WRITING SAMPLES

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ROLLING INTO "BABYLON"


Poor Rolling Stones. Poor Mick, Keith, Ron and Charlie (bassist Bill Wyman made his exit several years ago, so I'm not gonna feel sorry for him). Poor, poor Greatest Rock 'n' Roll Band in the World.

Because when you're the greatest, instead of no expectations, it's hard to meet expectations. Because no matter what you do, it seems fans and critics just can't get no satisfaction.

Because when you've helped shape the sound of popular music the way the Stones and just a handful of other artists have in the decades since Elvis shook his pelvis on a flickering, black-and-white television screen, your legacy to the world will always be the stuff that made your rep, not the stuff that you do for the rest of your life.

And that's really where the Rolling Stones are at this advanced stage of their 35-year career.

They're a cultural institution, the boomer generation's role model for naughty, rock 'n' roll behavior. The original Bad Boys of rock, the dark side of the Beatles' bubbly personalities. As the critics like to point out, these guys didn't want to hold girls' hands, yeah yeah yeah. They wanted, from the start, to spend the night together with them. (So did the Beatles, but they were polite lads and hid their intentions.)

So even though the Stones' new single, "Anybody Seen My Baby?" is the most-added single to radio stations across the country, it's likely that in a year, after the current buzz around the band's "Bridges to Babylon" CD and sudden world tour has been through the music industry's spin cycle, radio stations everywhere will go back to mostly playing "Satisfaction," "Tumbling Dice," "Jumpin' Jack Flash," "Honky Tonk Women," "Angie" and "Start Me Up," and pretty much ignoring "Bridges" the way radio has ignored a lot of the good songs from recent Stones albums.

This isn't all the Stones' fault, though plenty of critics (myself included) have beaten them up since about 1981's "Tattoo You" for rehashing old riffs and song structures, of not having anything new or original to say or of becoming aged caricatures of their young turk personas. It's our fault for hoping for something new but really wanting what we've come to expect of the band. It's not their fault if they deliver.

It's not their fault, because Keith is still one of the few rock guitarists who you can identify from just a couple of cast-off, swaggering notes; Mick can still sing like the faux blooz guy he is, without wallowing in self-caricature; and because frankly, Mick and Keith can still write some darned good songs.

The surging opening track, a classic Stones construction (and ready-made bookend to "Start Me Up," perfect for some other computer company commercial) called "Flip the Switch" is a great example. It's so fun you can't ignore it, even though (or perhaps because) it opens in the time-honored tradition of so many Glimmer Twin-penned rockers, with Watts' drumming setting up a swinging foundation, then guitar and bass coming in after a few bars and building to Jagger's exhortations.

But the rocking first track is misleading in a way - the new album's best songs are the mid-tempo tracks and ballads, such as "Anybody Seen My Baby" (which co-opts such an obvious bit of k.d. lang's "Constant Craving" melody that Mick and Keith gave lang co-credit) and "How Can I Stop," a moody, skeletal soul song sung by a supremely tired-sounding Richards that could almost be classic Motown, or better yet Curtis Mayfield, if it weren't so downbeat.

In between are songs featuring what we expect from the Stones - crunchy rock propelled by shards of perfectly distorted guitar chords - and the unexpected - a pretty believable reggae track sung by Keith and a token appearance of sonic sampling from the currently hot producers the Dust (Beck) Brothers, who bring their techno-electronica approach to what Jagger calls in Rolling Stone magazine, "fake blues for the '90s."

The description fits, all right, but don't look for the Stones to break new artistic ground here - they've always experimented and accepted the trendy sounds of the day, from the garish psychedelia of the 1967 "Their Satanic Majesties Request" to the touches of country that first appeared during the "Wild Horses" phase, or the disco/funk of 1978's "Miss You." "Bridges To Babylon" ultimately is no more a "techno" album than U2's forgettable "Pop" of last year. Even when the Stones dress up their sound to suit the popular marketplace, they can't help sounding just like they always have - a little combo that managed to morph the blues into modern rock 'n' roll.

That accomplishment is nothing to sneeze at, and why the Stones deserve their place in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: They helped evolve rock from its early phase when it sounded more like R&B and soul (Chuck Berry) or country (rockabilly) into its own style, and its own audience. Starting in the late '60s, the Stones invented the rock tour, going from city to city every few years and playing arenas and larger venues instead of small theaters better suited to accommodate vaudeville shows. And along with the massive tours, the Stones made the music sound better for larger audiences -- they invented the modern concert sound system.

So in a year or two, when classic rock radio ignores the gems on "Bridges To Babylon," and returns to playing the twelve Stones songs that are already overplayed to death, you can feel sorry for Mick and Keith and the boys, too, because they're a prisoner of their awesome past and early accomplishments.

Then turn off your radio and crank up "Babylon," and remember that this bunch of 50-something players got their ya-yas out - and yours too - one more time.

This essay was posted on AOL's Digital City Denver, 1998.

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A TRIBUTE TO DENNIS

I first met my friend Dennis just a few years ago, when he was already physically devastated by Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis -- or ALS, better known as "Lou Gherig's Disease" for the famous baseball star who died from it in 1941. He spent his days propped up on a couch in his parents' basement in Westminster.

He already had lived longer than initially expected, but he was slowly but surely becoming almost completely disabled.

He couldn't move his arms. My wife Kathi, who had been his friend since the late '70s, had to light a cigarette for him and stick it in his mouth so he could take a drag. He used his feet, which were surprisingly dextrous, to dial and answer the speaker phone on the coffeetable in front of him.

