Rubber City Review

The Storey Sisters in Cleveland, April 1958 (Photos by Tommy Edwards)

(Listen to Eddie Cochran while you read.)

Start with a good mystery. Then throw in some intimate and revealing images from the early years of rock ‘n roll. Therein lies the beauty of “1950s Radio in Color: The Lost Photographs of Cleveland Deejay Tommy Edwards” – a spellbinding book by songwriter, musician and music historian Christopher Kennedy, as well as a new exhibit at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum that runs through the summer.

The story behind these photographs combines a little intrigue with a lot of luck. Eight years ago, Kennedy began searching for one of the Holy Grails of rock – a movie short called “The Pied Piper of Cleveland” that includes early (pre-fame) footage of Elvis Presley taken during his first tour outside of the south. The movie was produced by Cleveland DJ Bill Randle as a way to document his own role in promoting rock ‘n roll.

Randle was an intense rival of fellow DJ Edwards, another noteworthy figure in the Cleveland music scene (both Randle and Edwards plied their trade at WERE-AM). But Randle had the good sense to put competitive jealousies aside and feature Edwards in the film as the first DJ in Cleveland to recognize Presley’s unique talents.

As Kennedy dug deeper into the history of the film (which remains missing), he became more interested in Edwards’ reputation as a devoted chronicler of all things rock ‘n roll. First of all, Edwards’ vivid photos – compiled in Kennedy’s book along with the author’s wry commentary – provide an inside look at some of the early stars of rock, country, hillbilly and pop as they made their career-building pilgrimages to WERE and Cleveland-area nightclubs. Second, he created a weekly, two-page newsletter that provides historical context to these images and the music business in general during the mid- to late-‘50s. Here’s a taste from the “T.E. Newsletter” (dated Sept. 2, 1955):

“Eileen Rodgers opens at the Alpine Village here on the 5th —– Johnny Van does the Cabin Club here this weekend to be followed by Laurie Anders —– Nat Cole’s next is FORGIVE MY HEART —– Gene Davis now working in Dayton — formerly here in Cleveland and Akron —- My new hobby is taking pictures of all stars who come in to visit on the show —– R & B TUNES TO WATCH: I’M SO GLAD, Mickey & Sylvia; IT’S OBDACIOUS, Buddy Johnson; IT’S YOU, YOU, YOU, The Charms.”

In the preface to his book, Kennedy describes some of the side trips that led him to the photos and the only surviving copy of every issue of the “T.E. Newsletter” – now safely housed in the Rock Hall’s Library and Archives. He befriended Edwards’ nephew, Keith Winters, who helped him locate the slides; and a separate detour led him to the newsletters, which Randle gave to Cleveland journalist David Barnett as a gift (bear with me… these artifacts made their way through a whole cast of characters).

Winters initially notified Kennedy about five Ektachrome slides he received from his father, Edwards’ half-brother Gerald Winters. These included an iconic shot that seems to capture a passing of the torch from an elder Bill Haley to Elvis, whose career was on the rise as Haley’s tailed off. Kennedy assumed the five slides were the only ones that survived, but then he found the motherlode.

“My discovery of Tommy Edwards’ small cache of photos was a nice coup for a novice rock ‘n’ roll detective but it was nothing compared to what was to come,” Kennedy writes. “Within a few weeks of our first communications, I receive an excited, late-night call from Keith, who asked if I’m sitting down. While looking for Christmas decorations, he found treasure stashed away under a basement workbench: several dusty cardboard boxes with the family name ‘Mull’ (Edwards was born Thomas Edward Mull) handwritten on the sides, containing 1,790 more slides. Gerald Winters had, in fact, inherited all of his deceased half-brother’s photographs. Sometime around 1988, Gerald gave the slide collection to his son… Keith simply had forgotten about them.”

As the book and exhibit reveal, the Edwards collection is an embarrassment of riches. I wouldn’t call Edwards a master photographer, but he definitely had a knack for capturing images that were strikingly honest and unvarnished. He also found a perfect use for his images, featuring them in slide shows at the many record hops he’d host throughout the area. Did Edwards create the first multi-media rock show?

