The Decayed Keep the Spirit of Chicago's Punk Scene Alive

by Robert Dean

If there’s one thing Chicago is good at, it’s churning out legit punk bands. Not to be sold short on Chicago’s history of solid punk rock bubbling up from the sewers, one of the Windy City’s newest offerings, The Decayed are steeped in the tradition of working class anthems and talking some serious shit. Chicagoans expect their punk to have a slight attitude, a sense of foreboding, even if the city is responsible for Fallout Boy.

Equal parts Motorhead, The Casualties, Agnostic Front, and maybe some Dickies for shits and giggles, The Decayed’s sound is nothing more than the minimum, which is exactly what punk rock should be. Punk shouldn’t have keyboards or atmosphere, but instead, should be some scuzzy ass folks plugging straight into their amps and cranking the volume till eyes bleed.

The songs on The Decayed debut S/T record are fast and pissed. That’s it. There’s a thread of early 90’s hardcore, just without the breakdowns. Despite the apparent digital recording, the viciousness is still present on the record, which is nice. A lot of times bands lose their bite because of over-production. Instead, these tracks feel sonically kin to the classic Pennywise stuff, or maybe even Strife’s In This Defiance – sans beatdown riffs.

Given the pedigree of everyone in the band, who have played in way too many groups over the years to share, it’s unsurprising how reliable this batch of songs are. Considering everyone in The Decayed is in their mid to late 30’s everyone involved has paid their musical dues.

Old man punk bands are great because, in the context of the group’s existence, it’s merely for the love of playing. Everyone has chops, and everyone knows the drill and what’s expected. The posers have been weeded out. These are tunes for beer money and the passion of their scene. And what we’re gifted with a is a debut that doesn’t feel desperate or begging for attention like so many hungry bands drop with the intention of taking over the world. Instead, the tunes The Decayed chose to share are mature, fun and a great addition to the history and lore of Chicago punk rock.

Note: Their album/EP is available for the hefty price of $1 on Bandcamp.

Rollin’ and Tumblin’ with the King of The Slide Guitar, Elmore James

Rollin’ and Tumblin’ with the King of The Slide Guitar, Elmore James

by Robert Dean

In the annals of the blues, there are a few guys who get the nod for all time: Howlin’ Wolf, Muddy Waters, Skip James, Leadbelly, Charley Patton, Robert Johnson, etc. But, then there are the deeper cuts, the artists people talk about, but it’s unsure if they really know them. The thing about the blues is that, despite being one of the cultural backbones of American identity, much of its lore is shrouded in darkness. Which, for its context works for the music and gives a thumbprint like no other.

One artist who continually reaches up out of the murk and grabs you straight like a zombie from the grave is the slide guitar mad man, Elmore James. While his name might feel familiar, or you’ve heard him mentioned on a rock and roll documentary – you have.

His legend isn’t that of those mentioned before him. There aren’t movies in the works, books about him are hard to come by (at last count there’s a whopping one), and his records aren’t collector’s items. James is an underground, under-appreciated legend of the blues. He may not be a household name, but if you ask anyone who knows the blues, and they’ll all agree he’s paramount to all comers.

Ranked #30 of Rolling Stone’s greatest guitar players of all time, James was a guitar player who defied what the blues could sound like. While Muddy’s playing is concise, tight, Elmore James riffs are nasty as a dead possum lying in a gutter. He played an acoustic with a pickup drilled in, which gave his sound a ghastly, ghoulish quality unlike anyone else in that late 50’s classic blues era. Coming up from Mississippi, James’ music wasn’t quite the Chicago sound, but something that met at the crossroads of the new school brewing in the north, but firmly rooted in the traditions of the Deep South.

Dust My Broom is quintessential James filth, The Sky is Crying was a roof burner long before Stevie Ray Vaughn ever covered it. Go through the Elmore James catalog and you’ll see all of the greatest tipped their caps to the man known as “The King of The Slide Guitar.”

Other bluesmen feared James with his raucous performances and envied how good he was with a guitar in his hands. No one knew how to play a slide guitar like Elmore James. His ferocious playing, coupled with his raspy, growling voice, he was a unique talent, in the vein of Howlin’ Wolf. When Elmore made his way up to Chicago, he was ready. Packing the clubs, and cutting records, James was poised to be a force to be reckoned with in the world of popular music.

But, life eluded James early. At just 45, Elmore James died of a heart attack. He was on the heels of establishing himself as one of the premier bluesmen. He was booked for his first European trip with the world looking bright as the sun. Today, we’re left with a treasure trove of records that swings, that growls and moans. Elmore James isn’t a household name, not for lack of trying but because death came too early for such an enigmatic soul. Get right with the universe and get Elmore James into your life. If you have the slightest interest in the blues, there’s none finer than The King who was gone too soon.

Digging Up the Corpse of Black Market Magazine

Skulls, voodoo, punk rock, with no condom: we dig up the corpse of Black Market magazine

By Robert Dean

Back in the pre-internet age, the underground music scene was ran from zines. Yes, there are still zines, but they’re not as plentiful as they were a long time ago, Mr. Know It All, Comment on Everything Hipster.

Zines were how you discovered new bands, heard about social causes, or found out weird, subversive art. Most were handcrafted, collectives of multiculturalism, or just filled with a lot of weird shit. Some enterprising folks with a vision put a lot of effort and idealism into crafting zine culture and just about all underground scenes benefitted. Because no one in bands like The Cramps or KMFDM were getting on MTV aside from the occasional bone from Headbangers Ball or 120 Minutes, indie labels or even in some cases, the majors, relied on the local music programs, or zines to help spread the gospel of new bands.

As a young buck, I worshiped the record store. I saved up all of my money to continually buy cd’s, band shirts, music magazines, and zines. I gobbled up Maximum Rocknroll, scoured the racks for NME, and even had subscriptions to Circus and Metal Edge. But, there was zine I’d read and was after it like the Holy Grail: Black Market Magazine.

Black Market existed from mid-1980’s and up until 1995, and in those years, Black Market offered the world that was fucking mind blowing to a 14-year-old kid with a Nirvana shirt on, and with Misfits and Sepultura stickers on his skateboard.  The art was subversive. It took risks, both societal and cultural: they challenged what was allowed, even in the underground community. Everything from race, to religion, and gay rights were all on display long before they became the everyday topics in our age. The magazine was just as much about the art as it was about the music. The two mediums together gave Black Market magazine a potent cocktail for all of us acolytes to swallow. We got style, attitude, a lot of knowledge out of these pages.

They allowed artists a platform for dark art and darker opinions. Nothing in the realm of Black Market was taboo.

 The music, though – that was what was mind-blowing. The Rollins Band, Marilyn Manson, Megadeth, Nine Inch Nails, Alice in Chains – every cool band from the era found its name plastered between the covers of Black Market. What’s interesting seeing the magazines these years later, Black Market was not only a pioneer in their artistic nuance, but they did interviews before the modern culture molded certain figures to a particular light. The journalism, the questions were sharp, and in a way, the style precluded the VICE styled music journalism we see today with Noisey.

The magazine also featured icons of culture like Famous Monsters’ Forrest Ackerman, as well as members of the Manson family. The interviews are candid, but also truthful in that they’re biting, and honest.

Being out of print for so long, re-reading the issues doesn’t feel dated. If anything, the magazines hold up now better than ever. They’re time capsules into an era when dying your hair meant you were a freak, and visible tattoos meant you were a scumbag.  Bands like Type O Negative or Samhain were frightening, and indeed a big, detailed picture about priests engaged in questionable acts as a social statement weren’t exactly en vogue. You had to embrace and earn culture like this. Black Market shoveled all of the best things about goth, industrial, punk, hardcore, and metal into one oozing corpse and made us all love it in return.

