Chasing the Sky: A Conversation With Kasey Anderson

By Kevin Broughton

Almost two years ago, Kasey Anderson opened up in depth here about his spiraling descent from artist-on-the-cusp to grifting, locked-up addict. He was then not quite a year post-prison. And while there was still a hint of an artist’s confidence about him, it was tempered by the gun-shyness you’d expect of a guy fresh from the halfway house and with a long list of pissed-off victims, many of them former friends.

Little did he know that within a couple of months he’d begin the long, cathartic and ad hoc process of recording a comeback album. In fact, he really had no clue what would come of the sessions, done virtually pro bono by a collection of generous friends and musical colleagues from the Portland indie scene.

Anderson’s voice on the telephone is stronger today. He sounds healthier, no doubt buoyed by the album-making process that was critical to his ongoing restoration as a man. The humility is still there, no doubt, but the knowledge that he’s made a really solid rock ‘n’ roll record has put a spring in his step. From A White Hotel, released today on emerging label Julian Records, is poignant, introspective and sprinkled with Anderson’s trademark irony, starting with the title, a reference to his drab lodgings for more than two years. Oh, and his name isn’t on it.

We caught up with Anderson with just a few days to go before his nuptials, and talked redemption, recovery, the virtues of not being preachy, and the inevitable Steve Earle comparisons. And the whole, stupid “outlaw country” thing.

I’m curious about the way your band is billed. I was partial to the name “Kasey Anderson and The Honkies.”  “Hawks and Doves” is the name of an underrated Neil Young album & song; why the switch? Were you worried about the local Portland anarchist community torching your pad to protest your white privilege? Sorry, I know it’s low-hanging fruit…

Ha! No. First, I decided to do it under a band name because of the way the record came together. I had written all the lyrics and had the structure of the songs, but the instrumentation came together in such a collaborative way that it felt disingenuous just to put my name on it. And The Honkies, I didn’t want to go back to that because all those guys were such strong personalities in their own right, and I just kinda wanted to leave it there with those guys because I have such fond memories of that band.

And I love that Neil Young record. The phrase “hawks and doves” is a political and military term. It seemed pretty appropriate for what’s going on now. Plus, it just sounds cool.

The first time I heard that song was on Scott Miller & The Commonwealth’s live album…

Yeah, yeah! From The V Roys!

And since it’s not “Kasey and the Hawks and Doves,” just the band name, any concern that nobody will know it’s you?

I don’t think it’s a horrible thing for me to make a clean break with the work that I did and the life that I led as a solo artist. It wasn’t a calculated move to do that; maybe it’s an added benefit? And I think that the way it’s being marketed through the press, it’s pretty clear that it’s a band I’m involved in.

This is a collection of a dozen pretty dang good songs. How long have they been percolating? Did some of these words get put to paper while you were locked up?

Yeah, about half of them were written while I was locked up, during my second year in prison. “Every Once in a While,” for instance, is about my first cellmate. That’s his story much more than mine. The other five or six songs happened around after the election, in late 2016. It took us a long time to make the record because of the way we went about it.

Tell me about this band, and how you got the record made; I imagine raising funds to get an album done might have been challenging for someone in your position.

The band is Jordan Richter (guitars,) Ben Landsverk (bass, keys, viola, background vocals) and Jesse Moffat (drums, percussion). Other folks who played are Eric “Roscoe” Ambel, Kurt Bloch, Ralph Carney, Kay Hanley and Dave Jorgensen.

Jordan engineered it and owns a recording studio in town. And I think right after you and talked last time, some folks reached out and asked if I’d like to contribute a track for a benefit record they were involved in. I told Jordan, “Hey, I’d really like to do this, but I don’t have money to pay for studio time or to pay session players.” And he said, “Are you sure you want to do a benefit record?” (Laughs)

…I wasn’t gonna say anything. It was a real thing, though, right?

(Laughs) Yeah, it was a real thing. It was to help this woman named Jennifer Holmes – who has since passed away – with her cancer treatments. So once I proved to him that it was a real thing, he said he’d get some people together. We covered this song called “Wise Blood” by the band Tender Mercies.  At the end of the session Jordan said, “Man, if you ever want to just come in the studio and roll tape, everybody gets your situation and knows that you don’t have a bunch of money to throw into making a record. There are people willing to play your songs for fun and just see where it goes.”