Chuck Berry at Gleason's Musical Bar, August 1955

The above photo of a 28-year-old Chuck Berry seems like it was shot in the basement of one of those ethnic social clubs you can find throughout Cleveland. It actually was taken at Gleason’s Musical Bar, a popular club on Cleveland’s east side (E. 55th and Woodland) from 1942 to 1962. Virtually every major blues and jazz act you can think of from the era came through Gleason’s – James Brown, Bo Diddley, B.B. King, Ella Fitzgerald, Charlie Parker, Nat King Cole… This photo shows Berry with local sax star Sammy Dee, founder and leader of the house band for the show Bandstand (before it became American Bandstand).

In 1958, Johnny Cash came through town long enough to plop himself down on the couch at WERE studios to visit with Edwards. “Less than comfortable must be Sun Records owner Sam Phillips, walking the floor back in Memphis, justifiably paranoid about the clandestine deal Cash has struck with Columbia Records to leave Sun as soon as contractually possible,” Kennedy notes in his book.

That same year, rocker Eddie Cochran stopped by Cleveland to promote his new single Jeanie, Jeanie, Jeanie. More from Kennedy: “A rock ‘n’ roll star with smoldering sex appeal; an innovative guitarist, songwriter, and music producer; international touring act and budding movie star – the kid’s got it all. Except time.” Two years later, Cochran died in England when he was thrown from a taxi in a high-speed crash. Rockabilly star Gene Vincent (another subject of Edwards’ camera) survived the accident with minor injuries, but his glory days were mostly behind him.

Eddie Cochran, January 1958

Edwards eventually became the proprietor of Record Heaven in Cleveland’s Brooklyn neighborhood before passing away in 1981. Kennedy continues to search for Bill Randle’s long-lost treasure, “The Pied Piper of Cleveland.” I’ll definitely pay more attention at local garage sales, but the smart money’s on the guy who already delivered the goods with the lost photographs of Tommy Edwards.

Thirty-two images from Edwards’ collection are now showing in the Baker Gallery of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum’s Main Exhibit Hall. Check the Museum’s website for more information.

So who, you might ask, are The Storey Sisters? Hailing from Philadelphia, sisters Ann and Lillian helped pioneer the “girl group” sound that paid off in the Sixties for acts like The Shirelles, The Shangri-Las and The Ronettes. This smokin’ little number from 1957 features NYC session guitarist Wild Jimmy Spruill, who had the distinction of appearing on two #1 hits in May ’59: The Happy Organ by Dave “Baby” Cortez and Kansas City by Wilbert Harrison.

Here’s a soundtrack for you multi-taskers out there: MDQ

I’m not a Broadway musical kind of guy. I blame it on the gritty, gut-wrenching films I watched as a kid, like Mean Streets and The Deer Hunter. You won’t hear me burst into Oklahoma or The Impossible Dream, with arms flailing for dramatic effect.

I’m also wary of most efforts to make the form more contemporary. Walked out of Phantom during intermission (wanted to leave earlier)… Found Mamma Mia! to be a promising new method of torture for terrorist suspects… Would rather put a rivet gun to my head than go see American Idiot.

So when I was offered a few tickets to a touring production of Million Dollar Quartet, I initially demurred. But I’m glad I went, for several reasons. First, it’s a snapshot of a time in music I’ve always found fascinating – right after the birth of rock ‘n roll, and before Elvis had about 30 bad films under his belt. Second, all the principal actors in the production are real, live, breathing musicians who acquit themselves nicely on Fifties classics like Matchbox, Who Do You Love, Great Balls of Fire and Sixteen Tons. Third, it keeps the threadbare narrative conceits you can find in virtually every musical to a minimum.

The production also benefits from the contributions of musical arranger/supervisor Chuck Mead, who co-founded one of the best bands to come out of Nashville in many years, BR5-49.

