Rubber City Review

Ever find yourself on a long drive in the middle of the night, searching for those perfect songs to keep you awake but not wired?

There I was, drinking a mocha-infused Starbucks cocktail, almost enjoying the sound of my tires hitting the grooves on the right side of the road. I’d driven myself nuts listening to an endless be-bop solo by some journeyman jazzbo… I actually thought about staying on the shoulder and changing speeds to approximate a basic melody.

Then I decided to reset my iPod (without taking my eyes off the road, of course), and up pops a song by Ted Hawkins, from his final album, “The Next Hundred Years.” Slowly, I start moving into an actual lane on the highway. And I finally get the sense that this late-night drive might turn into something more profound, maybe even life-affirming.

Hawkins’ incredible life has been well-documented elsewhere, but I’ll give you the basics: Born in Biloxi, Mississippi, in 1936 – and raised under conditions that are best described as abject poverty… A troubled youth who was sent to reform school when he was 13, where he was encouraged to sing and perform by the superintendent’s wife and inspired when New Orleans piano legend Professor Longhair played for the kids… A drifter and heroin addict who spent a fair amount of time in prison… A street performer most of his life – and mostly in Venice Beach, California, where he probably spent many nights sleeping on the beach… A black man who seemed most comfortable singing his own brand of folk and country music… A rare talent who was criminally overlooked in his own country – even when his first album garnered a 5-star review in Rolling Stone – but gained fame and recognition in Europe… And finally, a major-label artist who passed away only a few months after he finished his debut album on Geffen Records.

“The Next Hundred Years” isn’t even widely viewed as his best album. Allmusic.com singles out “a plodding band unwisely inserted behind Hawkins that tends to distract rather than enhance his impassioned vocals and rich acoustic guitar strumming.” Apparently, Hawkins wasn’t too crazy about the album himself and felt his voice and guitar didn’t need any help at all, thank you. I find it to be a great listen – in a crisply produced, Chris Isaak sort of way. It captures Hawkins’ deeply soulful voice in a number of different settings, from a cappella gospel to honky tonk. And, like I said, it’s the perfect soundtrack for a long journey – searching yet dead certain… like the feeling of not knowing what’s around the corner, but welcoming every turn.

I’d also be hard-pressed to describe the band, including ace drummer Jim Keltner, as “plodding.” The guitar playing on the opening cut alone, by Chris Bruce, includes some of the tastiest fills I’ve heard outside of a Bakersfield studio. And Hawkins’ gritty voice – well-worn from years of exposure to windswept beaches – is a thing of beauty: Strange Conversation

As another critic pointed out, Hawkins’ lyrics are virtually metaphor-free. Case in point – the opening lines to The Good And The Bad: “Livin’ is good when you have someone to live with; laughter is bad when there’s no one there to share it with; talkin’ is bad if you’ve got no one to talk to; dyin’ is good when the one you love grow tired of you.” Although some may find these sentiments a little awkward and confessional, I admire the purity of expression in Hawkins’ songs. There’s something very powerful about simple words from an honest and innocent man, especially when he’s reaching out to a good woman… Green Eyed Girl

The song Biloxi seems to drift into jam-band territory – which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, because the form could use a swift kick in the ass. Remember Blind Melon’s left-field hit No Rain, that goofy little tune (with an even goofier video) that you couldn’t pry out of your head back in the ‘90s? In a more perfect world, that number would never see the light of day, and we’d still be talking about the summer we spent listening to Biloxi. Of course, most radio hits don’t end with hair-raising exhortations like this one… Biloxi

Radio also isn’t kind to pure, unbridled honky tonk, and there are two first-rate examples on “The Next Hundred Years.” A few posts back, we featured Hawkins’ brilliant version of a Webb Pierce hit from 1953, There Stands The Glass. A Hawkins original called Afraid also gets the full-band honky tonk treatment, with tasty pedal steel by Greg Leisz. I like how Hawkins kicks the band up a notch by yelling “play that thing!” Seems like he was born to sing this music. He certainly nails this material better than your standard Nashville country star. Afraid

Hawkins was the kind of artist who evoked strong feelings among his fans. Some were drawn in by the backstory of an artist who beat the odds – most notably, homelessness and heroin addiction. Others were under the spell of his highly personal songwriting and stunning voice. Many of them preferred Hawkins alone with his guitar, and I’m sure these fans felt a little cheated by “The Next Hundred Years”… until they got to the last number. It’s a cover of John Fogerty’s Long As I Can See The Light, and Hawkins delivers the opening by himself – without his guitar. Hard to imagine a better ending to a remarkable major-label debut. Long As I Can See The Light

With a positive review from Rolling Stone under his belt (“…a passionate collection of gospel, soul, country and blues songs about mortality, perseverance and transcendence…”) and gigs lined up in nice theaters, Hawkins finally tasted the success that had eluded him for so long. But it only lasted a brief moment in time. He died of a stroke on the first day of January, 1995 – only nine months after the release of “The Next Hundred Years.” The title now seems a little cruel, but I’m guessing his legacy will survive into the next millennium.

Ted Hawkins on video: Typically, the commentary you find on YouTube isn’t very useful. Here’s an exception, from “varuscelli.” I’ll just shut up and run it in its entirety:

“An abbreviated live video version of Ted Hawkins’ rendition of There Stands the Glass (from the ‘Amazing Grace’ video documentary, 1995).

“The ‘Amazing Grace’ video is apparently available only on VHS tape, and copies can be found in various place on the internet (for instance, eBay). Why the video has not been converted to a digital format for re-release/sale/distribution to the public is a mystery. The ‘Amazing Grace’ video, released the year of Ted Hawkins’ death (1995) features numerous songs by Hawkins interspersed with documentary-style commentary from Hawkins himself and a number of other musicians, family members, and music industry associates.

“Most of the song performances on the VHS tape are either partial songs (shortened for the documentary) or songs partially ‘interrupted’ by blended-in bits of commentary, but a handful of the songs are nearly uninterrupted — as with this shortened version of ‘There Stands the Glass.’

“There seems to be little video footage of Hawkins performing anywhere, which is a shame for both those who never saw him in person and those who would like to somehow see him again. The ‘Amazing Grace’ video is one of the few sources for a look at Hawkins performing both on stage and on the street (busker-style performances). The video is also full of commentary about Hawkins’ life, so is of interest to Hawkins fans on many levels. Running time for ‘Amazing Grace’ is just over 60 minutes, and true Hawkins fans will likely be so mesmerized by the video that they’ll have hard time taking their eyes from the screen while viewing it the first time.”

Our new Fly Fishing Correspondent, Kevin Swan, reels in some of his favorite Ry Cooder moments from the “pre-Buena Vista Social Club” era:

When Rolling Stone magazine published their “100 Greatest Guitarists” in 2003, there were few surprises in the top ten, with one exception: the enigmatic Ryland Peter Cooder. Hand-picked at age 18 to help solidify Captain Beefheart’s Magic Band, Cooder’s blues-based slide work was already highly prized in the Los Angeles studio scene. (Ry’s professional work ethic clashed with Beefheart’s unpredictable behavior, finally dissolving in chaos at a warm-up show for their scheduled appearance at 1967’s Monterey Pop Festival, when Beefheart refused to sing, then walked, or fell, off the back of the stage.) The final track of “Safe As Milk,” Autumn’s Child seems to mimic their artistic denouement: Cooder’s workmanlike guitar at odds with the throaty, possessed, anti-syncopation Beefheart, not to mention Dr. Stanley J. Hoffman’s wandering theremin: Autumn’s Child/Captain Beefheart with Ry Cooder

Through the late ‘60s Cooder kept a full session plate, working with and enhancing a range of artists: The Everly Brothers, Buffy St. Marie (!), The Monkees (!!), Pat Boone (!!!) and some incredible work with the Rolling Stones. (If you want to start a musicians’ fistfight, try, “Who played that amazing slide guitar on Let It Bleed?” I say an uncredited Cooder, even if the liner notes disagree.) Let It Bleed/The Rolling Stones (with Ry?)

In 1970 Cooder’s solo career began with his eponymous album. Hard to imagine now, but this type of raw, roots-based music was nearly unheard of 40 years ago; I doubt much made it out over the airwaves, beyond the odd college station. Sleepy John Estes’ Goin’ to Brownsville blends his mandolin, electric and slide guitars (although his vocals are, to me, still an “acquired taste”): Goin’ to Brownsville

In 1971, “Into the Purple Valley” crystallizes Cooder’s love of dust-bowl America, with Woody Guthrie, Leadbelly and Joseph Spence molded into a style evocative of a Depression-era hobo camp. With Hey Porter, the Johnny Cash train-track rhythm is deconstructed, Cooder lengthening and punctuating the time signature with his stuttering mandolin: Hey Porter

Slide guitar lends itself well to distinctive, signature styles. Duane Allman’s death in late 1971 took from us one of the best at that craft. His stinging bottleneck leads on “Blind Willie” McTell’s Statesboro Blues are among the most revered among slide-guitar aficionados. Cooder showcases his own unique touch on slide with another McTell song, Married Man’s a Fool. It’s from 1974′s “Paradise and Lunch,” which reveals even more of Cooder’s vast influences – from Burt Bacharach to Arthur Blake to Bobby Womack. (Tattler, a Washington Phillips reinvention, reveals a growing maturity and confidence and was covered by Linda Ronstadt on one of her mega-mega-selling albums.) Married Man’s a Fool

Just when the A&R guys thought they had singer-songwriter Cooder pegged as an American roots guy, 1976’s “Chicken Skin Music” threw a curve. Featuring Tex-Mex with Flaco Jimenez, then slack-key Hawaiian guitar with Gabby Pahinui, it was one of many of his collaborations that spanned musical genres. (When asked for definitive Cooder recordings, I usually respond, “Oh, get about 20 or so of his albums, that should do it.”) Chloe

The first of his albums to really take my breath away, though, was simply called “Jazz.” (A year earlier, my son was born; I named him Ryland. Django seemed a bit too much.) Drawing from early twentieth-century American jazz and blues, with traditional brass and wind backing, it re-visits Tin Pan Alley and the great bands and songwriters of the era. I’ve read that Cooder found the final recording too sterile and has distanced himself from it, but I find it unique in its scope. Although “Jazz” has been long out of print, you can find audio samples and a few copies for sale here.

Not fully satisfied with sessions, solo work and touring, Cooder scored dozens of movies, establishing an especially lasting bond with director Wim Wenders. For “Paris, Texas,” Cooder presents his doctoral dissertation on Blind Willie Johnson`s Dark Was the Night theme with spare, haunting precision. It is more than mere incidental music for the movie crowd, standing on its own with a rare depth of emotion: Paris, Texas

The Magic Band experience now far behind him, Cooder joined John Hiatt, Nick Lowe and Jim Keltner to form the band Little Village in 1992, named after a Sonny Boy Williamson studio rant. What started out as Hiatt’s backing band rather than a musical collective, it boasted Lowe on bass as well as great session drummer Keltner, a long-time Cooder collaborator. Ry must have been in heaven with Keltner at the kit: his style of drumming, sounding very loose but with a laser-like precision, is similar to Cooder’s playing – relaxed… with the confidence that comes from decades of hard work:

In the early ’90s Cooder presented two more interesting “world music” collaborations. V.M. Bhatt (with Ry’s son Joachim on percussion) plays the Hindustani slide guitar on the Grammy-winner “A Meeting By The River,” from 1993. A year later, Cooder played on and produced Ali Farka Toure’s “Talking Timbuktu,” a pan-African musical excursion that floats down the rivers of Mali and up the Mississippi. (Keltner once again held court on the drums.) Those musical roots run centuries and continents deep. They also remain alive and vibrant, with the help of singular artists like Ry Cooder.

R.I.P., Ali Farka Toure… This is amazing — look no further for the roots of John Lee Hooker.