And that’s what we did. Jordan would text a group of us that said, “I have this day where the studio’s not in use, and you don’t have to pay me for the time.” So it took us more than a year, because we’d do a day here and there, and everybody would go back to their lives. So that’s how the record got made, and it was really generous of him to do that.

And then I sent [the album] to several of my friends and said, “I really don’t know what to do with this; I can’t put it out.” I have a friend named Nathan Earle here in Portland who’s in a band called The Get Ahead, and he told me about this new label, Julian Records. “They seem to be looking for bands,” he said. “Why don’t you send it to them?” I had planned to just try and put it out digitally, but the Julian Records folks were into it, and took it from there.

That’s certainly fortuitous.

It’s very fortuitous, and the only way it was going to come out physically. I mean it’s not really cost-prohibitive to get an album out digitally. But this was very generous. Everybody seemed to think the songs were cool, and were like, “Don’t worry about it right now, let’s just see what happens.”

When last we spoke, we touched on your being medicated for bipolar disorder, and how that can sometimes stifle creativity in artists of all stripes. There’s a line in “Lithium Blues” that says, “You took the words right out of my mouth.” Is there a balance you find yourself having to strike between mental health and creativity?

Yeah, for sure. “Lithium Blues” might have been the first thing I wrote in prison that I was really happy with. I had to go back and figure out, okay, there’s an element of magic to creativity, but there’s a much bigger element of math to it. And I know how to make a song so that the pieces fit together. If I can trust myself enough to do that, the rest will come along in time. That’s kind of what that song is about.  We talked about this a little bit before, but I had almost resigned myself that [playing music professionally] was behind me, that maybe I could do some shows for fun from time to time. But over the course of making this record it became clear to me that I still know how to make a song work. Whether this is a thing I get to do on a larger scale remains to be seen, but I was able to prove to myself that I can still put a good song together, even when I’m not up for five straight days.  

An article in Glide mentioned that you’re training to be an addiction counselor.  Is there some sense of duty there? Have you become more zealous about “the program” and living clean? Maybe a little of both?

It’s a little of both. I have certainly become more zealous about making sure that people who deal with mental health and/or addiction issues – especially younger people – have someone they can talk to without feeling judged or dictated to.

The name of your band, as you mentioned, has political overtones, and there are some references to current events on the album. But you didn’t lose your mind and start bashing people over the head with your opinions, like so many artists have done since 2016. Why do so many folks make everything about politics?

When I wrote these songs, one of the things I tried really hard to do was invite people into a conversation rather than dictate to them how they should feel about any given thing.

Thank you.

I really feel that’s a far more effective way to engage an audience, if you want to have that conversation. I have never responded to anybody – even when I agree wholeheartedly with what they have to say – addressing whatever they imagine their audience to be, by dictating what their thoughts or beliefs should be. That just doesn’t work for me, and when I wrote these songs I tried really hard to stay away from that. I wanted to ground it in narrative and open-ended conversation.

Yeah. It’s there, but it’s not preachy, and it’s open to interpretation. And believe you me it’s refreshing. Because I didn’t vote for the sumbitch, but I’ve had about a bellyful of being preached to by guys whose music I otherwise love.

Switching gears, redemption is certainly a theme running through From a White Hotel. How cathartic was this whole process, and where are you on the whole making-amends thing that started when you got out of the joint?

Well, in terms of the process being restorative, the making of the record – playing music with other people, being able to work on songs – was really, really healthy.  And it was good to do it in a way that I didn’t have to feel like my life depended on whether people liked these songs. Obviously I wouldn’t have put the record out if I didn’t want people to hear the songs, but it’s not going to ruin my life if there’s a deafening thud when it’s released. I’m still gonna be married to this wonderful woman, I’m still gonna be helping people who struggle with mental health and addiction issues. At the end of the day, the act of making a record was rewarding in and of itself.

The amends thing? Well…the second you say you’re humble, you’re not.

Ha! I guess that’s true.

(Laughs) Yeah. I’ll just say I’m really proud of the work that I’ve done. I think I’m living out amends to people to whom I can’t make direct amends. I’ve worked really hard at doing a good job of that.

By the time this article runs you’ll have been married for about a week. Was Caitlin a part of your life before you went away? How big a part of your road back to normalcy has she been?  

She was a part of my life. She wasn’t my girlfriend at that time, but she was part of a close group of friends. My girlfriend at the time was named Tracey, and she called Caitlin that night and said, “You’re not gonna believe this, but he’s gone. He’s going to prison, so can you come get his stuff out of my apartment?” So Caitlin went and got all of my stuff and took it to Goodwill in East Los Angeles. A lot of us had drastic changes in our lives around that time but we all stayed in touch for the most part. And Cait and I stayed in touch while I was locked up, and she’s been so supportive. She was never judgmental. It’s been one of the most positive things in my life – if not the most positive – to have that person with me every step of the way.

On the title cut you say, “I ain’t no kind of outlaw, and I never claimed to be.” The wit and irony are strong in you, Kasey Anderson.

(Laughs) Well, you know, that’s true. I never tried to market any of the records we ever made as any sort of “outlaw country” thing…

Oh, wait! Gosh, see, there’s so much irony I missed the irony. I was thinking in the literal sense, in that you’ve done time and technically are an outlaw.

(Laughs) I technically am an outlaw, and that’s kind of the point I wanted to make. It’s not all those artists’ fault that they’re being marketed and trumpeted that way. But a lot of times I’ll read an article about some “outlaw country” artist and think, “Man, I’ve actually been an outlaw and it sucks!”

You know, smoking weed doesn’t make someone an outlaw. My mom’s 65 and she’ll smoke weed and watch Netflix. That doesn’t make someone a badass. Figure out what you mean by “outlaw.”

Speaking of outlaws: Everybody’s favorite badass, Steve Earle, gets a nod on “Clothes Off My Back,” right down to the title of his 1996 post-prison album.  I can understand why you could maybe not resist a tip of the ol’ driver’s cap; it’s just too perfect. But aren’t you afraid he might get a big head over it?

Um…no, I’m not. Because I think Steve knows how good he is. He’s far enough along in his career that he knows he’s revered by people who write songs.

Very diplomatic, by the way.

(Laughs) But the point of that song…Steve’s been sober for a long time now, and he’s done a really good job of living his life according to that. And so it’s an acknowledgement that I’m not anywhere near where this guy is as a songwriter, and certainly not in my recovery. But I’m certainly a lot better than I was five years ago.

Yeah. I was really hoping you’d rise to the bait there.

(Laughs) I can’t.

I know.

Also, just to clarify one comment: my issue with “Outlaw Country” isn’t with any of the artists, it’s with the folks who use it as an easy/“cool” way to market and categorize artists. I don’t know too many artists who are actively seeking that label. I know Sturgill and Aaron Lee Tasjan for sure have poked fun at it in the past. That kind of marketing and categorization, to me, draw attention away from how great artists like Sturgill and Margo Price and Elizabeth Cook and those folks are individually, and makes it into this one homogenous category. It’s counterproductive. Their work is great, so let it stand on its own.

Newlywed Kasey Anderson is on tour. Check dates here.

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From a White Hotel is available everywhere today, including Kasey's site.

Ride Easy, Vinnie Paul

by Robert Dean

A few years back, I got Pantera’s CFH logo tattooed on my arm. It’s about the size of a half dollar, small and unremarkable, and hidden amongst other splotches of colorful mayhem covering my arm. But for people like me, it symbolizes a brotherhood of riffs and spliffs, black tooths, and obscure references like “May Pop Tires.”

My CFH is a buddy tattoo I got with my best friend after too many Christmastime whiskeys. We hauled ass over to Austin’s Atomic Tattoo an hour before closing, slapped our $80 on the counter, and within minutes were branded Pantera fans for life – a gesture true to the spirit of the band and how they lived. On the way home, through our haze, we air guitared along to The Great Southern Trendkill, doing our best not to raise the ire of local law enforcement. 

At 13 years old, I was rabid for The Headbanger’s Ball. That WAS my Saturday night. When “I’m Broken” slammed across the screen with these four dudes in a room, hammering away at 100MPH, I was hooked and almost 24 years later, nothing’s changed. How could I take bands like Slayer seriously?

I was let deeper into their world watching Pantera Home Videos and loving how they weren’t stuffy and serious like Metallica or Megadeth. Instead of endless montages of boring tour life from the seats of their private jet, Pantera played pranks, drank like fish, and managed to shoot up a few hotel rooms with pellet guns and hold ad hoc boxing matches for $10 bills.