Million Dollar Quartet: The Musical

For those of you who prefer Broadway musicals to Memphis rock ‘n roll, let me offer a little background (the rest of you can skip ahead a couple of paragraphs). Million Dollar Quartet captures an eventful night at a legendary site – Memphis’ Sun Studios, where producer Sam Phillips made music history with artists ranging from Howlin’ Wolf and Junior Parker to Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis. But by late ‘56, Phillips was struggling to come up with his next big star, having sold Elvis’ contract to RCA the previous year for $40,000. Although Johnny Cash was tearing up the charts with Folsom Prison Blues and I Walk the Line, he couldn’t keep up with Elvis, who made his first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show on September 9, 1956 (with an amazing 83% of the nation’s TV audience). And Carl Perkins was still fighting his way back from a serious car accident earlier in the year.

That was the setting on December 4, 1956, when Elvis – joined by paramour du jour Marilyn Evans, a showgirl from Vegas – just happened to be back in Memphis for the holidays. On a whim, Elvis and Evans decided to stop by Sun Studios, where Perkins and special guest Lewis were working on a few numbers (Matchbox and Put Your Cat Clothes On). And, depending on whether you believe the Man in Black or roots music aficionado Peter Guralnick – author of the definitive book on Elvis, “Last Train to Memphis: The Rise of Elvis Presley” – Cash was either there when Elvis walked in the door or was summoned by Phillips to show up later. Regardless, it marked the first and only performance of the so-called Million Dollar Quartet of Presley, Perkins, Cash and Lewis – and Sun producer and engineer Cowboy Jack Clement had the tape rolling for posterity.

Mostly, the foursome toyed with gospel numbers and hillbilly tunes and even tackled a few Christmas standards, like Jingle Bells and White Christmas. But maybe the significance of the event was the way they lovingly recreated some of the songs they grew up with while mostly avoiding the rockers that made them famous. On this point, I’ll defer to Colin Escott’s liner notes with the 2006 reissue (which features 12 minutes of previously unreleased material):

“…except for a couple of Chuck Berry songs, a Pat Boone song, and a few of Elvis’ hits, the Million Dollar Quartet session was a catechism in where rock ‘n’ roll came from. Rock ‘n’ roll wasn’t delivered to us one night in 1955, and it wasn’t white kids singing R&B. Rock ‘n’ roll was born of white gospel, black gospel, old country, new country, doo-wop, blues, pop, and cowboy songs. And it’s all here. This is the common ground. This is what the founding fathers of rock ‘n’ roll music heard and played solely for the love of playing it. Only those who were present at the creation knew about this music, and in their hands, rock ‘n’ roll was, in the broadest sense, folk music.”

Case in point: the quartet’s rousing rendition of this traditional song: Farther Along

The folks responsible for the musical certainly shared Escott’s point of view, but they also knew the events of 12/4/56 didn’t exactly lend themselves to an extended dramatic treatment. So they introduce a few other story lines that didn’t come into play during the actual quartet sessions. For example, Marilyn Evans became Dyanne, a swinging chanteuse who performs Fever and I Hear You Knockin’. Johnny Cash announces his departure to Columbia Records, even though he stayed with Sun for another two years. Perkins clashes with the flamboyant newcomer Lewis and then confronts Phillips for letting Elvis appropriate his hit song Blue Suede Shoes. And Phillips reminds everyone that he was responsible for giving them their first breaks.

Cowboy Jack Clement

Seems like a good opportunity to hear from someone who was there, so I decided to check in with Nashville resident Cowboy Jack:

T.Q.: Did you see the musical? What did you think about it?

J.C.: Yeah, I saw it a couple months ago. I liked it… They even had me sing one of my songs at the end – It’ll Be Me, which Jerry Lee did. It’s a great show… you should go see it.

I did… and I agree! The play made it seem like there was some tension between Perkins and Lewis. Was that what you recall?

I don’t remember any tension at the sessions – maybe a little bit between Sam and both Johnny Cash and Carl Perkins, who later left Sun for Columbia in Nashville… I brought Jerry Lee there to play piano. He played great that day. We came up with a hit, Matchbox. Jerry Lee’s piano playing made that record: Matchbox

Did you feel you were part of something historic?

