On the heels of a breakout
album and worldwide tour, Sarah Shook and The Disarmers show no sign of letting
up heading into 2019. Years, the band’s first record on the Bloodshot label,
grabbed critical acclaim and drew packed club shows.
There’s a reason for it. It
goes beyond the brassy, sassy – vulnerable and badass at the same time –
lyrics. It’s country, but way too rock and roll. Who can’t love “Good As Gold?”
It’s the best of early 1980s
rockabilly, by the only woman cool enough to date Robert Gordon. It’s smoky,
sexy rocking country. And Sarah Shook is keeping on.
In advance of hitting the
road with a new slate of shows, they’re dropping a 7”
single, “The Way She Looked At You”/ “Devil May Care.”
Sarah Shook and the Disarmers
will be back on tour for a bit after Christmas,
then in earnest after the first of the year.
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Sarah Shook & the Disarmers
Release a New 7”,
Announce Early 2019 Tour Dates
*Apple Music Features the Digital Exclusive of Two New Songs
Honest to a fault and as foul-mouthed as a drunken sailor, she's a nonconforming spitfire
who's proud of not fitting in with mainstream country music. – Rolling Stone
With Sarah Shook in the mix, hard core country is alive and well, and dangerous as all get
out. – No Depression
After a banner year – including the release of their widely acclaimed second album Years
and subsequent sold-out shows from coast to coast and overseas –
Sarah Shook & the Disarmers are ending 2018 with a bang by announcing today’s
release of a 7” and a run of tour dates for early 2019.
The 7” includes two new songs, “The Way She Looked At You” b/w “Devil May Care,” that
were recorded at Manifold Recording in Pittsboro, NC during the same session that produced
Years. Apple Music is currently featuring the digital release in exclusivity (LINK)
until December 4th, when it will be released on all other digital platforms. Physical copies are
available now at Bloodshotrecords.com (LINK).
The band also announced newly confirmed U.S. tour dates in January, February, and March,
and a couple solo dates for Sarah in Mexico. Those can be found here or below in full.
Sarah Shook solo performances:
1/12 and 1/13/2019 – Trópico de Cancer – Calle Benito Juárez, Todos Santos, Mexico
Sarah Shook & the Disarmers:
1/16 – WDVX's Tennessee Shines at Jig and Reel – Knoxville, TN (tickets)
1/17 – Southgate House Revival – Newport, KY (tickets)
1/18 – Lincoln Hall / Tomorrow Never Knows Festival – Chicago, IL (tickets)
1/19 – Uptown Grill – Lasalle, IL (tickets)
1/20 – Rose Music Hall – Columbia, MO (tickets)
1/21 – Mercury Lounge – Tulsa, OK
1/22 – AAC Live – Fort Smith, AR
1/23 – Fort Worth Live – Fort Worth, TX
1/24 – Rustic Tap – Austin, TX (tickets)
1/25 – The Lonesome Rose – San Antonio, TX (tickets)
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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 HighwayQueen 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.
