Rubber City Review

Consider this the final installment in our Substance Abuse Trilogy (I’ll blame another brutal winter in the Rubber City):

Athens, Ohio, was an interesting place back in the late-Seventies. I was there earning a Journalism degree from Ohio University after spending a couple of aimless years without a major at Miami University. Nothing against the “Yale of the Midwest”… it was just an unsettling experience going to a school where the kids were more conservative than my own parents.

Athens was another story altogether. At the time, Ohio’s minimum drinking age was 18, and the town had plenty of bars to take advantage of it. In fact, almost every other structure uptown was a bar, and virtually every demographic had its own drinking establishment – hipsters, townies, stoners, nerds, foreign students, East Coasters… I think the handful of jocks who mistakenly enrolled at OU hung out at a wet bar in someone’s basement. Greek life also was an afterthought on a campus that resembled a Gold Rush mining town.

They even sold beer at the student center, which was jammed with kids every Friday starting around Noon. Any faculty member who scheduled a class on Friday afternoon was quickly banned from campus, never to be seen again.

My sister Mary lived outside of Athens with her husband, Chuck, in a little town called The Plains… very charming. I’d go there often for wonderful home-cooked meals and some mild ball-busting from Chuck, who seemed to revel in the fact that I was just as scatter-brained as his wife. Chuck’s cousin, Ned, ran the best restaurant in town, Chiccalini’s – sort of a hangout for older transplants from the East Coast (Chuck and Ned were from Teaneck, NJ). One of the bartenders turned me on to the music of Django Reinhardt. I was deeply moved. I even fantasized about putting together my own Hot Club of Athens and playing every week at Ned’s joint, then I realized I’d never be able to play like Django. But I digress…

Amazingly, I managed to maintain a GPA of three-point-something (I was never good at math) – maybe even miraculous when you consider all the distractions uptown and my part-time job at the city’s cultural hub, School Kids Records. It was a step up from my previous gig as a delivery guy for a beer carry-out. That’s right, it was perfectly acceptable to bring cut-rate cases of Busch directly to students who were either too lazy or drunk to make the short walk uptown. I’m surprised they didn’t serve drinks at orientation.

We moved mountains of vinyl at School Kids. But we didn’t sell a lot of records to average students, if it were possible to define such a group at OU. The ones from New York and New Jersey tended to have more disposable income than those of us who were fleeing economic ruin in Northeast Ohio. But the biggest spenders at School Kids, by a large margin, were wily desperadoes from the hills and hollers south of town – the Meigs County Varmints.

Law enforcement was relatively lax in this little corner of Appalachia, where the Varmints cultivated the number one cash crop in Meigs County, marijuana. And they had become quite skilled at using the area’s rugged terrain as cover for their very profitable farming enterprise. A few owned small planes to move product out of state. All of them had big wads of cash, ready to spend at our humble establishment.

One Varmint was a sweet guy who seemed genuinely interested in broadening his taste in music. He popped in the store one day while I was playing the first album by the David Grisman Quintet – an organic melding of bluegrass and gypsy-influenced jazz that showcased Grisman’s prodigious chops on mandolin and the amazing Tony Rice on guitar. Here’s a little taste… Dawg’s Rag/David Grisman Quintet

“What the hell is this and where do I find it,” the Varmint asked, sensing that our broad categories of rock, country, blues and jazz were virtually useless with Grisman. I confessed that I brought it to the store from my own collection, mainly because I was sick of listening to Dan Fogelberg for eight hours straight (back then, big-selling albums were returned in droves for any number of reasons… I had about three crates of Fogelberg at my feet – evidence of the record industry’s eventual demise).

“I’ll buy it from you,” he said, without actually opening the door to any kind of meaningful negotiation. I faced an interesting dilemma – should I do a side deal with a man who probably has several firearms concealed on his person, and thus part with a hard-to-find album I’d grown quite fond of? Or politely tell him that it’s not for sale?

“Sure,” I quickly replied, expecting little in return. He tossed me an extra twenty and thanked me profusely as he took the Quintet and about two dozen other albums with him into the night.

Several months went by before I could find another copy of the album. But I also had a few bucks left over to go next door – the bar on the left, as opposed to the one on the right – and share a round or three with my friends.