I attended a memorial service for Dennis this week, but I won't remember Dennis with any sadness or pity for his final months, which were spent in the isolation of a Denver hospice-care facility called Vencor.

Sure, he was immobile and couldn't even speak anymore without great effort and a gadget that helped him make sounds, sort of. Most of the time, he simply mouthed his words and we strained to read his lips. But his eyes were always sparkling, his humor always vibrant and spirit buoyant, even the last time Kathi and I visited.

And, the magic of computers and the Internet gave him a kind of freedom from his physical limitations that wouldn't have been possible just a few years ago.

When Dennis moved from his folks' home to a Capitol Hill managed-care apartment where he was moved around from room to room in a wheelchair, he told us he was applying for a grant to get a fancy computer setup, but I didn't understand the impact this equipment would have.

I was amazed when I finally saw his setup.

Even though he couldn't move a limb, he could move his facial muscles, and tilt his head just enough so that he could control his computer's cursor using a triangulated system of lasers that bounced off a reflector on his eyeglasses and back to sensors atop his PC monitor.

He used word-processing software that automatically typed if he kept the cursor on a letter for more than a fraction of a second; this way, he could slowly write out sentences and phrases and send e-mail, letter-by-letter. It was excruciatingly slow and draining for him, but he would start typing if we weren't able to read his lips, until he got too exhausted and kicked us out of his room. He also controlled various remote controls for the TV and his stereo (which he loaded with a stack of CDs at a time so he wouldn't have to ask hospital staff to pick out the music he wanted to hear) with his PC.

Best of all, he could go almost anywhere and virtually "do" anything via the Internet.

He surfed sites about the moon and the stars, an abiding interest. He surfed music Web sites. He kept up with news, and he kept in touch with frends and family by e-mail (his parents even got a computer so they could send him e-mail). He went to places like Antarctica and used downloaded GIF images for his PC's background wallpaper.

And of course, he learned a lot about ALS.

As with everything else on the Web, you can do an Internet search for "Lou Gherig's Disease" and come up with a number of informative sites. ALS, you'll find, is defined as "a progressive, degenerative disease of the motor neurons of the brain stem and spinal cord, characterized by a general weakening and wasting of the voluntary muscles, and eventually complete paralysis."

I've picked two Web sites that have helped me learn more about the disease, and want to share them with you: The home page for the ALS Association, which is dedicated to research and advocacy to find a cure, and a private home page by Bob Broedel titled "ALS Lou Gherig's Disease," which includes many helpful links and resources (like one to "30 Ways to Help Those with serious Illnesses" and lots of background on Lou Gherig himself).

Of course I'd feel great if some of you visited these sites and supported the fight against ALS, but I also want to make sure everyone understands that the Internet is a wonderful and amazing resource for education and a way to enrich our lives, even if in other ways our lives may be full of suffering. You can search the Web for information on any disease or condition that exists, and chances are you'll be able to learn something about it.

That ability, and the ability to surf the Web for entertainment when other entertainment -- even reading a book -- was no longer an option, is what gave Dennis his upbeat outlook on his life. He knew when he checked in to Vencor that he wouldn't be leaving, but that didn't stop him from wandering off from there every day and every night, whenever he felt the urge, via a computer, modem and the Internet.

That's one reason why, at his memorial service, his sister Kim told his friends and family not to mourn too much or too long. "Dennis wanted me to be sure and let you all know he loved his life and he did everything he wanted," she said.

He's still surfing out there in cyberspace, I'm sure. Whenever we had to leave, Dennis would turn his head slightly, spear us with his baby-blues and mouth the words, "I love you," then turn back to his monitor.

We love you too, Dennis. Happy surfing forever.

This tribute was written in 1997, and posted on a page of weekly Web picks by the staff of Digital City Denver.

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PAUL STEWART'S PERSONAL MISSION: THE BLACK AMERICAN WEST MUSEUM


The Black American West Museum's slogan is "We Tell It Like It Was," and the telling starts on the sidewalk outside. In front of the wrought-iron gates adorned with cowboys atop bucking broncs, a marker proclaims under a portrait, "Bill Pickett, 1871-1932, Bulldogger." It's the first of what will hopefully be a series in the museum's "Black Cowboys Walk of Fame."

Most people wouldn't know Bill Pickett's name, but he was a famous rodeo cowboy in his day, and his anonymity is exactly the reason this museum was created by Paul Stewart, a self-made scholar and historian who grew up dreaming of being a cowboy.

The oft-told story is that as a child growing up in Clinton, Iowa during the 1930s, Stewart didn't think there was ever such a thing as an African-American cowboy. "When we played cowboys and Indians, I always had to play an Indian," Stewart has recalled on "The Today Show," "CBS This Morning" and other national media outlets, "because there was no such thing as a black
cowboy."

At least, not in the popular culture of the day - it was the era of Hopalong Cassidy, Tom Mix and Gene Autry, a time when Wild West memories were still fresh for old-timers and cowboy fantasies caught kids' fancies. And the fantasies that Hollywood rolled weekly on neighborhood movie screens and over radio serials all featured white cowboys fighting dark-skinned savages.

But the historical reality is that a third of the men and women who tamed the Wild West were black, a fact that Paul Stewart discovered as a grownup.

In the 1960s when he traveled to Denver to visit a cousin, he repeated the same line he'd been told years before. "My cousin was driving me around the different areas of town, because I liked Denver and thought I might move here," he says. "We were downtown, and I saw a black man wearing a cowboy hat, with chaps and boots, so I said, 'Look at that drugstore cowboy out there -
everyone knows there are no black cowboys.'"

His cousin, who was involved with the black community, explained the man was indeed a real-life cowboy, who owned and operated a ranch outside of town.

A place where black cowboys roamed the range - that was enough to bring Stewart to Denver. He set up his barber business and discovered that many of his customers had fascinating stories to tell about themselves and their family members, who had been former slaves, adventurers, cowboys, soldiers, homesteaders and miners. Stewart started surreptitiously running a tape recorder during his customers' reminiscences and learning about the way the West really was.

"When I found out that there had been black cowboys, I was upset," he says. "But I turned that anger into determination to finding people I could interview to learn about the heritage."

And to pass on his knowledge.

He started collecting photographs and artifacts of the forgotten pioneers who helped settle the West, at first seeking them out through his customers and word-of-mouth. That personal collection is now the heart of the Black American West Museum, which Stewart officially established in 1975 at a local boys' school. The museum is now ensconced in a historical building near downtown Denver which has its own unique community history.

The building was the home of Justina Ford (1871-1952), the first black woman physician to set up practice in Denver. Despite racial prejudice, she delivered over 7,000 babies during her career. When her home was scheduled for demolition in 1983, community leaders including Stewart had the building designated a historical site and moved it to its current location. It houses not only Stewart's fascinating memorabilia (cowboys on the second floor, a history of black soldiers from the Civil War and the Buffalo Soldiers who came West in the basement), but a rotating exhibit on its first floor, and also a display of artifacts from Ford's medical practice. The Black American West Museum celebrates its tenth anniversary in its permanent location this year.

Stewart, who's now 70, has become a historical figure himself, and has served as Grand Marshall of the Bill Pickett Rodeo, a black rodeo in Denver that could not have started without his dedicated research. He's written a book on the topic, and has been the subject of a couple of other books. Stewart spends most days lecturing to school kids and passing on his knowledge to future generations.

He's helped re-write long-accepted history about the West. He's found dated photographs and journal entries that prove various black pioneers were the first with such accomplishments as riding backwards on a bull, or riding a buffalo. He's discovered and chronicled towns entirely populated by black pioneers. He's assembled a long-lost roster of black cowboy heroes that young kids could point to as role models. As Stewart's reputation spread, he's been contacted by people who have offered up photographs from family trunks; he's even been contacted by children of people he interviewed decades ago, offering more information or artifacts they've come across.

Last summer he got a call from a relative of a 100-year-old woman he'd interviewed in 1971 about her father, who escaped from slavery and moved to Canada, then served in the Civil War in a Minnesota regiment before ending up in Colorado. The relative remembered Stewart's interest in the family.

"She says, 'Paul, would you be interested in the family Bible? That Bible had the year he was born, 1825, then mentioned when he went into the service, the years he served, his wife's name and the years they moved West," he says. "It's like detective work - you keep running into material."

The sleuthing has its rewards, but Stewart says he feels most blessed because he's living out his childhood fantasy. "Even though I've never been a cowboy, that was one of my dreams. And now when I go to the schools to talk to the kids, they all call me 'The Black Cowboy.'"


The Black American West Museum and Heritage Center is at 3091 California St., Denver, CO 80205 (303) 292-2566. This article first appeared in the April, 1996 issue of New Country Magazine.

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THE CAVEDOGS
"SOUL MARTINI"
(CAPITOL)

Ever since the Beatles broke up and groups like Badfinger and the Raspberries appeared on the scene, rock critics have been enchanted by what has come to be called "power pop," rock rooted in Beatlesque melodies and harmonies and Byrds-like jingle-jangle guitar. The problem is, critics and cultists seem to be the only ones who actually own records by Big Star, the Records, the Motors, the White Animals, Bongos, Plimsouls, DBs, Windbreakers and the other acts that have earned "power pop" hosannas over the years.

Sure, Crowded House and Squeeze can be heard on alternative radio. The increasingly formulaic Smithereens have become MTV fixtures, and Michael Penn and the Rembrandts are folkish voices (low-power pop?) in the mix. But despite the brief flash of nostalgia which brought us the Posies and Jellyfish, Marshall Crenshaw's last album disappeared without a trace. Most of these artists will eventually end up mere footnotes to rock history, as if calling anything "power-pop" dooms it to commercial failure.

So let's not call the Cavedogs a you-know-what band.

Besides, the Cavedogs' new release rises above critics' stylistic labeling. "Soul Martini" simply is too musically powerful and varied to be easily pigeonholed.

Sure, the trademarks are there: chiming, grungy guitars (often super-saturated enough to "jingle-jangle" your fillings loose), melodies and hooks that stick in your head after one listen. But the Cavedogs' threesome of bassist Brian Stevens, guitarist Todd Spahr and drummer Mark Rivers are smart enough songwriters to keep their lyrics from treacle, and they're not dogmatic about style.

The 'Dogs in fact revel in unexpected sonic twists, such as the cheeseball organ solo and orchestral bridge (an homage to Burt Bacharach) during "On for the Ride." But they also find comfort in nasty-assed guitar riffs throughout songs such as the unstoppable "Murder" and "Sorrow (Boots of Pain)," a droll commentary on black-clad hipsters that points out that "Quadrophenia" had a lock on teenaged angst long before the Cure.

Call "Soul Martini" first-rate, chest-pounding, foot-stomping rock and roll. Call it catchy, call it cool, call it retro if you insist.

Just please don't call it you-know-what.

This review originally appeared in Request magazine in 1992.

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BIG HEAD TODD AND THE MONSTERS
A Colorado band makes its declaration of independence.

Big Head Todd and the Monsters can write a how-to book on running a band as a small business. Since 1986, the group's gained a large and loyal regional following and released two recordings, all without day jobs. Now, the groundswell of support -- at home in Boulder, Colorado, and in other towns where they regularly tour, such as San Francisco, Austin, Chicago and Minneapolis -- has led to a national buzz on the group.

"I guess word's getting around," drummer Brian Nevin acknowledges with satisfaction. The trio's earned the attention the old-fashioned way, with hard work and the unshakable confidence that comes with great talent.

The Monsters' music is a roots-rock melange of blues, country, folk and funk, centered on Todd Park Mohr's husky vocals and limber guitar-playing, one minute folkish strumming and delicately picked melodies and the next a percussive flurry of notes. Nevin and bassist Rob Squires intuitively fill the spaces between Mohr's chording with inventive melodies of their own -- they've known each other since high school, and originally formed the Monsters as a college frat-party band.

The Monsters' latest release, Midnight Radio (with cover art by former Replacement Chris Mars, a fan), captures the spirit of the band's performances, since it was recorded live to DAT. It reflects the restlessness of the road -- the moody title track perfectly evokes the loneliest hours of an all-night drive.

The group's sold almost 3,000 copies of Midnight Radio , and 7,000 copies of its 1989 debut, without the help of national management or major label backing. In fact, they've regarded the industry with indifference. "It seems to me the music scene's turned into a rat race," says Mohr. "It's not that we're scared of being part of the corporate system, but we're already making our payroll. They know we're here, and if they're really serious they'll come approach us."

"We don't sit around saying we want to be signed by a label," says Squires. "We'll just keep doing what we're doing, support the organization and build our fan base."

"You can always go for the Big Fish," adds Mohr, " but keeping the respect of fans for something you've worked really hard to attain, that's real work."

The Monsters already support themselves with constant touring and record sales, so they haven't sought a major label contract. If a deal ever comes their way, it'll have to allow for the band's do-it-yourself spirit.

This article originally appeared in Rolling Stone in 1991.

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THE SUBDUDES

The first thing you notice at a Subdudes' performance is the crowd of fanatic "Dudeheads" in front, writhing in ecstasy to the music like Deadheads with rhythm. The second is the music itself, with its not-too-distant echoes of the band's New Orleans roots, southern soul emotion and country harmonies. Next the band: Tommy Malone's powerful voice and nimble, understated guitar-playing; John Magnie's equally emotive singing and adept work on keyboards and accordion; Johnny Ray Allen's funky bass, which lays a rumbling foundation; and Steve Amedee's thunderous drumming ... on a tambourine.

Amedee sits upon his drum riser and weilds a drumstick over a lone tambourine perched on his knee, using his thumb to affect the sound from a booming bass to the snap of a snare, and shaking the instrument for cymbals' high tones. The drum switch was part of a transformation that took the Subdudes from New Orleans to Colorado, and turned them from an electric bar-band to the mostly-acoustic country-soul outfit that's just released its second album, Lucky , for East-West Records America.

Lucky was recorded in New Orleans and is imbued with the town's rhythmic pulse, but it defies typecasting. Malone, Allen and Magnie's originals mix equal parts R&B and country, and the best of their efforts sound like you've always known them. Al Green's "I'm So Tired of Being Alone" emphasizes the band's soulfulness. And the 'Dudes turn it up on the psychedelic funk of "Straight Shot," the hard-rock of "I Can't Wait" and the crazed R&B of "Wide Load," with the Rebirth Brass Band lending extra sass. Most of the album features Malone's soulful singing while the rest chime in with harmonies that bring The Band to mind.

Like The Band, the Subdudes benefit from years together. Malone, Amedee and Allen grew up in Edgard, Louisiana, a one-road sugar cane town 40 miles up the Mississippi River from New Orleans. "My older brothers used to listen to a lot of soul music," says Amedee. "David [Malone, Tommy's brother, a member of the Radiators] and my brother had one of the first rock-and-roll bands in Edgard."

Allen, who lived across a cane field from Amedee, says, "I grew up mostly listening to country music, until I got thirteen, and started listening to ZZ Top and all that stuff." Malone grew up on the Beatles. "My first band with Steve, about 70 percent of our material was Beatles," he recalls.

The friends eventually drifted to New Orleans. Magnie, a Denver native, also headed there, drawn by the town's rich musical heritage. The four crossed paths but didn't all play together until the Continental Drifters, a bar-band which started out playing original music but ended up grinding out AOR covers. The Subdudes' name and subdued sound came by accident; Magnie had a weekly solo gig at the famed Tipitina's, and the other members joined in one night on acoustic instruments, including Amedee on tambourine.

Magnie convinced the others to leave New Orleans' stifling scene and settle in a small town an hour north of Denver. "We were ready for some extreme change," recalls Magnie of the Big Move from the Big Easy. "I remember having some thought like we better get outta here before it gets ruined." From their new base, the band started playing area clubs and the nearby ski resorts, gaining the following that led to their self-titled 1989 debut recording for Atlantic.

Though the Subdudes have thrived in the Rockies, their musical heritage often takes them back to New Orleans. In tribute to the town, Magnie and Malone last fall ebulliently bleated out a last-minute brass chart for "Bye Bye" on trumpet and trombone (they hadn't played either instrument since high school). "After we rented those instruments," says Amedee, "I was driving back to the studio, and they were playing. We'd drive by some tourists, and they'd go, `Oh, man! Look at what these people do in New Orleans. What a city!'"

That may be so, but sometimes, you just have to leave it to love it.

This article originally appeared in Rolling Stone in 1991.

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IRIS DeMENT
From Grevious Angel to Infamous Angel

Iris DeMent is as plain-spoken as her music, but Infamous Angel , DeMent's Rounder Records debut, is anything but simple. It's rich with emotional complexity, despite its stripped-down, acoustic production.

Her influences include Kitty Wells, Emmylou Harris, Joni Mitchell, Dylan, Aretha Franklin and Nanci Griffith. But, says DeMent, "You take everything you know, and jumble it together into something that's your own. Of all the music I listened to, the things that stuck with me were the country-oriented things."

So she now finds herself singing country-music with her charmingly unpolished, real voice. She sings instinctively, her voice cracking and bending and pushing past notes without ever sounding like affectations. DeMent's songs are naturals, too. Several of her songs - "Let the Mystery Be" and "Our Town" among them - already sound like Smoky Mountain traditionals.

DeMent, the youngest of eight children born in Arkansas and raised in California (she now lives in Kansas City with her husband), ends her album with three fine tributes to her Pentacostal parents. "After You're Gone" is a moving song to her 82-year-old father, who's seriously ill. "Mama's Opry," about 74-year-old Flora Mae DeMent's love for country music, features Emmylou Harris on harmony.

Then Flora Mae herself takes the lead on the spiritual "Higher Ground." DeMent half-jokes that she signed her record deal just so her mother could live out her lifelong dream: "Rounder was the label that said, 'yeah, you can have your mom sing a song.'"
That's the plain truth.

Pulse! magazine, 1991

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"COMMON THREAD: SONGS OF THE EAGLES" COMMENTARY

Listening to the new generation of young country singers pay homage to their rock-and-roll roots in "Common Thread: The Songs of the Eagles," I'm reminded of how well-constructed these songs -- irrepressible '70s hits, all -- really were, even though more than a decade of revisionist rock criticism has tried to tell us the Eagles were fey, phoney southern California shuck-and-jive experts.

I'll buy that, to an extent, because as songwriters the Eagles werre often painfully shallow, and their early albums are choclfull of awful filler. But the best songs (many of them monster hits) still hold up because they're just plain catchy, and because they capture the breezy spirit of the time and place: Southern California in the 1970s.

Drag out the Eagles' original versions, though, instead of wasting time on these pointless, reverential copies. The artists on this collection, a benefit for former Eagle Don Henley's Walden Woods Project, is exactly what's wrong with country music these days: Travis Tritt, Little Texas, Alan Jackson, Suzy Boggus, Diamond Rio, Billy Dean, Brooks and Dunn and more are today's heirs to the Eagles' country-rock throne, but the difference is, between them they haven't written pop songs as good as these 13 songs. Instead, like recording these carbon copies, they recycle the Eagles' formula into an even more obvious formula.

What the collection reveals is that the Eagles were ahead of their time: They merged rebel hippie attitude - these guys were the slackers of 1971 - with the shitkicker soul of the best of country music, then made it commercial, which in and of itself is no crime. The group's music embodied Hank Sr. and Merle Haggard, but also Gram Parsons, the Southern hippie who helped invent country rock in the first place, with the Byrds and Flying Burrito Brothers.

What's odd, then, is that in today's rock and roll landscape, the Eagles wouldn't even rate a speck in the sky. Sure, some of their songs (not the ones covered on "Common Thread") are still heard on classic rock radio, but the mere fact that these young country kids embrace these songs so lovingly means that if the Eagles released their 1971 debut hit, "Take It Easy" today, you'd have to be listening to country radio to hear it.

And that, unfortunately, says more about the state of rock than the state of country music.

Commentary read over National Public Radio station KRCC in Colorado Springs, Colorado

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POP GOES THE CULTURE: FROM "SUKIYAKI" TO "HAPPY SAD"

Ever since the earliest cultural exchanges of the Meiji Restoration era in the late 1800s, Japanese have eagerly embraced all manner of Western Culture - primarily American culture, including American popular culture, the United States' most undervalued but farthest-reaching export.

The stereotype today is that Japanese are crazy about Western pop from blue jeans to rockabilly music, but the exchange goes both ways. Western culture - and especially American culture in the post-war years - has consumed its own share of Japanese pop.

A perfect Meiji-era East-to-West example is the influence of the brilliant colors, flat spatial design and artificial perspective of Ukiyo-e woodblock prints and even the mass-produced elegant graphics of Japanese wrapping paper (which is as beautiful and unique today as it was 100 years ago) on French painters working out the style that would become known as Impressionism.

Other exports from Japan include technology and gadgetry as a kind of pop culture, but the respect such industries have today was hard won. Pre- and post-war industrial exports from toys to automobiles were considered cheap and poorly made, and in fact they often were until the concept of Western-style quality control was introduced during the post-war Occupation years.

Cheeseball sci-fi movies like "Godzilla" and their TV versions like "Ultraman" and the current Power Ranger craze all are pure reflections of Japan's fascination/repulsion with nuclear energy (which puts into context the level of protest from citizens over the continuing French nuclear test explosions - according to Japanese pop myth, Godzilla's gonna come bubbling up from one of those explosions).

And there's a related sci-fi field that currently is enjoying an underground explosion in the West: Anime. From early clunky cartoons like Astro Boy ("Atom Boy," the Japanese name, is much more explicit about its atomic-era origins while in the U.S. the emphasis is on space) and Gigantor ("Tetsujin Niju Hachi-Go") were stiff early '60s precursors of today's popular anime titles like Akira.

With U.S. interest in animation in general increasing (one sign is the new all-animation studio called Dreamworks, a partnership between Steven Spielberg), the market is just starting to reveal itself. AnIme is already very popular with the cutting edge of U.S. culture consumers, and it'll surely grow in popularity and have an impact on the burgeoning industry. The mass media are already covering its popularity; Billboard magazine just a couple of weeks ago devoted a special section to "Japanimation."

There were also non-sci-fi cartoons like Kimba the White Lion and Speed Racer popular in Japan during the '60s which have made their mark on American audiences, via MTV for Speed Racer and less directly, though I think no less significantly, through Disney's "The Lion King" for Kimba.

(Another related, though so far not widespread cultural phenomenon is Manga, and the wild diversity and readership scope of Japanese comics. They're a completely different breed in many ways from American comics, and appeal to a vastly different market, but both the adult topics and cutting-edge graphics style is starting to impact American design and graphics. Soon there will be a commercial breakthrough for some manga and the floodgates will open for the medium, because like with anime, the avant garde is already fascinated with manga.)

But for most Americans, aside from TV phenomenon like Power Rangers or Speed Racer (which many Americans aren't even aware are Japanese in origin), pop music is the most obvious of Japanese cultural imports, if for no other reason than its origins can't be hidden behind wide-eyed drawings.

Because my background is as a pop music critic, the most interesting aspect of Japan-U.S. cultural exchange is music.

The history of Japanese music breaking through the American market is that unfortunately, when the Japanese-ness of a pop music act is revealed, that act and its music have been treated more like a novelty than as serious pop music (if pop music can be serious).

Good examples of this are fluke hits like "Sukiyaki," and in the 1970s, Pink Lady. The current interest in punk and alternative music - Shouichi Kino, Shang Shang Typhoon, Blue Hearts a few year ago and Shonen Knife aren't really pop releases, because they have small audiences and their reputations are often enhanced by sponsoring "celebrities" like David Byrne of Talking Heads in the case of Shang Shang Typhoon and Shouichi Kina, and elite punks Sonic Youth for Shonen Knife (Sonic Youth mentioned Shonen Knife over and over in U.S. interviews until their fans became interested in the group).

The story of "Sukiyaki" is a perfect example of how Japanese popular culture can find a market in America, but as a novelty instead of as a serious cultural export, or at least as a respectable cultural export with credible staying power: Kyu Sakamoto hit number one June 15, 1963, with "Sukiyaki." (It replaced Leslie Gore's "It's My Party" at the top of the charts.)

Sakamoto, born in Kawasaki, started playing clubs while still in high school. He signed as a "boy-next-door" by a talent company in 1959, and recorded for Toshiba Records. By the time "Sukiyaki" was released in the U.S., he had 15 best-selling singles and eight albums in Japan, and had appeared in 10 movies.

Here's the story of how the song was called "Sukiyaki" in the West.

The song that made his reputation in America (though it would be difficult to find any American who remembers his name) was actually called "Ue O Muite Aruko," Louis Benjamin, the head of Britain's Pye Records (the label that would a few years later be the first to record The Who), was visiting Japan on business in 1962, and brought the song back for jazzman Kenny Ball to record.

For the simple - and condescending if not somewhat racist - reason that British radio DJs might find the Japanese title hard to pronounce, the song was renamed "Sukiyaki," one of the few Japanese words most Westerners were already familiar with. Unfortunately it didn't have anything to do with the original title or the sad story in the song, but perhaps that wasn't taken into consideration because it was intended to be recorded as a jazz instrumental, not in its original version. Newsweek magazine at the time described the situation thus: "It is like releasing 'Moon River' in Japan with the title 'Beef Stew.'"

Ball's instrumental "Sukiyaki" went to number 10 in England in January 1963. Meanwhile in America, a DJ for station KORD in Pasco, Washington, got hold of Sakamoto's original and found listeners liked the song. The regional airplay caught the attention of Capitol Records, which re-released it with the British title, again for the convenience of radio DJs and listeners who might buy the record. It was the first song sung in a foreign language to top the Top 100.

Country singer Clyde Beavers later recorded an English version, but his recording wasn't successful. A new generation of U.S. pop music fans know the song best from A Taste of Honey's 1981 release, which reached #3 on the charts with its silky, soulful translation.

Maybe Louis Benjamin did Ryu Sakamoto a favor by changing the name of the song to "Sukiyaki." It's possible that even though it's a great song, Westerners wouldn't have given it a chance if they had to stumble through its real title. But the choice of the new title was so arbitrary that it comes across as cavalier.

Unfortunately for Japanese pop culture, the language barrier still exists.

The story of marketing Pizzicato 5 in America is the '90s version of the same problem - how does a record company market Japanese pop music to an American audience notorious for its cultural ethnocentrism without reducing the music and the artist to a novelty gimmick? The results remain to be seen.

Atlantic Records, P5's American label, is releasing the group's latest U.S. album, "The Sound of Music By...." this week. It's a mix of tracks from several Japanese P5 releases, including the first single release, "Happy Sad," a wonderfully catchy tribute to '70s American soul music. The label did early marketing for the song by getting it included on the soundtrack to "Unzipped," a documentary about New York fashion designer Isaac Mizrahi. Given P5's focus on fashion as part of the pop experience, the song is perfect for the film, and clips from the movie have been included in a video now making its way onto U.S. TV screens via MTV and VH-1.

According to Michael Krumper, Atlantic Records' VP of product development, the label will market the group not as a novelty, but as an alternative rock and dance-club act. The label will also push P5 to pop radio, but he agrees that may take time to accept P5's cutting-edge sound. Still, he points out the band's previous U.S. release, "Made in the USA" (from
last year, on an Atlantic Records subsidiary called Matador) has already sold over 100,000 copies to a primarily underground audience. "That's not novelty sales numbers," he told me.

The label will create some merchandise like P5 flight bags and bar coasters. Plus, the label will allow Yasuharu Konishi and Maki Nomiya to create a package as elaborate as their Japanese releases. That attention to artful design and the group's extreme visual presentation on stage as well as on CD will attract an artistic fan base, Krumper says.

The one thing in P5's favor is that unlike most "world music" which is sung in languages other than English and often has musical elements and rhythms that are unfamiliar to American consumers, P5's music is an affectionate reflection of Konishi's favorite pop music, mostly American soul music from the 1970s. That means U.S. listeners will find much of P5's sound already familiar, like echoes of their own past.

P5 also has made one major concession to the U.S. market that may help the group catch on as something other than a novelty: Maki sings the song almost all in English on the new album, even though it was more in Japanese in its original version on last year's Japanese "Overdose" release.

The result, hopefully? Krumper says "They're totally interested in more people hearing their music, and the popularity here has made them more important in Japan."

That, I'll leave to you to decide.


Originally presented as a lecture at offices of the Japan National Tourism Organization, Tokyo, October 1995

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E-Town: Music with a Green Spin

"I was just thinking to myself, 'Hmmm ... things are going pretty good,'" says Canadian singer-songwriter Ferron, chuckling as she waits at the microphone. She was mid-song when production manager Ray Tuomey tapped her shoulder and asked her to start again.

At most concerts, technical problems are shrugged off, and the performer plays on. But this is no ordinary concert - it's a live recording session for the weekly National Public Radio show "E-Town," and the mobile recording truck parked behind the historic Boulder Theatre heard a glitch in the sound equipment.

With the gremlin found, Ferron counts off again. But halfway into the song, she looks sheepishly at the E-Tones, the show's house band playing behind her. She's forgotten the words. The audience is understanding, though, and enthusiastically cheers for her to start over again instead of scrapping the number altogether.

Tuomey brings out a music stand so Ferron can have the words in front of her. "Normally I'm great, but I've got a lot on my mind," she says good-naturedly.

The studio audience doesn't mind the mistakes - in fact, they're part of the appeal of attending the tapings.

They're getting a behind-the-scenes peek at how a radio variety show is put together, including the retakes and the spontaneous moments that make performers human. The show will be a flawless hour of great music and thoughtful environmental information when it's aired over 120 stations across the country (including Boulder's KGNU), but in front of its live audience, the two-hour performances add communal warmth and goofy unpredictability, making "E-Town" more fun to visit than just hearing it over the airwaves.

The home crowd this night also hears great news: After a tumultuous couple of years for the facility, "E-Town" hosts Nick and Helen Forster announced the Boulder Theatre had been purchased by New Hope Communications, the publisher of new age and health magaginzes whose offices are half a block away. Forster introduced New Hope's Doug Greene, who made a heartfelt speech about the building's potential. "I'd like to thank Helen and Nick - they were very influential in talking me into this," he says.

Nick last year stepped in as general manager of the theater, with "E-Town" as a principal tenant and sub-leasing it to others like concert promoters and Big Head Todd and the Monsters, who recorded tracks for their latest album there. He led the efforts to save the theatre from development into a shopping mall or entertainment complex, and helped connect the building with its buyer. New Hope sponsors natural food industry trade shows twice a year, in Baltimore, Maryland and Anaheim, California, where "E-Town" has taped on-the-road programs the past two years.

So it seems appropriate for Nick to announce the sale of the theater at an "E-Town" taping, just a couple of weeks after its fourth birthday. The Forsters taped their pilot show of "E-Town" on Earth Day, April 22, 1991, and shopped a demo tape to NPR just weeks later at a convention. The network agreed to carry the program, and the couple was off and running. During the summer they assembled a small staff (including this writer) and planned the first season. The first show aired that October, featuring Shawn Colvin.

"It's remarkable to have watched it evolve and go through its various growing pains and stages," says Helen in an interview. "I wake up every morning and I'm amazed where we are now. It's like rolling a big buolder up a hill. At a certain point gravity starts to help, and that's what it feels like now, like things are falling in place."

Four years ago, "E-Town" was based in a small office in the Forsters' backyard just a few blocks from the Boulder Theatre. These days, it's headquartered in a downtown office. The small staff has expanded a little, but not much. Now there are three fulltime employees besides Nick and Helen, with a part-time development director and two other part-timers handling the accounting and the constant work of massaging NPR stations to add "E-Town" to their weekly schedules. To date, 120 stations from Anchorage, Alaska to Lafayette, Louisiana air the show.

For the first two years, "E-Town" wasn't established enough to interest national sponsors. Now, though they still need more, the show has four national sponsors - Standard Homepathic Company, Tom's of Maine, Arrowhead Mills and Suncloud Sunglasses - whose banners hang on the wall of the stage behind the E-Tones. The show also has a cadre of local sponsors - Bank of Boulder, CareerTrack, Media Marketing, Kinko's, Oasis Brewery, Alfalfa's Market, Hotel Boulderado and the Daily Camera - that help out with everything from accomodations for the show's guests to backstage food and an after-show party.

