The Washington Times, November 12, 2003

A legend's legacy remembered


By Billy Cerveny

June 2, 2003

The Gloomgrass Queen

Watching Kenny Chesney win both Male Vocalist and Single of the Year at the recent Academy Of Country Music Awards, it’s hard not to feel like the Four Horseman of the musical apocalypse are galloping down Nashville’s Music Row. In fact, it seems they may have already been elected to the Academy. This year’s festivities were hosted by Reba and, in a perfect metaphor for the plastic artists and merchants of cheese that now define popular country music, they were held at Mandalay Bay Resort and Casino in Las Vegas. The Award ceremony was a caricature of the music that has become Nashville’s main export.

But as things tend to go and just when it doesn’t look like it can get any worse for country music, an album is released that raptures us from our cynicism. It reminds us that there is a remnant in Nashville that hasn’t totally abandoned the grassroots and grit-born faith of country music. This year, that honor belongs to Gillian Welch and her new album Soul Journey.

Soul Journey is Gillian Welch’s fourth full-length studio album and, dare I say, her finest since her Gammy nominated record, Revival. With her hangdog vocal style and jangley guitar sound, Welch has once again proven to be the architect and reigning Queen of Gloomgrass; a beautiful blend of melancholy, gospel, rock and Appalachian music. While Welch might be considered by some to be a one trick pony, it is a damn good trick and the variations to the theme that she and musical wingman, David Rawlings, make on Soul Journey elevates her style to nothing less than brilliant.

Soul Journey was produced by Rawlings and for all the conventional Nashville wisdom the album shouldn’t work. The tracks are loose and have some rhythm issues, the guitars are sloppy and Welch hits all sorts of dead notes on her acoustic. But in the same way that all the computerized pitch correction and post production shellac has made pop-country soulless and boring, the windblown style of Welch’s new record gives it an authenticity, depth and power that is rarely seen.

Rawlings has always been an undeniable presence in Welch’s music and they co-wrote all but three songs on Soul Journey.  Time (The Revalator), Welch’s last album, was basically an acoustic duet with Rawlings on his arch top guitar. While Soul Journey is much more of a band album, Rawlings presence is more discrete and he keeps his signature noodling to a minimum with the exception of the brokenhearted “I Made A Lover’s Prayer”.

While Rawlings may have throttled back, Welch steps out and it is even rumored that she got behind the drum kit for a couple of songs.

For all the Appalachian stylings of Welch’s records, her lyrics tend to walk the line between gospel and folk. Traditionally the hooks in her songs are not as obvious and the listener has to work a little bit for the payoff. This is not the case with Soul Journey.

From the opening track of “Look At Miss Ohio”, the story of an Atlanta bound debutante with a wild hair and a Peter Pan complex, Welch’s songs are not so self indulgent that they don’t let the listener in on the joke. Tracks like “Lowlands”, with its garage band mix and highflying harmonies, and “Wayside/Back In Time” are accessible without pandering or stooping musically in the interest of picking up fans.

Welch claims that this is her “sunniest record ever” and, while that may be true, there are still one or two wrist-slitting moments. Her remake of the traditional song “I Had A Real Good Mother and Father”, despite the hopeful gospel lyrics, conjures images of mountain men on Quaaludes. That’s not to say that it is a bad song, quite the contrary. But for every “sunny” moment, there is a song like this or her melancholy “One Monkey” that dovetails right back into Welch’s Gloomgrass persona.

Without a doubt the eye of this musical hurricane comes with the closing track, “Wrecking Ball”.  “Wrecking Ball” is a straight-ahead country rocker reminiscent of The Band’s “The Weight” and it begs to be put on repeat. One of Welch’s best narratives on Soul Journey, it’s the story of a road bound bass player and ex-deadhead trying to find their way. “Wrecking Ball” is crowded with instruments, but creates a beautiful chaos that makes it the gutsiest song on this record.

Listening to Soul Journey, it is clear why Gillian Welch has been nominated for so many Grammies and has performed on just about every significant county and bluegrass compilation/soundtrack over the last several years. She is the real deal and, long after Kenny Chesney becomes just a Trivial Pursuit question; Welch’s notoriety and legacy will live on in Soul Journey.

Soul Journey will be available in stores on June 3^rd.

Billy Cerveny is a singer-songwriter and a free-lance journalist based in Nashville. He can be found at www.billycerveny.com

Music, Marines and mourning in America
By Billy Cerveny
SPECIAL TO THE WASHINGTON TIMES

     Don't you just hate it when you're getting ready to drive to a Secret Service checkpoint and suddenly remember that the trunk of your car is littered with unspent 12-gauge shotgun shells? 
     The shells were leftovers from a recent bird-hunting trip. Something told me I wouldn't be able to talk my way past security by swearing that I hadn't exceeded my quail limit.
     I was headed to Camp Lejeune with my country band to play a concert for 20,000 Marines at a rally for President Bush. Air Force One was on its way, and Lejeune was an armed encampment.
     As things turned out, I was able to avert the stockade. We simply made a detour to a nearby hotel and hopped a Marine Corps shuttle that took us, minus the ammunition, through security, to the stage.
     The Marine Corps base at Camp Lejeune is an enclave of gunmetal and chain-link fencing in the middle of Jacksonville, N.C. It is 153,000 acres of scrub pine and shaved heads. Hollowed-out jets and heavy artillery with plugged barrels are cemented to the ground in front of nearly every building, lest you forget just what it is Marines do.
     Tattered and road-weary musicians making their way through military checkpoints don't exactly blend into the spit-polished background. At the staging area, the Secret Service and White House advance crew monitored the no-fly zones around each entrance and exit. The load-in was easy, but it was the first time in seven years of playing music professionally that I had roadies that wore Brooks Brothers suits and earpieces and talked into their wrists.
     In just 48 hours, the Marine Corps had constructed an enormous amphitheater, made exclusively from 2x4s and plywood. It smelled like every tree fort you ever built as a youngster, only without the trap doors. With a fresh coat of paint, banners and the Marine Corps marching band, the stage was a far cry from the Pabst Blue Ribbon bar I had played the week before.
     The parade ground at Camp Lejeune is gigantic, and this day it looked like a camouflaged Grateful Dead concert minus the drum circles and acid casualties. Every square inch was awash in Marine Corps green as soldiers packed in and craned their necks to catch a glimpse of their commander in chief. On one side of the stage, in a scene that looked like an old USO film, Marines climbed on top of a tank to get a better view.
     I have played in or opened for just about every type of gin-soaked bar band there is. Generally, my audience is a mix of college students, beer drinkers and morally flexible bar flowers. International politics was something I had never previously considered when making up a set list. This time, any unintentional appearance of peacenickery in a song would go over like a dead mouse in a punch bowl. As if to prove the point, just before showtime I overheard one soldier curse the Dixie Chicks with considerable heat. Yes, it was a good thing I had decided to omit "La Marseillaise" from this set.
     I almost joined the Marine Corps out of college. All of my recommendations had been submitted, my physical tests passed, my ponytail cut off. But I chickened out at the last minute (one leathery sergeant at my physical told me I walked like a pimp).
     Standing on the stage at Camp Lejeune with a guitar slung over my shoulder, gaze sweeping over the field of soldiers, part of me regretted that decision. These were the people who really do believe that America is worth dying for, who believe in things such as honor and duty. This was a million miles from the music scene of Nashville, Tenn., where self-interest is the only commander in chief.
     After my performance, Lone Star took the stage and sang "The Star-Spangled Banner." Seeing thousands of soldiers at attention and saluting the flag, I was reminded that Francis Scott Key wrote the anthem during a time of war. I am now convinced that you can never feel the true gravity of that song until you've heard it sung in the presence of soldiers who have recently lost comrades in battle.
     By the end of the first verse, the crowd had become as somber as a widow's prayer, and families of soldiers in Iraq huddled close together. Lejeune had more than 17,500 troops deployed in the Middle East at the time — 11 had been killed in action. Through an entrance to the right of the podium, a group walked slowly into the theater holding a picture in front of them of a son, father or brother who had recently been killed. The parade field had just become holy ground.
     Within a few minutes, five Marine Corps and three white top helicopters buzzed over the throng of cheering soldiers. As the Marine Corps Band began to play "Hail to the Chief," Mr. Bush took the stage. One of the first things you learn as a live performer is that entrance is everything. Come fast and come strong, and you will have a good show. It's hard to imagine the Beatles making a more dramatic entrance at Shea Stadium than the president did at Camp Lejeune.
     Mr. Bush was interrupted during just about every paragraph by the hoots and cheers of battle proud soldiers. "This is their commander in chief," one master sergeant said. "It reminds them that what they are doing is not in vain."
     After the ceremony, I was invited to shake hands with the president. I'd planned on saying something smooth and profound, but when it was my turn and the picture was snapped, my mind went blank, and all I could remember was to tell him that I prayed for him daily. A minute later, as he was being ushered out, the president stopped, turned from the door, walked three steps toward me and leaning in said, "Billy, your prayers are the greatest gift you could ever give any president."
     As I waited with my band for our shuttle back to the hotel, I watched from the far side of a large parking lot as the families of soldiers killed in action finished a tearful meeting with the president. I suddenly felt wildly out of context at Camp Lejeune. Music seemed trivial.
     A 3-year-old boy whose father was recently killed in Iraq saw us with our guitar cases. He had Coke-bottle glasses, a high and tight haircut and a shirt that said "My Father. The Few. The Proud. A Marine." He tore away from his mother, and with a huge grin ran to where we were. He placed a small hand on the handle of one of the guitar cases and was beaming as he tried to help us carry our instruments.
     That was the greatest gift a child could ever give any musician.
     

Music Row Magazine, January 2003

Robert K. Oermann writes reviewing AM Radio:

"Billy Cerveny's folky rasp throws these extraordinary lyrics into high relief. This nashvillian has the potential to become one of the greatest of all the Americana stars. I raved about Billy's 2001 disc debut. This one is even better, displaying more "edge" and rawness in both its arrangements and is performances. I urge you to get this CD."

Also in another place Oermann writes:

"Nashville also continues to be the Valhalla of songwriting. Just look at the group of writer-artists lined up in the Americana field. You won't find anybody in any music capital with more genius than Kate Campbell, Josh Rouse, Tim Carroll and Billy Cerveny."

Americana takes hold

by Chris Jolma

 It's got fiddles and acoustic guitars. It twangs and it hollers. But don't call it country music — it's Americana. This "y'all-ternative" is not played on Top 40 country stations, but is gaining fans all across the nation and even the world. Americana is, as its name suggests, deeply American, and its roots are certainly nothing new. It is an amalgamation of musical styles, including bluegrass, newgrass, rock 'n' roll and even punk.

 Alternately described as a rejection of pop-country or a return to roots, the slides and twangs coming from these independent artists resonate with fundamentally American traditions. But it's not just a broad genre of music — it's something of a movement.
     "When you say 'Americana,' people don't know what you mean," says Billy Cerveny, a musician based in Nashville, Tenn. "Alt-country is just country gone to college."

     "It's essentially roots-rock," said Meredith Ochs, music critic for NPR's "All Things Considered" and frontwoman for the Hoboken, N.J.-based Americana band the Damn Lovelys.
     In 1998, Americana leaders began meeting to decide if they needed to create a trade association to promote the industry. Out of that came the Americana Music Association. The first thing they debated was whether to officially define Americana.
     They decided against it, opting instead to let the music speak for itself.
     "I like to say it's really a combination of styles and influences, but not necessarily limited to just the roots aspect of it, which to me implies it's looking backward and rehashing," said J.D. May, the director of the AMA. "It's really a combo of all those, with the hopes that it's doing something new."
     Bloodshot Records is a successful Chicago-based independent label that coined the term "insurgent country." Their motto is "Cash meets Clash."
     "[Bloodshot Records] was formed by these three old punk rockers who, when they heard the old, old country music, it just hit them the same way that the Clash did, the Dead Kennedys did," Miss Ochs said. "It had that same emotional directness."
     "When you think about it, Hank Williams was the most punk-rock guy who ever lived," Miss Ochs said. "He was wild. He died in his car. Same with Johnny Cash. Johnny Cash is punk. I mean, he's [thumbed his nose at] the music industry and @ authoritarianism."
     Miss Ochs said a lot of Americana music is a nod to Elvis Presley.
     "He married country and rock in the '50s, and in the '60s, the Byrds did it, and Gram Parsons did it. There's this very long history of roots rock that is essentially musicians who are playing country mixed with rock."
     Americana-movement fans are adamant their music is not the formulaic, commercialized version of country music they say is coming from major record labels.
     "Music radio for the most part is dead for anybody who cares about music," said Bob Boilen, the producer of NPR's "All Songs Considered."
     "That is the unifying principle behind this music," Mr. Boilen said. "Americana is home to rockers and pickers, but they share a disdain for 'big country.' They are closer to the music."
     "It's about tradition, and that's what I think appeals to people," Miss Ochs said. "It's something old, it's something that feels American, it's something that hits them on a different level than a pop song that's disposable."
     Tom Catmull, a singer-songwriter in Missoula, Mont., said the Americana movement is in part a reaction to mainstream music.
     "Pop country has gotten so bad now that there's this huge market of people who need to listen to something good."
     Uncle Tupelo, considered by many as one of the first Americana bands, released a landmark album in 1990 called "No Depression."
     "This whole movement cropped up around [the album], including a magazine, record labels and tons of fans all over the world," Miss Ochs said.
     Later, the wildly successful soundtrack to the motion picture "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" gave new momentum to the popularity of Americana.
     "People are responding to an honesty in the music that they heard in 'O Brother,'" Mr. Boilen said.
     Miss Ochs agreed and said there is a "huge groundswell" for Americana.
     "During an era when pop proliferates, like the last few years — the teen pop, the big country pop — a lot of people go looking for something else."
     Fans can sound like they are splitting hairs.
     "Most of what you find that's refreshing about Americana is that it's born, not created," Mr. Cerveny said. "It's not created on a spreadsheet. The artists write their own stuff."
     And they are not shy about bashing big country.
     "Nashville's so incestuous — you've got the same guys playing on the same records, the same songwriters writing the same artists," says Mr. Cerveny. "You can't inbreed that much without some sort of deformity in the long run. It's become soulless, man, and it mystifies me."
     Sales and airplay data compiled by the AMA show the rising popularity of Americana. As of last October, the California-based bluegrass band Nickel Creek — hardly mainstream country — put out a second album, "This Side," which sold 191,397 copies in its first eight weeks.
     Americana often gets lumped into the "country" category, which, as Mr. Catmull says, "is a four-letter word" to people trying to make a distinction. This disdain may stem from a generation who grew up "listening to punk rock," as Miss Ochs said, and, therefore, did not like the association between "pure," rootsy hard rock and softer, pop country music.
     John Floridis, another Missoula-based musician finishing his fourth album, brings classical influences to the genre.
     "I got juiced on music around the time I got turned on to Jimmie Hendrix, a black blues-rock legend, and Andres Segovia, the romantic Spanish classical guitarist."
     He said he doesn't mind being lumped into the Americana mold. "To me even though Segovia is a Spanish man, to me it's a real American thing to be influenced by such diverse things."

Happy New Year!! This year I resolve to keep my journal more current! Hope 2003 is the best yet!