My Pick to Click in 2017: Tyler Childers

by Robert Dean

I don’t know much about Tyler Childers. What I do know about him, is he’s downright haunting. Thanks to the venerable W.B. Walker’s Old Soul Radio Show, AKA the best country podcast out there, I stumbled upon Tyler and I ain’t been right since. I know he’s from somewhere between the hollers of Kentucky and the miasma of West Virginia. I know he writes songs that come out of a shotgun like rock salt and nails. I know he’s someone you need to hear.

Tyler Childers’ songs are stripped down and simple, but they burn so real. So hot like a flashbulb, trying desperately the capture the truth of a life lived hard. That’s what appeals to me about Tyler Childers: his obsession with unearthing his skeletons, thus knocking the dirt off mine, too. I have a religious devotion to folks who can take my demons and make them their own, to give credence to what we may feel on the inside, yet broadcast differently to everyone else. That’s the mark of a true artist: their ability to lay a dagger into the heart with little effort, other than being themselves and telling their story.

Nose on The Grindstone aches with personal pain. It hits hard like a southern gothic by Flannery O’Conner or Cormac McCarthy. It was my favorite song of 2016 with a bullet. Having lost a cousin to pills, and family up in the Tennessee mountains causing all kinds of trouble, it struck as true as an arrow can. Hearing the poetry of a broken handed life isn’t just blue collar, it’s an element of humanity we know, but we need to accept as gospel if only to admit we’re far from perfect, even if we’re different.

You yearn for more of Tyler’s unease, but he’s a bastard like that – you can’t buy any vinyl, you can’t find any cd’s. His stuff is super hard to come by. He’s on YouTube. You can download a few tracks, but he’s not as available as some, and it only makes his ghostly allure that much more enticing. If there were any justice in this world, Tyler’s music would have been a centerpiece of the show Justified.

Whitehouse Road is another that just slays. So many moments of personal distress boiled down and into a slurry that’s a bitter, yet powerful pill. Given the new climate in America where we all hate one another, Tyler Childers’ time is now. He’s one of those rare voices that lays a hand and offers a sense of solace and relatable pain. When a lot of singers step into their boots, trying to find their voices, most of the times, it comes off as obvious bullshit. Tyler Childers ain’t that guy. If it came off any more genuine, he’d be named Ben Nichols or Frank Turner. Like a snake handler, the faithful believes without moral restitution – we align ourselves with a sense of wrongdoing, but righteousness by the fire below. Those of us, who’ve got a little dirt, can sink our teeth into that kind of steak, because it’s not tainted.

Do yourself a favor and get out and see him live, try to grab whatever piece of music you can. If he releases a record this year, he’ll be that guy we’re saying we knew when – just like we do with Sturgill Simpson, Jason Isbell, and Chris Stapleton. Tyler Childers is next. You mark my words. 

Reigniting Turmoil: The Process Of revisited

By Robert Dean

When it comes to the history of hardcore music, there are a few periods that matter: the first wave of the 1980’s with bands like Black Flag paving the way for CroMags, Madball, Sick of It All, Leeway, etc. Then, there’s a second wave of bands from the late 90’s, early 00’s who took the presence of mind from the first wave bands and reinvented the genre but only with a lot more metal influence.

While yes, there are a lot of bands in the gray area (Burn, Converge, Trial, Unbroken) of timeframe - there are a few from the East Coast who were on fire during this later period: Indecision, Cave In, Snapcase, to name a few. But, one band managed to write an all time, headbanging, freak out mosh classic that a lot of people don’t know about: The Process Of and that band was Turmoil.

Honestly, I can’t give you an in-depth history of Turmoil. They’re one of the few bands who aren’t steeped in nostalgia, hocking their shirts, stickers and whatever represses of their records that are available. You can’t find much about them online. The Facebook is barely managed, and none of the members seem all too keen on living by the history of their younger selves. All I know about Turmoil is they were from Philly, and they killed.

The Process Of is twelve tracks that slit throats and offer no solace of reason or rectitude. For any angry kid of my generation, it serves as a fantastic album that encapsulated a time when you had to tour to get kids to know your music, and you had to sell cd’s to get the next show. The record sounds mad. It sounds desperate, and it sounds hungry. It’s a considerable shame Turmoil never managed to get the mix right with their ability to land big tours and get the band in a financially fortunate position because if you put on The Process Of in your car and don’t want to murder everyone when the opening of Playing Dead hits, you’re not human. And you’re certainly not metal.

The Process Of stands the test of time because it doesn’t feel churned out. Instead, it feels birthed – like it was a parting gift to the world, a final statement. The band wasn’t big; they were lucky to get VFW halls or gym’s in whatever town they played, but goddamn if the record doesn’t feel like a statement of absolution. The guitar work is airtight, the drums are intricate, but the perfect blend of fast punk sensibilities married with metal progressions. The vocals, though. The frantic, angry sound of Jon Gula’s tenor is what brings this record home - the viciousness is palpable and compelling because of its genuineness.

If you’re a metal dude, or someone with a history with hardcore music and this one slipped past you, hunt it down. The CDs should be easy to find online, and the vinyl was repressed a few years back (I’m still trying to find one. You got one, holler at ya boi.) The Process Of is an incredible statement of what hardcore felt like when it was a music that bubbled up from the streets. We didn’t have the Internet to rely on. We had to go to shows or read zines to get our gossip. The Process Of sounds like a band living hand to mouth and writing a record that had to carry their good fortunes or else.

Now get off my lawn and buy everything you can with Turmoil’s name on it. They deserve to be in the greater conversation with bands who defined that era of hardcore music. It’s frankly fucking criminal they aren’t.

Every Time I Die....

Every Time I Die give me an everlasting boner 

by Robert Dean

Sometimes there are bands out there grinding, making a living, killing it show after show, but somehow, they’re not as big as they should be. It’s frustrating when you see a band put out a stream of quality records, while touring mercilessly, and never losing their souls in the process, and still just still feel like they’re somehow getting the shaft. 

For me, that band is Every Time I Die. You wanna talk about a band who’s bucked every trend, not given a single shit about what all of the cool kids are doing, and still managed to write some of the best records of the last decade? It’s those dudes. 

From Ebolorama, to Logic of Crocodiles (Personal plea: play more Last Night in Town shit, dudes. Us old men want to hear this and Pincushion.) to the new slayer, The Coin Has a Say – Every Time I Die are a goddamned powerhouse of vicious rock and roll fury.

What kills me about ETID is that they’re in that weird spot of too big to play little clubs in music towns, and still humble enough to take a good tour when someone asks them to join them. Honestly, for my money, I have this bet with myself that a lot of the bigger bands in metal are slightly afraid of letting ETID open for larger crowd due to the fact that when the Buckley brothers and Hammer Smash Andy suit up for the night, they’re leaving corpses in their wake.

And don’t think our boys from Buffalo aren’t out there struggling to keep the lights on, they’re doing fine. I just want more people to buy their records, buy their shirts, and keep them on tour. In a sea of tasteless boring bands, Every Time I Die manage to pump out consistent, great records with a vibe and personality. A lot of the drek out there can’t say that. When ETID first burst on the scene, all of the big bands were riding the nuts of At The Gates, and today, it’s Meshuggah. Did Every Time I Die give a shit? NOPE. They went the exact opposite and put out records that dodged every trend. While their peers came and went, Every Time I Die are still relevant because they’ve always chosen to not follow.

Folks need to recognize droning, boring eight string nonsense ain’t that great. Get your party on and give your hard earned cash to some dudes who earned respect and earned their place as one of the best hardcore bands of the 2000’s. And that ain’t shinfo.