Sort of, yeah… especially when Elvis came in. He was really diggin’ Jerry Lee’s stuff on the radio. There was a bunch of jammin’ on old gospel songs like Down by the Riverside as I recall. They all knew those old standards. It went on for quite a while. Sam went next door to Taylor’s Restaurant, where they had a juke box with a lot of Sun singles. Sam took care of a lot of business at Taylor’s – he even had an office there. (Back at the studio) I heard them talkin’ and jammin’ and thought I’d be remiss if I didn’t turn on the tape machine, so I moved a couple of mikes around and let it roll for a couple hours. Sam came back, saw what was going on and called the paper. That’s how the photograph happened (at the top of our post). No one paid much attention to the tape… It sat on the shelf in a metal container and was there when I left a few years later. Then someone bootlegged it and it became an album. They played a lot of good stuff that day, pickin’ and singin’ those old songs.

I’ll leave the last word to the late Phillips (quoted in Guralnick’s book “Last Train to Memphis”): “It was totally extemporaneous… everything was off mike, if it was on mike it was by accident – I think this chance meeting meant an awful lot to all those people, not because one was bigger than another, it was kind of like coming from the same womb.”

Elvis is leaving the building… and you can hear Jerry Lee shout out to Cowboy Jack: Elvis Says Goodbye

Carl Perkins with a few special friends… I’m surprised this didn’t make Scorcese’s George Harrison doc on HBO – proof the guy could play some serious rockabilly…

Article first published as Book Review: Composed: A Memoir by Rosanne Cash on Blogcritics.

Our last post on living, breathing artists led me to another crisis in confidence. Just what is this blog all about? Why keep blathering on about music that, with the possible exception of The Black Keys, most humans simply don’t care about?

Then I came across a passage in Rosanne Cash’s new book, “Composed: A Memoir,” that also could serve as RCR’s mission statement:

“We all need art and music like we need blood and oxygen. The more exploitative, numbing, and assaulting popular culture becomes, the more we need the truth of a beautifully phrased song, dredged from a real person’s depth of experience, delivered in an honest voice; the more we need the simplicity of paint on canvas, or the arc of a lonely body in the air, or the photographer’s unflinching eye. Art, in the larger sense, is the lifeline to which I cling in a confusing, unfair, sometimes dehumanizing world.”

I’ve been a fan of Cash’s ever since “King’s Record Shop” was released back in 1987. And I have to admit, her music doesn’t sit comfortably next to a lot of stuff I listen to. Nor would anyone confuse the writing on this site with the kind of intense, deeply reflective, almost painstakingly eloquent language found in “Composed.” Let me put it this way: Rosanne Cash will not be appearing at a chuckle-hut near you.

But she’s had a long-standing gig at my house. I may have been raised on the Stones, but my daughters were raised on Rosanne Cash – along with other alt-country favorites like Steve Earle, Lucinda Williams, Dwight Yoakam and Gillian Welch (for some reason, my girls didn’t take to Howlin’ Wolf… although Meghan loves Taj Mahal). Rosanne’s highly literate songs provided the soundtrack to many of our trips south. And even though my youngest eventually moved on to hip-hop and rap, I’m sure she still has a soft spot for Cash’s “The Wheel.” Fire of the Newly Alive

Cash brings the same sensitive touch to “Composed.” And her descriptions of growing up in a musical family especially resonated with me. We’re sort of the Cash family in reverse. Although my brothers and sister remain active and performing musicians (and I’m considering a return to service), all of the fame and notoriety has landed on the next generation as nephew Dan Auerbach – and his musical soulmate in the Keys, Pat Carney – continue their march toward world domination. Granted, they may never be as recognized and beloved as Johnny Cash, but there’s still plenty of time.

Much of “Composed” is about the many ways that fame can change those who enter the celebrity funhouse, either voluntarily (friends and second spouses, for example) or otherwise (immediate family). I enjoyed Rosanne’s stories of the time she spent in London, working in a low-level artists relations job for CBS Records simply because she happened to be Johnny Cash’s daughter. She had no illusions about the experience, perfectly understanding why some people treated her with great deference, and appreciating it when others didn’t. She was determined to make the best of the situation – and her father’s patronage – as she partied her way through a pleasant yet frivolous assignment.

