Saturday, December 1, 2012
New CD EP! - Terry Kitchen & Mara Levine
Back in 2008, I did a gig in New Jersey with my NJ folksinger friends Spook Handy and Arlon Bennett. They both were joined by the same harmony singer, who in addition to having a great voice had a tasteful sense of what to add to each song. After the show I made a point of telling her how much I enjoyed her performance. She said her name was Mara Levine, and offered to back me up next time I was in the area. I was smart enough to say yes, and a couple weeks later she joined me for a few songs at the Minstrel Coffeehouse in Morristown. A few weeks after that she joined me for a whole set at the People’s Voice Cafe in NYC. Since then we've performed together whenever I'm down from Boston, with me accompanying her on some songs as well as her accompanying me.
This past summer we had the chance to record a few of our favorite songs together, and the result is a new 4-song CD, Terry Kitchen & Mara Levine. It includes Mara's beautiful rendition of my song "A Perfect Rose," duet versions of my songs "One by One (Song for Trayvon Martin)" and "The Favor," and my accompanying Mara on the Gershwin classic "Summertime."
The CD was orignally intended as a promotional item for radio and the 2012 NERFA folk conference, but we have a few copies left, so if you want one (just in time for Christmas...) please visit my webpage at
www.terrykitchen.com/discography.php (and bonus points if you request us from your favorite folk rado station). We'll also be appearing together in 2013 (at the Buttonwood Tree in CT on 3/8 as well as other shows) so hope to see you then!
Happy Holidays,
terry k
Friday, October 19, 2012
T Max - The Man Behind The Noise
Many, if not most, Boston bands got their very first
press in a fanzine called, appropriately enough, The Noise. First published in September 1981 - the very month my
band Loose Ties hit town from Ohio - The
Noise has now been in continuous publication for over 30 years. I wrote for The Noise in the '80s (and was even on The Noise's bowling team...) and remember some great anniversary parties. I recently
caught up with T Max, The Noise's only-ever
Editor-in-Chief, in his lair in Gloucester, and we spoke amidst guitar
cases, files of back issues, and T.'s excellent hat collection.
tk: So why The Noise?
T Max: I was playing
guitar in a band called The Machines, and we couldn't get any press. So we
figured if we started our own monthly mag, we'd at least get one article per
month. (T. pulls out the first issue, and sure enough on page 3 there's a
Machines write-up.) At least we didn't put ourselves on the cover… It was a
band effort, we'd write it, then one guy would make a thousand copies at his office and
smuggle them out - page one on one day, page two the next day - then we'd get together and
staple them.
tk: How long did the
band last?
T Max: About a year from
then. We did a 45, "Disposable Music," which made the cover of issue
3.
tk: By the time we met,
I don't think you were playing.
T Max: After The
Machines broke up, the other guys lost interest in The Noise, but I thought the scene needed it so I kept it going. It
started feeling like a conflict of interest to be both playing in the scene and
writing about it.
tk: I notice the very
first issue has the famous bugle logo…
T Max: …which I lifted
from Time Magazine. My mother-in-law
worked for Time, and I asked her if
she thought they'd mind. She told me no one who read Time was going to read The
Noise. I occasionally played a bugle in my very first band, TCD - Mr. Timothy
Charles Duane, dating back to high school on Long Island. We were very
creative, used ukulele, clarinet, bugle, guitar, and three part harmonies like
the Andrews Sisters. We moved to Martha's Vineyard together and got pretty
popular. Then I started feeling claustrophobic on the island, and moved to
Boston in '79. I joined Artyard -
tk: I remember them!
T Max: I thought I added
a lot, but I eventually got kicked out. I was trying make it my thing when it
was already their thing. I guess I wasn't meant to follow.
tk: But you're playing
again now.
T Max: I'm doing the solo
singer-songwriter thing, though I gig with my Gretch (electric) instead of an
acoustic.
tk: Go Gretch! - The
main character in my book plays a lime green Country Gentleman. You have a new
CD out, On British TV, that's about half your songs and half
covers, including a Sonny & Cher tune (!), and a stark, Leonard Cohen-esque
"No Reply," which was also on the Low Budget Beatles tribute Across Their Universe.
T Max: I've been opening
my shows with it, people seem to like it. I recorded the CD in Haverhill, out
in the country, very different vibe than Kenmore Square…
tk: …which was where my
band's rehearsal space was. When I moved to town it seemed The Noise always championed the underground, avant garde bands that
wouldn't get played on WBCN.
T Max: BCN was such a
big deal - they had a local Top 3 they'd run in the Phoenix, and those bands could pretty much count on sold out shows
that week. I interviewed Oedipus (WBCN's music director) early on; he liked The Noise. But who we covered was pretty
much determined by our writers. I never said, go out and write about so-and-so.
The writers have never been paid, so they write about who they want to.
tk: Yeah, I did some
reviews for The Noise, and seem to
recall that… One thing that impressed me about the Boston scene was the
accessibility. I'd lived for five years in LA, and the record companies all had
security people prowling the lobby, you could barely talk to a receptionist
without an appointment. But Boston had the Cars building a studio, with one of
their stated goals being recording new bands.
T Max: Synchro Sound [the
Cars' studio] was The Noise's first paid advertiser.
tk: That period, early-to-mid
'80s, seemed like a very hot time, with the Cars' studio on Newbury St., Aimee
Mann working across the street at Newbury Comics and then her band 'Til Tuesday
getting signed. Publishing The Noise
for 30 years now, are you aware of ebbs and flows in the Boston scene?
T Max: It's funny, whenever
somebody asks me that, they always remember their time, the five or six years
they were active on the scene, as when it was really hot. We had a great scene
in the late '80s, then the goth scene in the '90s, and all the Boston Rock
Opera shows [which T Max was one of producers of, from 1990-2000]. I've come to
the conclusion that there wasn't one Boston scene - there are five to seven
scenes happening at any given moment, who don't know the people outside their
own scene. I only know because my writers write about them.
tk: Has the magazine
changed now that you're up in Gloucester, after leaving Jamaica Plain after 28
years?
T Max: I used to be out
in clubs every night. Now it's more like a few times a month. You'll notice our
masthead now says "Music New England" - I want to cover artists who
have had some success, who are doing creative things, across the region.
Freezepop (on the cover of the current issue) did two completely different
videos for their latest single, and set up their website so you can toggle back
and forth between them as you listen to the song. That deserved the cover.
tk: I notice Rita and
Lolita - the Rona Barretts of Boston rock -
are still at it.
T Max: They were in the
very first issue. "The question of the month" was an excuse to talk
to people. Even though we were a tiny little fanzine, I always thought of us as
a real magazine.
tk: That sounds like a
good note to end on. Can you imagine stopping?
T Max: No - I've always
been attracted to creativity, and that doesn't change.
Visit
www.thenoise-boston.com to check out the latest issue of The Noise,
and www.gimmesound.com/tmax for
a sample of T Max's latest CD. And any similarities
between The Noise and any fanzine in my upcoming novel are purely coincidental
and not legally actionable...
Friday, October 5, 2012
Long live the King…
Last weekend I was at my mom's in
Pennsylvania, not far from Hershey, where the Farm Aid concert was going on. I
saw a snippet of the press conference, with Willie Nelson, John Mellencamp and
the other artists in folding director's chairs, kidding each other back and
forth while talking up the cause. I had a thought - wouldn't Elvis have enjoyed
that, sitting back in one of those chairs, wisecracking, being part of that
rarefied group. He never got to be the elder statesman, like Willie or Johnny
Cash, basking in the respect of his peers. He was gone at 42.
I was born the year Elvis was
drafted, and growing up he was just the guy in the drag race movies, shaking
his hips and singing about clambakes to his latest female co-star. I was a
Beatles kid. But in college I read Greil Marcus's book Mystery Train, and I was curious enough to listen to The Sun Sessions, Elvis's first
rockabilly recordings. My roots only went back as far as A Hard Day's Night, but even I could recognize that Elvis had it -
from day one he had both that souped up high register that cut through the band
and jumped out of the speakers, and that low, sexy, intimate "Are You
Lonesome Tonight?" whisper that had women tossing panties at him two
decades later. And his place in history was secured when John Lennon said
simply "Before Elvis there was nothing."
In
August of '77 I was just back from being a camp counselor, hanging out in my
best friend's basement where our band rehearsed, when I heard Elvis had died.
Too bad for him, but the flowers and tearful crowds outside Graceland didn't
mean anything to me. Into the '80s I was caught up in my own band's music, but
every once and a while Elvis peeked through - Robert Plant covering Elvis's
"Little Sister" at the Concert for Kampuchea; Warren Zevon's song
"Jesus Mentioned," with its line about digging up the King, begging
him to sing; Ellen Foley, when asked between songs at a Channel gig who she
listened to, answering "Elvis." "Costello or Presley?"
"Presley! He's much more original." (No offence, E.C.). Paul Simon
calling his South African album Graceland.
In
the '90s I picked up another Elvis book, Peter Guralnick's Last Train to Memphis, and a box of his '60s recordings. There were
early musical high points - his minimalist, breathy version of
"Fever," the Peggy Lee hit - and late high points - "Suspicious
Minds" and "Kentucky Rain," from his '69 Memphis sessions - but
lots of undistinguished, and indistinguishable, stuff in between. I didn't even
consider his '70s output, when he was wearing jumpsuits and playing Vegas. I pretty
much put him aside, and got deeper into folk and blues, and even country, which
in its primal form is just another American folk music.
Then
in 2008 I was in Memphis for a folk conference. I skipped out one morning and
took the tour of Sun Records, the original studio miraculously still standing
where it had fifty years ago. I got to stand, and sing a few bars, in the exact
spot Elvis had stood singing "That's Alright Mama" and "Good
Rockin' Tonight," and see the "million dollar quartet" photo of
Presley, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis and Carl Perkins - all Sun artists -
singing gospel around the studio's piano. Sam Phillips gets all the credit for
discovering Elvis, but I learned it was Marion Keisker, his receptionist, who
had to keep bugging him to give the kid a chance. I bought a shirt with the Sun
rooster logo and encored my next few shows with "Can't Help Falling In
Love."
That
might have been it, but a couple years later when Borders was clearing out its
racks I saw a half-price compilation called Elvis
Country. By this time I considered Kris Kristofferson and Merle Haggard up
there as songwriters with Lennon and McCartney, even if you couldn't dance to
them. I blew six bucks and added it to my stack.
Here's
the thing. It was good. Really good. It
wasn't high energy, wasn't rock'n'roll or even honky-tonk. It was calmer, maybe
the way John Lennon's Double Fantasy is
calmer, more assured. In reading the minimal credits, I found it was mostly
from the '70s recordings that I'd dismissed. Standards ("For the Good
Times," future standards ("Always on My Mind," soon to be Willie
Nelson's theme), a perfect version of "Good Time Charlie's Got the
Blues" that felt much deeper than Danny O'Keefe's original. Elvis's voice
was rounder, fuller, than I'd ever heard it. I got a copy of Careless Love, the second volume of Guralnick's
Presley bio, with a cover photo of a youngish Elvis looking wary, like he
doesn't trust what's happening. Good call.
The
book starts the year I was born, with Elvis in the service, having just lost
his mother. I won't retell the book, suffice to say it's surreal and sad - the
pills, the hollow Hollywood years, the domineering huckster manager - and we
all know the ending. But it did help me appreciate, and differentiate, the vast
body of music Elvis left. I think the bigger crime of his '60s period wasn't
the countless, identically plotted movie vehicles, but his manager's insistence
that Elvis only sing songs they owned the publishing on. Greed versus art, pure
and simple - while the world was changing at lightning speed, and Dylan,
Lennon/McCartney, Jagger/Richards, Brian Wilson, Jimmy Webb, Burt Bacharach and
Smokey Robinson were writing their masterpieces, Elvis was given retreads by
the same team who churned out his '50s hits, keeping him stuck in a time warp.
And Elvis, polite, superstitious Elvis, was too meek to tell his manager to
fuck off, and too passive and pill-riddled to go out and find his own songs. But
again there were high points: the '68 TV special where Elvis insisted on black
leather instead of the tuxedo Colonel Parker wanted him to wear, the '69
Memphis sessions, the crack touring band Elvis assembled, with the underrated
James Burton on lead guitar.
By
the '70s, with Elvis depressed about his divorce and ballooning weight, RCA was
so happy to have him record anything that the publishing stranglehold was
relaxed, and he got to make what to me stand as his best recordings. They
weren't groundbreaking - he'd broken his ground in the '50s - and taken en masse they're a bit heavy on the ballads,
but he tackled, and mostly mastered, an impressive array of songs and styles
(collected in another box set, of course, called Walk a Mile in My Shoes). There's blues ("Merry Christmas Baby"),
country/folk (Dylan's "Don't Think Twice It's Alright"), even vintage
rock'n'roll ("Burnin' Love," his last true hit). His last-ever movie,
the '72 documentary Elvis on Tour,
captured him at his peak, with all the mythology - the scarves, jumpsuits and
jeweled sunglasses - in place, but before the myth ossified into parody.
So
what happened? For one thing, eighteen years of pills - uppers in the Army and
on movie sets, then sleeping pills and pain killers to follow - caught up with
him. He'd been to the dentist the day he died, and gotten codeine along with
his daily regimen. Like all addicts, he was cagey - had doctors in Vegas and
California sending him pills his Memphis doctor never knew about - and
self-deceptive to the point of getting deputized to be an undercover DEA agent.
He was also addicted to spending money, and unlike, say, Paul McCartney, wasn't
a songwriter, so he had to keep performing to pay
expenses. And all the people around him, the people who supposedly loved him,
who should have said, stop, you're killing yourself, were making money off him too.
His manager had million-dollar gambling debts - time for another tour. Even his
doctor borrowed money off him for a new house. Elvis was smart enough to know
he was buying friendship. At least Sinatra's Rat Pack were all performers in
their own right, not dependent on Frank for their next meal. At least the
Beatles had each other for a reality check. Elvis was alone, unequalled in
sheer volume of fame until Michael Jackson, who met an eerily similar fate.
So
far I've cleverly avoided the pitfalls of fame and fortune, and as I make my
rounds these days as a struggling songwriter / folksinger / author, I'm likely
to have an Elvis disc in my pack, maybe the one with the stunning version of
"Bridge Over Troubled Water" on it, or the bargain cut-out with
original non-remixed "Little Less Conversation." Of course I like the
music, but it's more than that. I guess I just don't like the idea of him being
left all alone.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Checkin' in with The Atlantics' axeman Fred Pineau
I recently caught up
with Fred Pineau, lead guitarist of the Atlantics, one of the most successful
Boston bands of the late '70s and early '80s. Fred went on to produce records
by local bands, including a 1985 EP by my band Loose Ties, which yielded a #1
local hit (my only #1 thus far…), a ska take on the Stones' "Last
Time." Fred had just hit the stage with his band Big City Rockers at a V66
Reunion concert at the House of Blues, but he graciously agreed to answer a few
questions about his Atlantics days.
tk: You're probably best
known as the guitarist of the Atlantics, but you'd played in some local bands before
that. I recall seeing a photo of you and another Boston rock stalwart, John
Horvorka, who later formed the Turbines, trading licks at a '70s outdoor concert.
Do you remember the band? Any other pre-Atlantics moments stand out?
FP: The photo was taken on
the Cambridge Common; they had free Sunday concerts there for several summers during
the early '70s. The band was called, and I have always really, really hated this
name, Ozone Shirley. I don't remember why, but I do remember that the other suggestion
was Chrome Rat. The drummer was Richee Johnson, who went on to The Boize. Later
John and I were in Automatic Slim, with Vampyre Mike Kassel on the other guitar.
Mike moved San Francisco and became a writer, but sadly passed away a few years
back. At the time there was no original scene in Boston, only cover band clubs,
so we wasted away from a lack of shows. The shows we did play, though, were like
the Wild West - anything could happen. In '75 I put together a band called Bonjour
Aviators that included one of the drummers from the '60s hard rock band Blue Cheer.
tk: ...who at one time
were listed in the Guinness Book as the World's Loudest Band...
FP: I believe it. Anyway,
another Aviator was Kim Preston, who (along with Jon Butcher) was one of the
few black rock performers in Boston at the time. Kim grew up in NYC, and his best
friend was Richard Lloyd of Television. We were beating our heads against the wall
since there was still no place to play in Boston, but then Kim told us about two
NYC clubs that were showcasing original bands, CBGB's & Max's Kansas City. Richard
got us a gig at CBGB's opening for Talking Heads.
tk: Wow. I saw them in '78
at UCLA, but that was two albums into their career.
FP: No one had been signed
yet in '75-'76, the scene was still pretty underground. Then we went back to open
for Television.
tk: Again, wow - the
characters in my book are big Television fans.
FP: We began playing a lot
at both NY clubs, staying at either The Chelsea Hotel or Terry Orks' loft, he was
Television's manager. One night in February we were at Terry's loft and his heat
had been turned off. We burned everything that we could find in the fireplace, and
when we ran out of chairs and such, we tore the wooden mantle surrounding the fireplace
off the wall and burned that! Ah, the life of a suffering artist! In the end we
got to hang out and play with a lot of the great bands who would shortly define
music moving forward. It was at Max's that I met John Cale - I'd been a huge Velvet
Underground fan from 1967 when I purchased their first album. It was not a good
interaction, he was a real dick and I told him so, but it was still cool on some
level to have met him.
When The Rat opened to original bands I was down there talking
to Jimmy Harold (the owner) the first week. He booked us to play a Saturday night
- we were the only act and had to do three 50 minute sets, but he paid us $75.00!
We released one 45, "The Fury In Your Eyes," and our highlight was unquestionably
a weekend bill with Johnny Thunders & The Heartbreakers, also at the Rat. It
was a wild and wooly ride, but both nights were an insane success. We lasted a year
longer and then I joined Third Rail (with Richard Nolan) for about a year.
tk: This is like a
lifetime's worth of music, and you haven't even joined the Atlantics yet...
FP: Getting there. I was
playing a cancer benefit at The Club in Cambridge (later Nightstage) with Johnny
Barnes, and that's where Tom Hauk & B. Wilkinson from The Atlantics saw me.
I knew that they were looking for a new guitarist, but their current player was
kind of a Berklee guy, he ran scales and such, and I'm a meat and potatoes rocker,
influenced by Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, etc. so I never thought they'd be interested.
But they asked me to audition, and after three auditions they brought their manager
up from NYC to see me, and then offered me the gig.
tk: Must have been the
hair! You had kind of a Nu Wave Rod Stewart rooster thing happening (see above photo…)
FP: In any case I was
psyched - they were the biggest unsigned band in town! Within two or three months
we got a deal with ABC Records and I was recording at The Hit Factory in NYC - it
was like falling down the rabbit hole, for better and for worse...
tk: By the time I hit town
in late '81, your ABC deal had run its course, but you had some very successful
singles you produced yourselves - "Lonelyhearts" and "Pop Shivers."
Did you record those locally in Boston? Did doing it yourselves help make the final
product more reflective of what you wanted? "Pop Shivers" especially seems
like a great piece of Nu Wave pop. Any other faves? Can people still find those
songs?
FP: After the Big City Rock album was released in '79
we went on tour opening for Roxy Music all across the US to promote it, and then
went out with Cheap Trick and also did opening gigs for David Johanson, The Ramones
and others. Then ABC got bought by MCA, and MCA released a 12" single of "One
Last Night" b/w a live recording of "When You're Young." None of
the records charted, so we were dropped and not re-signed after we refused to
record the song "Pop Muzik" by German artist M, which wasn't out yet in
the US.
tk: "Pop…pop…pop
muzik…"
FP: That's it. We had "Lonelyhearts"
already in the pipeline and we disagreed amongst ourselves on doing a novelty song.
Then M's version was released here and went to #1, but you can't carry that stuff
with you. We recorded "Lonelyhearts" at The Hit Factory in NYC and released
it ourselves. We worked harder on "Lonelyhearts" than any other song we
ever did - at one point there were three different choruses to it. With the support
of WBCN and college radio the song took off in a way that startled even us. For
roughly six months we were in the top three songs on WBCN's local countdown, and
it was played so much that it jumped into the national top 20 they listed in the
Phoenix every week. After that we recorded
almost exclusively in Boston, mostly at Downtown Recorders. We were hoping to
score another major label deal but c'est
la vie. We followed "Lonleyhearts" with "Pop Shivers," another
big hit for us, then "Weekend." We went into Syncro Sound, The Cars' studio
on Newbury Street, and did more four tracks, then finally recorded right in our
rehearsal space - we set up the board in the men's room! Those songs were in my
opinion the best sounding recordings we ever did. It was great to have total control
of the process, especially after the disaster we had with the guy who was foisted
on us to produce Big City Rock.... None
of the songs from "Lonleyhearts" on were available to the public until
2006, when we released a CD simply titled "Atlantics". It's the very best
recordings of all those songs that fans would remember from our shows. It's available
on line at www.cdbaby.com/cd/atlanticsmusic
tk: We should warn
people that there's also an Australian surf band called The Atlantics, so if
you don't want a twanging "Hawaii Five-O," be careful what you click
on… The (Boston) Atlantics also had a reputation as a high-energy live band. Rumor
has it it was your suggestion you cover Gary Glitter's "Rock and Roll"...
We think of the Atlantics, or my band Loose Ties, as '80s bands, but of course we
were influenced by the music we listened to growing up. Were you a British Invasion
kid? Any favorite bands growing up?
FP: Well, we did try to be
a fun band, and that is a good way to be remembered! I really don't remember who
suggested covering "Rock and Roll," but I suspect that it was B. Wilkinson.
I'd love to take credit, but at the end of the day I think that it was B who made
the suggestion. This was before it became a sports arena sing along, so it was kind
of an obscure cover at the time we did it. My first decade was the '50s with Elvis,
Chuck Berry, etc., and then I got into bands like The Beach Boys, Link Wray, Dick
Dale & The Del Tones - I began playing in '62 after hearing Link Wray's "Rumble."
But when the British Invasion hit, all bets were off! From that point forward I
lived for music, from the Beatles, Stones and Kinks to the Nashville Teens, Honeycombs,
Searchers, and so on. The Beatles are still my #1 band - if you look at how long
they were putting out recordings - 9 years - and how they evolved during that time,
they were a once in a generation occurrence. I mean, they began with "Love
Me Do" and ended up with Abbey Road.
Other than that I love and was influenced by a wide assortment of artists, from
Bowie to the Stooges to MC5 to John Mayall's Bluesbreakers. I also love folk artists
such as David Wilcox, James Taylor, Paul Simon, etc.
tk: You're just saying
since I'm a folkie these days…
FP: I listen to Little Steven's
Underground Garage on the radio because he plays a lot of unknown new bands as well
as the classics. As far as newer artists, I like The Black Keys, Butch Walker &
The Black Widows, and even Adele. I try to never limit myself stylistically.
tk: After the Atlantics broke
up, a couple of the guys went on to form Ball and Pivot, but you got more into producing.
Aside from Loose Ties, who are some of the other acts you worked with? Did you enjoy
being a Svengali for young bands?
FP: My only regret regarding
that post Atlantics period is that I was not able to do more for the artists that
I worked with. I worked with you in Loose Ties, and it broke my heart that we didn't
get more action off of the EP we recorded together as it was really worthy of national
attention. I also worked with The Lowgistics, Ball & Chain, and produced a concept
album for a label that I was a partner in, Condor Records. We brought in a singer
by the name of John Warren to sing on it, and one of the real highlights that I
had as a producer is that the single from that album, Advance Warning, was a pick of the week in Billboard magazine! The next
time that I played in a band was Third Person, along with Steve and Tom Greeley.
We released an album in 1988, but I left the band soon after that. I was in a band
called The Syphlloids in the late '90s that got a deal with an independent label,
released an album, and got to open for bands such as Rancid.
tk: And now here we are,
amazingly, in 2012. Your V66 set was a blast. Are you playing out much? Recording
any?