Get off Facebook for a few hours and go see Every Time I Die – they just announced a headlining tour with bad ass rednecks Knocked Loose. Also, Low Teens, their new record is a full-fist anal blaster. Get that shit.

Blast from the past you need to know: Midwest punk legends, Boris The Sprinkler

by Robert Dean

If you’ve got a hankering for something truly strange – there’s a blast from the past you need to get your brain around.  Boris The Sprinkler was an oddball, eclectic pack of weirdoes from Green Bay, Wisconsin, and boy were they a deliciously strange mix of everything meth-fueled nightmares were constructed of.

Take parts Mr. Bungle, The Ramones, the Reverend Horton Heat, and maybe Frank Sinatra’s sleazy cousin, and maybe some string cheese. Throw in some rubber chickens, maybe a tranny hooker or two and you’ll get near what these left of center Wisconsin punk rock pranksters were up to.

On their debut, 8-Testicled Pogo Machine, Boris The Sprinkler full tongue French kissed their way into the Chicago, Milwaukee, and Green Bay punk scene. The songs feel like wild parties and are a pure portrait of an era of punk when bands still drew up those great flyers with magic markers and maybe some basic computer skills.

Boris The Sprinkler has some moments that harken to sweaty bars, and bad nights on cheap booze. The songs are irreverent and even better after all of these years. One of the best things about Boris The Sprinkler is the sheer easiness of the songs – not by a technical standard, but by which they stand. I have such warm memories of this era of punk, maybe because it’s mine, but more because it’s the era that slithered in just after when everyone was so severe. The songs are catchy and without any preaching of idealism, and in many ways, that’s refreshing on so many levels. There can only be one Clash, and the world has enough carbon copies of Joe Strummer.

But no Boris The Sprinkler – I doubt these guys cared who came off the spaceship unless they promised Transformers comic books and some YooHoo. But, that’s what made them great, it wasn’t about the music, the scene or the songs, it was simply about existing in your skin and having some fun in the process.

 If you’re looking to dive into something odd, and just ridiculously entertaining, pull Boris The Sprinkler up on YouTube, and buy some records if you’re into it. Fifteen year old you really wants you to.

Kelly Hogan of The Flat Five: Going for Positive Broke In a World of Love and Hope

Going for Positive Broke

In a World of Love and Hope

By Kevin Broughton

“Okay, I’m almost ready,” says Kelly Hogan. “I was driving, waiting for your call, now I just have to pull over and find a parking space.” She eases into a comfortable play-by-play: “I may just turn off on this side street…almost there…well, why don’t you just go ahead and start to talk?”

Hogan has, according to her hometown Chicago Tribune, “the range of a gospel belter, the phrasing of a jazz diva, a bit of a country twang, and a taste for humor that make her something of a difficult fit in these category-obsessed times.” If she’s tough to pigeonhole into a genre – and she very much is – then it’s doubly tough to pin down a category for The Flat Five, the Windy City super group she formed with Scott Ligon, Nora O’Connor, Alex Hall and Casey McDonough. Their debut album, It’s a World of Love and Hope, drops today on Bloodshot Records; fitting, as that label has always been home to the genre-bending misfits of independent music. Ligon and McDonough are themselves members of NRBQ, a fluid band – founded 50 years hence – that has always defied classification.

But, to take a stab at Flat Five comparisons: Late 60s/early 70s harmony-laden pop with a slight bubblegum flavor, reminiscent of The Carpenters, Beach Boys and Beatles. Some Manhattan Transfer. Or maybe that’s a little off? “Yeah, it reminds me of childhood, hearing the AM radio in the Rambler station wagon,” Hogan says. “All of those sounds like Sly and The Family Stone, The 5th Dimension, Spanky and Our Gang…and The Archies! Definitely The Archies.”

Yeah, that’s better. And, oh, the harmonies; five parts’ worth sometimes. Groovy electric piano.  It’s pure, unadulterated, unmitigated, undeniable joy. This can’t be overstated; it’s an album of existential happiness, as the campy title suggests. Each of the album’s dozen songs were penned by Ligon’s older brother Chris, and if you drill down a little into that dude’s catalog, you’ll want to throw in They Might Be Giants and Dr. Demento when making comparisons. As joyfully bouncy and bubbly as this record is, there’s also a lot of downright quirky, head-scratching humor.

But the joy overrides all. You want to feel better right now, when the whole country and world are spiraling downward into hades? Turn off Twitter and Facebook. Turn off the news. Listen to this album a couple times through, and you’ll be physically happy. Heck, it’s impossible not to be happy after 20 minutes on the phone with “Leather Lungs” Hogan, after she finds a parking spot. Her mood is as infectious as The Flat Five’s music. 

You’ve worn a lot of hats in a bunch of different bands/side projects, etc. This Flat Five record certainly has a distinctive flavor to it. How has working on this project differed from, say, The Pine Valley Cosmonauts or any of your other endeavors?

Well, a lot of the things I did with Pine Valley Cosmonauts, I was like a ninja. I’d come in real quick and record one song and be done. The Flat Five, we’re a band. It’s gross. We love each other so much, it’s gross. We’ve been doing this since 2005 or something. I started out playing with Scott Ligon, then we got Nora O’Connor into it; I knew her from when we both sang in Andrew Bird’s band. It just sort of picked up, like a rolling stone…wait, a rolling stone doesn’t gather moss. (Laughs) We snowballed, that’s what I mean to say.

We just really love to sing together. And even with our five separate, crazy schedules and the stuff we do with other bands, we’ve always made time for this. We just love it.

When did y’all decide “Okay, we’re gonna do an album,” and how and when did that process finally come together?

I guess a couple years in, we made a commitment to play quarterly. That’s a time commitment and everybody has to block out time on their schedules. We started talking about playing more often and how we would do it. And we were warming up to the idea of doing an album of Chris Ligon’s music, because we had already been doing several of his songs [live].

So that idea developed, and we all got really excited about it, because one, we love his music and two, we want more people to hear it. So in lieu of going door-to-door (laughs), we knew we needed to record. That required us all to pledge allegiance to each other and commit. And so it’s taken us right at two years; we first went into the studio in September 2014. We financed the whole thing ourselves, so occasionally it was, “Well, we’re out of money, so we gotta play a show.” And luckily we were able to record it at our drummer’s studio, and he engineered it. There was just a lot of goodwill and teamwork involved.

This album bubbles up joy. Can you describe how much fun it was to record?

We made a conscious decision as a band, led by Scott, that we were gonna do a positive album. And I mean, I love sad songs. I’ve heard great songs with awesome harmony, but it’s like “My baby died in December.” (Laughs) So we tried to make it a cohesive thread, and all positive. Because everything’s so heavy, you know? You said “bubbles,” and not every song sounds effervescent, but the material and the message are designed to lift people, you know? Mavis Staples just did that on her last album.

And we were trying to decide what to call this record, and I said, “Dude, let’s just go for positive broke and call it ‘It’s a World of Love and Hope.’” In the face of all this evidence to the contrary; there’s so much going on to be sad and mad about. And all of us in the band, we’re all mad and sad and scared. This is just a little respite. I mean, I’m on the street in Chicago. The trees have colored leaves and people are walking their dogs…it’s Halloween. That’s just as real as all the bad stuff.

I just…well, I’ve never heard anything like it.

Well, we are weird, you know…

(Laughs) Well, I don’t mean just because it’s a little off and has some tongue-in-cheek…

…People try to describe us. Right now Nora and I are trying to book a tour and folks ask us, “Well, what kind of band are you?” And we’re like, uhhhhhhhh, well…

I think we’re like a pack of Life Savers. You’ll get an orange and a lime, and all the different flavors. We just love it all; we love all kinds of music.