Of course, there are larger themes to “Composed” – including death, motherhood and the challenge of struggling with addictive personalities (a theme that Cash felt was grossly overblown in the movie “Walk the Line”). Another big theme involves sacrifice. What does it take to really make your way in the world as an artist; to build your entire life around creating art, and doing it on your own terms?

Cash is philosophical in describing her own journey from Nashville hit-maker to a well-respected singer-songwriter with her dignity intact. In earnest and artful language, she takes us through the process of starting over again – of leaving behind a certain level of success and comfort to head into the great unknown, with only your creative instincts to guide you. But the true meaning of sacrifice is often revealed in the most mundane details, like the way Cash describes the simple act of flying:

“I have been in planes that have been struck by lightning, surrounded by tornadoes, diverted to new and even more miserably inconvenient destinations; planes whose landing gear failed to descend, engines conked out, wings clipped the ground and spewed rivets across the runway, takeoffs and landings have been aborted in snow and ice storms and violent winds and rain; planes that dropped so fast and so far that people literally hit the ceiling; and once, on a nearly empty late-night flight into Nashville, the pilot sent an attendant back just after the landing to ask me if I knew where Gate 4 was, since he thought I had probably landed at this particular airport more than he had. And I had.”

On more than one occasion, I’ve stared at an opportunity as a full-time traveling musician, and then looked away – mainly because I knew deep down that I couldn’t handle life on the road, especially in a third-tier band. But even a steady string of local gigs can take their toll (especially before the indoor smoking ban took effect). As my wife points out, we were tossed off more than a few social calendars because of my busy playing schedule. And after moving back to town in ’91, I went 10 consecutive years playing shitty (but well-paying) gigs on New Year’s Eve while my wife stayed home to entertain our daughters. Someday I’ll figure out how to make it up to her.

But all this pales in comparison to the act of ripping yourself away from home and family for huge chunks of the year to make money on the road. And touring income has become even more essential for bands today as CD sales are eclipsed by file-sharing and other acts of digital thievery (I confess, I’m not without sin).

Cash doesn’t try to gain our sympathy for millionaire artists. Whether she’s making somber observations about the creative process or describing a major fuck-up at the airport, she’s simply sharing the basic realities of life as a working musician. And, to her credit, she doesn’t make much of a distinction between that pursuit and the art of everyday living – like her late mother’s gardening. It’s just that when you play on a bigger stage, you usually give up a lot more to get there. Thankfully, modern-day road dogs like Cash and The Black Keys still find a way to make it work, so their inspiring shows can help us feel just a little bit better about life on planet earth.

A number of years ago, I read a newspaper column by some Big Gulp-swilling soccer mom that really rubbed me the wrong way. I’ll paraphrase: “Music really mattered when we were kids… Then we grew up, bought houses, had kids of our own, raised families and came to realize music really isn’t that important at all. Now we revel in the music of life.” Or some such drivel.

What I wanted to say to this nitwit was, surely there’s a form of art – movies, painting, gardening, woodworking – that still feeds your soul, no matter how much it’s shrunk over the years. For some of us, that form of art is music. And despite Rubber City Review’s best (and worst) attempts to keep it light, we’re dead serious about the music and artists we love and write about.

Rosanne Cash’s touch is far from light. But I blasted right through the fussiest language in her book – because at its core, “Composed” is all about the serious business of passing rich musical traditions from one generation to the next.

The List… Musical inheritance doesn’t get more real than this: Alarmed by his daughter’s lack of knowledge about American roots music (Rosanne had a good excuse – she grew up in Southern California), Johnny Cash jotted down a list he called “100 Essential Country Songs.” But as Rosanne Cash points out in the liner notes to her latest release, “The List,” “he could have called it ’100 Essential American Songs,’ because he included history songs, protest songs, early folk songs, Delta Blues, gospel, Texas swing, and standards that simply defy genre.” Thirty-five years went by before Rosanne got up the nerve to reinterpret a few of these tunes on record, and the results are a little mixed. The requisite guest artists don’t add much (with the exception of Bruce Springsteen, who brings a wonderful harmony voice to Sea of Heartbreak). But Rosanne’s cover of Motherless Children, by the always popular “Public Domain,” is one of the best versions I’ve heard of a song that has suffered many indignities over the years. And it’s all in the voice – no gospelly histrionics; just an honest, heartfelt read of an American classic: Motherless Children

Other Rubber City Review posts that have appeared on Blogcritics:
o Juliet, Naked… with the Fat Man in the Bathtub (Editors’ Pick)
o The World’s Greatest Advertising Jingle (Editors’ Pick)
o Guns, Drugs, Money and Vinyl… Welcome to School Kids

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.

The cover song is a proud musical tradition – and it dates back centuries. Let’s face it, many popular tunes and entire forms of music wouldn’t exist today without the act of appropriating someone else’s song.

Guitar hero Richard Thompson made this point in spades several years ago when he released a set of live recordings on his own boutique label that he only half-jokingly titled “1000 Years of Popular Music.” The CD kicks off with a 13^th Century “round” and eventually gets around to covering Oops!… I Did It Again by Britney Spears.

The cover song seemed to reach its peak, at least in terms of significance, in the 1940s and ‘50s. At that time, songs recorded by black R&B and blues artists were typically segregated onto so-called “race” labels – Modern, Aladdin, Savoy, etc. But some of those artists started covering songs by white honky tonkers – for example, Bull Moose Jackson’s Why Don’t You Haul Off and Love Me, a cover of a 1949 country hit by harmonica player Wayne Raney – and aspiring white rockers began perfecting their own form of musical thievery.

Of course, this whole cross-pollinating thing led to what may be the defining moment in 20^th Century music – Elvis Presley’s cover of a little ditty by Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup, That’s All Right Mama.

For the most part, the covers by white artists pale in comparison to the originals, but there are a few exceptions. Here’s the original version of The Train Kept A-Rollin’, by jump-blues bandleader Tiny Bradshaw: The Train Kept A-Rollin’ (Tiny Bradshaw)

Now here’s the cover by an especially dangerous rockabilly band from the Fifties, the Johnny Burnette Trio: The Train Kept A-Rollin’ (Johnny Burnette Trio)

Johnny Burnette Trio

I’d argue that the Trio kicked it up a notch or two, fueled by Johnny’s well-placed screams and Paul Burlison’s gut-bucket guitar. And I won’t even bother with the far more popular version by Aerosmith, which ranks a distant fourth in my book (a Columbus bar band came in third).

Quick aside about those screams: Apparently, Burlison liked to place his lit cigarette on the loose end of one of the strings sticking out from the head of his guitar. Band is tearing it up onstage… Johnny backs into the lit cigarette… screams bloody murder… crowd goes wild… rest is rockabilly history.

There are far more examples of definitive originals by black artists. If you’re only familiar with Elvis’ cover of Hound Dog, brace yourself… the original by Big Mama Thornton will make you forget all about The King’s version: Hound Dog

A mutant offspring of the cover is the “answer song,” which also peaked around the same time. It’s a fairly simple concept, and I’ll let this response to Big Mama’s Hound Dog speak for itself… Bear Cat

You get the idea… The accuser is Rufus Thomas, who was a mainstay on Memphis’ fabled Stax-Volt label throughout its glory years. Here’s another answer song from the label’s catalog, with Jeanne & the Darlings take on Sam & Dave… Soul Girl

The Rolling Stones started out as little more than a decent cover band, doing their own versions of Chicago blues standards. Here they put their stamp on a classic by Muddy Waters… I Just Want To Make Love To You

The Beatles also cranked out more than a few covers, including a version of this original by soul singer Arthur Alexander, who was one of John Lennon’s favorites (he reportedly had a jukebox that only played Alexander’s 45s)… Anna (Go To Him)

Alexander also was covered by the Stones (You Better Move On) and spent years in obscurity before he was rediscovered in Cleveland, driving a school bus. He put out a strong comeback album – “Lonely Just Like Me” – before passing away in 1993.