It’s not lost on me that I was lucky enough to have seen Pantera destroy Chicago six times. The shows were brutal, emotional, an exorcism of whatever garbage life threw at me. Pantera owned their musical carnival, chucking beers and paper mache joints into the crowd, but always ripping the seats out of the stadium without any bullshit laser beams or fancy smoke shows; it was four dudes who caught a lick

Pantera came along at the perfect time: they existed along the margins of grunge and metal, making friends with Slayer and Alice In Chains, raising beers and smoking forearm-sized hog legs along the way. Pantera was loud, unruly, vicious, ugly, but goddamn were they a dump truck of fun. 

Songs like “Fucking Hostile,” “Drag the Waters,” and “This Love” sounded pissed and delivered neck-breaking grooves. The guttural moans, the insane guitar playing, the devil may care attitude of a couple of drunken Texans and a New Orleans boy changed how people listen to heavy metal. In all, Pantera released five classic records and even recorded the music for an episode of SpongeBob SquarePants, because why not?

Through it all, Vinnie Paul was a meat and potatoes percussionist who laid in the pocket and stayed there, because when your brother is Dimebag Darrell, the best guitar player since Eddie Van Halen, and you’re sitting behind one of the greatest frontmen of all time, Phil Anselmo, you have to let them shine and Vinnie got the memo. 

But, it never mattered; Vinnie’s first love was crushing behind the kit. He let the legacy of the music do the talking for him, winning drumming awards, going platinum a few times and earning a few Grammy nominations. A pretty good haul for a guy who barely finished high school.

I’ll admit I lost track of Vinnie Paul in his post-Pantera life. I didn’t like Damageplan and Hell Yeah was not my thing. But Vinnie Paul was an icon, a man who changed how drummers played and more importantly, how they didn’t play. 

Wherever Vinnie Paul and Dimebag may be, those cowboys from hell can rest easy knowing punk kids with a shit attitudes are always going to hear the iconic riff of “Walk” and realize life finally makes sense. Rest easy, Vinnie. I hope the weed is good and the Crown Royal is plentiful on the other side. 

Anthony Bourdain Was My Hero and Now He's Gone

by Robert Dean

I always thought I’d meet Anthony Bourdain. I was convinced that as my career evolved, we’d cross paths. I’d get to be one of those writers he loved, we 'd sit there, sucking down Lone Star longnecks in a roadside diner somewhere in west Texas or we’d be on an adventure down in Melbourne talking about why we loved the Ramones and The Stooges, too. About why books matter, why writing is a hard life, not dissimilar to the pirate mentality of a line cook. 

Being a writer and someone obsessed with the kitchen, I assumed this relationship was a natural fit - game recognizing game. He was my idol. A beacon of hope that a punk rock loser could get a win. I don’t have many heroes, but Bourdain was a guy who’d battled his demons. As someone who fights depression, I thought I knew him. 

We’d opine about Pam Grier flicks like Coffy or just how badass Michael Caine was in Get Carter.  We’d order a round of Jameson’s and extol our love of Jim Harrison’s Legends of The Fall. We clink our shot glasses and then go on a bender of epic proportions. He’d dub me an heir to his throne, and we’d exchange texts and samples of whatever we were writing. 

I’d see him one day in my travels and we’d bond about Tikka masala or Old Towne Inn in Chicago. He’d ask a few questions about The Rolling Stones best record and I reply, “fuckin’ Exile on Mainstreet, of course.” And we’d be off to the races.  

It was a good fantasy, and now, it’ll forever remain only that – make-believe. 

I know things because of him. I envied him because he’d shared meals with some of humanity’s most exceptional people when in reality, he was one of the finest too. Anthony Bourdain wasn’t just a host. He was the guy who snuck in the back door, leaving a crack open for the rest of us. 

When people die, it rakes us over the emotional coals, challenging our sense of being, and purpose. Death dares us to ask: what does it mean to live genuinely? Can we carry on someone’s legacy, or did the memory of that person affect us as profoundly as we like to say on Facebook? 

Losing Anthony Bourdain is a knife in the gut. This one hurts. Bad. How could someone who'd realized the dream, who seemingly had the (now)-perfect experience, burn it like a slip of paper into the ether? We’ll never know went on inside of his head. That was Tony’s choice, as he stared into oblivion, locked away inside his five-star French hotel room. 

Folks from all over the world will muse about his greatness, his likability, his genuine nature, that he was an A+ original. They won’t be wrong. Every note and letter spent adoring his name will be a statement in truth: our species is better off for getting to know him over these last two decades. 

Every walk of life watched A Cook’s Journey, No Reservations, and Parts Unknown. We voyeuristically imagined ourselves drinking a cold beer in the jungles of Brazil or wandering on the streets of Tokyo through his adventures. We learned new things about people on the other side of planet, just as they learned about us, over here in TrumpLand.

Anthony Bourdain taught us why food is important, why it binds across the lines of reality and what we’re willing to fight for. All cultures, all people center life around food, and whether seated on the floor or at a table, its an experience we all share as a people. If there’s a universal truth we all know, it’s that food makes us less assholes. 

Even if you hate one another’s opinions, points of view, and guts, there is always the commonality of the meal. We’re drawn to the scent of flesh cooked over fire. Blame it on our hard-coded hunter/gatherer DNA, but it moves us, and Anthony Bourdain tapped into that. 

We tend to be a lot less mean when a medium rare steak served with glistening plate of waffle fries is dropped in our laps. Anthony Bourdain dared us to sit at life’s table, no matter how awkward the conversation, to find a solution, in spite of the gravity of the world. 

Before Kitchen Confidential, chefs were seen as these guys with folded arms in starched white jackets and big funny hats. We were let in on the secrets of the service industry, that everything wasn’t gleaming and pristine. Bourdain pulled the curtain back. He showed us the teeth of the pig, the hair plucked from the hide of the animal, and did so with a bloody, drug-induced irreverence. 

That book changed our relationship to the food we eat. Everything was less about how a plate comes out to the table, but how we see the mechanisms of the environment, which it was centered.

Before him, the Food Network was just knives hitting the cutting board, not a real peek into the industry of service. The Food Network didn’t know what to do with Anthony Bourdain. Instead of embracing the weird, they laid their chips on safe programming. It wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to see how bad they wanted to make up for their error in later years. After just one season, A Cook’s Journey was pulled. To the Travel Channel went Bourdain and the beginnings of an empire were created. 

Despite food being the pulse of No Reservations and Parts Unknown, the people are what made the body of work shine. Viewers into the world of Bourdain learned how to appreciate the far corners of the world, how the people in the streets, the dinner table or against the brass at the local pub, all wanted the same thing: an enjoyable life. 

Parts Unknown stood as the last real bastion of counterculture America in the mainstream. Bourdain created cinema-inspired television on a network, a feat that changed the face of CNN from talking head machine into a place of experience and stories. Anthony  Bourdain let the squares inside his orgy of life. 

While Bourdain hit the nicest of the nice, he also slummed – it wasn’t about the luxury of the room or the number of Michelin stars dangling from the name, it was about the experience. He had drinks made from spit and cow’s blood, he devoured fresh caught snapper on the beach, pulled from a man’s cooler who couldn’t speak a lick of English. The narrative never changed: love the people, and learn their secrets.

Bourdain and his Zero Point Zero crew made television that wasn’t a bunch of fat white guys guffawing over a local beer and burger joint. That pedestrian shit was for the birds. Instead, they saw their chance to make high art, to challenge viewers and take them on the journey.

The Heart of Darkness, the movies of Federico Fellini, the car chases of Steve McQueen, a penchant for crime and darkness, books, and music all permeated the landscape of the show. While competing travel shows opt for canned guitar riff music you could find in an elevator, bands like Queens of The Stone Age, and The Black Keys wanted their songs featured. Margo Price, Ume, The Sword, the godfather of punk, Iggy Pop all got to experience the world of Bourdain, and the result remained centered around the love of art, no matter the medium. 

The look and feel of his shows were never a hatchet job. The narration, the vibe, everything was poured over. Every shot mattered. The writing on the show was brilliant, honest and true. While Bourdain’s books and essays are testaments to his writing prowess, it was the guttural rawness of his scripts that ached, that begged the viewer to travel, to eat, to experience life. 

The honesty of the subjects he took on is what made people adore Anthony Bourdain. He took us to Montana, to Madagascar, to Moscow. We saw the streets of New Orleans, the intensity of South by Southwest, and we got to know the tragedies of Iran and Myanmar. When Anthony Bourdain visited West Virginia, he handled the opioid crisis with care and humanity. He showed his character, it wasn’t devastation porn, but a portrait of a hidden America.  