Do you have a favorite cut on the album?

(Pauses) Uh…gosh I don’t know. It’s so hard for me to pick from all the different flavors. I don’t think I do. I can’t pick a favorite puppy! I love them all, and they are all different. Some of them were more difficult to get right in the studio than others. I do love the magic of “Bug Light.” I like “Bluebirds in Michigan;” I love that really weird string/bass/flute arrangement.

I’m curious, and this is a Kelly Hogan-centric question. I discovered you as the voice of Cassie Gaines on DBT’s Southern Rock Opera. Do you hear that every now and again, maybe from folks down South?

Oh! Awesome. I love that’s the case; I really love that album and I love those guys so hard. But yeah, a few, a few, definitely. That always makes me feel so proud. We did that at (Mike) Cooley’s house and I was in the dining room with a microphone, drinking a PBR and they were all in the kitchen. I finished a take and I heard some screaming and I found out they were screaming because they liked it. That was really cute.

That album…well, “Angels and Fuselage” makes me weep to this day.

Think about how hard it is to sing it! Because I sit in with them sometimes, and I try to do it – like every song I do – like I’m living it. And those lyrics…it’s just such an honor to be on that record. And you know, hearing your Southern accent, I’m just leaning into it because I love those accents so much. Any excuse to call Patterson (Hood), I’ll do it, just to hear that voice.

What else would you like folks to know about It’s a World of Love and Hope?

Um, it’s definitely an album made by friends who really love singing together. We love it so much we’ve all made time to do it over the last dozen years. We’re the kind of band that will practice together for seven hours and it seems like seven minutes. I mean, if we were at a club to play a show and nobody showed up, we would still play the show! We do this because it’s so much fun. And that’s the spirit It’s a World of Love and Hope was made in.

Because it is a world of love and hope. Sometimes I might be feeling really shitty (giggles) but I’ll just say, “It’s a world of love and hope!” It’s become my mantra. It was made by five friends who can’t not do this.  And I hope people can hear that in the record.

Final note: I’ve not played an album over and over like this one in recent memory and subsequently tried to figure out why. I’m still not sure, but what’s exceptional is this wonderful Venn diagram of the underappreciated Chicago music scene. In fact, when you put elite-level talents like these together – all of whom share such a passion for the craft and an unselfish love for one another – greatness shouldn’t be surprising. –JKB

-----------

It's a World of Love and Hope is available today on iTunes, Amazon, Bandcamp, etc.

Matt Woods: The Farce the Music Interview

An Interview With Kevin Broughton

I had never heard, heard of, or seen Matt Woods until a late July gig at The Earl in Atlanta, when he was touring with Austin Lucas.  Just how out of it was I? I texted the Boss Man a picture of their cool tour poster, and he replied, “Oh, cool. Matt had FTM’s favorite song in 2013.” Uh, derp. 

But it was Woods’ across-the-board authenticity – on stage and off – that impressed me. The dude is real. July saw him fine-tuning a bunch of heavy country songs that make up the album How to Survive, released today on his own label, Lonely Ones Records. Did I mention that these are heavy songs? Just to make sure, I compared notes with the Boss Man. “If you'd rather be lied to or be sold a rosy view of life and love, you'd best steer clear of Matt Woods,” said Trailer. “His confessional lyrical style pulls back the curtain on the heartaches and struggles of real life.”

And, Bingo. While his previous two albums, The Matt Woods Manifesto and With Love From Brushy Mountain, were sprinkled with a hearty mix of story songs, murder ballads and love songs, today’s release is all about relationships. There are some aspirational love songs, but it’s weighted down with heartbreak – and reality. When you hear “To Tell the Truth,” or “Born to Lose,” there’s no question that these songs are both autobiographical and from a dark place. And it’s not insignificant that the song Woods says is truest to him – “A Good Man” – is a soul-crushing confessional; so much so that it took some coaxing for that to be divulged.

We caught up with Woods out in the west Texas town of El Paso, and talked songs for the downtrodden, dark thoughts of bodily harm to percussionists, and how being covered by Dean Ween is a dream.

One of your earlier albums is called The Matt Woods Manifesto. That strikes me as both an awesome and ballsy concept. For our readers unfamiliar with your work, what flag were you planting, and were you satisfied by the reception?

Yeah, I was definitely happy with the reception. I had spent a good many years bouncing around in rock ‘n’ roll bands. That record came out in 2011, and I guess it was sometime around ’09 that I realized I was gonna move away from the bands and start working on things under my own name. And what partly informed that was my writing, which was taking itself in a different direction. That led me to getting back to my roots, and back to my love of country music.

That’s why I did the Manifesto; it was a departure point.  

Having listened to some of your work, I think I have a good idea, but who are some of the songwriters who’ve influenced you?

I’ve been influenced by a great number of people in one way or another.  The easiest  to name, over the life of my writing, have been Kris Kristofferson and John Fogerty. I’d also have to give a nod to Steve Earle, Townes Van Zandt and Guy Clark. 

You’re like the eleventy-billionth artist about whom I’ve said, “WTH isn’t this person on radio?” Without going too deeply down that rabbit hole, when did murder ballads and cheatin’ songs go the way of the dinosaur, in the minds of Nashville suits and program directors?

As far as mainstream country is concerned, I think that all started happening in the late 1980s and early 1990s. At that point you could still find some music that still used what would be considered traditional country themes. But it was also sort of the birth of…party country. You know, “everything’s alright and let’s just have a good time.” That’s when things started leaning that direction.

You’ve done some really good murder ballads. How To Survive is made up – except for “The American Way” -- almost exclusively of relationship songs.  Did you go at this album thematically, or did it just organically evolve that way?

It did happen organically, but there’s a certain theme. We were going for a more intimate deal, and it’s a more introspective album as it turned out. Any time I go into the studio to record an album, there are always more songs than can fit on it. So you’re trying to take the best ones and make them fit together into one thing, instead of just a collection of songs on a piece of wax.  And I try to keep that in mind and pair songs together that complement one another.

Some noteworthy artists have addressed the disenchanted/disenfranchised, hard to re-adjust veteran. Isbell did it a couple times, McMurtry hit a chord with “Can’t Make it Here” a dozen years ago. Steve Earle did it with “Johnny Come Lately” in 1988. Describe your approach to “The American Way,” because that song hasn’t been secret, and the video’s been out there a while. Obviously there was some deep meaning for you.

Yeah, we released that video on the Fourth of July. I started working on that song in the summer of 2015. For me, it’s just the state of the union. It reflects parts of my childhood in rural East Tennessee in the 80s and 90s, and how things just sorta stay the same, you know? I wanted it to be a snapshot of how things are for blue collar people; folks who are just trying to live.  

The album hits all the bases: love songs of the aspirational, affirming or cheatin’ type, and even a heart-stomping I don’t love you song, “To Tell the Truth.” They’re all pretty sad & heavily laden with minor chords. I assume this was purposeful?

Yeah, I uh, I feel pretty comfortable working in a minor key, and I’d say I definitely do that more often than not. I think there’s something about the minor keys that definitely ring a little truer…well, maybe “truer” isn’t the right word. Maybe “profound.” I think songs in minor keys strike people more profoundly.  And as such, maybe, I think they can give folks something a little more concrete to hold onto.

There are plenty of good traditional songs with the 1-4-5 progression, but I think it’s the sad ones, the ones in minor keys, that people keep going back to.

And you definitely lean toward the sadder stuff here; granted I’m new to your body of work, but it seems like there’s even more of an emphasis on How to Survive.

I don’t know, I always tend to lean toward the more downtrodden, darker side. Even on a lot of my story songs…well, there are more story songs on my last two records, and some of them do come at you with an upbeat feel.  But these are definitely from the darker side of things.

Is this album serious empathy across the board, or autobiographical? Maybe a little of both?

It’s fair to say it’s a little bit of both. It’s certainly a little autobiographical. And it’s a good bit more introspective and personal than the last two were.

Is there one song that’s more autobiographical than any other on the album?

Oh, man. Ha. That’s a difficult question. (Lengthy pause.)

You’re free to take a pass, and that’s fine. But I mean, I can see several candidates. It ain’t like you just made all this stuff up…

(Laughing) Yeah. I know…there’s certainly some real shit in it. And some of it has to do with stuff I promised myself I wasn’t gonna talk about in the course of promoting this record, so…

Okay, that’s cool. And as we move away from this question I’d just observe that there are several songs…well, “Fireflies” is certainly inspirational and aspirational.  I’m guessing there were some songs that were hard to write. Looking at “To Tell The Truth,” I don’t think that song was written in a vacuum. Is that fair?

Yeah. That’s fair. That one’s got pieces of me in it, but they’ve all got pieces of me in them…

Okay. We can move on…

…man, this is hard to talk about, hard to say. But I’d say the most telling one on the album is “A Good Man.”

Structurally, you place your bridges as points of emphasis, often in different spots. Do you have any kind of guiding philosophy in that regard?

My guiding philosophy, I guess, is just to be efficient. I don’t tie myself into any formulaic songwriting. You know a lot of folks are all about verse/chorus; verse/chorus; bridge/chorus; out. With me sometimes they fall that way, sometimes they don’t; I try not to be superfluous…I try not to fill the time if it doesn’t need to be filled, you know? If I’ve set up what I needed to with one verse and it’s time to get to that poignant/conflict part of the song maybe I’ll go ahead with the bridge right there. It just depends on what the song calls for.  But yeah, I look at the bridge as really being the heart of the song.

I’d like to switch gears for a minute and ask you about the inspiration for some of your songs. You made a couple references at the Atlanta gig in July; for instance, I believe “Bed Sheets” is something of a send-up of one Conway Twitty. Expand on that a little.

Sure. I think “Bed Sheets” is really the only sexy-time song on this album (laughs). And there was actually a point as I was finishing it up where I was like, “Man, can I say this? (Laughing) Am I going too far?”

But I’ve always been a fan of Conway’s, and that was what I thought: “Well, shit, here’s a man who had no qualms about taking a song into the bedroom.” And I was coming to terms with the fact that I’m probably the same age as he was when he was on Hee-Haw when I was watching as a kid, you know what I mean? I told this story in Atlanta. I remember watching Conway, sweatin’ under those stage lights with one of those skinny 1970s microphones, singin’ bedroom songs. (Laughing) And I was old enough to realize, “Well, shit. Maybe I need to do some of that,” you know?

Back to the Manifesto, was writing “Port St. Lucie” a reasonable alternative to doing bodily harm to a former drummer? Am I remembering that correctly?

Yeah, man. One of those bands I was in, we were on the road and had van trouble in Port St. Lucie. You know…being in a band, it’s good and it’s frustrating all at the same time. You start bands with your buddies and…you see how far and how much you can damage that relationship (Laughing), how much you guys can just damned hate each other.

Out of boredom?

No, not out of boredom. You know, when you’re young, it takes you a while to figure out that everybody has their own set of priorities and interests and quirks…eating habits and drinking habits and everything else. And trying to get all that to work together is sometimes a struggle, especially if you’re in a band with a bunch of dudes.

And not to ruin the illusion, but rock ‘n’ roll ain’t that glamorous and there’s not much money in it. You go for a stretch of time of sleeping on couches covered in cat hair and not making any money, and something’s gotta give. We had that van stuck in Port St. Lucie with no shows to play, and it was about as hot as it could get in Florida in August. And I just realized, “Man I gotta get out of this situation before I kill this damn drummer. (Laughs) And I’m sure he had his own thoughts on the situation, you know.

I’m glad we got a nice song out of it, instead of tire-tool justice in Southwest Florida. You produced this album. Was that the first time producing your own work, or anybody else’s?

No, I’ve produced all of my albums. And recently I got to produce an album for my buddy Jeff Shepherd and his band the Jailhouse poets. We got them into the studio in Knoxville and it was really cool to be able to work with them. I really enjoy it, and just like being in the studio and want to be able to do some more of that in the future.

I see Jeff sang backup on “Bound to Lose.”

Yeah, he actually wrote that song with me. Jeff and I were on tour together in the Spring of 2015. We were on our way to Florida, and damned if it didn’t snow all over Mississippi. (Laughing)

You recently pulled up stakes from your native East Tennessee & moved to Nashville; I think you and Chelle Rose might have passed each other? Was that a move for convenience’s sake?

Yeah, Chelle and I apparently traded spots.  Not really convenience, man. I’m from East Tennessee, I love it there, and I’ve spent the last 22 years in Knoxville.  But for the last five, I’ve pretty much been on the road about ten months out of the year. Circumstances came about that enabled me to sell my house, and once I had done that I didn’t see the need to just start over in East Tennessee. So I just took advantage of that; Nashville’s a happening town and there’s a lot going on there.  And it’s at least as well positioned for touring as Knoxville is.

Word has it you’ll be touring with a full band this fall. How long has it been since you did one of those?

I’ve been doing some band touring about twice a year. I try to take a band out on the road during the spring and fall, and the last one was in May. I had some of the same dudes with me I’ll be taking out this fall, and this one will be fairly extensive; it’ll be about six weeks covering the eastern U.S.

Lightning Round:

Have you ever been in a joint and heard someone cover one of your songs?

I have. I did just get word from a friend of mine who was at Adam Lee’s and Josh Morningstar’s show in Detroit last night that Josh played one of my songs. And something that really tickled me, I don’t know if you’re a Ween fan, but I met Dean Ween in Pennsylvania and he let me know through social media that he had covered one of my shows at his standing gig. So I’ve been covered by Dean Ween!

The one person in the Outlaw Country/Alt.Country scene you’d love to work with one day?

(Pauses) Man. I’d love to sit down and write songs with Jamey Johnson. I think he writes really sharp songs.

An artist you’d recommend to all your fans?

I don’t know if you’re familiar with Sam Lewis; he’s pretty fantastic. He was living in Knoxville when I met him, and at that point he would have been in his really early 20s. He was writing really sharp songs and performing them really well. I guess he’s been in Nashville six or eight years and starting to get the recognition he deserves.

You said in an interview, with Riki Rachtman of all people, that you didn’t really like the term “outlaw country.” How would you describe your music?

Aw, man. I guess I’d call it Southern…American…songwriting? (Laughs) How about “Appalachian heartbreak music?” Let’s go with that.

I love this! I’m learning new terms all the time, and they’re all so fluid. Describe touring with Austin Lucas.

Fantastic. Touring with Austin was fantastic. We had been trying to get something together for years, and we were finally able to make it work last summer. He’s just immensely talented, and so kind and thoughtful. I had a great time with him, and running around with Sally the dog was great, too.

The ubiquitous Sally. Top five albums of all time regardless of genre?

Alright. I’m glad you hit me with this earlier, because that’s a moving target. I got it down to seven, so I’ll give you the five.

Tell you what, then, let’s make it top seven.

Guns ‘n’ Roses, Appetite for Destruction. Randy Travis, Storms of Life. Kris Kristofferson, The Silver Tongued Devil And I. Any Creedence Clearwater Revival album. (Laughs) If I only get one, I’d go with Chronicle, a greatest hits record with about 20 songs on it. Pearl Jam’s 10.