I often wondered what life was like on Reefer Ranch, with a small Cessna in a nearby field and a few crusty old farmhands sitting around the fire, listening to Grisman and Rice jam on Opus 57 and Swing 51. Maybe they piped the Quintet into the barn, where barefoot women and children packed the final product into massive baggies. Or, they simply flew in Grisman and friends to play at the company picnic.

As I was nearing the end of my time in Athens, the authorities in Meigs County finally decided to get tough with the Varmints. Helicopters with infrared cameras were used to find the larger crops; specially trained dogs were sent into the hills and hollers to track down smaller stashes. A reporter from the Athens Messenger asked my boss at School Kids if “Operation Buzzkill” would have any impact on his business. His response was clear and concise: “Let’s see, you’re taking about $10 million out of the local economy… the next biggest source of revenue is lunch money… what the fuck do you think is going to happen?”

I can’t recall what actually ended up in the paper, but it wasn’t difficult for me to figure out the math on that one.

Today, someone’s selling posters and costumes at the former home of School Kids Records… R.I.P.

David Grisman, Tony Rice and fiddle player Mark O’Connor on video – tearing up a tune from Grisman’s first album…

Think of the greats in any musical genre, and you’re usually thinking of a signature sound that gives the artist a distinct presence or personality.

In jazz, it’s the difference between Dexter Gordon’s sly, behind-the-beat phrasing and John Coltrane’s timeless, searching wail.  In blues, T-Bone Walker and Magic Sam shared a common language but still seemed worlds apart, and I’d have a hard time picturing them together on the same stage.

Rare is the artist who dominates two separate genres with two radically different approaches to playing.  Exhibit A: the freakishly talented Miles Davis, who made the transition from peerless balladeer to jazz-funk pioneer.  Exhibit B: Clarence White…

Clarence White?

Yes, White is another one of those criminally ignored figures in music – a former child prodigy who revolutionized bluegrass flatpicking and went on to create a whole new vocabulary for rock guitarists.  This post looks at his unique genius from two different angles.  I’ll let Brother James, who has flatpicked his way through several north Florida bluegrass bands, comment on White’s innovative approach to his acoustic instrument of choice, the Martin D-28.  And the Rubber City’s Dan Auerbach of The Black Keys will talk about White’s other musical legacy – as a rock guitar trailblazer.

For a better appreciation of what Clarence White was able to accomplish, consider an unrivaled virtuoso like Belgian guitarist Django Reinhardt.  As you can hear from this next sample, Reinhardt couldn’t disguise his trademark sound when he made the switch from acoustic to electric guitar.  In fact, he barely altered his touch and delivery.  The sample starts with Django on acoustic and ends with one of his later performances on electric… Night and Day/Django Reinhardt (acoustic/electric)

White, on the other hand, completely transformed his basic style and approach when he moved from acoustic to electric.  In this first sample, a 20-year-old White displays his fully formed mastery of the acoustic guitar… I Am A Pilgrim/The Kentucky Colonels

On this next cut, you’ll hear what sounds like Neil Young’s more proficient cousin rocking out with an amped-up pedal steel… It’s actually White on his “B-Bender” guitar, which was specially rigged with pulleys and levers to bend the B note when he pulled down on the guitar’s neck.  And it’s from a live recording of White with The Byrds, circa 1971: Lover of the Bayou/The Byrds with Clarence White

You can argue about which Clarence you prefer – but there’s no doubt that White advanced the language of his instrument in two very different ways.

A little background… Born in 1944, Clarence White moved with his family from his hometown of Lewiston, Maine, to Burbank, California, when he was 10 years old.  He soon gained a reputation as a jaw-dropping instrumentalist, playing acoustic guitar with his brothers Roland and Eric in a bluegrass outfit called The Three Country Boys.  One early fan was Andy Griffith – that’s right, the Mayberry Man… and the Three Country Boys soon found themselves guesting on one of TV’s highest-rated shows.  Here’s a clip of Clarence and the Boys jamming with Andy:

The Three Country Boys eventually morphed into the Kentucky Colonels, who staked their claim as a groundbreaking and popular act (at least by bluegrass standards… in other words, small clubs filled with 70-80 enthusiastic fans).  The band boasted several top-notch instrumentalists, including the great fiddle player Scotty Stoneman and Clarence’s brother Roland on mandolin.  But aspiring guitar players – bluegrass and otherwise – were completely knocked out by Clarence’s blazing runs on his 1935 Martin D-28.

