Jackie Washington/ Jack Landron (1997)

By Elijah Wald

The billing is oddly appropriate: "The Return of Jackie Washington, starring Jack Landron." Landron is a New York-based, Afro-Puerto Rican actor. Washington was the king of the Cambridge folk scene, "the male Joan Baez." Both were born in Roxbury and named Juan Candido Washington Landron; except for a temporal gap of thirty years, they are the same person.

The billing was Landron's idea: "It's a very glib thing, but the more I think of it, that's really what it is," he says. "I have not done this in a long time, and I found that if I approached it as me playing Jackie Washington I was not daunted. So I am having a wonderful time going 'Oh, yeah, he used to do this,' and 'Oh, wasn't that funny when he used to say that.' And also comparing how I felt when I sang or worked up a certain arrangement with how I think about those things now.''

In the early 1960s, Jackie Washington was a folk star. He sang everything from English ballads to calypso, and he had an energy and humor that carried audiences along with the force of a tidal wave. In recent years, he has made occasional visits to his old haunts, playing a song or two at gatherings of the local folk clan, and he still has the same explosive energy and the same gentle way with a melody. Nonetheless, his appearance at Club Passim this Saturday will be his first full-scale concert in many years.

Despite the billing, Landron will be doing a lot more than recreating his youth. In the intervening years, he has become a versatile songwriter, and his show will feature material he has composed for National Public Radio, the Puerto Rican Traveling Theatre, and a new musical, "13th St. Suite." Still, he finds the experience extremely nostalgic, and it has got him thinking about old times.

Landron became a folk singer completely by chance. He was a student at Emerson college, with plans to be an actor when he and "a bunch of my little Ivy League bourgeois friends from Roxbury'' went down to a Boston coffee house, the Golden Vanity.

"We were a group of Cape Verdian, Puerto Rican, black guys, and we all had on our little three-button suits and those skinny little ties and Oxford shirts,'' Landron remembers. "We went in, and there was nothing on the menu but different kinds of coffees, teas and cider, and the people were strange. There were all these white types, and they were dressed like 'Oh, we don't care about looking good or anything like that.' We were having a wonderful time--little did we realize that Darjeeling or Lapsang Suchong, that [stuff] was expensive.''

Landron had the solution. "It was a 'hoot night,' so if you performed you could get your drinks free. I went up there and did some stuff I had learned off Harry Belafonte records, and I was a hit.''

Landron became a regular at the Vanity, then moved across the river to Cambridge's Club 47. It was the height of the folk revival, and he was a unique character, a young, vibrant, black performer who could sing just about anything and make audiences love it. It was an exciting time, when Bob Dylan could pick up his version of the ancient ballad "Nottamun Town'' and rework it as "Masters of War,'' or a Portuguese song he was featuring could show up on the hit parade as "Lemon Tree.''

Somehow, though, Landron never made it as big as a lot of his peers, and he firmly ascribes this to the racial climate. "This was even before the days of tokens,'' he says. "You were just invisible. You wouldn't open a magazine or turn on the TV and see black people or anything Puerto Rican. Everything was 'Leave It To Beaver.' So I know that I was patronized. I know there was a limitation on what I could do. I made some innovations that found root, but there was not a way for a guy like me to be really influential. I was an exotic trifle. That was what that time was like.''

Matters came to a head when Landron went south to work for black voter registration. Other folk singers came, sang, and went home, but he stayed and organized. When he returned to Cambridge, things did not feel the same. Meanwhile, folk-rock had hit, and his acoustic style was out of favor. Landron decided to make a break with his past. He moved to New York, changed his name, and entered another world.

"I worked at the Puerto Rican Traveling Theater, the Negro Ensemble, the Caribbean-American Repertory Theater. I was playing in non-white theater companies, to largely non-white audiences. New York is very much different from Boston, in that there are whole enclaves where you can be submerged in a culture, and that's what happened to me.''

Though there is a sharp edge to some of his reminiscences, Landron says he is anything but bitter about the past. It was, as he will point out, his youth, and he is looking forward to revisiting it tomorrow evening. He is bringing his daughter, who has never seen him perform as a folksinger, and plans to drive around Roxbury with her and point out the sights of his childhood.

He is also enjoying reimmersing himself in the music. For his occasional guest spots he has relied on his humor and stage presence to wow the audience, but this time he wants people to hear the songs. "I have been working on putting together this show,'' he says. "I'm going to try to do some real music, really sing some stuff. Also, looking over the things and reminiscing, there are stories that go with the songs that are interesting. So I'm looking forward to it very much.''

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The Fairfield Four (1997)

By Elijah Wald

James Hill will turn 81 a week from today. It is not an age when most people are doing rock 'n' roll shows, but Hill's group, the Fairfield Four, will be opening for John Fogerty at Harborlights this Sunday, and joining him for two numbers, including "A Hundred and Ten in the Shade,'' the song they sing on his new "Blue Moon Swamp'' album.

"Oh, it's been going great!'' Hill says of the Fogerty tour. "I wondered about it, 'cause we sing an a cappella gospel, you know? And they got a rock 'n' roll band, man. It's two different things, but man, people act like they really is enjoying their opening act on this one; they don't want us to stop singing.''

The Fairfields' recent list of collaborators is impressive. In the last three years, they have worked with Lyle Lovett, Elvis Costello, Steve Earle, Charlie Daniels and Lee Roy Parnell, and they had to break the Fogerty tour to go into the studio with Johnny Cash. Meanwhile, their own new album will be out in September, with an all-star release show scheduled at Nashville's Ryman Auditorium.

Ask Hill how he accounts for the group's success, and he sounds pleasantly puzzled. "I'm surprised the young people are liking what we are doing,'' he says. "But they really love it. I think it's new to them, just like rap is. You catch a guy 30, 35 years old, what we're doing now is different from anything he's ever heard. But we're doing the same thing we did when I came to the group in 1946.''

The original Fairfield Four got together in the early 1920s, but they hit their peak in the 1940s, with a radio program on Nashville's powerful WLAC that could be heard all over the country. By the end of the decade, they were one of the best-known groups in gospel, featuring Sam McCrary's lead, Hill on baritone, and the booming bass of Isaac Freeman, the only other early member still with the group.

The Fairfields were something of a supergroup, formed by raiding the best singers from other outfits. Hill, for example, had started out singing with his mother's gospel group and gone on to achieve success with a Birmingham quartet, the Five Silver Kings ("quartet,'' in gospel terminology, is a style of singing, and by the late 1940s virtually all quartets had five members). "What the Fairfields were singing was right down my alley,'' he says. "So I fit right in.''

That golden age was of short duration. In 1950, Hill and Freeman split off and formed another group, the Skylarks. "I'll tell you what happened,'' Hill says. "Gospel had hit a hard place in the road, man, we weren't doing nothing too much. And, believe it or not, for 30 years we didn't do nothing too much but just every once in a while we'd get together and do a number or two, an anniversary or something, but that wasn't too often.''

It was in 1980 that the Fairfields reformed, at the urging of gospel scholar Doug Seroff. "He got us to go to Birmingham, Alabama for a quartet reunion thing, with a bunch of older groups. So we got together and went on down there, but we didn't think the people were gonna think too much of us, because at that time the groups had gone contemporary mostly, they'd added drums, guitar, keyboards, all of that stuff. I said they wouldn't want to hear us, especially since we're men getting up in age too. We went down there to sing, man, and they didn't want[MAKEITAL] us to stop singing.''

That led to several performances at the Smithsonian festival in Washington, as well as to Carnegie Hall, the New Orleans Jazzfest, and hundreds of smaller venues. In 1992, their first modern album, "Standing in the Safety Zone,'' was nominated for a Grammy, and they made a national tour with Lyle Lovett. The next year, Elvis Costello took them to London's Queen Elizabeth Hall, and they have barely rested since.

Last year, the Fairfields added a new lead singer, Joe Rice. At 23, Rice is young enough to be the grandson of the other members, but Hill says he fits in perfectly. Meanwhile, Hill himself is still going strong, and has no plans to retire anytime soon.

"I intend to just keep on doing what I've always done,'' he says. "You know, time brings about a change; I don't get around as much as I used to do; but as far as singing goes it's no problem. Long as I be able to do it, I'm going to do it.''

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Eartha Kitt (1997)

Elijah Wald

NEW YORK--It may be the last bastion of cafe society: the Cafe Carlyle, with its pastel murals of minstrels and ballerinas, its quietly efficient waiters, and the tables of well-dressed customers murmuring in a blend of Continental accents. There was a time when New York had a dozen rooms like this, though none of tonight's customers look old enough to remember them. Eartha Kitt remembers them well.

Kitt, who begins a four-night stint at Scullers Jazz Club this Thursday, got her professional start over fifty years ago, as a dancer with the Katherine Dunham troupe. By 1950, she had become a featured performer, and in Paris she left the troupe to begin a solo career. She was a sensation, and soon found herself starring opposite Orson Welles in his production of "Dr. Faust'' as an archetypal heroine who was a schoolgirl one moment, Helen of Troy the next. Welles called her "the most exciting woman in the world.''

Certainly, she was like no one else. Her voice, face and style were captivatingly odd, indefinably exotic. She was often described as "ageless,'' and time has proved the point. At the Carlyle, she walks confidently to the stage, and begins to sing: "I've got a voice that says 'Yes', '' she purrs, homing in on a young man at a front table--"a walk that says 'Maybe' ''--her hips swivel a hint of invitation--"but a look that says 'Uh-uh!' '' Kitt's eyes flash danger, and she turns her back on her rejected admirer. The audience laughs, then leans forward, entranced. Kitt is magic, and her powers are untouched by time. It is more than a great performance; it feels like a voyage to a vanished age.

Later, one cannot help asking: The illusion is perfect, but is this really what it was like in the classic period of New York cabaret, the days when Billie Holiday was at one club, Edith Piaf at the next, and Kitt at a third? "Yes, it is,'' Kitt says firmly. "And you won't get it anymore when I'm gone, because I'm the last of the Mohicans. So, if I were you young kids, I'd keep me around.''

Kitt is speaking on the telephone, from her room at the Carlyle. She seems friendly and forthright, but declined to be interviewed in person. The voice is enough, though. Whether one first heard her singing her Turkish hit, "Uska Dara,'' or growling her way through the role of Catwoman on TV's "Batman,'' Kitt has a voice that cannot be forgotten.

Kitt is quick to point out that, in terms of her career, that has not always been a good thing. "Being an individual can work against you,'' she says. "Agents say 'We don't know how to cast you.' Recording companies say 'Who's gonna buy that voice? We don't know whom to sell it to.' When I first came back to America, I was cancelled out of La Vie en Rose because I was singing in seven languages, and they had never seen anything like me. They thought 'What is it?' ''

To her fans, though, that is her strength. She is not a jazz singer or a nightclub chanteuse, a comedienne or a dancer; she is simply Eartha Kitt. "I have no category,'' she says. "Just as I've always said I have no color. I don't belong to a race, creed or color; I am me. There is nothing to compare me to, so there is nothing for me to compete with except myself.''

If Kitt was always unique, this has only become more obvious with the years. Few performers of her generation are still working; virtually none are devoting the same focused energy and attention to their performances that they did in their youth. There are no dead spots in her show, no coasting on her legend. Even a song like "C'est Si Bon,'' which she has sung at every show for over forty years, will have a new twist every night, an ad lib or a bit of unscripted interplay with the audience.

"There is so much spontaneity in what she does,'' says Daryl Waters, her pianist of eleven years standing. Waters is co-composer of the Broadway hit "Bring In Da Noise, Bring In Da Funk,'' and is currently up for a Grammy, but he says there is nothing he prefers to backing up Kitt's show. "There's nothing that charges me like that. We can do the same songs, and the performance will never be the same; it's like trying to always be in sync with this really living creature that you can never anticipate their next move. Whatever she does has a dramatic flair to it, and it's always coming from within who she is.''

Waters has heard Kitt described as "difficult'' and worse, but says their relationship has been excellent. "Often, what people call being difficult is an artist trying to deal with their own insecurities or trying to deal with the unprofessionalism of other people. She has every right sometimes to not be smiling in your face like you'd like her to be. A lot of times what people classify as being overly difficult is just the fact that you have a different opinion, and because she's a women is she not allowed to have a different opinion?''

Kitt herself can recall many times she has run into trouble for stating her views. Some were professional: There was the time she proposed a white star to play opposite her in a production of "Salome,'' and her agent said, "Eartha, don't you know what color you are?'' She still seethes at the memory. "I wasn't thinking about color. I don't think an artist has a color. But there you are. So I went out myself and found a director at one of the most prestigious shows on television. And the William Morris Agency called me a bitch, said I was shrewd, I was mean, because I went around them. You're a strong person and you know what you want to do and you go after it, so you're considered a bitch.''

Kitt's worst setback came from her outspokenness in another forum. Invited by Ladybird Johnson to a women's conference on urban youth in 1968, she pointed out that it was impossible to persuade young people to avoid crime if the reward for having a clean police record was to be drafted and sent to Vietnam. Johnson was shocked to the point of tears, and Kitt found herself vilified in the press and virtually blacklisted from American television. She took refuge in Europe, where she remained a top star, but her American career has never recovered from the interruption.

Hence the Carlyle and Scullers. Kitt says she loves the intimacy of the small clubs, but she would clearly prefer to be playing Symphony Hall, or starring on Broadway (she would like to do an integrated "Mame''). Fortunately, she seems to be moving in that direction. Her film career is picking up speed, with recent performances in "Unzipped'' and "Harriet the Spy,'' she is getting a lot of television work, and her 28th album, "Back in Business,'' was nominated for a Grammy last year. It is easy to think, watching her at the Carlyle, that she will soon be too big for the room.

The only barrier is time, and Kitt is doing an astonishing job of surmounting it. Halfway through the show, she announces a recent birthday, proudly declaring herself to have "reached the beautiful, most wonderful age of 70.'' She later explains that she can only approximate that figure, having no record of her early years as a poverty-stricken orphan in South Carolina, but that she must be somewhere in that vicinity. And she sees no reason to conceal or mask her longevity.

"I was very lucky to be called 'the most exciting woman in the world,' because I don't have to play any games about anything,'' she says. "I don't have to worry about whether I'm 70 years old or 30 years, because the lines that are coming to my face mean that I am maturing, I'm growing, and I'm still here. It's the map of life. I like the maturing side of me. I don't believe in fighting nature except to stay healthy, to do everything that is natural to maintain the youthful look and the agility and all of that and also the state of mind. I am very proud that I have been able to sustain, and the public has kept supporting me, so I don't have anything to lie about''

She has no doubts that, given an opportunity, she could go head to head with the young pop stars of the 1990s. She has had European dance club hits in recent years, and is confident that quality can win out. "Today, the business in general is a lot of noise, a lot of hype, a lot of packaging,'' she says. "I still don't know what Michael Jackson is capable of doing, because I've never seen him do anything that is not flying in the air or a 4th of July kind of thing.

"Now, everybody sings exactly like screaming their heads off, and I find there is nothing to compete with because the more they scream the more they're putting themselves in a situation that that pony is gonna drop dead real fast. Everybody is riding the same pony and we are not creating individuals anymore. And generally it's downgrading, dumbing down the teenagers, because if you never get to see someone like me and make your own evaluation between me and somebody else who is contemporary, then there is nothing for you intellectually to play with--all you're getting is that one pony.''

Kitt does not sound irritated as she says this. On the contrary, she sounds confident and somewhat amused. "We are living in a very interesting time,'' she says. "That's why I'm very glad I'm still here and still doing the same things I did 30, 40 years ago and people are loving it, including the young people. The younger people really do want quality, and when they see it and they find it, they cater to it and they bring their friends and their friends' friends. It's absolutely marvelous, but they make me feel as though I should be around for another 70 years.''

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Dale Hawkins (1997)

By Elijah Wald

Dale Hawkins makes his return to New England Saturday, appearing on an "oldies'' bill at Lowell Memorial Auditorium with Frankie "Sea Cruise'' Ford. On the phone, though, he sounds nothing like an "oldies'' artist. There is none of the smooth professionalism, the air of a practiced entertainer who has been pleasing his fans for 40 years. Hawkins still sounds like a stone rockabilly, as wild as he was when he stormed the charts in 1957 with one of the most primal hits ever cut by a white rocker, "Suzie Q.''

At the time he was 17, and just returned to his native Shreveport, Louisiana, after an underage stint in the navy. "I was trying to go to school, and work too,'' he says. "But hell, all I wanted to do was play music. I had a band. Some of us weren't old enough to get in the clubs, so the ones that could, well, we went in the front and the rest of 'em we pulled in the bathroom window.''

One of the younger ones was a 15-year-old friend, James Burton, who would go on to be one of the most acclaimed guitarists in rock. He was the first of Hawkins' incredible string of lead guitarists, which also included Roy Buchanan and Scotty Moore, as well as Boston's Kenny Paulsen. (He met Paulsen on a tour through Boston with Chuck Berry in 1957, the last time, to the best of his recollection, that he has been in this area.)

How did he get so lucky? "Hell,'' he says, "there weren't no luck to it. See, I was a structure person. By structure, I mean you got to play it this way. Ain't no other way to play it, because it's wrong if you do. I was really hated by most all the guys that played guitar with me, because I'd just make em play it till I got it like I wanted it. But they all turned out to be great guitar players. Sure did. You know, I'd take these guys, like 14 years old or so, and me, I wasn't a great guitar player by any means, but I could get a lick going. And then I could say 'Take it, and let me do this other thing.' Because you just couldn't do it all yourself. That's like rubbing your stomach and trying to pat your head. Not too many Chuck Berrys around.''

Like Berry, Bo Diddley, and Muddy Waters, Hawkins was signed to a record deal by Leonard Chess, becoming the only white artist on the label. As he remembers, this led to some confusion. "Everybody, all the jocks, they thought I was black. I was in Philadelphia, one of the first places we stopped to promote the record, and I went in the station and the guy behind the board, he points at me and says, 'You're Dale Haw-aw-aw?!' Man, he almost rolled on the floor. He interviewed me and -- dig this -- I started getting phone calls, and some of the mothers would call and say, 'We just love your music, but you really should improve on your diction, for your race.' I was flipping out! I says 'I sure will, ma'am.' ''

Hawkins laughs long and hard. He clearly loves to talk about those days, though many of his best punch lines will not make it into a family newspaper. While Shreveport was best known for the country sound of the Louisiana Hayride, where he worked for a while parking cars, blues had always been his first love, both older artists like Lonnie Johnson and Lightnin' Hopkins the new sound of Jackie Brenston, Junior Parker and Johnny Ace. He was in seventh heaven when Chess brought him to Chicago and he got to record with musicians like Willie Dixon and jam in clubs with Little Walter.

Asked whether it was not unusual in those days to be playing in an integrated setting, he gets serious for a moment. "A lot of people still don't understand,'' he says. "Sure it was segregated, but for the music, it's really just where you're from, and how you was raised. I'm not trying to tell you any philosophy or [junk], but if you take and research most artists from that era, white or black, you will find they came from kind of the poor side of their families, had to work hard, taught to respect. You know, you have to have that light in there for it to come out. And we came from an era of leaving the door unlocked, where you trusted people. Of course, all of us got [cheated], but still it was better than picking cotton.''

Hawkins followed "Suzie Q'' with a string of lesser hits, becoming a regular visitor to American Bandstand and touring like crazy ("If I believed in a song, I could sell that sucker to a mule,'' he says happily). By 1960, though, his run was over. He turned to producing, charting records for artists including Bruce Channel ("Hey! Baby'') and the Five Americans ("Western Union''). Then, by the 1980s, he was fighting a serious amphetamine habit, and he dropped out of the business.

Now, he is back with a vengeance. He has opened a recording studio in Little Rock and is preparing his first album of new material in 25 years. He has toured Europe, and is raring to get back on the road in the U.S. On this visit, he will not have his own band, but he hopes to bring them through soon and show the youngsters how it oughta be done. "I'm enjoying myself,'' he says. "The new stuff I just got through recording, I just call it 'American music,' but it's country blues. Because people don't understand, man, where it came from. You know, the 1950s was a turn-around era, and I was just fortunate enough to be there and love it enought that I didn't care how it turned out. I did it like I wanted to do it, I guess you might say.''