As I was thinking through that list, there are a couple on there I haven’t listened to in a while, but there are a couple others I can’t imagine being without: Two Cow Garage’s Sweet Saint Me, and Glossary’s Better Angels of Our Nature.

Why is How To Survive your best work?

I think the simple answer to that is I’ve been able to apply everything I’ve learned thus far (in my career) and apply it to this album. I think if you release a record and you don’t think it’s the best one you’ve ever done, then you’re not doing your job. With How to Survive, I think because of its introspective nature, there’s something in there that just about everybody can relate to.

Writing love songs is not something I typically do a lot of, but there’s some of that mixed in with all the heartbreak. What it lacks in story songs and murder ballads, I think it more than makes up for with truth and emotion. At least I hope that’s how people perceive it. 

----------

How to Survive is available today on Bandcamp, iTunes, Amazon, etc

Kasey Anderson: Lean in close, he's got a confession

Lean in close; he’s got a confession

By Kevin Broughton

In one of the earliest issues of No Depression – I want to say 1998 or ’99 – Steve Earle remarked on how much he had missed in the world of music during his long, tragic descent into addiction. Rotted teeth, wrecked relationships, hocked guitars and finally, a six-month hitch in the Cold Creek Correctional Facility were what it took for Earle to bottom out, then rebound. When he emerged clear-headed a lot had changed. “By the time I had heard of Uncle Tupelo,” he said, “they had broken up.”

I hadn’t heard of Kasey Anderson till last week, and he’d been out of the federal pen for almost a year. An established fixture in the Pacific Northwest’s alt-country scene, Anderson – gifted songwriter, musician and producer – had seemingly limitless potential. Bright, articulate and affable, he’d been extraordinarily prolific in the music business by the time he turned 30. With much more, it seemed, to come.

His hellishly downward spiral to convicted-felon status had a definitive terminus: the clang of a cell door on his first night in the joint. When things started to go seriously south, however, is a little harder to pinpoint. It was probably around the time he got the big idea to do a concert and benefit album for the West Memphis Three, that trio of misfits wrongly convicted of murder in 1994, and a cause celebre among many show business types. (Including, um, the normally reclusive Eddie Vedder, who tends to shy away from fashionable social causes.)

There were two problems, though, with this big idea that became progressively more grandiose. First, absolutely nothing ever came of it. And, much more troublingly, Anderson raised nearly $600,000 from more than 30 investors – many of them friends – that he just…spent. It evaporated like it was never there.

There would be no star-studded lineup with the likes of Tom Petty, Pearl Jam or R.E.M. The Boss and Lady Gaga wouldn’t headline the album – some kind of duet that would’ve been -- that would never exist anywhere but Anderson’s mind. And when the Three were cut loose in 2011, the shot clock started on his freedom. He had created bogus email addresses and impersonated industry lawyers and tour managers along the way. “I told myself consistently that whatever was going on with me,” he wrote in a letter to the judge who accepted his guilty plea for wire fraud in 2013, “I could fix it on my own.” Turns out there was plenty wrong, and not just on the surface.

No objective person who hears Anderson’s story could conclude that he set out to run a grand criminal enterprise. But mental illness and addiction (“cocaine, whichever pills were around, and Maker’s & soda with bitters”) kept him from seeing the criminal in the mirror. To be clear, Anderson readily admits that being a bipolar addict/alcoholic is no excuse for his actions. He emphasized that all culpability is his and his alone, several times. But I think it can help make some sense of the situation.

When you run a con so widespread and for so much money, prison – as opposed to civil litigation and bankruptcy – is the inevitable conclusion, and it’s been a rough four or so years for the musician. I didn’t ask – and in retrospect he probably wouldn’t give it a thought – but I imagine one of the starkest ways the Internet can tell a musician he’s now irrelevant is the “years active” entry on his Wikipedia page.

To his credit, he’s emerged from the nightmare sober, very humble, and if not happy, then certainly in a place of relative personal peace.

We caught up with him after his shift at a friend’s Portland store, Animal Traffic  (“Work wear,” quips Anderson, “for people who don’t work”), and chatted musical second acts, possible paths to redemption, and the wisdom of not running up prison debts.  

You re-surfaced publicly a week or so ago at Saving Country Music, but you’ve been out of actual custody since last Halloween. What have you been doing the last 10 months?

I spent six months in a halfway house, which is where they help you transition back into the world. I’ve been on probation, and I work full time in a friend of mine’s shop here in Portland. And that’s pretty much it. I’m just trying to get my feet back underneath me and make some amends where I can, and get life back on track and try to be a human being.

I imagine the scheme that got you into trouble started to seriously unravel when the West Memphis Three got out of prison in 2011; have you had any contact with them since your release, and if so, did you offer an apology?

Not since my release, no. I saw Jason Baldwin when he got out; this is something I’m still proud of --though it was under somewhat spurious circumstances – the first rock show he ever saw was my band at the Sunset Tavern in Seattle.  So that was a cool deal, but it was hard to reconcile with what I knew was going on at the time. So no, I haven’t been in contact, though I reached out a little bit to [Seattle producer] Danny Bland and offered an apology and tried to make amends, though I haven’t heard back.

My M.O. when I got out was to try to do that part of the 12-step program, which is I’m going to make direct amends to those I can and to those whom it wouldn’t harm in some way. So I reached out to as many people as I could; if I heard back from some of them, great; if not, it’s understandable. Hopefully after a while they’ll see I’m living in such a way that’s conducive to making amends.

A casual yet cynical observer might see your 2012 diagnosis of Type 1 Bipolar Disorder as a way to dodge doing hard time, a close cousin of “Hey judge, I get it now and I’m going to rehab.” You alluded to your being “mentally ill” in a letter to the judge. Was there ever a time before the walls closed in that you thought, “Maybe there’s something seriously wrong with me mentally?”

There were times when other people close to me suggested that my problems weren’t just addiction but something else. But I had no real frame of reference because I spent my time in an industry where accountability is not the number one priority. And it wasn’t for me – and the folks around me – until the wheels started to seriously come off. But the diagnosis made sense, and I did try to use it as an excuse: “Don’t you see I wasn’t myself?”

But the more time I spent with myself and the more time I spent incarcerated, I came to the point where I am now, where I can look at my own life and see that addiction and mental illness certainly played a role in what I did. But that doesn’t help anybody who was victimized by me, either financially or personally in some other way to say, “Well you know I’m bipolar.” Because the response would be, “Well, best of luck with that, but where’s my money?”

In private conversations with those with whom I’ve made amends – because I haven’t talked much about this publicly – I’ve said, “The diagnosis is accurate but it doesn’t excuse what I did.”

Are you clinically medicated now for being bipolar, and is it reasonable to assume that the substance abuse up to the time it all fell apart was self-medication?  Also, are you treating it with therapy?

Yeah. I’m medicated and have been since Oct. 24, 2012, which is the last time I had any sort of substance or alcohol. In November before I went away, I took a little break from it when I decided it was a good idea to go to Los Angeles and live with my girlfriend, which turned out not to be such a great idea in the eyes of the court.

But yeah, I’m still taking 900 milligrams of lithium and 100 milligrams of Zoloft; the lithium causes tremors, so I’m taking 60 milligrams of Propanolol – which isn’t any kind of anti-psychotic medication, it just helps with the tremors.  And I also go to therapy, which is mandated by the terms of my probation.

In another life I was a criminal defense lawyer, so I’m curious about something. After your indictment but before plea negotiations with the U.S. Attorney’s office began, what was your expectation as to doing time? Did your lawyer let you know early on that there was a strong likelihood of incarceration?

I had two attorneys [from the Federal Public Defender’s office] and in our first meetings when we were sort of fleshing things out, I was a frustrating client because I didn’t know how much money I’d taken or how much I’d spent. One put a couple pieces of paper in front of me and said, “These are the people who say they’ve lost this much money. Is this accurate?” I said, “I mean, probably. If someone says I took money from them I probably did.”

When we started getting closer to entering the plea, they said, “Let’s try for a year and a day. That would be best case, so let’s be prepared for at least a year and a day.” Well, as soon as I (long pause)… I guess “absconded” is the right word, because I wasn’t really on the run, but I went to my girlfriend’s in LA and didn’t tell anybody about it…

I’d say that’s absconding.

(Laughs) Yeah, yeah, I guess that’s absconding, but it’s not attempted escape. But as soon as they got wind of that, my lawyer called me and said, “You can either get on a plane and fly home and self-surrender, or they’re gonna kick your girlfriend’s door in because they absolutely know where you are right now.” So I flew home that night. From that point on, there was no shortage of expletives thrown my way by my attorneys. They said, “We’ll do the best we can; you had a shot and now you don’t have that shot anymore.”

So the prosecutor at first was asking for 87 months; he really had a pretty low opinion of me and rightfully so, given the information he was working with.  And fortunately for me, he took another job.

Wow. That’s freaking lucky, dude.

Yeah, I know. He took a job in the private sector and another prosecutor picked it up and he was like, “I don’t know this kid from Adam, how about 46 months?” My lawyers said that was for sure the best we were gonna do; take the deal, we’ll go to sentencing with that.

There was no point in [my lawyers’ telling me], “We’ll get you off with some probation.” As soon I turned that corner and headed to Los Angeles my lawyer said, “You’re fucked.” That was pretty much it, she just said, “You’re fucked. You did this to yourself; we’ll do our job, but you had your chance and you blew it.”

There was never any thought to taking it to trial.

No, not really. The only way we could’ve done that was with the mental health defense…but for most of that time, I paid rent, I had a car, I played shows, I made records. You’re not gonna prove someone was intermittently insane over the course of several years. A trial wouldn’t have been fun for anybody. I didn’t want my folks or anybody to have to go through that. 

I want to back up for just a second. I’m guessing this wasn’t, in your mind, a criminal enterprise from the get-go. You didn’t set out and say, “I bet I can bilk a bunch of people by talking about the West Memphis Three.” As I understand it, one of the tendencies or characteristics of someone who’s Bipolar Type 1 is delusions of grandeur…

Yeah…

…and you get these grandiose impulses from time to time. Did you think, “I can do this”? Did it start out that way, and then maybe “Well, I’ve gotta have expenses to live on,” and you end up shuffling money around? Was that how this think evolved?

Yeah, that’s pretty accurate. It’s one of those things that’s a real point of contention for me, but it doesn’t do anyone else any good because the outcome is the same. 

I met with Danny Bland at South By Southwest in 2009 and we talked about it in earnest. We had a conference call with Lori Davis, Damien Echols’ wife not long after and talked about it with her in earnest. So it started out for me as a very real thing. But that ended – that’s as far as it went for Danny, that conversation with Lori. And I said I was going to raise the money.  And once I had the money, yeah, you’re right. I was living in Europe at the time and I thought, “If I go to Italy for a couple days and spend a thousand bucks, I’ll just put it back in there; I’ll just play a couple shows and put it back.” Then all of a sudden a thousand bucks is a hundred thousand bucks, then it’s $400,000, and I’m neck deep in it. And there’s nothing true about it anymore.

And all you can do is lie, and keep lying.

Yeah, exactly. Although it’s been brought to my attention by more than one person that if at some point I had just said, “Hey, guys, I spent that money, it’s gone and you’re not gonna get it back,” the outcome would not have been good, but it wouldn’t have been what it was.

You wouldn’t have been in the federal joint, I guess.

Probably wouldn’t have. Would have been more of a civil deal, bankruptcy, etc.

Did you have to do the elocution --verbal confirmation that you had done those bad acts – before you were sentenced?

Yep, sure did.

Were any of your victims in the courtroom at your plea or your sentencing? Did that have any additional impact, seeing those folks in person?

Nobody was there that I saw. I think – and I hesitate to speak for any of them because I haven’t been in contact with them – but once it became public that I was probably going to prison and it involved federal charges, I think a lot of them figured, “Okay, he’s probably going to get what’s coming to him and I can go back to living my life.” I have to imagine that a lot of them were pretty consumed with it until I cut off all conversation with them. Because no matter what sum of money was involved for each individual, they’re trying to get their money back. And there was probably no small amount of relief in knowing that the government had it.

Asking you “How was life in prison?” would be offensively stupid. But I’m curious (a) whether there was one particular moment when the reality of incarceration sank in on you; and (b) whether a Kasey Anderson jail song may ever be in the works?

(Laughs)

That’s a thing, you know, jail songs?

Yeah, oh yeah. They do jail songs.

I would say the reality I was in prison was Night One, because I came in kinda late after being in court all day and they put me in a cell in the corner. I was at SeaTac, which is a holding facility for people of all different custody levels. You don’t really go outside, you don’t see the sun, the rec yard is in the unit. I had never been in trouble before. I went right to sleep, spent from the last 72 hours. I woke up the next morning and stuck my head out of my cell, and there’s a bunch of black guys watching TV. So I started watching, and this white guy grabbed me and threw me back in my cell and said, “The white TV is over here!”

Oh, wow. So this wasn’t Club Fed. I know it wasn’t Supermax in Colorado, but…

Well, the second year was pretty much like a community college, and more or less Club Fed. But that first year at SeaTac was…not like Supermax, but a high-security facility where you’re locked down a good part of the day, or mingling with people that have seriously harmed other people.

So that first day was, “Okay. I’m in prison now and this is how it’s gonna be.”

Do you have any Aryan Brotherhood tats, since you had to watch the white people’s TV?

I actually ended up not having to watch the white TV. I told the guy, “Look, I don’t want any trouble but I do like basketball, and it doesn’t seem like you guys have basketball on. So I’m just gonna go watch with the black guys.” He told me fine, but nobody would have my back if anything happened.  And that was the end of it.

It’s probably a lot harder-edged in the higher-security facilities. But when you’re stuck in the unit with everyone all day, there’s going to be some intermingling. And that was good for me, being able to sort of bounce back and forth. So, no, I didn’t pledge any sort of allegiance to anyone.

Did you ever get physically hurt by anybody?

No. I saw things happen, ah, mostly at SeaTac I saw things happen that weren’t pleasant. My experience in prison was if you just kinda cruise along and work your own program and don’t lie to people or rack up a bunch of debt, you’re more or less gonna get left alone.

“Rack up a bunch of debt?”

Well, like card games or betting on football; you can’t bet with money, so it’s like food at the commissary, chips…pretty much anything you can think of.  And I didn’t do any of that to begin with. But that’s where you see people get into trouble: Where they give people their word and break it, or they owe somebody a six pack of Pepsi and don’t pay it. That’s when there’s trouble.

Did you lift weights and get all buff?

Uh, I worked out. I played basketball. I didn’t hit the weight pile because I’m not a strong dude and didn’t have any desire to put weight on that way.  I did get in pretty good shape by doing cardio. Pushups, crunches, stuff like that. I didn’t go crazy

At SeaTac I played a lot of basketball. At Sheridan – the second year -- they had a music program so I played a lot of guitar. We actually put a little band together. And on all federal holidays we’d do a concert. That was cool to get plugged back into music in some way or another…there were some songs I had written and never heard how they sounded with a band, so that was a cool way to test them out. And these were good enough players; probably not the guys I would use in a studio, but they were capable dudes I could bounce songs off of.