“The Kentucky Colonels’ ‘Appalachian Swing’ album was already seven years old when I first heard it, and I immediately got obsessed with Clarence’s acoustic style of playing,” James said.  ”It was his idiosyncratic sense of timing that separated him from his mentor, Doc Watson.”

As mandolin legend David Grisman points out (in the liner notes to White’s “33 Acoustic Guitar Instrumentals”): “When we used to do ‘Bury Me Beneath the Willow,’ he would play the guitar part a whole quarter of a measure off.  He was into screwing with time, but in a very accurate way so that you knew what he meant.”

Here’s the tune Grisman is describing… Bury Me Beneath the Willow/Clarence White

“One thing that puzzled me about Clarence’s innovation is that it didn’t seem to come from anywhere,” James said.  ”Doc Watson didn’t play like that.  And although it’s often mentioned that he listened to Django Reinhardt, I don’t hear so much of that in his playing.  Then I read a quote from Byrds bassist Chris Hillman saying he ‘probably’ got it from Bahamian guitarist Joseph Spence.  I don’t know if Hillman was speaking from experience, but it makes perfect sense.  Spence’s wildly syncopated playing, with its bizarre, unexpected accents, is very similar to what Clarence was doing.”  Case in point… Don’t Take Everybody To Be Your Friend/Joseph Spence

I think it’s safe to say that Clarence was the very definition of a “musician’s musician.”  In some circles – mainly, bluegrass and alternative country pickers – you can simply say “Clarence” and everyone knows who you’re talking about.  From a performance standpoint, he showed little flash or showmanship.  In fact, his stoic stage presence seemed to say “I’m just the guitar player, here to serve the song.”  And he maintained this stoicism throughout his career, even while playing in front of whacked-out rock fans at the Fillmore.

White began experimenting with the electric guitar during the latter part of his stint with the Kentucky Colonels, and he stuck with it after the band fell apart in 1965.  This led to the next significant stage of Clarence’s career – doing session work for a host of acts that were part of the West Coast’s quickly evolving country music scene.  “Nashville West” was the term used to describe California’s answer to the dominant sound of country music in the early- to mid-Sixties – and it was also the name of a band that White joined to play assorted dives and honky-tonks in El Monte and other towns around Los Angeles.

By then, Bakersfield had become the Western hub of country music – where Merle Haggard and Buck Owens developed a tougher, more visceral alternative to the “countrypolitan” sound that Nashville had perfected.  Owens even made an impression on the Beatles, who covered Act Naturally with a winning vocal by Ringo, and Owens returned the favor by incorporating some Beatle-esque flourishes into his own sound.

White did a fair amount of studio work in Bakersfield, but I wouldn’t mistake him for Roy Nichols – the guitarist of choice for Merle Haggard… If you’re not familiar with the Bakersfield Sound, here’s a textbook example – the biting intro to Merle’s The Bottle Let Me Down (Nichols follows the pedal steel)… The Bottle Let Me Down/Merle Haggard

Although just as far from mid-Sixties Nashville, White’s playing was more open and experimental than Nichols’ hard twang.  This next tune was recorded in 1968 at the El Monte nightclub that gave White’s band its name – it shows just how far outside Clarence was willing to take his sound in a live setting: Ode to Billy Joe/Nashville West

Of course he had to pay the bills, too.  So he logged countless hours doing studio sessions for West Coast artists like Gene Clark and the Gosdin Brothers.  Here’s a number that also was covered by Owens’ guitarist Don Rich… It’s from an uneven but entertaining collection of White’s studio work – ”Tuff and Stringy Sessions: 1966-1968″: Buckaroo/Clarence White

White began playing with The Byrds in 1966, initially in the role of studio mercenary.  In fact, he contributed to three albums – most significantly, adding some fine string-bending to several cuts on the classic “Sweetheart of the Rodeo” – before he was asked to join the band in 1968 following the departure of vocalist Gram Parsons and multi-instrumentalist/original member Chris Hillman (an old friend of White’s).