He was a brilliant writer, a storied cook, a former addict, and the guy you wanted to talk to at the party. And now he’s gone. 

Brian Allen Carr summed up Anthony Bourdain earlier. I’ll end there because as a writer, it’s genuine, respectful and stabs like a dagger. Goddamnit, Tony, we’re going to miss you. 

“Anthony Bourdain was Hunter Thompson, Fernand Point, and Studs Terkel wrapped up in one. He's the reason America eats at food trucks. He's the reason we take pictures of all our food. If you've Yelped, it's because of him. He was the most significant writer in recent memory.”

The Classic Lineup of Sepultura Needs to Reunite Already

by Robert Dean

With no disrespect to Derrick Green who’s been holding it down as lead singer for the last twenty years, it’s time. For the members of Soulfly who’ve endured whatever it is that Max Cavalera puts them through, you know the deal. You know where this is going, everyone does.

As the original members of Sepultura get older – some of them creeping over fifty, when is it finally going to be a time when they can reunite? If The Misfits can play shows with Danzig in a festival capacity, any “never gonna happen” song and dance is moot. Dudes, it’s time to cash in.

As I watched Max and his family band shuffle through the classic Nailbomb record the other night, this notion of the classic-era lineup of Sepultura being in a weird “I’m not touching you” vortex is frankly stupid. These Nailbomb shows, which were clearly facilitated by his kids, were cool, but more of a novelty than a milestone of the past; granted, Nailbomb was a great concept and good record, but against the greater Cavalera canon, it’s middle of the pack.

What struck me about the event was that my city, Austin, Texas didn’t show up. Generally, we’re a bought in musical community. Most shows have a decent turnout and the crowd is typically 100% singing along and giving the band on stage everything. But, the Nailbomb show was different. The bars weren’t moving and the merch guys weren’t doing laps. Soulfly is a national act, this wasn’t an ill-managed local gig with a bad promoter. The venue, Come and Take It Live was ½ empty.  

You’ve gotta be deep with early Sepultura to know these songs and show up with $30 on a Sunday night to want to see it live. I guess Austin and to a greater degree, San Antonio weren’t feeling this tour stop. That’s fine, not every show can be a sell out. Granted, we did have a mass shooting down the road earlier in the afternoon, so that could have factored in with people’s desire to not be trapped in a room with hundreds of other bodies.

When I saw Max and Igor do the Roots record a year prior, the room was ¾ full. But, the venue holds 500 bodies. You do the math. For an elder statesman of metal, that sucks. I have no idea what Sepultura draws these days. I can’t imagine it’s much more. 

The fact remains that if the four original members of Sepultura reunited, they’d be selling out rooms triple the size and have a healthy demand for festivals that earn enough money in one appearance that equate a whole year’s worth of club shows. At what point does ego parlay actual reality? 

All we want are the tracks from Roots, Chaos A.D., Beneath The Remains and Arise. Everything else is whatever. In Sepultura and Soulfly’s current incarnations, these tracks make up for at least ½ of their respective sets. There are even a collection of videos on YouTube comparing the band’s renditions of classic songs when they’re booked on the same festivals. 

Dudes, you’ve been getting asked for over twenty years when you’ll reunite with Max and Igor. It’s time to set egos aside and cash in. You’re getting older and soon, that fire will diminish. Let the people who love those iconic four records hear those songs live. We’ve seen them played by this incarnation or that, why not move forward past your bullshit hangups? 

There’s a legacy and demand that people crave. There’s no one saying you can’t continue the club shows with the regular lineups. Honestly, we don’t want new records from the classic lineup. The ship has sailed. We want an hour of the hits in exchange for our cash. Everyone wins. 

It’s time. How many tours can you justify playing for mediocre crowds who want to hear the same songs? Let us buy you dinner. 

It All Started With a Cassette Tape: Rest In Peace Daisy Berkowitz

by Robert Dean

When I was 13 years old, some friends of mine and I would ride our bikes faithfully to our local record shop, Discount Records every month like clockwork. We’d dodge runaway dogs, angry parents and high school kids in Camaro is trying to cream us. With every stroke of the chain around the sprocket, we would direct ourselves toward the sound of the Pixies cranked over a big system or listen to two guys argue about the supremacy of these dudes called Pantera vs. the legacy of Metallica.

Discount Record’s ceiling was lined with Dead Kennedy’s or Misfits shirts. There were cases full of colorful patches that could cover the back of your jean jacket. The place smelled like cheap incense, exactly like a good record store should. The racks were filled with not just swaths of music but broken down sub-genres so that the discerning buyer could shop with trust that their sonic needs were met.

The staff always had a display set up for the records they thought you should buy. It was heaven to me. I had a route of three different record shops I would hit, each of them offering a unique reason to visit. One had cheap punk records, while another was notorious for putting records out early and had a massive selection of bootlegs to choose from. Discount had Concrete Corner Music Samplers, which turned out to be a significant cornerstone of my developing musical tastes.

The Concrete Corner Music Sampler came out monthly and showcased the newest singles from bands in the heavy music community. These tapes were my religion. Because these tapes were free and I had to save every nickel and dime to buy anything cool, I cherished my copy like a junky on a score. Corrosion of Conformity, Sepultura, Danzig, Rollins Band, Primus, and countless others – I owe those tapes for showing me that world. There was one band in particular that struck a chord with me, that made me feel unsafe: Marilyn Manson.

As I played my tape, and I heard that evil whisper of “Goddamn your righteous hand” which bled into thePortrait of An American Family classic, Get Your Gunn, I thought Satan himself had landed into my cheap Sears stereo. The song launched into a twisted battering ram of carnival music laced with heavy guitars and a depraved sense of morality - it legitimately frightened me. 

I’d never heard anything like that before. Metal, punk, and some hip-hop were my world. I could listen to a Cannibal Corpse riff and not bat and eye, but this felt powerful and evil. I immediately was into Manson. I bought Portrait and was blown away by the record’s strange artwork, by the ferocity of the music, knowing that if my parents listened to what these guys were saying was straight out of Rosemary’s Baby, they’d be like, “pump the brakes, little dude.”

One of the things that caught me about the record was Daisy Berkowitz’s guitar playing, how it lent so much to the feel of the music, acting as a powerful thread that was equal parts sleaze, but also spooky. As a young guitar player, it was cool to finally be able to play some riffs that were easy but delivered in spades in the anger department.

I remember putting on the record and listening to Cake and Sodomy, the lyrics going over my head, but just knowing it was bad news. I had Manson stickers on my stuff, and I had a fuck you attitude that was one notch stronger thanks to these weirdoes from Florida.

Over the years, I’d stayed with Manson up until Mechanical Animals. The spirit of the music and the vibe had grown into something I couldn’t truck with. I enjoy David Bowie, but Marilyn Manson trying his hand at the Bowie thing felt dumb to me. Despite not being into the newer music, I’ve always had an affinity for the band, and will still give the new music a chance, despite rarely delivering for me these days. But, those first three records, those were a trip into a netherworld that will always remain as the golden canon for Marilyn Manson.

With the passing of Daisy Berkowitz from colon cancer, a small flood of memories came back tonight. I remembered being that kid in 1994 who fell in love with Daisy’s era of Manson. I remember his funky blue haircut, the orange flood pants, and Doc Martens. That was a good, simpler time.

I’m sad to see you go, Scott. I may not have known your work in later years, but for a while there, I blasted those original songs and sang them like a little creep with a bowl cut and a baggy Nirvana shirt. Rest easy and stay spooky. 

Dream Covers Volume I: Songs We Wanna Hear Get Covered ASAP

by Robert Dean

I think about cover tunes a lot. When a band decides to do a cover on a compilation record or add it to their live show, there’s a lot at stake. Is the band going to do the song straight up? Are they going to take some artistic liberties? Is the song the right choice for the band? There’s a lot to consider when playing someone else’s tune.

What got me thinking about this list was imagining if some of my favorite artists covered songs that in my head worked in concert with their existing sound and style. Cuz, let’s face it; there’s many times when a band picks a cover tune, and it’s complete trash. I’m constantly wondering what a band would sound like if they just tried this song, this one jam. 

Maybe I’m nuts, but here are my top songs I think artists should be covering right now:

Don’t Mess Around With Jim – Jim Croce, as covered by JD McPherson

There’s a familiar cadence of the groove between this tune and what JD continually pumps out. The breezy verses seem almost too perfect for McPherson’s solid rock and roll swagger. With the head bobbing tempo and slick feel, there’s so much soul and pure filth underneath this song, that JD McPherson could pull it out in spades. Plus, there’s a third verse riff where it’s just vocals and a super in the pocket drum beat that JD would be all over with that big, bright voice.

