SHOUT OUT TO DENNY - October 19, 2005
If Doogie can do it, so can I. Thanks for showing up tonight, and thanks for your art. Keep the gift alive.
Annie Mosher: Journal
MEETING WITH A LEGEND May 5th, 2005 - July 25, 2005
(This journal entry appears courtesy John Williamson, you can find it and others on his website at johnwilliamson123.com)
Well, I thought winter was over. In Nashville, folks have been cutting the grass - and stirring up allergens - for well over a month. The daffodils have come and gone, most of the leaves are on the trees, and the pollen count is well into the trillions. Granted, there was frost on the ground yesterday, but it was actually a cold snap after a strong showing for spring. So when Annie and I went up to Vermont, let's just say I was a bit on the surprised side. Nary a flower to be seen. The Common in her little village still bore a stiff resemblance to ice hockey season rather than baseball. And it was cold, wet...and cold. Of course I took not so much as a heavy shirt with me. Luckily, since I generally wear long sleeves even in the hottest part of summer, I had several thin layers and didn't fare too badly after I put 'em all on. I just kept having to change the order around so that a new one was on the outside to keep the Northeast Kingdom from thinking I was homeless.
It wasn't cold inside Fuller Hall on the campus of St. Johnsbury Academy. An old auditorium with great acoustics and a really warm feel was made even warmer by the sold-out crowd of 800 fans. What a reception - a good case for changing the popular term, "Southern hospitality" to include the land on the other side of that now famous line. The crowd made plenty of noise for hometown-girl Annie Mosher. I did my best to back her up on vocals and guitar, but mostly just tried to stay out of the way. Annie did what she does so well, turning them on and leaving them wanting more. When I thanked the sound man for doing such a great job, he responded by saying, "Yeah, I wish you guys were still on stage!" That made us both feel good and as we made our way out to our seats for the second part of the show, we bumped into a lot of old friends we were sure happy to see. The whole event was a benefit show for the movie "Disapearances," an independent film adapted from the novel of the same name written by Vermont novelist Howard Frank Mosher. Name ring a bell?
By the time we went on stage, one highlight of the evening had already taken place. Meeting Kris Kristofferson, who we'd shown up to open for, was a special treat. He's such a genuinely nice guy, about as normal as you can imagine, that I almost forgot I was talking with someone I'd idolized for most of my life. To millions of people including myself, he's a legend of stage and screen and a songwriting icon. But in person he's just Kris, a real cool guy. Of course he showed the crowd his songwriting icon side, performing his new and old hits with flair and style. Kristofferson. Wow.
Also on the bill were the Whateverly Brothers from Burlington, VT. Their namesakes would be proud of the tight vocal harmonies and musicianship these guys are known for. A couple of songs stuck with me: one called "The Least that I Can Do," in which a fellow asks his girl how far she'd go to prove her love, and another called, "Saturday Night," a story of a drug-laden ride through a most American institution. Saturday night never shined with truth like this. The brothers turned up the volume tastefully, and the upright bass and cool Bakersfield guitar sounds melded with their vocals like sunshine and springtime. Which brings things full circle.
Back in Nashville, things are heating up. The wheels of fate continue to turn, slowly and surely. The Idle Hour is back open in its new location - about a block away from its old location - and the music is flowing. As it should be.
See y'all soon,
John
Well, I thought winter was over. In Nashville, folks have been cutting the grass - and stirring up allergens - for well over a month. The daffodils have come and gone, most of the leaves are on the trees, and the pollen count is well into the trillions. Granted, there was frost on the ground yesterday, but it was actually a cold snap after a strong showing for spring. So when Annie and I went up to Vermont, let's just say I was a bit on the surprised side. Nary a flower to be seen. The Common in her little village still bore a stiff resemblance to ice hockey season rather than baseball. And it was cold, wet...and cold. Of course I took not so much as a heavy shirt with me. Luckily, since I generally wear long sleeves even in the hottest part of summer, I had several thin layers and didn't fare too badly after I put 'em all on. I just kept having to change the order around so that a new one was on the outside to keep the Northeast Kingdom from thinking I was homeless.
It wasn't cold inside Fuller Hall on the campus of St. Johnsbury Academy. An old auditorium with great acoustics and a really warm feel was made even warmer by the sold-out crowd of 800 fans. What a reception - a good case for changing the popular term, "Southern hospitality" to include the land on the other side of that now famous line. The crowd made plenty of noise for hometown-girl Annie Mosher. I did my best to back her up on vocals and guitar, but mostly just tried to stay out of the way. Annie did what she does so well, turning them on and leaving them wanting more. When I thanked the sound man for doing such a great job, he responded by saying, "Yeah, I wish you guys were still on stage!" That made us both feel good and as we made our way out to our seats for the second part of the show, we bumped into a lot of old friends we were sure happy to see. The whole event was a benefit show for the movie "Disapearances," an independent film adapted from the novel of the same name written by Vermont novelist Howard Frank Mosher. Name ring a bell?
By the time we went on stage, one highlight of the evening had already taken place. Meeting Kris Kristofferson, who we'd shown up to open for, was a special treat. He's such a genuinely nice guy, about as normal as you can imagine, that I almost forgot I was talking with someone I'd idolized for most of my life. To millions of people including myself, he's a legend of stage and screen and a songwriting icon. But in person he's just Kris, a real cool guy. Of course he showed the crowd his songwriting icon side, performing his new and old hits with flair and style. Kristofferson. Wow.
Also on the bill were the Whateverly Brothers from Burlington, VT. Their namesakes would be proud of the tight vocal harmonies and musicianship these guys are known for. A couple of songs stuck with me: one called "The Least that I Can Do," in which a fellow asks his girl how far she'd go to prove her love, and another called, "Saturday Night," a story of a drug-laden ride through a most American institution. Saturday night never shined with truth like this. The brothers turned up the volume tastefully, and the upright bass and cool Bakersfield guitar sounds melded with their vocals like sunshine and springtime. Which brings things full circle.
Back in Nashville, things are heating up. The wheels of fate continue to turn, slowly and surely. The Idle Hour is back open in its new location - about a block away from its old location - and the music is flowing. As it should be.
See y'all soon,
John
Another hero - March 28, 2005
It's a rainy day here is Music City, and I have Davis Raines' Cd PARTS UNKNOWN spinning in my player, and by God, I've got some things to say about that artist.
I met Davis - - I mean truly met him - - only a few weeks ago at the Sutler on a Monday night where I went to hear the talented Tony Laiolo do a set for All Points South, an Americana showcase night organized by Davis himself. I was exhausted from a day of walls being thrown up in my face for various reasons, sometimes it just happens. I stayed at that show until well after midnight listening to Davis play. His songs absolutely floored me. He stood alone on stage with his cigarette tucked under the strings of his guitar, every time he took a swig of beer the bottle would overflow like a geyser, and he'd just shrug and keep playing.
I was fidgeting with my own beer label, and literally jerked to attention when I heard somebody sing "Gary Dale ain't right, it's like his mind's on hold. He's still a little kid, he's 32 years old..." I thought oh Lord, I've got to hear this. Turns out Gary Dale hangs out at the fruit stand that his "people" run, in his cowboy hat and toy pistols. That is until James Lee Jones, "...all hopped up on speed..." pulls in to the fruit stand, on the run and out of his mind. What happens in the song is what makes it a great story song. The way Davis puts it to us, so honest and funny and painful, is what makes it a masterpiece, like most of what Davis is doing. John and I sat there in awe, I felt the way I did when I first heard Chris Knight or John Prine, totally speechless and filled with a love for this town and this business. And it's purely because of writers like Davis.
I could quote his songs all day, but really, I encourage y'all to go grab one of his albums. I got mine downtown at the Ernest Tubb Record Store, ten dolla' make you holla.
I sat down here today to write this for two reasons. I was moved by this guy's art. And, I read something that turned my stomach in an archive (several months ago) from the Nashville Scene (a great source for local music among other things ) written by a couple of angry, sour music critics. The title of the article was an ugly dig about why some artists should 'make it' and some shouldn't. Disgusting. The two critics nestled themselves in to the Sutler, delighted by the opportunity to reveal their starchy, bitter opinions about the show. They noted with disdain the "meager" audience, they mocked the host, they allowed only one of the showcase artists a feeble compliment in that she held her own with some good songs, though they couldn't resist mentioning that she was "slight and personable." The "slight, personable singer..." That revolts me. They ended the article with the comforting thought that writers' nights may be washed out, and they noted that it would be "sadder still if (this singer) washes out, too." I could practically see them salivating over the thought that she may very well go down with the ship, a ship I fear these critics were on themselves, and had to resort to tearing apart the lives of other hopefuls in order to maintain a sense of control in some way. Those poor people.
Davis! You keep the heartbeat of belief in people alive. You keep a place open to writers, new and old, and hold a forum in which there is talent and hope and learning, you never know what you're going to get from somebody until you listen. I'll gladly pay my 5 bucks to hear what you've got to say. And if it ain't good, I won't be back. But I certainly won't rip it open with an undeniable degree of delight. I feel that everybody has a right to express what's within, so there's no shame in these critics telling it like they wanted to tell it. The shame lies in the beauty that was sadly missed in a night at the Sutler. Too bad.
Ok, now really, go snag a copy of PARTS UNKNOWN if you want some authentic Americana with heart and imagery and infectious melody and all kinds of other good descriptive words that the Scene critics missed. Perhaps they will go back and give it another shot, though I doubt it, bless their hearts.
I like the Nashville Scene very much. But I couldn't let this day go by without standing up on the playground for some really cool kids.
Have a great day, it's the only March 28th, 2005 there will ever be.
xoxo
A
I met Davis - - I mean truly met him - - only a few weeks ago at the Sutler on a Monday night where I went to hear the talented Tony Laiolo do a set for All Points South, an Americana showcase night organized by Davis himself. I was exhausted from a day of walls being thrown up in my face for various reasons, sometimes it just happens. I stayed at that show until well after midnight listening to Davis play. His songs absolutely floored me. He stood alone on stage with his cigarette tucked under the strings of his guitar, every time he took a swig of beer the bottle would overflow like a geyser, and he'd just shrug and keep playing.
I was fidgeting with my own beer label, and literally jerked to attention when I heard somebody sing "Gary Dale ain't right, it's like his mind's on hold. He's still a little kid, he's 32 years old..." I thought oh Lord, I've got to hear this. Turns out Gary Dale hangs out at the fruit stand that his "people" run, in his cowboy hat and toy pistols. That is until James Lee Jones, "...all hopped up on speed..." pulls in to the fruit stand, on the run and out of his mind. What happens in the song is what makes it a great story song. The way Davis puts it to us, so honest and funny and painful, is what makes it a masterpiece, like most of what Davis is doing. John and I sat there in awe, I felt the way I did when I first heard Chris Knight or John Prine, totally speechless and filled with a love for this town and this business. And it's purely because of writers like Davis.
I could quote his songs all day, but really, I encourage y'all to go grab one of his albums. I got mine downtown at the Ernest Tubb Record Store, ten dolla' make you holla.
I sat down here today to write this for two reasons. I was moved by this guy's art. And, I read something that turned my stomach in an archive (several months ago) from the Nashville Scene (a great source for local music among other things ) written by a couple of angry, sour music critics. The title of the article was an ugly dig about why some artists should 'make it' and some shouldn't. Disgusting. The two critics nestled themselves in to the Sutler, delighted by the opportunity to reveal their starchy, bitter opinions about the show. They noted with disdain the "meager" audience, they mocked the host, they allowed only one of the showcase artists a feeble compliment in that she held her own with some good songs, though they couldn't resist mentioning that she was "slight and personable." The "slight, personable singer..." That revolts me. They ended the article with the comforting thought that writers' nights may be washed out, and they noted that it would be "sadder still if (this singer) washes out, too." I could practically see them salivating over the thought that she may very well go down with the ship, a ship I fear these critics were on themselves, and had to resort to tearing apart the lives of other hopefuls in order to maintain a sense of control in some way. Those poor people.
Davis! You keep the heartbeat of belief in people alive. You keep a place open to writers, new and old, and hold a forum in which there is talent and hope and learning, you never know what you're going to get from somebody until you listen. I'll gladly pay my 5 bucks to hear what you've got to say. And if it ain't good, I won't be back. But I certainly won't rip it open with an undeniable degree of delight. I feel that everybody has a right to express what's within, so there's no shame in these critics telling it like they wanted to tell it. The shame lies in the beauty that was sadly missed in a night at the Sutler. Too bad.
Ok, now really, go snag a copy of PARTS UNKNOWN if you want some authentic Americana with heart and imagery and infectious melody and all kinds of other good descriptive words that the Scene critics missed. Perhaps they will go back and give it another shot, though I doubt it, bless their hearts.
I like the Nashville Scene very much. But I couldn't let this day go by without standing up on the playground for some really cool kids.
Have a great day, it's the only March 28th, 2005 there will ever be.
xoxo
A
South by Southwest - March 20, 2005
Hey, y'all. I'm back from a great trip to Austin with my good buds Lisa Carver and Cheley Tackett. We went down last Monday for SXSW, a great festival of music for the whole city. I love Austin. No no, perhaps you didn't hear me... I LOVE AUSTIN!
It's the kind of place that makes me feel a knot of longing in my stomach, akin to the vibe you get when you're in the same room as an old lover, and haven't spoken yet. The town is funky and colorful and busting with great music, and I'm drawn to the hills surrounding the city. Maybe a move is in my future - - I always threaten hit the trail for a while after a good week in that city.
We played at a joint called Artz Ribhouse on Wednesday night, the first night of the festival. It was a good show, the crowd was engaged which always helps. There's nothing harder than reaching for your audience and not touching them... it happens. But they were there, including Lyle Lovett and Joe Ely, wow. Lyle is a long-time favorite of mine, it was all I could do to keep from screaming, "Lyle, I love you madly!!!" I think I did, actually.
We stayed with a terrific guy named Paul Barker who houses songwriters year-round, he's a great supporter of indie music and a wonderful person. His Great Danes and Guinea hens kept us company on the deck overlooking the rolling hills, and he made sure we had breakfast tacos every morning. I stayed with Paul 3 years ago when I was doing some music in Austin, and I was fortunate enough to play his house concert. He runs the Barker Concert series, a much coveted gig for any writer. He squeezes up to one hundred good folks into his home and off you go. I can't wait to get back down there.
I guess everybody has places that make them wonder if we are destined to be there, or if maybe in another life... I hear that sentiment echoed frequently about Scotland and Ireland. People say that as soon as they step off the train they have an eerie feeling of belonging. Certainly that kind of music speaks to me deeply. Austin is one of those places for me. Texas in general, but that city gives me a bit of a heartache. I see lots of time spent there for me.
It's a beautiful Sunday in Nashville, good to be back. Sundays are always a little slower than the typical Annie pace, and sometimes the quiet frightens me in some way. Memories of small town life where nothing is open, come Sunday you'd better have all you need from Ray's Market because there's no place to go to get it if you don't. I'd shuffle up to Ray's, our town of 100 people's all-purpose store, and sit on the steps, barefoot and dreaming that someone mysterious would ride through town in a big car, dusty from driving too fast on our dirt roads, and bring me a coke. So here I am on Sunday, loving the change in the weather and thinking about that coke. I love that I can walk to Kroger and get one, and yet a part of me longs for those dirt roads where Ray's is still closed. The best of all worlds must be access to the Krogers but seclusion from them for the most part. Must be Texas. Must be Texas.
Y'all enjoy this day, it's the only March 20th, 2005 there will ever be.
Annie
It's the kind of place that makes me feel a knot of longing in my stomach, akin to the vibe you get when you're in the same room as an old lover, and haven't spoken yet. The town is funky and colorful and busting with great music, and I'm drawn to the hills surrounding the city. Maybe a move is in my future - - I always threaten hit the trail for a while after a good week in that city.
We played at a joint called Artz Ribhouse on Wednesday night, the first night of the festival. It was a good show, the crowd was engaged which always helps. There's nothing harder than reaching for your audience and not touching them... it happens. But they were there, including Lyle Lovett and Joe Ely, wow. Lyle is a long-time favorite of mine, it was all I could do to keep from screaming, "Lyle, I love you madly!!!" I think I did, actually.
We stayed with a terrific guy named Paul Barker who houses songwriters year-round, he's a great supporter of indie music and a wonderful person. His Great Danes and Guinea hens kept us company on the deck overlooking the rolling hills, and he made sure we had breakfast tacos every morning. I stayed with Paul 3 years ago when I was doing some music in Austin, and I was fortunate enough to play his house concert. He runs the Barker Concert series, a much coveted gig for any writer. He squeezes up to one hundred good folks into his home and off you go. I can't wait to get back down there.
I guess everybody has places that make them wonder if we are destined to be there, or if maybe in another life... I hear that sentiment echoed frequently about Scotland and Ireland. People say that as soon as they step off the train they have an eerie feeling of belonging. Certainly that kind of music speaks to me deeply. Austin is one of those places for me. Texas in general, but that city gives me a bit of a heartache. I see lots of time spent there for me.
It's a beautiful Sunday in Nashville, good to be back. Sundays are always a little slower than the typical Annie pace, and sometimes the quiet frightens me in some way. Memories of small town life where nothing is open, come Sunday you'd better have all you need from Ray's Market because there's no place to go to get it if you don't. I'd shuffle up to Ray's, our town of 100 people's all-purpose store, and sit on the steps, barefoot and dreaming that someone mysterious would ride through town in a big car, dusty from driving too fast on our dirt roads, and bring me a coke. So here I am on Sunday, loving the change in the weather and thinking about that coke. I love that I can walk to Kroger and get one, and yet a part of me longs for those dirt roads where Ray's is still closed. The best of all worlds must be access to the Krogers but seclusion from them for the most part. Must be Texas. Must be Texas.
Y'all enjoy this day, it's the only March 20th, 2005 there will ever be.
Annie