“For me, it was all about the B-Bender,” said Auerbach.  “No one else had even thought of doing it – taking a Telecaster and making it sound like a pedal steel – until Clarence and Gene Parsons (The Byrds’ drummer) got together.  I think Clarence had the idea and Parsons came up with the functionality, which included using banjo tuners to bend a few other strings.

“At the time, a lot of rockers were moving toward country – and Clarence was already completely immersed in hard country and bluegrass.  He simply took those elements and incorporated them into rock ‘n roll, and it totally blew people’s minds… still does,” Dan added.

“The Byrds Live at the Fillmore West (February 1969)” may not be a favorite among rock critics, but it’s certainly one of Dan’s most treasured discs.  “I could barely listen to studio tracks by The Byrds after hearing ‘Fillmore West,’” Dan says.  “Even Clarence’s studio work sounds too polished compared to the Fillmore stuff.  I think it showcases Clarence’s very best playing on the electric.  Roger McGuinn is basically recycling Dylan on the 12-string – which ain’t bad, because he’s playing solid rhythm.  But Clarence and Parsons are completely locked in and making each other sound better than ever.  Parsons’ playing is muscular, but real country too.  It’s like they were both leading the same revolution, because they came from country but really understood how to play rock ‘n roll.”

Listen to how Clarence plays fills around McGuinn’s vocals in this medley of The Byrds’ hits (first Turn! Turn! Turn!, then Mr. Tamborine Man, then Eight Miles High): Medley: Turn! Turn! Turn/The Byrds with Clarence White

The album moves seamlessly between these rockers and almost hard-core honky tonk, where Clarence and Parsons really get to strut their stuff: Drug Store Truck Drivin’ Man/The Byrds with Clarence White

White played with The Byrds until they broke up in 1973.  But even before he left the band, his playing began to come full circle as he returned to his bluegrass roots.  You can especially hear it in the title song and Bristol Steam Convention Blues from The Byrds’ last album, “Farther Along,” released in 1971.  This next cut shows that White also was no slouch as a singer – he had a distinct and soulful delivery (in a nasal, Dylanesque sort of way) that worked well in harmonies with his bandmates in The Byrds as well as with his brother Roland… Farther Along/The Byrds

Two years later, White recorded a few songs with bluegrass standouts David Grisman (mandolin), Richard Greene (fiddle). Bill Keith (banjo) and Peter Rowan (vocals/guitar).  These recordings, under the name “Muleskinner,” are mostly traditional bluegrass in the Bill Monroe vein.

“I spent a couple of years trying to unlock the secrets of Appalachian Swing when the newly formed Muleskinner band appeared on TV, and I was amazed,” James said.  ”Clarence had refined his style, using a flatpick and two fingers instead of just a flatpick, and playing fewer notes, just the essential ones.  His unique timing was still there, but even more complex and quirky.  It was brilliant… sent me right back to the drawing board.  I can only imagine what he might be doing today.”

James especially likes Clarence’s solo on this straight-ahead bluegrass number from Muleskinner: Dark Hollow/Muleskinner

White left us way too soon.  He was killed by a drunk driver on July 15, 1973, while loading equipment into a van parked outside of a Los Angeles night club.  He’d just finished a reunion gig with his brother Roland and other members of the Kentucky Colonels.

Here’s a little taste of what could have been – a long-lost recording of the White Brothers on tour in Sweden, 1973.  In a way, this mini-tour was a reunion of White’s very first band, The Three Country Boys, as brothers Roland and Eric were part of the lineup billed as “The New Kentucky Colonels” (banjo player Bill Keith made it a quartet).  Full circle indeed… New River Train/The White Brothers: Live in Sweden, 1973

More Clarence on video… Here’s a great artifact from the Sixties – Clarence and The Byrds playing on “Playboy After Dark.”  Dig the black dude boogalooing up front!

And here’s a video from 1969 – from Earl Scruggs’ “Family & Friends Festival of Music” – where Scruggs and his hippie friends eventually get around to playing the same tune: