or Madonna?

Deke: I tend to think of Cher... You know, the original band name was the Dekes of Hazzard, but we changed it because we had too many people saying, 'The Dukes of Hazzard.' 'No, it's the Dekes Of Hazzard,' we'd say. It's nice to be known by one name amongst a small circle, but it does me no good at the Taco Bell, you know.

SS: Your style is hard to describe in one sentence. I wrote recently that "Deke Dickerson manages to straddle that historical intersection of country, rhythm and blues, and early rock'n'roll." Does that come close?

Deke: Actually, I like that the best of anything I've ever beard, to tell you the Gods honest truth because that's what I listen to. People always try to make you into something -- country or whatever. I tend to think of myself as one of those guys like Carl Perkins was. He was a country kid who wound up listening to a lot of hillbilly records and rhythm and blues and came up with the whole rock'n' roll thing. I'm not saying that I'm an originator by any means, but I listen to an awful lot of country and rhythm and blues, and rock is sort of the end result.

SS: How do you account for the classic country/swing/rockabilly phenomenon?

Deke: I really can't account for it, all that I can say is it's been amazing to watch it grow. When I started the Dave & Deke Combo with Dave Stukey back in '91, we did a national tour and there was three or four rockabilly kids in every town, and that was about it. It's incredible how big of an audience there is for it now.

SS: As far as making country albums go, Nashville seems to have traded places with sections of Los Angeles.

Deke: I don't know what the hell Nashville is thinking. It all sounds like '70s lite rock or '80s pop... anything that has anything to do with country music: drinkin' and cheatin' and so forth, it's like a disease to them, they don't want any part of it. It's really weird, I can't understand it.

SS: How's the tour coming along?

Deke: The shows have been really good. We had one dud gig in Tampa, Fla., but I don't think anybody has a good show in Tampa. We've played at the Tractor before, actually, we've done, really, really well there. Seattle's one of our strongest cities in the whole U.S., so we're looking forward to gtting back there.

Deke Dickerson and the Ecco-Fonics • More Million Sellers • 2000 • Hightone Records

Originally published in the Ballard News-Tribune, Seattle, Wash., 2000.

copyright 1997-2011, Steve Stav