Today, it seems like indie rockers, hip-hoppers and country hit-makers are lined up to pay tribute to anyone from Marvin Gaye to the Grateful Dead. But much of those tribute songs are totally unnecessary and only serve to send the listeners back to the originals. A few rise above the fray, like Bob Dylan’s cover of a Hank Williams tune from the 2002 Grammy-winning tribute, “Timeless.” Now I’ll just come out and admit that I’m not a big fan of Dylan’s recent vocal stylings (he makes Billie Holiday’s final performances sound too polished). But I like how he wheezes his way through this one (great phrasing) as his ace band drags Hank into a west Texas dance hall… I Can’t Get You Off Of My Mind

During the summer months, you can’t miss the steady parade of tribute bands coming to an ampitheater near you – covering well-worn songs by the Beatles, the Stones, the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac… even U2 and the Dave Matthews Band. These bands take boomers back to days when they could get a contact high at most rock concerts (although that tradition seems to live on at jam-band shows).

But that’s not quite the same as musicians trying to reinvent the songs they love… and maybe even create something a little better (or at least different) in the process.

Oh, and if you’re still wondering what Richard Thompson did with Britney Spears… Oops!… I Did It Again

A few favorite covers…

Actually, just picking the right song to cover is a creative process that can say a lot about a band or musician. Here are a few covers that head off in different directions from the originals.

Let’s start with the oldest – Milk Cow Blues. Kokomo Arnold recorded the original back in 1930, and it’s one of those tunes that country musicians pounced on right away, probably because of the lyrics. It’s been covered by many artists – Robert Johnson (as Milkcow’s Calf Blues), Elvis at Sun Studios (as Milkcow Blues Boogie), Willie Nelson, Ricky Nelson, the band Nelson (strike that last one)… but my favorite is a western swing version from 1941 by Johnnie Lee Wills, brother of Texas legend Bob. Back then, it was a much shorter walk from blues to country, and Wills’ singer barely takes a step. He’s Cotton Thompson, a long-forgotten fiddle player (the world’s first blue-eyed soul singer?). Kokomo’s original comes first, then the cover.Milk Cow Blues (Kokomo Arnold/Johnnie Lee Wills)

The title of Young Man’s Blues is a little misleading, because neither of the following two versions falls neatly into the blues category. The originator is Mose Allison, really a jazz guy who played a lot of blues-based songs, and a keen observer of the human condition. The imitator is The Who, from the 1970 album Live at Leeds. Now I’m not a huge fan of everything The Who put out, but I like how they reworked the original – transforming it from a laid-back lament into a defiant rocker… Roger Daltrey is one pissed-off young man!Young Man’s Blues (Mose Allison/The Who)

Johnny Cash has been covered by hundreds of musicians of every stripe – roots-rockers, hillbillies, punks, metalheads… And roots-music explorer Ry Cooder has made an entire career out of reinventing other people’s songs. This next one is the flip side of The Who’s approach – Cooder takes Cash’s signature “Tennessee Three” treatment and slows it down… and in the process, turns it into something far more ominous (we’re not quite sure where this train is heading). I especially like the instrumentation on this cover – just mandolin, piano (the late Jim Dickinson, a Memphis icon) and upright bass.Hey Porter (Johnny Cash/Ry Cooder)

If their recent reissues proved anything, the Beatles are an even bigger draw today than they were back in 1964. But their songs haven’t been covered by other artists as much as you might think. Could be that the Beatles catalog is considered sacred canon by many musicians – or maybe it’s just too damn hard to improve on the originals. But that didn’t scare off The Holmes Brothers, who have developed a strong following with their unique brand of gospel-infused R&B. This one knocks me out every time I hear it – a soulful take on an old Beatles favorite.And I Love Her (The Beatles/The Holmes Brothers)

Musicians seem to have an easier time covering Dylan… might have something to do with the demo-like quality of albums like “The Basement Tapes” with The Band, which gave us the original version of Going to Acapulco. The cover shows up 40 years later on the soundtrack to “I’m Not There” – a surreal look at various incarnations of Dylan throughout his career. I was unimpressed with most of the soundtrack, but this one stands out as the Tucson band Calexico paints a desert soundscape behind the stunning voice of Jim James (My Morning Jacket). Better than the original? You be the judge.Going to Acapulco (Bob Dylan/Jim James & Calexico)