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David Adams (1997)

By Elijah Wald

Globe Correspondent

David Adams is on his feet in the WILD broadcast studio, swaying and clapping along to the new disc from the Soul Stirrers. A photographer scrunches in the corner, snapping off shots. As the song ends, Adams slides into his seat, fades the music down, and hits the red "talk'' button. "Ohhh!" he hollers. "They're taking all kinds[MAKE ITAL] of pictures in here! They're gonna make David a star!'' With practiced ease, he flips a cart into the tape deck, and an advertisement comes on for his Saturday night anniversary concert. He turns the mike off, reaches for another CD, looks up at the photographer, and laughs.

Outside the studio's glass window, in the front office, Alice James is answering the phone. The president of the David Adams Fan Club, she is there with him every Sunday morning from dawn to nine o'clock, taking calls from local ministers, song requests, dedications, and news of births, deaths, and illnesses in Boston's gospel community.

Though little known to the outside world, within that community David Adams is already a star, and a familiar friend. Next year Adams, 63, will celebrate his 30th anniversary as Boston's best-known gospel d.j. Known as "Mr. 'My My My,' '' for his trademark catchphrase, he has become a Sunday morning institution, the area's most enthusiastic booster of old-time gospel music.

Asked to explain his enduring popularity, Adams gives a typical response: "The only thing that I can say is it's gotta be in the soul. As I tell people, I'm not ashamed -- if I feel the spirit I'm gonna shout. God has blessed me that way. He's been a great blessing to me. I'm not looking be a star. I'm not looking to do anything but give God praises, and if I can just can help one person along the way, then my living will not have been in vain.''

It may sound trite to some, but Adams clearly means every word, and anyone in Boston gospel will testify that he lives by his message. It is the old-time way, learned during his boyhood in the south. "If you speak about my history,'' Adams says, "I'm from Florence, South Carolina, and I started singing with my brothers' group when I was about eight years old. I stayed with gospel music and I knew all the original groups. I knew the names of the singers like some kids know baseball players. I came from South Carolina into Philadelphia, I sang with a group there for about nine years, and then I left Philadelphia and came up here. Boston was a beautiful place, so that made Boston my home.''

Adams arrived in 1959, and quickly became a familiar face around the gospel scene, doing a little singing and turning up at programs by all the local groups. Then, in 1968, he found himself in a community organization, the Black United Front, that was confronting the owners of WILD. In a scene that was being duplicated across the country at stations that served black listeners, the group demanded that the station place blacks in management positions rather than simply using them as on-air frontmen. WILD capitulated, and brought in Paul Yates from Pittsburgh to be general manager.

"When he came here, there was no gospel on for three mornings and I called him up and told him there was no way that we could do that,'' Adams says. "The community wouldn't accept that. So he said 'Well, I just got here and I don't know; would you come down and talk with me?' So I went down and he and I talked and he says, 'Could you take the job?' ''

Adams at first demurred, as he did not have a broadcasting liscence, but Yates brought him in to do a one-hour show presenting local singers while he studied and got his papers in order. As soon as he passed the exam, he became religious director for the station, and stayed there for the next 15 years, going on the air at dawn, seven days a week.

The hours sound grueling, but Adams seems to take a sort of pleasure in the task. He gleefully recalls the blizzard of 1978, when the National Guard had to give him a lift down to the station. The snow was chest-high, but he was on the air at dawn.

"As soon as I signed on, I saw the hot line ringing and I knew it was [then manager] Sunny Joe White. He says, 'David, I don't know how you made it.' And he says, 'I don't know how I'm gonna get down there. Could you stay until I get there?' I says, 'Yeah, I can stay till you get here, but don't you dare ask me. . . .' I says, 'You know what I mean.' He says 'Aw, I'm not gonna ask you nothing. Just play your own music, David. I know you ain't gonna play no rock and roll'. And I says, 'You know right.' So, I played my gospel music, let everybody know that they couldn't use their cars. He made it there about 11:00 and I made it back home.''

Adams stayed at WILD until 1983, when he got a daily show on WCAS (later WLVG), an all-gospel station. He was the station's top draw until 1987, when an aneurysm almost killed him, and forced his retirement. He remained visible on the scene, though, with benefit concerts and appearances as an m.c., and he returned to WILD with a Sunday morning show in 1991. The original arrangement was that he would be paid in advertising for his concert presentations, but his doctor forbade him to get involved in that high-pressure business. So, for six years, he and James have dragged themselves out of bed before dawn every Sunday for the pure love of the music and the community.

"It's just something I got to do,'' he says. "I can't let it go. So many of the ministers in this city, I knew them before they ever were into the ministry. They knew me before I started broadcasting. It's just like a home family. It's a beautiful feeling, and the music to me is very, very important because it is an expression of life.''

And, for now, at least, he has no thought of giving it up. "I tell you, I don't never want to retire from radio,'' he says, sounding as enthusiastic as he does on the air. "If the good Lord says one day that my work is done, then I will be ready to retire. But, until that day, I'm gonna try to haul right on until the end.''

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Eric Burdon (1997)

By Elijah Wald

Globe Correspondent

"Can you hang on a second?'' Eric Burdon asks, answering the phone in his Palm Springs home. "I just want to finish making a drink and I'll get right back to you.''

So what is Burdon drinking these days? "Lemon juice and water,'' he says, then realizes he is disappointing the listener. "Well, last night I was drinking tequila,'' he adds cheerfully. "And I was working. You know, you gotta keep up appearances.''

Burdon, who comes to House of Blues this Thursday, is one of the legends of rock 'n' roll, a proto-punk rocker from Newcastle, England, who remembers back to the days when he and Mick Jagger were eager kids sharing a guest spot with Alexis Korner's seminal English blues band. In the 1960s, he led the Animals on over a dozen hits, and cracked the top 10 again in 1970 as front man of the funk band War. He also wrote the most entertaining memoir of those times, a chronicle of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll called "I Used to Be an Animal, but I'm All Right Now.''

Today, unlike his surviving "British invasion'' peers, Burdon is neither playing stadiums nor nostalgia packages. At 56, he is still sweating it out in the clubs, shouting blues and rock lyrics over a crack band that includes Frank Zappa sideman Aynsley Dunbar on drums.

Burdon has mixed feelings about this. On the one hand, he says, "I love working clubs; I love in-your-face gigs.'' On the other, he is hoping that a new album he is recording will put him back up on the charts beside his erstwhile compatriots, and he feels he has paid enough dues to deserve some payback.

"I'm not trying to make any excuses,'' he says, after outlining a string of bad record deals in the 25 years since leaving War. "I [messed] up big time as a businessman. We all did, the Stones being the one exception because Mick went to the [adjective] London School of Economics. But it ain't over till it's over. I'm living a life in the works. I went for what I went for, and went through what I went through. The thing is, I've never been able to look at this business as a business. As Rahsaan Roland Kirk said, 'The business ain't nothing but the blues.' ''

There are not a lot of contemporary rockers quoting Roland Kirk, but Burdon's generation were music fanatics before they were singing stars. "That's all we lived for,'' he says. "At school, back in like 1958, I had a student union movement that had 'John Lee Hooker for President' sweatshirts made up. It was our vocation; we were preaching the word. I remember the Beatles, for Christ sake, on stage, John Lennon walking up to the microphone and telling the audience to 'Shut the [adjective] up and listen to this song, and, if you like it, go out and buy it tomorrow by a guy named Chuck Berry, 'cause he did the original and he did it much better than us.' With [their manager] Brian Epstein in the wings, pissing himself, going 'I told John not to say that. He's gonna blow the whole thing.' ''

In those days, rock 'n' roll was not about money and fame. It was still an underground scene, catering to a small group of record collectors and social outcasts united by an almost religious belief in the music and the people who made it. Burdon's generation was fighting to break out of the middle class mediocrity of the post-war years, and he notes that African-American music was only one of several working class "roots'' styles that attracted him.

"I started out as a folk fanatic,'' he says. "And I wasn't listening to Dylan and people like that. When I was a folk fan, the thing I was listening to were the pit miners in my local town. A guy who was a pit deputy, working at the pit face, who would sing local ballads about shipwrecks in the North Sea, stuff like that. That was important to me, because I realized one thing about folk music. No matter what the BBC were telling me the news was, folk singers from all around the world were telling you the real story.

"That's what clued me in to John Lee Hooker -- he was telling me real life stories of what the American working man's experience was. I saw in American r&b what was beginning to get lost in English folk music. One day, that guy who was the pit deputy folk singer, he came walking into the folk club with a silk suit on and a guitar and started singing 'Heartbreak Hotel.' And that was the beginning of it all; this whole new thing had arrived.''

Burdon's love for the music took him in quite different directions from those of most British rockers. For him, the highlight of the Animals' first U.S. tour was not the huge rock shows, but the chance to be the only English band to play Harlem's Apollo Theatre. When the Animals broke up, rather than taking the obvious step of hiring more English sidemen he joined with War, a black funk outfit. Later, he would record a fine duet album with bluesman Jimmy Witherspoon. His most recent distributed album, "Lost Within the Halls of Fame'' (which is dated 1995, but he says was recorded in the 1980s, and which he is not happy with), has him trying his hand at rap as he leads the listener through a musical autobiography.

Clearly, his devotion to African-American music is deep and continuing, rather than simply a matter of raiding a few hot licks and vocal inflections. Equally clearly, Burdon has tried not to rest on his laurels. All of this makes it a bit disappointing that his latest release, "The Official Live Bootleg,'' which he put out this year to sell at gigs, is simply a bar-band rehash of Animals hits. It rocks hard, but is hardly innovative or adventurous.

Burdon concurs, but explains that he is "a victim of today's technology. There are kids out there in the audience with DAT machines, and you do a new song in Germany, you go back next year and it's out on a CD. That's why I have to keep playing the old Animals catalog; because a) it's what people want to hear, b) you know that it's gonna make for plain sailing on stage every night, and c) the songs are so strong that you can do what you want with them, I can chop and change and improvise, and as long as I deliver the chorus where everybody gets to sing along, they're happy. And I'm happy. But don't think that I don't want to move forward and that I haven't got new things to say.''

Indeed, Burdon feels that he is musically as strong as ever, and he is looking towards the future rather than the past. "I'm currently in the studio doing some material that's right up to the minute and very much me,'' he says. "It's a conglomeration of all sorts of things: A jazz track, a pseudo-punk track, a country and western-influenced track, reggae. And I'm happy it's that way because my intention was to [mess] up people's minds, and have them go 'How can we categorize this?' Because that's one bad thing this business does; it always has to pigeon hole and categorize.''

Burdon still likes to challenge the listener and, with a lifetime of experience to draw on, he sees no reason why his best work should not still be ahead. "To me, the music never smacked of pure youth,'' he says. "All the guys that I came up on, like Muddy Waters, when I heard him he was already 40-odd. Rock 'n' roll, yeah, is supposed to be the music of youth, but blues and rhythm & blues and jazz are eternal. People confuse artists with athletic jocks these days, and that's not right. As an artist, you're not supposed to get worse as you get older, you're supposed to get better.''

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Buckwheat Zydeco/ Rosie Ledet (1997)

By Elijah Wald

Globe Correspondent

It's zydeco time in New England. Sunday, Stanley (Buckwheat) Dural brings his band to Decordova Museum. Wednesday, "Zydeco Sweetheart" Rosie Ledet is at Johnny D's. Then, next weekend, the Cajun & Bluegrass festival in Escoheag, RI, features Ledet and C.J. Chenier along with over a dozen other bands.

For those who have not heard it, zydeco is the African-American counterpart of Cajun music, a spicy mixture of Cajun, blues, r&b, and whatever else a musician may care to toss into the pot. Pioneered by artists like Boozoo Chavis, Rockin' Dopsie, and the king, Clifton Chenier, it swept the world in the Cajun craze of the early 1980s.

One of the most exciting places that the music began to catch on was among young, black Louisianans. For years, they had tended to regard it as old folks' music. "My dad played zydeco music for family entertainment in the home,'' Dural recalls. "He played the real traditional style, only with accordion and washboard. Just for family gatherings, which we call a boucherie[ITAL] -- kill a pig, get outside, the fathers would play the music and the mothers would do the cooking. He always wanted me to play the accordion, but I was like in my generation. The accordion was an older generation. That's how I felt; I was one of the biggest critics of zydeco.''

Dural was a local r&b star, the organ-playing leader of Buckwheat and the Hitchhikers, playing the sounds of P-Funk and Earth, Wind and Fire. Then, one day in 1975, he took a one-night gig backing Clifton Chenier. "I learned something there,'' Dural says. "What you don't understand, you don't criticize. What got me was the energy. We played four hours non-stop and it felt like 30 minutes, that's how excited I was. I didn't know it could have that much energy, because I'd always heard it played at the house with just my dad and the washboard, but Clifton had guitars, bass, drums and horns, and man, I couldn't believe it.''

When Dural was discovering zydeco, Ledet was only four years old. Like him, she grew up thinking of zydeco as her parents' music, but by the time she was in her teens Dural had built a bridge for younger listeners. "I love him,'' she says enthusiastically. "He's much more rocky.''

Dural's funk-r&b background informed his zydeco style, horrifying the purists but winning a new generation of local kids. As Dural points out, this was exactly what Chenier had done a quarter-century earlier: "Clifton also took it to a different dimension; he had blues, roots culture, a little rock 'n' roll. And I took it up a step higher, to my generation. You know, I'm not gonna have no limits to my abilities. If you can do it, why not?''

In an odd turnabout, the younger generation that Dural brought to the field has now moved the music towards an older sound. Rather than playing the piano accordion favored by Chenier and Dural, Ledet and her peers tend towards the older button accordion, either the classic one-row instrument or the somewhat more sophisticated three-row. "I like the piano too,'' Ledet says. "But they're so heavy and hard to handle. To me, it's just a lot easier to play the little push-button. And back home, it's just kind of what's happening right now.''

Dural finds this pretty funny. He stresses the greater versatility of the piano accordion's chromatic keyboard, but also says that, as an organist, he found the more primitive instrument insurmountably foreign. "I wouldn't even dare try to challenge that button accordion,'' he says, laughing. "Buttons in the back, buttons in the front, man, too many buttons for me. It gives me the blues.''

Whatever they play, though, he is thrilled to see a new generation entering the field. "There are so many young people in zydeco now, and it's a good thing, 'cause when the roots of your culture is lost, man, you lose your identity. If you stay away from the roots of your culture and your music just to make a dollar bill, it's defeating the purpose.''

To drive the point home, Dural has just recorded the most traditional-sounding album of his career, "Trouble.'' Though all but one song, a version of Robert Johnson's "Crossroads,'' are originals, he is hearking back to the sound of those back-yard barbecues of his childhood, the rhythm-heavy, chugging sound that has found new life in the hands of modern Louisiana stars like Beau Joque. "This is the beginning,'' he says. "Like rock 'n' roll come out of the blues. It's spiritual. No matter where you want to take it, you always got to have a beginning.''

It is also a tribute to his father, with whom he had a difficult early life, but reconciled through music after he became a zydeco player. For black French Louisianans, as for their white Cajun counterparts, the music is not only exciting, but also a bridge to their heritage.

"My parents love it!'' Ledet crows. "They couldn't believe it at first, cause I was one of those kids who were like, 'Nah, I don't want to listen to that. I hate that.' And they're, 'I'm telling you, it's good music.' They was always trying to get me interested, but I was more into rock 'n' roll and blues. But I love it now, and a lot of younger people are really[ITAL] getting into it. So that's going to keep the tradition alive, and help it to grow.''

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The Bad Livers (1997)

Elijah Wald

Globe Correspondent

Austin, Texas, has been the most fertile ground for folk/country/rock fusions in the United States, but even by Austin standards the Bad Livers are unusual. An acoustic trio, led by banjo player, singer and songwriter Danny Barnes and largely devoted to old-time, traditional styles, the band has developed a hard-core following centered in alternative rock venues. Its last Boston visit was as opening act for the Butthole Surfers. Tonight, it headlines at the Rat.

The odd thing about this is that the Bad Livers do not sound particularly odd. There have been comparisons to the Pogues, but the Bad Livers have none of that band's obvious mix of traditional material and punk attitude. "We're not shtick-oriented,'' Barnes says. "We didn't have a meeting and decide how we were gonna dress or what the market needed. We are just totally music driven.''

Bass and tuba player Mark Rubin concurs. A versatile musician who seems to have worked with half the roots bands in central Texas, he says he and Barnes just started fooling around with a lot of music they enjoyed and the band formed naturally out of their experimentation. "It wasn't like an epiphanal moment or anything,'' he says. "It just organically grew, like a fungus.''

Three things set the Bad Livers apart from most folk or country roots bands. One is their range of influences: Rubin comes from Stillwater, Oklahoma, and grew up around classical music and traditional jazz, then went on to rock, country, bluegrass and Tex-Mex (he currently plays bass for Santiago Jimenez). Barnes is from Denton, Texas, and grew up in a family that worshipped country music, which he mixed with blues, western swing, and whatever else caught his fancy. When they got together, they were delighted to find that they could make this hodge-podge work as a unified whole.

The band's second strength is the technical facility of the musicians: Rubin jokes about his choice of instruments ("In Oklahoma, if you're a large-statured gentleman, they either put you on the bass or the tuba''), but he provides a rhythmic foundation that is both understated and distinctive, slapping his bass like a bluegrass old-timer or making his tuba sound like a jug. Barnes plays six instruments on the band's latest reocrd, and is a virtual encyclopedia of traditional banjo styles. Meanwhile, Bob Grant, a new member, keeps the center together with strong rhythm guitar and mandolin.

Then there is Barnes' composing and arranging. It is misleading to call him a songwriter, because the raw song is only part of the sound he assembles. Rubin enjoys a comparison with Duke Ellington, who wrote pieces for the specific talents of his musicians. Barnes describes the process as "a symbiotic relationship, in that I get my songs out there and the band gets custom-made songs to fit what they're doing.''

The songs are all original, and range from quirky stylistic fusions to pure, traditional-sounding numbers like "Corn Liqour [sic] Made a Fool Out of Me,'' which sounds like it could have come from the 1920s string band master Charlie Poole. Barnes enjoys experimentation, but is equally proud of his ability to write in the classic styles; to him, learning to write like the masters is as much a part of the process as learning their instrumental styles, and he takes the comparison to Poole as a huge compliment. ''I consider those Charlie Poole tunes to be as good as anything anybody's ever done,'' he says. "That music goes beyond the form. It has a sort of psycho-acoustic effect, like I assume Middle Eastern music has. It seems to speak to us beyond our time, like the voice of God.''

As a banjo player, Barnes may have a special affinity for Poole's work, but he is equally effusive in his praise of musicians from quite different worlds: Bob Wills, T-Bone Walker, or Roky Erickson, of the Thirteenth Floor Elevators ("he had a jug player in a psychedelic rock band--way ahead of his time''). To him, it is all of a piece: it is good music, and genre need not come into the discussion.

Because of this musical omniverousness, neither Barnes nor Rubin express any particular surprise that their rootsy, acoustic sound should have become popular with the alt-rock crowd. After all, if they are good, why shouldn't people enjoy what they play? "When we walk on stage, what we think about is the music,'' Barnes says. "We don't think about the audience at all. We think about each other. We're real, super-duper music fans, and we say 'Hey, look, if we can entertain and impress ourselves, and have fun and interact, then we're gonna be fine, whether or not they like it.' And, 99 percent of the time, they get off on it even more because they realize we're not putting anything on, we're doing this because we believe in it. They get into the energy and feeling we put into our music, and we end up being greatly rewarded.''

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TED HAWKINS PROFILE (written for Acoustic Guitar in 1994)

Ted Hawkins is an imposing figure. Tall and handsome, his dark brown face framed with a white beard, he walks onstage and seats himself on the same milk crate he used in his days as a Venice Beach street musician. As he takes his guitar and begins to tune, one notices that the nails of his right hand thumb and index finger are incredibly long and thick, like natural picks. On his left hand he wears a leather glove, a relic of the days when 12-hour street sessions lacerated his fingertips. He pours some powder on the glove and, smiling, flicks a little white cloud into the air.

Suddenly, Hawkins whips his body to the left and freezes, his black-gloved finger pointing and his eyes locked on some horrible sight. "There!" he shouts, his voice impossibly loud. The startled crowd tenses. "...stands the glass," he sings, sliding smoothly into the Webb Pierce country tearjerker that is a highlight of his new Geffen album, "The Next Hundred Years."

"You got to know how to stop the people," Hawkins says, repeating a lesson from his street days. "And it ain't enough to just stop 'em, you gotta hold 'em there. Now that I'm in the clubs I don't have to sing my guts out like that, but I do it because I'm used to it."

To illustrate his point, Hawkins tells a story: "One time at Venice Beach there were some teenagers that were standing over me," he remembers. "I heard the leader tell them, 'Wait until he get off into the song, then get his bucket.' My bucket's always full of money, you know. So I started singing 'All I Have to Offer You Is Me,' and I sung it like somebody was whuppin' me. He got a funny look on his face and a tear fell, and he say, with a shaking voice, 'Not him, man. Not him.'"

It is that kind of soulful, wrenching power that brought Hawkins to international attention in the early 1980s, and that made him a star in England. Now, back in the U.S. after years in Europe, Hawkins is hoping that, at 58, he may finally get a taste of success at home. The time seems right. "Unplugged" is the word of the day, and Hawkins is the greatest acoustically-backed soul singer ever to record. With his Sam Cooke-inflected vocals, his solid rhythm guitar work, and his deeply personal songwriting, his music is unique and instantly appealing.

Ted Hawkins's story is the stuff of fiction: Born dirt poor in rural Mississippi, he never knew his father and his mother died while he was doing time in the notorious Parchman prison farm. After years of hoboing, he ended up in Los Angeles in the mid-1960s and cut a few singles which went nowhere, then spent the next few years drifting in and out of prison. Redemption came on the Venice boardwalk, where he attracted a following that led to four albums and a five-star listing in the Rolling Stone Record Guide. Though often called a blues singer, Hawkins has always stuck to his own special blend of Southern soul and classic country, sung straight from the heart.

As he tours behind the new album, it seems that finally Hawkins's years of dues-paying are bringing some return. "All that time on the beach, it was like I was getting ready for a main event," he says. "Everybody that stood before me, I was building up fans and now they're scattered abroad and they're glad Ted Hawkins is making it. And I'm still playing like I always was. I never had no band; I'm my own band, just me and the guitar. These days, everybody seems to be clowning and cursing and cutting up, and I believe somebody in the world is sick of all that. Somebody in the world is thirsty and hungry for a good song, and those are the people I'm trying to reach."

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JOE ELY INTERVIEW (written for Acoustic Guitar in 1995)

by Elijah Wald

People who know Joe Ely only from his records may not think of him as an acoustic guitarist, but those who have seen his solo live shows know better. Though he describes his music as "plain old Texas rock 'n' roll" and normally tours with high-volume electric backing, Ely is at his hardest-edged and most passionate when he is alone on stage without a band to get in his way. Other rockers get maudlin and folkie when they pull out the acoustic guitar; Ely plays the same mix of roadhouse rock and soulful country as he does with a band, and he turns up the energy a notch. The result recalls his first hero, Jerry Lee Lewis, or fellow Lubbock native Buddy Holly, both stripped-down players who dominated a stage with the sheer intensity of their personalities.

"It's a whole different way of approaching stuff," Ely says. He is sitting in a hotel dining room eating breakfast. On stage last night, in a packed bar of screaming fans, he was bareheaded, his black curls falling over a forehead drenched in sweat. Now he is wearing a cowboy hat, and his voice is quiet, with a warm Texas drawl. "A lot of times, with a band, when we want that energy we'll just get louder and everybody'll play harder. Acoustically, if you want that kind of energy you have to play softer, in order for the words to come out. The dynamics are really kind of all you have with acoustic stuff. And I have to think about the song more. With the band you hear the guitars play and feel the whole beat of it, but acoustically you really get straight into the song, right into every single lyric."

Ely's classic early MCA albums blended an electric and acoustic approach, but in recent years his recordings have been strongly on the rock side. Now, Ely is returning to his roots with "Letter to Laredo," a largely acoustic album that evokes the sounds and mood of the Texas-Mexican border. "My dad had a used clothing store in downtown Lubbock," he remembers. "And he would put me to work when I was ten or eleven years old, running the cash register. We were right down in the area where all the Mexican laborers would come and buy these ten cent pairs of shoes and stuff. There was this music that was going around in these little cantinas down in the lower Broadway part of town, and I fell in love with the romance of Spanish guitars and accordians and all that."

"Letter to Laredo" is both lyrically and musically tied to that border sound. A flamenco guitarist named Teye provides the principal instrumental voice, accompanied by Ely's acoustic rhythm guitar and old partners Lloyd Maines and Ponty Bone on steel guitar and accordion. With drums and electric bass hitting hard in the background, and Bruce Springsteen adding vocal harmonies on two songs, it is by no means a folk album, but the emphasis is on the words and the instrumental interplay rather than electric pyrotechnics. Ely has rarely sounded more relaxed, and the songs fit together beautifully. "In a lot of ways, I feel this is the best record I've made since 'Honky Tonk Masquerade,'" Ely says happily. "There's a lot of records in between that have captured the period of time I was in, but this one definitely creates an entire mood for the entire record."

While Ely still loves the full electric band approach, the acoustic setting pushes him to do his most complex and lyrically compelling work. "You can get away with a lot by using a band," he says. "A song has to be much stronger lyrically to hold up without that band kicking it along. When I listen to the radio, I often think 'I can't imagine that guy playing that song by himself without all the band; it just wouldn't work, because it's all built around a riff.' In fact with a band it works better if a song is more pared down, not as lyrically intense but just with a good strong chorus. But I try to write every song to hold up acoustic or electric."

The secret to Ely's writing is that he makes every word count, whether he is writing a gentle Panhandle ballad, or a honky tonk hell-raiser. "The hardest thing for me is to pare something down," he says. "I'll take something and I'll find myself going through and just marking out stuff that is not necessary. I always write out the words first. Very occasionally I'll start with a riff, but 90 percent of the time I'll get a song to where it is lyrically totally complete. As I'm writing lyrics I'll write melodies in my head, but I don't actually sit down with an instrument while I'm writing. I've always loved playing the guitar, but I've never really been a student of it. I use it just as an instrument for lyics.

"It's funny; it seems like the minute I start writing a song I get some kind of melody that just seems to go with it. But a lot of times I'll alter it considerably as I go on with it. In some cases I'll write all the verses to a song but not have a chorus, and I'll actually go over and rob a chorus from another song."

An example of this approach comes in "Sleepless in Love," from his "Love and Danger" album. He had written a serious song that had not quite gelled. Then one day he was goofing around, thinking up unusual metaphors. He stuck the metaphors together, tacked on the chorus of the old song, and ended up with a song that is funny, clever, and eerily moving. It is a trick Ely has often used, mixing humor with his most heartfelt and serious ideas, and it gives his songs a lively realness that sets them apart. "I often find that if I do the whole thing really seriously it becomes kind of a little tedious," Ely says, laughing. "So I have to kinda of play with it, slap it around a little bit. That is what is so fun about putting songs together: the unexpected things that happen while the process is going on."

Though he has always relied heavily on his original material, Ely increases the range and contrast in his albums and live shows by mixing in a liberal sprinkling of songs by other writers, especially his old Lubbock buddies and bandmates Jimmie Dale Gilmore and Butch Hancock. "Every time I approach a record, I start out writing the whole thing myself," Ely says. "And then after I get that body of work together and know what direction I want to go, I start thinking about what would make it feel more complete as a record. I never think that I have to do the whole record myself."

Though other people may have written the songs, when Ely sings them they become personal statements. "There are certain songs, like [Hancock's] "Boxcars," that I just feel so much like I was there, the song is so much a part of me, that I really have taken it on as my own experience," he says. "And I can sing it night after night and still feel that way. When you completely engulf yourself in a song, you try to make it your own. I'm just eternally grateful that Butch wrote some of those, because they are beautiful songs, and one-of-a-kind things."

Now, with the new album done, Ely is hoping to go out on the road with a more acoustic band. Whether or not that works out, he says he will always do occasional solo shows, if only because of the freedom it allows him. His repertoire is large enough that no band could learn and rehearse all of it, and the solo format has a looseness and an intimacy that Ely finds particularly attractive. "I never have any concern on a solo show," he says. "I don't care if I miss a chord or miss a verse, or try a song that I shouldn't be trying. I learned a long time ago that if you strive for perfection you'll never get any song finished. Cause nothing is ever perfect. So I just try to get the feeling of sitting around in a living room with a bunch of people.

"I don't like the whole idea of a performance, where you separate yourself from the audience. I like to try to bring them in, make them comfortable. The thing that makes an audience uncomfortable the quickest is if you are uncomfortable, so I just try to make everybody feel like, well, I'm gonna screw up, hit some wrong chords, try stuff, forget stuff, and so what? I know some people that if they miss something--like hit a wrong note--it completely shatters them. It affects the rest of their night. I try to blow off things like that and look at it as, hey, what the hell, it's the song that counts. It ain't always gone be the same."

The looseness and unpredictability give his solo concerts a tightrope-walking quality, as if at any moment he might go too far, and this breeds a raw energy and excitement that is contagious. A great Ely show leaves the crowd gasping and exhausted. There are chances taken, choices made, that few other performers could pull off, but Ely triumphs through his obvious commitment to his audience, the quality of his songs, his relentless energy, and his ability to laugh at himself even as he displays the stance and attitude of the ultimate rock 'n' roll hero. "For me, that's the only way I can do it," Ely says. "I'm up there with just an acoustic guitar, and it's like I have to look around and think, 'I'm up here all by myself; I can either be scared to death or just attack it.'"

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DAN HICKS INTERVIEW (written for Acoustic Guitar in 1996)

by Elijah Wald

Dan Hicks is a hard guy to figure. Famous for his lighting-fast, wickedly funny lyrics, hot acoustic jazz ensembles, and oddball, dead-pan stage patter, offstage he shuffles around like a large, rather sleepy bear, his hipster drawl slowing to the pace of cold molasses. He seems friendly and helpful, trying to answer questions as honestly as possible, but his delivery sometimes makes you wonder if he is putting you on. He acts cheerfully optimistic one moment, semi-depressed the next. When the humor surfaces, it is usually self-deprecating, absolutely dead-pan, and often so elliptical that it is hard to tell that he is joking.

For instance, a discussion of his recent forays into re-interpreting jazz standards slides into somewhat gloomy introspection, then veers off into fantasy land: "I want to be a better jazz singer, want to keep working on my chops," he says. "For me, that's where you gotta keep dreaming or aspiring. 'Cause in a way, I can feel stuck real easily. I can play the same gigs, have the same kind of band as 20 years ago. You know, I haven't put out so many records that I've got a big stockpile of material." Suddenly, he becomes animated. "Oh, yeh! I have all that. You know my Spanish albums, or when I did those couple of gospel albums, man? Let's do a couple of tunes from that."

Hicks has never, as far as I know, recorded a Spanish or gospel song, much less an album. "I was just thinking," he says. "You know how sometimes in writing about performers they use the phrase, 're-invented himself, re-invented herself?' I say 'Wait a minute, why can't I do that?' Because sometimes I feel like I'm the guy that has to play 'Payday Blues' and 'I Scare Myself,' once a night. But then, in a way, that's because I'm doing the tunes I like to do."

The conversation is moving in circles. And Hicks' attitude seems a little odd when one considers that his last album, the live "Shootin' Straight," featured entirely new material and was hailed by a lot of people as his best album ever. Admittedly, it has not received the attention of his 1970s recordings with the Hot Licks, but taking a 17-year hiatus from recording is not the sort of thing that helps maintain career momentum. Plus, even in the 1970s, Hicks' mainstream success was something of a fluke. After all, how many people were performing on the rock scene with a band devoted exclusively to acoustic jazz and western swing?

"It was surprising for me," Hicks admits. "I was somehow being included in Rolling Stone magazine, getting in the rock category, the popular-type thing. I guess it could have been because I was in the Charlatans and started with a name."

The Charlatans were a popular Bay Area rock band in the 1960s, and Hicks was the group's drummer and occasional vocalist. Before that, he had played drums in a high school dance band, and had continued playing general business gigs through college, getting a firm grounding in swing and big band standards. Along the way, though, he had branched out into guitar, and it was as a guitarist and singer that he made his real splash.

"I started out with kind of a folk repertoire," he says. "A few Kingston Trio tunes, a few tunes out of a book. I taught myself and then one time a guy kinda showed me the basics of finger picking. I used to do stuff like 'San Francisco Bay Blues,' 'Grizzly Bear.' I was doing a single act around the Bay area, as a side thing from the Charlatans, just me and my guitar. Then I started adding to that. I added a violin somewhere along the way; I guess I got the ensemble idea maybe a little bit from Django Reinhardt-Stephan Grappelli. It was just stuff I thought was tasteful."

The Hot Licks had a tight, swinging blend of acoustic string virtuosity and hot, three part harmonies, but it was Hicks' songs that made the group special. He seems to have a gift for odd and complex rhymes, and for using the swing/jive vocabulary to deal with subjects and viewpoints that are unique, to say the least. On the new album, for instance, the first song begins "My mother died from asbestos/My father's name was Estes/ And I don't know if that messed us/ Up, or what it did." Then he gets to a song about alien abductions, called "Hell, I'd Go!"

Hicks says he doesn't know where his songwriting style came from. "I can't really think of anyone who influenced me," he says. "Except maybe sort of subliminally, or collectively. Every now and then I've written a song and said well, 'This has got kind of a Mose Allison cool about it,' or 'This could be a Roy Orbison tune.' I'll do that. And I've always liked the standards. I learned from all the good lyrics in there, the melodies, although I don't aspire to write them, I don't come up with like a straight 32-bar form, which is usually what the standards were."

Though the complexity of his lyrics is a Hicks trademark, he says that, if anything, the melodies come to him first. "I always have some kind of melody going," he explains. "And hopefully the lyrics come along with it. Often, I'll get a verse or two pretty easily, and then I'll need to work to finish it. For me, it's very easy to just get discouraged, and say 'Well, this ain't coming, I'm not getting anything' after about 15 minutes. But then I have to say to myself 'No I'm gonna stay here for two hours. I'm gonna write, I'm not gonna put the guitar down then come back tomorrow or something.' 'Cause that's the only way I'm gonna get it done. The days of doing it every day and wanting to do it are kind of past--or at least, there was more of a time, but even back then my guitar would sit in the case for a couple of weeks sometimes."

While Hicks' songs have been recorded by artists ranging from Maria Muldaur to Bette Midler to Thomas Dolby, he says he regards himself principally as a performer rather than a writer. "That's what I do the most of, you know, that's where I seem to get the most money," he says. "I write the tunes so I'll have something to sing. It's just like part of the stage thing."

While the writing has attracted a broader audience, guitar players are often struck by Hicks' unorthodox instrumental technique. He plays with a drummer's sure rhythmic sense, using a thumb pick and finger picks in a mix of strumming and fingerpicking. "I got started with the finger picks in the early days, playing 'Freight Train' or something like that," he says. "And I just kept them on. I never used a flat pick, never aspired to play any lead. And I don't think you can get the same thing from a flat pick. I can accent stuff with the bass and still pick or strum or squeeze the chords."

As for the left hand, Hicks' straight-ahead, almost folky chord shapes are an unusual cushion for the Djangoesque excursions of his lead player, Paul Robinson. "My chord knowledge is kind of limited," he acknowledges. "I really don't play a lot of different chords and I don't play a lot of different little moves, like to where there's different chords every beat of something. I sometimes say 'I've got you fooled, because I do all this rhythm stuff with my right hand so it sounds like maybe I know more than I know.' Usually, also, I've got a really good guitar player with me, good musicians. And, you know, I play more jazz chords than Johnny Cash does."

Anyway, Hicks is well aware that his audiences don't come to gape at his flying fingers. A good Hicks show is like a bit of musical theatre, with the songs blending seamlessly into his relaxed, wryly funny shtick. Once in a while he will even put the guitar aside, and lackadaisically swish a drummer's brush on the head of a tambourine while singing an old standard like "Give Me the Simple Life," then promise to include the tune on his next album, "Dan Hicks: For Lovers Only." ("That's just the working title," he adds.)

"I try to be spontaneous," he says of his showmanship. "I think I'm doing a good job if I'm working with the room and things are going good. Every now and then I'll fall back on something I've used before, some line or something, but most of it is just ad lib city. I'm more on my toes when I'm up on the stage, I think faster, because it's sort of a do or die situation. I've gone ahead and put my name on the whole thing, so I've gotta come through."

And, if he is not a superstar, he knew what the gig was when he started. "Being an acoustic musician is hard," he says. "Even my girlfriend, I complain about having no money and she says , Well, you chose to be acoustic, acoustic is harder to sell.' I don't know. I guess I could go up there with a little amp and a electric guitar, right. But so what? I think I'm commercial enough. Doing a good show is commercial. Not starting every song with a bass solo is commercial."

'Nuff said. "I hope you got something there," Hicks says, unfolding himself from the hotel armchair. "Now I better go down to the sound check."

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Big Al Downing (1998)

By Elijah Wald

LEICESTER, MASS. -- Big Al Downing comes down his driveway exuding warmth and friendliness. He is a huge man with a big smile, outfitted in comfortable cowboy wear: wide-brimmed white hat, studded denim jacket and worn leather boots. He brings the visitor into his ranch house, located on a quiet back road, where he moved some years ago to be near his wife's family. Downstairs, in his basement studio, the walls are covered with pictures and awards: Downing with various country stars, or a plaque proclaiming him Billboard Magazine's Number 1 New Country Artist of 1979.

The award memorializes Downing's fourth adaptation to the changing tides of American music. By the late 1970s, he had already hit in rock 'n' roll, soul and disco. Today, though, he is best known as the top African-American hitmaker in the country field after Charley Pride, and he will be at Johnny D's in Somerville this Thursday headlining a black country bill that also includes Bobby Hebb (of "Sunny" fame) and Barrence Whitfield.

Though to some people the idea of a black country singer seems strange, Downing says that is a misperception. "When I was growing up in Oklahoma, we'd go in the black clubs and they'd be playing harmonica and stuff, and blues and country,'' he says. "My dad used to listen to the Grand Ole Opry, and we used to work in the hay fields -- we were contracted to load tractor-trailer semis that would come up from Texas -- and all they played was country music all day long.''

The history of African-Americans in country-western music was highlighted last year by "From Where I Stand: The Black Experience in Country Music,'' a boxed set from Warner Brothers Records that featured Downing, Hebb, and Whitfield along with dozens of other black musicians and singers. Of all the artists included, Downing has the longest pedigree in the field. Back in the mid-1950s, he was already touring with a white rockabilly band, Bobby Poe and the Poe Kats, and touring with country-rockabilly star Wanda Jackson.
In 1958, with Downing singing lead, the Poe Kats cut a rockabilly classic, "Down On the Farm,'' and began touring out of their home area of Oklahoma and Kansas. Bizarrely, their first gig was in Boston, playing in the Combat Zone.

"I'll never forget it, because we made $90 a week,'' Downing says, chuckling. "Back in Oklahoma we would work one day a week for three hours a night and make seven, eight dollars, and we'd split that among four of us, right? When we came east we worked seven days, and on Saturday we worked one in the afternoon to one at night, and we made $90 a week. That was the big time.

"I remember one club there -- we were sitting there our first night, waiting for the other band to tear down so we could set up, and the other bandleader went over to the club owner and said, 'We're finished, now I want to get paid.' And the guy said, 'OK, hold out your hand.' The guy held out his hand, and the owner picked up a baseball bat and cracked him across the knuckles as hard as he could. Bam! He said, 'We didn't like you here, so that's all you're gonna get paid.' Really, man. So we said 'Wooow! What if he don't like us?' ''

Fortunately, Downing was an immediate favorite, though the club owner insisted on billing him as Big Al Domino to capitalize on his resemblance to Fats Domino. "I said, 'My name is Downing.' He said, 'No, it's Domino.' Oh, man! So that was my first trip to Boston.''
As Downing sits back in his chair, the stories just roll out. He has been a professional musician since about 1955, when he was 15, making his way in a world where he was often viewed as an outsider, but as he talks the smile virtually never leaves his face. Not that the experiences were always funny.

"I ran through that whole gauntlet of prejudice,'' he says. "We played places where there wasn't even a black man in the town. I'd have to go to a different restaurant to eat, and a lot of times the band would have to throw a blanket over my head and carry me into the hotel room. I took all the prejudice and all the people saying, 'Man, you're crazy to do this.' Bobby Poe warned me, he said, 'We got those people out there that just don't like black people working with white people together -- specially you working with Wanda Jackson, you know, a girl -- you're gonna get some really big flack for that.' And I said, 'Let's take a chance. I don't care, 'cause I want to play music.' That's all I was concerned about.''

Downing toured with the Poe Kats into the early 1960s, then he and fellow Kat Vernon Sandusky went on, with Poe as their manager. The original concept of the band had been to cover the full gamut of rock 'n' roll, with Downing covering the hits of Domino and Little Richard while Poe sang the Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis numbers. Over the years, though, Downing had proved his solo power, recording a Domino-styled session in New Orleans with a crew including Dr. John and hitting the charts in 1963 in a soul duet with Little Esther Phillips.

Nonetheless, he continued working with his white partners until 1964 and, for once in the conversation, Downing seems genuinely bothered as he remembers the break-up. "There come a time when they had a big record, the band without me. They were called the Chartbusters, and 'She's the One' was the name of the song. The Beatles had come out and all that white music was happening, and they said, 'Al' -- now, all of this time I'm carrying the band, you understand, through thick and thin -- and all of a sudden they said, 'We can't use you in the band because you're black, and we want to go to the white audience.'

"I said, 'Oh, man.' What a trip that was. So I just got out of it completely and I went out and got a soul band with me and my brother. We called ourselves Willie and the Brothers and we did Sly and the Family Stone and played all the big colleges and stuff. We did some recordings, and then we met a guy named Tony Bon Jovi, who's Jon Bon Jovi's cousin or uncle or something, and he said, 'I like your band, and I like you Al. I'd like to cut a record of you.' This is in '67 or '68, and we tried different things, me and my brother tried to cut like Sam and Dave and all of that stuff and it just didn't work out. Then we come on up to the disco era and Tony said, 'Al, try to write a disco song, man.' So I came up with this song called 'I'll be Holding On' and it was a big number one disco record in '75.''

Downing seemed to have found a new career in the r&b world, but there was a surprise in store. He and Bon Jovi went into a New York studio, trying for another disco hit, but none of the songs seemed quite right. "After about two hours we said, 'Let's take a break,' and everybody left and I went in and sat down at the piano and I started playing 'Mr. Jones,' 'Touch Me' -- just me and my piano, sitting there messing around. Tony happened to be in there at the board, listening, and he opened the mike and said, 'What's that you're playing?' I said, 'That's my country stuff.' He said, 'Man, that's great stuff, has anybody cut any of that?' I said 'No,' and about 20 minutes later he came back and said, 'Hey, forget disco, we're gonna cut that.' ''

"Mr. Jones,'' a story-song about a black sharecropper who raises a white orphan, was Downing's entree to the country charts in 1978. In 1979, he hit even bigger with "Touch Me,'' and went on to place another fifteen records on the charts over the next decade. Naturally, he was compared to Charley Pride, then the only black star in the field, but Downing is quick to point out the difference in their styles.

"I never wanted to go the way he went. See, Charley Pride went strictly country: When you hear him, it's just like hearing a hillbilly guy from Arkansas. I didn't want to do that; I didn't want to loose my roots. Because I grew up listening to WLAC [a famous r&b station] and Sam and Dave and Otis and all of those people. So even when I do country I still keep a little bit of soul in there. I did not want to lose that heritage, because look at all the music I would miss: I couldn't play Ray Charles or Fats Domino or Otis, and hey, I don't want to miss that music.''

Downing thinks that his r&b material may turn a few country listeners off, but, if so, they need to broaden their view of the music. "A lot of people don't realize that country is everything. I mean, when you hear George Jones and them people you don't get just strictly twang. Man, they do some soulful singing. So I said, 'I'm doing my kind of country. I don't want to sound like anybody else. I want to sound unique and different.' And it's turned out real good that way.''

Today, Downing tours the country fair circuit throughout the South and Midwest, and goes to Europe a half-dozen times a year. He has been off the charts for quite a while, but continues to write country songs, and the Warner Brothers set has brought some queries from Nashville. Meanwhile, he is cutting a new album and carrying European CDs of his older hits to sell to the hardcore fans.

He would like to get another hit, but realizes the present climate is less than ideal. The barriers Pride broke down are up again in force, and country is whiter than ever. "It just amazes me,'' Downing says. "And it's the industry that's doing it, it's not the people. I went down to Warner Brothers when they had a coming out party for this 'From Where I Stand,' and they had two or three black groups and a couple of black country singers on there and they were fabulous. One of them got signed to Arista, and now I heard that they dropped them even before they released the record. It seems like they don't want to take a chance on ruffling the waters. But it's the industry, not the people, 'cause everywhere I go I'm playing for country fans and I get standing ovations.''

Downing adds that, in the current market, being black is only part of the problem. "These days, they're going to that young thing -- if you're over 24, get back. It used to be 'If you're black, get back,' but now it's if you're over 24. George Jones and Waylon Jennings and all of these people that make good country music can't be heard anymore, and I think that's wrong.''

Nonetheless, Downing seems anything but discouraged. As he finishes the interview, he starts putting on tapes of new songs, including a novelty number in the current, rock-tinged country style about catching a catfish who sings like Elvis. After the Johnny D's gig, he's off to Europe on a tour with Brenda Lee, and he's looking for a label for his new album. "I think there is a market for my music out there,'' he says brightly. "I really believe that, and I'm not gonna let them get me down. I'm gonna keep trying and keep kicking until the good lord puts me in the grave -- and even then I might come back and start kicking some more.''

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Doc Watson

By Elijah Wald

Globe Correspondent

On the telephone, Doc Watson sounds just about the same he does on record or on stage. His voice is plain and unassuming. He answers questions politely but laconically, without any frills or digressions.

Watson is something of an anomaly: On the one hand, he is a traditional, unvarnished folk singer and guitarist from rural Appalachia. On the other, he learned most of his repertoire from records and is a musical innovator whose work forever changed his instrument. Having got his professional start playing electric guitar in a rockabilly band, he has gone on to be among the most resolutely old-fashioned performers to come out of the 1960s urban folk boom.

"I never forsake the roots,'' he says, speaking from his North Carolina, home. "I grew up with that here in the mountains. I'm a country boy, a hillbilly if ever there was one. So I always go back and get some of that, and the audiences demand that, in a way. They want to hear the same mixture that I've always done.''

Nonetheless, Watson has over the years shown surprising range. He has recorded blues, bluegrass and contemporary folk albums. His next-to-last disc was a rockabilly excursion that had him singing 1950s hits and trading licks with Duane Eddy. His latest, "Doc & Dawg'' (Acoustic Disc), a duet set with David Grisman, has him attacking numbers like "Summertime'' and "Sweet Georgia Brown'' along with old fiddle tunes, ballads, and sentimental numbers.

Recently, Watson has been playing a bit more jazz and rock ("Let's call it rockabilly; I never did do any hard rock,'' he corrects), and he clearly enjoys the change. The jazz tunes, in particular, give him a chance to stretch out on guitar, and his playing can be startling to those who only know his fiddle-tune adaptations.

"Well, it's country-style jazz,'' he says, a bit self-deprecatingly. "It's not with all the accidentals and all that stuff. And I can't imagine ever going fully in that direction. I love the traditional music enough to stick by it. I've been asked, 'How do you classify your music?' Well, I classify it as 'traditional plus,' and that's about what it comes to.''

That description would cover what he was doing even at his most pure and old-fashioned. Watson's first recordings, while exclusively of old-time songs, created a revolution in guitar playing. Before him, bluegrass guitarists were strictly rhythm players. When he picked "Black Mountain Rag'' on his first album, the role of the instrument was transformed.

Not that Watson will take all the credit. "Somebody else was getting a handle on that at the time I started learning fiddle tunes on the guitar,'' he says firmly. "Hank Garland, who later became a jazz guitar player, in the beginning he played a bunch of fine music with Red Foley, and there was also Grady Martin who was a great lead guitar player, and they didn't hear Doc Watson in the beginning. They were doing their own thing.

"Myself, I just decided because I never could seem to master the fiddle that I wanted to play some fiddle tunes on the guitar. I started doing that in the '50s on the electric guitar for people to square dance to when we didn't have a fiddle. And then when I got caught up in the folk revival in the early '60s, I decided to do some of those things on the stage as part of my program.''

Despite his influence on later Nashville players, and his status as a country icon, Watson says that he was never approached by the c&w mainstream. "I never got any offers from Nashville. Until the folk revival came along there was no place for a handicapped person on the stage. You had to do a flashy show, and I'm afraid I wasn't part of that scene. Then, with the folk revival, all at once the thing changed. There was a place for people who played music for entertainment and not flash for show.''

Looking back, Watson is just as happy that Nashville never called. "Stardom never interested me. To me, that's not part of the game. I feel like I developed whatever talent the good Lord gave me when I come here for a reason, and my reason was to entertain people and give people some pleasure and to earn a living -- and earning a living was just about on the same line as enjoying it and playing for people's enjoyment. To me that's what it was about, and I never had any delusions of grandeur: "Hey, look who I am," and all the foolishness. To me that's not necessary. I'm afraid that I'm one of these fellows that don't want to get on the pedestal.''

Despite such protestations, by now Watson is accorded a respect in the country field that is matched by very few other performers, though he is typically modest in his assessment of it: "You know, the reputation, if you do a thing well, it happens. It's not something that you do on purpose. If you really enjoy entertaining people and enjoy what you do, that will just happen.''

These days, Watson plays only about 25 concerts a year, but he says that at 74 his enjoyment of performing is undiminished. "I hate the road, I never have enjoyed it. I like to be at home. But you never get tired of entertaining folks. It's always interesting, and somehow they pull about the best you have out of you. If I said I was tired of a good audience, that'd be a barefaced lie.''

What: Doc Watson
Where: Somerville Theatre
When: Sunday, 2 p.m.
Tickets: $20 and $25 Phone: 617/ 876-4275

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Buddy Miles

By Elijah Wald

Globe Correspondent

"You’re calling from Boston? Yo, is it cold there? You got a sweater?"

Buddy Miles is safe and warm in Fort Worth, but swears he is looking forward to coming north. A Boston resident for a while in the 1960s, Miles has nothing but fond memories. "Boston was a groovy city in them days," he says, before reeling off the names of local clubs where he used to play.

At that time, Miles was among the top drummers in rock. Michael Bloomfield picked him out of Wilson Pickett’s band to play and sing in his super group, the Electric Flag. From there, Miles led the Buddy Miles Express, anchored Jimi Hendrix’s Band of Gypsies, made a popular duet album with Carlos Santana, and, in an odd detour, went on to become the lead voice of the California Raisins.

There were also hassles, though, including some prison time, and, while he never stopped playing, Miles disappeared from mainstream view. "There was a lot of drama and a lot of pros and cons in my life," he says. "And, you know, out of place, out of space, out of touch, out of mind. I feel bad that I haven't been able to give more, but when you're on a rebellion you can definitely go on the dark side sometimes, rather than the force being with you."

Now, Miles says, the force is back. He is enthusiastic about his career, and the words come tumbling out of him in a cascade that mixes street slang, song lyrics, and polysyllabic words, often of his own construction. He is a showy talker, but when it comes to music he is dead serious, as he proved last month when he astonished roots music fans by showing up at Johnny D’s with retro honky-tonker Junior Brown. Sitting behind a single snare drum, he just sat back and kept the country beat, making the band swing without ever taking a solo or displaying any star pyrotechnics.

"I've always looked at myself as -- if you looked at pro ball -- an interior man," Miles says. "I'm like part of the team, and that's what's important. And I love that responsibility that a drummer ascertains."

Saturday night at Johnny D’s, he will be back leading his own band, playing guitar and singing as well as holding down the drum chair. Nonetheless, Miles remains a drummer first and foremost. As the interview progresses, he talks about people he has worked with, from the Ink Spots to B.B., Freddie, and Albert King, to John McLaughlin, Jeff Beck, and Clapton. Until prompted, he barely mentions his career as a bandleader, or the days when his "Them Changes" was becoming something of a soul-rock classic.

"That's not what's really important to me," he says. "Because hit records are like Bic pens: they only last so long. It's nice to be successful, as far as values go and money and fame and fortune, that's fantastic, but it only makes a difference if you can genre longevity and get something out of it."

At 51, Miles can trace a career leading back to the Midwest and his debut as a pre-teen drummer with his father’s bebop combo. Born in Omaha, Nebraska, he was raised in a house full of music. His mother listened to r&b, and his father played the hard-driving Kansas City jazz styles of the Count Basie Band and Charlie Parker.

"I’m very familiar with all that, because it’s in my blood," Miles says, pausing to scat-sing a snatch of Thelonious Monk. "Every weekend, my dad and a couple of other guys, they'd come to my house and they’d jam. They used to put their sunglasses on, because they'd be full of that wine spo-de-o-dee, you know what I mean? So, I got an in-depth, close-up look at what a musician goes through, and I said, ‘I want that.’

"When I was about nine, we were living in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, and they had a jam session at my house, and I sat behind these drums and just started picking up. My dad couldn't believe his eyes. I just sat back and played me some basic swing with them and it blew him away, and ever since that I was in hog heaven. When I went to school, man, couldn’t nobody say nothing to me, because I knew I was a bona fide funketeer and jazzette."

Miles left South Dakota with the Ink Spots, and went on to play with the Dick Clark Revue before joining Pickett in 1965. Bloomfield came along two years later, and the rest is history. For Miles, though, the greatest thrill was always sitting down behind his drums, and he says that it is his commitment to that basic craft that has assured his continued employability.

"What makes a great a drummer?" he asks, echoing a question. "It's very, very simple. Being able to keep time and keep it perceptic. Absolutely. In other words, simplicity is the key.

"See, now, today there's a lot of cosmotometry and procurement in pop music, all the styles and fusion and all the different styles of playing music. But as far as I'm concerned, you have to give yourself a breathing chance, and first off you have to understand pocket [where the beat is] and understand your basic format. You see, drumming is a responsibility, because you're selling the band. You have the most important position in the band. Because I don't give a damn what type of music you play, it is all about basic foundation."

Now, Miles wants to get back on the road and show the young folks how it is done. "I've got a lot of time invested in myself, and I'm playing to a whole new generation of rockers and R&Bers and funketeers," he says. "I've been one of the forefathers of a lot of those genres, and I'm very proud of that. But, to me, the main body of success is being alive and having that everyday fulfillment, and giving joy and spreading something out of it. I don't have time to dwell on what was. I think it's a lot safer to ‘keep on pushing straight ahead,’ as Mr. Hendrix has told us with so many other beautiful things."

What: Buddy Miles
Where: Johnny D’s, Davis Square, Somerville
When: Saturday, ? p.m.
Tickets: $? Phone: 617-776-2004

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Wilson Pickett

By Elijah Wald

Globe Correspondent

Wilson Pickett is back. Not back in Boston, at least not yet. But the wildest, hardest soul shouter of them all has a new album, his first in 12 years, an appearance on David Letterman next Tuesday (oct 12), a New York date the following night, and hopes to do a lot more U.S. touring in the near future. And that is reason enough to get excited, because, 38 years after he came screaming onto the national scene and racked up a string of hits including "In the Midnight Hour," "Mustang Sally," and "Funky Broadway," the Wicked One is still among the greatest soul singers alive.

Pickett is really old school: He came up as a teenaged singer in the 1950s gospel world. Asked how, at 58, he can still scream with a power that would tear most voices to rags in a minute, he lays it all to that upbringing: "We developed those kind of lungs and vocal cords in the church," he says, his voice gravelly on the phone from his Virginia home. "We sang hard in the church -- and that was every week, so you develop that.

"And also I guess you’re born with that kind of gift, like from God. I seen the time, the more I sing the better my voice got. It would never run out or get hoarse or anything like that. So yeah, I'm glad I'm blessed. Especially now, after being off that long, to have something when I came back. ’Cause really, I didn't know how I was gonna sound. I was scared as hell."

On the new album, "It’s Harder Now" (Bullseye), Pickett belies the title, sounding as powerful as ever. The band, while perfectly competent, is a revivalist group that neither brings anything new nor matches Pickett’s 1960s studio outfits, and the material, despite contributions from Dan Penn and Don Covay, is often uninspired or tritely raunchy. The man himself , though, is untouched by time singing with the same searing power that made him soul man number one through. So, one wonders, why has he been away so long?

"I got very depressed with the business," Pickett says. "It began changing, and record companies began to shuck and jive around, and it was too much for me. They handcuffed the radio announcers with the programming [replacing DJ choice with required playlists] and you had all this different kind of music running around all over the place -- which I don't mind, far as I'm concerned there is room in the business for all the music -- But any time you can try and kill a music like R&B you gotta be out of your mind.

"You could not hear any R&B on the radio for years. There was disco and all that stuff, and it was either you do disco or you’re out of the race. So that made me feel like ‘Hell, I wasted a goddamn career here,’ you know what I mean? ’Cause you can't hop from one music to another like that."

The disco boom of the 1970s spelt the end of the soul era, and Pickett found himself in limbo. He had a variety of record deals, but they were never satisfying either artistically or financially. By the 1980s, he had all but disappeared, at least as far as his American fans were concerned. He explains that he spent the missing years working where people still supported his classic sound, in "Europe, Australia, Japan, Brazil, places like that." His career got a boost from "The Commitments," the film about an Irish soul band in which he did not appear, but loomed as a mythic presence offscreen. And finally Rounder, the Cambridge roots label of which Bullseye is a subsidiary, came through with an offer that interested him. He teamed up with the guitar and bass duo of John and Sally Tiven, wrote a bunch of new songs, and cut most of the album live in the studio, the old-fashioned way.

The process took over a year, which Pickett found a bit disconcerting. "Before, it was just, you cut a record, you mix it and master it, and it’s out inside of three months," he says, recalling the pressure cooker days when a song like "Midnight Hour" would be written the night before a session, cut in an afternoon, and shipped right to the pressing plant. "So what it is now is backward, and I’m still trying to understand that. But if it throws a few more dollars in my pocket, I don’t care which way it goes."

That might sound cavalier, but Pickett has learned the hard way that great records do not always make for rich artists. As detailed in Peter Guralnick’s "Sweet Soul Music," he was one of many pioneering R&B stars to find that, once their biggest hits were behind them, their record companies gave them not a huge check, but instead a bill for old recording expenses. Pickett says that he still loves the music as much as ever, but this time around he is watching his back.

Indeed, he comes out of a diatribe against modern recording methods, with their computer samples, programming, and electronic modifications, on a studiedly mercenary note: "I'm not saying that I would never do something like that, because if enough money is in something I'll do it," he says, without a trace of apology. "If Rounder said, ‘Pickett we want you to do this this way, and we gonna up your contract another half a million dollars,’ you got yourself a boy.

"That's what we’re in the business for, you know. We need money. Back in the time, record companies used to love for us to say, ‘I love it. I love music.' And in the meanwhile you had the white rock bands and the white managers putting millions of dollars in their pocket, you know? They loved music, too. But they loved money. Well, I love money, too!"

Whether the new album is going to put enough in Pickett’s pocket to get him out on the road in the U.S. remains an open question. "There's money in this country," he says. "More money than you ever seen in your life or known about in your lifetime." And yet, he is the first to add that very little of it is being spent on soul legends. So, for now, he is taking the few high-profile gigs that come his way, tearing the songs to bits with that astonishing voice, and waiting to see what the contemporary scene will make of his return.

"I’m not complaining," he says. "I didn’t do anything to my singing, and people still love me, and I’m proud to have, I guess, one of my records in about every home in America or all over the world. I’m happy with that. So now my plan is just to get behind this particular CD and try to do some work with it."

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