How much writing did you do? Prose, I mean. Is there a book inside of you as a result of this experience?

You’re not the first to suggest that. I did a lot of writing when I first got in, and looked at it when I got out and didn’t think there was a whole lot I can use.  I actually have been working on some prose and think I’m about a third of the way done with it and I’m not sure where it’s gonna go yet. I mean, it’s good to be clear-headed enough to actually be sidetracked by life stuff.  So I told my girlfriend the other day that I need to take an hour or two and just sit down and write, whether it’s prose or songs or whatever.

And you’re legit sober?  

Yeah, I am, since that date of Oct. 24, 2012. 

How do you feel, physically and mentally these days?

Physically I feel pretty good. I keep coming up with a clean bill of health; my girlfriend and my mother are furious because I still eat like a teenager. I still have that addict’s diet of a lot of sugar. They tell me I’m gonna kill myself, and I keep coming back with clean blood tests, so I’m gonna keep eating Sour Patch Kids till a doctor tells me otherwise. (Laughs) I’m not in as good shape as I was when I got out and I should probably get back into the gym. I probably feel as good as I have…but it’s so hard to tell. Looking back, I felt like shit when I was using, but you still think you feel good.  So I feel like I’m healthier than I ever was, but it’s hard to tell how much of that is just the subtraction of narcotics, versus any kind of healthy regimen.

The mania…I’m guessing it made for some really prolific songwriting.  Has getting sober tamped that down any?

It definitely made for some productive long nights that stretched into long days of working on something. So I’ve definitely lost something – with the lack of narcotics – the desire to stay up all night until a song is finished, or write three songs at the same time and finish them all.

Now it’s more, “Okay, this is a good idea; let’s get down what I have and we’ll go from here.” So I finish them when I finish them. It’s changed my focus. I was talking to a friend who had tried lithium but he gave it up because he felt like it really deadened his senses. He’s a painter, and it really affected him artistically. It hasn’t really affected me that way, I think, because I had a lot of really good teachers along the way who taught me to look at [songwriting] as a trade, and not some crazy, muse-inspired impulse. If you know how to rebuild an engine, you know how to rebuild an engine. It might take longer depending on the model or the circumstances, but you know how to do it.

And that’s really what I’ve tried to lean on; I guess I won’t know how well I’m doing at it until people actually hear the songs. But what I’ve leaned on in terms of satisfying my own creativity is, “I know how to do this.”

Based on some of the thoughts you shared with Trigger the other day, you seem resigned to pariah status, at least initially. Do you see any path to redemption, generally, and if so, what is it?

My path to redemption – such as it is – is what I mentioned to you earlier, and that’s making living amends. That’s far more important to me than being someone people come out and see or someone whose records get reviewed. And I think for right now, it keeps me a lot more grounded if right now, I don’t think about what my relationship with music or the music industry is going to be.

Obviously, if someone says, “Do you want to do an interview?” I’ll do it if it feels right. I’m not actively seeking publicity. I have a website and a Facebook page that I think has 150 fans. For me, that stuff will come if it comes. I’m at a point in my life where I’ve already had a lot of fun playing music. And I’m not old, but there’s still time that if something’s gonna happen, it’ll happen. But I need to start thinking about what the rest of my life is gonna look like.

For the most part, I’ll say that the people who were my friends when I went in were my friends when I came out, whether they’re involved in the music industry or not. But, who knows what would happen if I said to Isbell, “Hey, why don’t you take me back out on tour?” I imagine the tone of the conversation might change a good bit.

You toured with Jason?

Yeah, Jason and I toured in late 2011, maybe early 2012 and built up a pretty good friendship. And he’s been cool to me. I mean, we don’t talk every day…

So, you didn’t stick him in this deal…

No.  And he’s been like – and this is the way most people have been – he said, “You never did anything to me, dude, and the rest of it is not my business.”

Seems like he’d be a guy who’d give you a shot. He’s a pretty sweet guy.

Oh, yeah, and he’s definitely been encouraging. And I was in when his record went to number one. And I called him from prison and he didn’t pick up, and I thought, “Well, I probably wouldn’t have either.” And when I got out he said, “Look man, I didn’t know how to accept a prison call; I didn’t know it was you and I’m so sorry.”  He doesn’t have to be that way, but again, I haven’t asked him or anybody, “Hey, let’s do a show or go out on tour,” because I want them to know that my relationship with them is based on friendship and not some “social climber” thing.

And I don’t think I’m in position to ask people for slots on bills, or to listen to songs. If they want to hear them, they’ll find them. That’s the way music has always been.

Your talent is self-evident, and I feel cheated that I’ve only recently become acquainted with your work.  Do you have any general plan for a second act in music, or are you just doing the one day at a time thing?

Right now I’m doing one day at a time. Eventually I want to make a record for a lot of reasons, one because I wrote songs while I was in there, and I’ve written songs since I’ve been out that I think are really good songs. I think the world needs as many really good songs as it can get. I also really like being in the studio and working with [producer Eric] Roscoe [Ambel] and my other friends – some folks I had talked about recording with before I went in and wasn’t able to.

In terms of any sort of career, right now I don’t have any expectations; I’m not at a point where I can count on music to pay my bills or pay my restitution. I don’t know if I ever was, because it’s hard to know how well the records or tours would’ve been received if I hadn’t been using resources that didn’t belong to me. Right now this is just a way for me to practice gratitude; to be grateful playing music. I’m not drawing up a five-year plan in a notebook, though.

I downloaded Let the Bloody Moon Rise from your website today. Quite the bargain at five bucks. I feel like I’m stealing from you, frankly. But my email confirmation/receipt said it was order number 00009. Is that a true indicator of the current lack of interest?

Yeah, I think that’s about where we’re at.

Well I’ll just say this: With prices like these, you can’t afford not to buy.

(Laughs) That’s right! Yeah, that’s one that got released in some fashion in 2014, after I was already in. And that’s a deal where I did just such a disservice to that record and that band; I’ll go on record and say, “That’s a good fucking rock ‘n’ roll record.” That’s the sort of record I would have wanted to hear if I was a rock music fan in 2014.  But, that’s another situation where I let those guys down, and everybody’s moved on and doing their own thing, so you can’t do too much looking back.

And what’s the one thing you most want people to understand about you, right this minute? And I’ll add a caveat: I didn’t factor into that question the – whatever step it is of the 12 about making amends – so what do you think is most important right now?

Two things I said over the weekend…I was playing a show at a winery, and it was a really fun time. And I was talking to John, my friend who owns the place, and he asked me sorta the same thing.

I said, “I do want to make amends wherever I can, and it’s important to me to live that out.” The other thing is: I haven’t forfeited the right to write songs and to be good at writing songs, and I’m going to do it. I was without my freedom for a couple of years, and I’ll probably be paying restitution for as long as I live, and that’s well deserved. And if you think I’m an asshole or don’t like the songs, that’s fine. But I’m gonna keep writing and playing, whether it’s in my basement or in front of a bunch of people on stage. So the degree to which anybody is cognizant of the fact that I’m doing it, get comfortable with it. 

----

Kasey Anderson is a man who’s has been down and kicked plenty, with more likely to come. We don’t ask for much here at FTM. But his music can be found at his site’s store, and I’m asking you – as a personal favor – to go there and download a digital album for five bucks. Five bucks, people! And oh by the way, it’s freaking quality music. I’m serious. So thanks.  -- Kevin

Photos from Wikipedia and Kasey Anderson's Facebook page