FP: Oddly enough, since 2001
I have been at it constantly! I played in a band called The Kenmores in 2001-2002,
and we opened for The Mighty Mighty Bosstones in one of their Home Town Throw Downs.
From there I formed a band that became 5-Point, which lasted for over 6 years. We
actually have an album of material that is going to be released at some point soon.
I am currently working on a new band that does not have a name yet. I'm writing
with a very talented singer by the name of Julie Dubela, who is 21 years old, and
am once again working with Joe Darko, who was the drummer for Godsmack. It's still
in the formative stages, but it should be interesting once we roll it out!
Because of the success of the Atlantics CDs, Tom Hauck and
I decided to put together a band to play Atlantics material one last time. The Atlantics'
singer, Bobby Marron, has retired from show biz, and we didn't feel right calling
it the Atlantics without him, so instead we dubbed it Big City Rockers. We did The
International Pop Overthrow and then The House Of Blues. It was great fun, and wonderful
to play an entire set of Atlantics material again. And good to see that you're still
at it as well - I call myself a lifer, and I guess that puts you in the same
category!
tk: It's been great catching
up and hearing what you're up to. And thanks for twirling those dials for us back
in '85! (And BTW, any similarities between The Atlantics
and any bands in my upcoming novel are purely coincidental, and not legally
actionable…)
To hear Fred Pineau with The Atlantics
visit www.cdbaby.com/cd/atlanticsmusic
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Up All Night
Back in my rock'n'roller days it wasn't that unusual to watch the sun rise. Play til 2 AM,
load out, drive back from wherever, unload, go to IHOP or the Deli Haus to unwind and stuff our
collective face, stumble home. At least in summer, it was often dawn before my head hit the
pillow.
These days it only happens one weekend a year. Last weekend, in fact. Early in my folk
career (when I was too green to know better), I accepted an invitation to co-host a late night
campfire/song swap at the Falcon Ridge folk festival, across the border in New York state. The
campfire wouldn't start until midnight, after the mainstage performances were over, and go (at
least officially) until 3 AM. This was the early '90s and I was years away from playing onstage at
the festival. Like about half the audience, I had a guitar stashed back in my tent, so why not?
And if nobody came I could trade songs all night with Jeff Tareila, the other host.
We ducked out of the concert early, and built the fire in a pasture next to the horse pen,
the horses watching us warily from behind the fence. Let's get a crowd, Jeff said, so we built a
pep-rally-sized bonfire, doused it with lighter fluid, and struck a match. We each played our
loudest songs so the music would carry.
As the mainstage concert ended, people heading to the parking lot stopped by and
listened to a song or two, and people camping over started appearing, guitars in hand. We made a
circle and did our best to make sure everyone got a turn to do a song, be it a deep, dark original,
or a sing-along cover (or something in between - Keith Kelly memorably played
America's "Horse with No Name" while singing the lyrics to the Mr. Ed theme). It took us two
hours just to go around the circle once. Three o'clock came and went, and more people stuck
around than left. Jeff finally called it a night, but I said I'd wait to douse the fire. It got down to a
handful of hardcores, mostly NY/NJ songwriters, Jack Hardy, Dave Elder, Joe Giacoio, Gregg
Cagno, with me there to represent Boston, trading song after song, sometimes in direct response
to the last song (hmm, songs about cab drivers for 200, Alex). Dawn came, the fire was down to
embers, the horses started snorting for their breakfast. When morning joggers started going by
we finally called it a night.
The next year we did it both nights of the festival, and had even bigger crowds. Sleep
was out of the question, so I made sure to pitch my tent to catch the morning shade. After the
Saturday fire we decided to go out for breakfast, and ended up at a diner down the road full of early
church-goers.
We kept it going each year, and occasionally had mainstage performers drop by after
their sets - one memorable evening had Catie Curtis, David Massengill and Jack Hardy all
borrow my guitar for a song. I started bringing chocolate chip cookies to pass around to keep up
our energy.
As the festival matured in the 2000's, people started hosting their own campfires, so we
weren't the only game in town anymore. Jeff T., Dave E. and even Joe "Superman" Giacoio
eventually decided they'd rather sleep.
But last weekend, I was still at it - making the fire (one match, even without lighter
fluid), setting up the circle of chairs (or rather, watching my current co-host Deede Bergeron set
them up), breaking out my axe and seeing what happens. The best part is still the feeling of
community that develops over the course of a few hours, as you learn about people from their
songs, intros and comments, and listen as people who have never met before end up harmonizing
on a song they both love, or watch as the woman who has just sat listening for round after round
suddenly feels comfortable enough to come out of her shell and sing. By the time first light
arrives and the fire's down to charcoal, we feel somewhere between old friends and shipwreck
survivors - dawn! We made it! Land ho!
So if you make it to Falcon Ridge next year, grab your guitar and stop by. We'll be there.
load out, drive back from wherever, unload, go to IHOP or the Deli Haus to unwind and stuff our
collective face, stumble home. At least in summer, it was often dawn before my head hit the
pillow.
These days it only happens one weekend a year. Last weekend, in fact. Early in my folk
career (when I was too green to know better), I accepted an invitation to co-host a late night
campfire/song swap at the Falcon Ridge folk festival, across the border in New York state. The
campfire wouldn't start until midnight, after the mainstage performances were over, and go (at
least officially) until 3 AM. This was the early '90s and I was years away from playing onstage at
the festival. Like about half the audience, I had a guitar stashed back in my tent, so why not?
And if nobody came I could trade songs all night with Jeff Tareila, the other host.
We ducked out of the concert early, and built the fire in a pasture next to the horse pen,
the horses watching us warily from behind the fence. Let's get a crowd, Jeff said, so we built a
pep-rally-sized bonfire, doused it with lighter fluid, and struck a match. We each played our
loudest songs so the music would carry.
As the mainstage concert ended, people heading to the parking lot stopped by and
listened to a song or two, and people camping over started appearing, guitars in hand. We made a
circle and did our best to make sure everyone got a turn to do a song, be it a deep, dark original,
or a sing-along cover (or something in between - Keith Kelly memorably played
America's "Horse with No Name" while singing the lyrics to the Mr. Ed theme). It took us two
hours just to go around the circle once. Three o'clock came and went, and more people stuck
around than left. Jeff finally called it a night, but I said I'd wait to douse the fire. It got down to a
handful of hardcores, mostly NY/NJ songwriters, Jack Hardy, Dave Elder, Joe Giacoio, Gregg
Cagno, with me there to represent Boston, trading song after song, sometimes in direct response
to the last song (hmm, songs about cab drivers for 200, Alex). Dawn came, the fire was down to
embers, the horses started snorting for their breakfast. When morning joggers started going by
we finally called it a night.
The next year we did it both nights of the festival, and had even bigger crowds. Sleep
was out of the question, so I made sure to pitch my tent to catch the morning shade. After the
Saturday fire we decided to go out for breakfast, and ended up at a diner down the road full of early
church-goers.
We kept it going each year, and occasionally had mainstage performers drop by after
their sets - one memorable evening had Catie Curtis, David Massengill and Jack Hardy all
borrow my guitar for a song. I started bringing chocolate chip cookies to pass around to keep up
our energy.
As the festival matured in the 2000's, people started hosting their own campfires, so we
weren't the only game in town anymore. Jeff T., Dave E. and even Joe "Superman" Giacoio
eventually decided they'd rather sleep.
But last weekend, I was still at it - making the fire (one match, even without lighter
fluid), setting up the circle of chairs (or rather, watching my current co-host Deede Bergeron set
them up), breaking out my axe and seeing what happens. The best part is still the feeling of
community that develops over the course of a few hours, as you learn about people from their
songs, intros and comments, and listen as people who have never met before end up harmonizing
on a song they both love, or watch as the woman who has just sat listening for round after round
suddenly feels comfortable enough to come out of her shell and sing. By the time first light
arrives and the fire's down to charcoal, we feel somewhere between old friends and shipwreck
survivors - dawn! We made it! Land ho!
So if you make it to Falcon Ridge next year, grab your guitar and stop by. We'll be there.
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