Remedy – The Black Crowes, as covered by Every Time I Die

Remedy is one of The Black Crowes sleaziest, blues-soaked tunes. There’s a sense of inherent vice and slick danger to this song. It’s full, breathy and is so slinky and over the top. Every Time I Die have recently been more of a metal band with a few mutated classic rock riffs thrown in, but should they ever wanna flex those muscles they were in the Hot Damn! Era, Remedy would be a great vocal fit, but also be a solid sing-along tune in respect to the chaos of their live shows. Because Every Time I Die have the musical chops to pull off a song like this, I feel like their ownership would be astounding.

Breathe – Pink Floyd, as covered by Jason Isbell & The 400 Unit

Now, this one might sound weird, but hear me out. Jason Isbell’s guitar playing is silky smooth. The backbone to Pink Floyd’s signature era was David Gilmour’s Stratocaster taking humans to new planets. Isbell is a songwriter, but he’s got some chops, too. Plus, The 400 Unit are quite the band, musically speaking. Coupled with Isbell’s ability to pour himself out and bring out those inner demons, he could harness something akin to the sounds of Dark Side Pink Floyd. When you think about it, it doesn’t seem so far-fetched. If you need further proof, listen to Isbell’s biggest bummer ever, When We Were Vampires – if you don’t hear lament and slow, steady blues, something is off with your ears.

Refugee – Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers, as covered by Lucero

Lucero has a back catalog of a million songs. Most of which, Ben Nichols can draw up from the well in an instant mentally. But, one in a while, Lucero will break out their cover of Jawbreaker’s Kiss The Bottle. But, as the band gets older and establishes a much more weighted in purist rock and roll sound, Refugee is a tune that fits Nichols swagger, but also works with how the band works as a cohesive unit. That wide open riff matched with the song’s signature call and response works well considering Lucero’s On My Way Downtown isn’t too far off style-wise.

They did cover "American Girl" already: ~Trailer

Magic Man – Heart, as covered by Nikki Lane

There’s something low-key magical about Nikki Lane. She is sultry without putting it on front street. She could deliver on Ann Wilson’s vocal runs. Songs like Highway Queen aren’t too thematically different than the Heart catalog. This one feels like a natural fit.

Mannish Boy – Muddy Waters, as covered by Chris Stapleton

Another odd choice, but it works when you think about it. Chris Stapleton has a gigantic, powerful voice. What’s the most memorable thing about Mannish Boy? It’s the riff and Muddy’s ownership of the room, challenging all comers to step to his vocal prowess. Stapleton could master that song as long as he kept it true to it’s roots and go country.

Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo (Heartbreaker) – The Rolling Stones, as covered by Jack White

If there’s anyone who can handle the instrumentation concerning the original sound and spirit, it’s Jack White. He’s already jammed Loving Cup with The Stones, so seeing him tackle one of their lesser known, but die-hard fan hit songs would be a perfect match. He’s got the gear, the ability to play all of Keith Richards riffs and he’s a complete purist who’d relish trying to offer that same fierce spirit that the original Goats Head Soup warrants.

I Never Loved a Man That Way That I Loved You – Aretha Franklin, as covered by Lady Gaga

Look, Lady Gaga is one of the three best singers in pop music. That’s not even up for debate.  It’s her, Beyonce and Adele. Yes, I’m aware there are other badass singers with a serious set of pipes. But, I’d like to see anyone else take the Pepsi Challenge on nailing such a soulful icon track. (If there’s someone you think could wreck shop on this one, shout it out: @Robert_Dean, I wanna know.)

Anyhow, one of the best songs of all time. I’d love to see a killer vocalist take the track on and show off their skills.

I’m Your Captain/Closer to Home – Grand Funk Railroad, as covered by Margo Price

Here’s the wild card. Margo Price is a beast. She’s so talented it’s unreal. If there was anyone who could destroy the all-time jam, it’s Margo Price. Her band is insane and just so tight. When she did those Prairie Home Companion with Jack White we saw a layered, classic Margo Price that could straight murder harmonies and let’s face it. She would wreck shop on this tune. Someone send her people an email. This one would be dope.

Agree or disagree, tweet us or leave a comment. What are your dream covers? We want to know. 

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.