The first season, with no national sponsors and little name recognition for the program, "E-Town" often gave away more tickets than were sold. "These days low attendance is 300," Nick noted before the show, an improvement from the days when "I think we had sold 16 tickets on the day of one show. 'E-Town' has a much better name recognition in Boulder these days, but we have some work to do."

It didn't help that early audiences seemed more interested in seeing full concerts by the more famous visitors than checking out the up-and-coming artists or musicians renowned in lesser-known types of music. The theater always was packed for shows featuring star attractions like Julian Lennon or Los Lobos; James Taylor sold out the Boulder Theatre in record-breaking time. Other times, "E-Town" audiences could be frustratingly thin - a shame since the shows are usually musically terrific and sometimes thrilling no matter who's been booked, because of Nick's stringent musical standards.

His insistence on quality has paid off in a first-rate lineup ranging from the well-known to the obscure: Nanci Griffith, Emmy Lou Harris and Richard Thompson to Hawaiian guitarist Keola Beamer and Austin songwriter Jimmie Dale Gilmore.

The show's increasing national audience has made it easier to book acts, because record companies see the marketing opportunity. These days labels as well as booking agents and management companies call and offer their artists for "E-Town," instead of Nick having to, as he put it, "beg for acceptance." The Boulder Theater's box office is lined with posters for "E-Town" tapings from just the past few months with a diverse lineup of visitors including Pops Staples, David Wilcox, Big Head Todd and the Monsters, the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, U. Utah Phillips, the Subdudes, Texas, Beausoleil, Chris Hilllman and Paula Cole.

The music may be the hook, but the regulars who come out for "E-Town" tapings come out week after week for the show's camaraderie - the Forsters have managed to fabricate out of thin air a real sense of community, something that harkens back to old-time radio's "make-believe ballroom" days.

Audience regulars also come out knowing not to expect a typical concert with one artist performing for an hour and a half, but a structured performance and talk format that only allows several songs from each musical guest. The fans get their money's worth - most shows cost $7 - in the intimate and relaxed performances, and the spoken word segments, which was part of the show's appeal to NPR. The spoken portions of the show include an E-Chievement Awards segment, where listeners nominate environmental do-gooders who are interviewed (sometimes by phone) by Nick on-air.

After Ferron's first appearance on stage, Nick interviews this week's E-chievement winner, John Beale, a Seattle activist who began a successful campaign to save a creek by dragging junk out of it himself. The interview is conducted via phone, with the audience listening to Beale over the house sound system. In the background, keyboardist Ron Jolly plays a steady, wandering accompaniment on piano.

The various portions of the show are woven together by the musical segues provided by the E-Tones. These days the band consists of Jolly, Chris Engleman on bass, Steve Ivey on drums and Nick on guitar. This night Denver-based studio pro and wunderkind Kirwan Brown is sitting in for Engleman. The band rocks, especially Ivey, who's a metronomic timekeeper.

The next musical segment is Sonny Landreth, the New Orleans-based singer-songwriter and guitar whiz who was a regular for years at the Hotel Boulderado. He's also practically a regular on "E-Town," having visited several times including that first "E-Town" pilot in 1991. He sings "South of I-10" with the E-Tones rocking out behind him, and Helen and Nick helping out on harmonies.

The musicians break for a few minutes, as Nick interviews Dr. Bob Rountree, an expert on herbal pharmocology, about a new book he co-authored, "Smart Medicine for a Healthier Child." Like the musical mix, "E-Town" has given exposure to a variety of styles and views in its interview segments. The guests have ranged from the expected scientists and activists to artists and authors, "green" entrepreneurs, authors and politicians.

Along with national sponsors and easier access to musicians, "E-Town"'s growing national audience has made it easier to book guests for the show's spoken-word segments. "Like the music, (the environmental side) has evolved, and we've set up good networks with publishers. When Dave Barry was coming through town, his publisher called us and said they'd love to have him on the show," Helen says.

Though the talk-radio part of "E-Town" is intrinsic to its spirit, it's undeniably the music that's the star attraction, especially when you're in the Boulder Theatre audience.

Ferron's next turn on stage not only goes flawlessly, it's one of those magical performances that make the live "E-Town" experience transcendant. She sings "Sunshine," a song available on a new album, "Hand in Hand," of songs about parenthood over the years by artists ranging from Joni Mitchell and Jackson Browne to Yoko Ono, John Lennon and the Pretenders.

The powerful song, sung from the point of view of a dying elderly woman telling her daughter goodbye, has Ferron - and many in the audience - wiping away tears. Even Nick seems stunned by the emotional moment, until Ferron prompts him. "Well?" she says, after the applause subsides, hoping an interview question might help her regain her composure.

It does, and she plays her next song flawlessly. Now it's Landreth's turn to suffer a mid-song interruption. During a solo acoustic blues number, an amp behind him makes a sound noticed out in that pesky, perfectionist recording truck.

"Man, I knew that was gonna happen to me," Landreth says as the audience applauds at the chance to hear his playing again. Before the next song, an electric number with the full band, he jokes to the audience, "I'm only gonna start if it counts."

By the end of the show, he's also played two New Orleans-spiced rockers, "Bayou Teche" and "Congo Square." There's more than enough music for Helen to edit down to one show's worth.

After an encore (a Cajun-style Ferron original instead of the usual traditional singalong folksong), Nick sends the audience home with a reminder of his earlier announcement: "Thank you for coming out to the newly-rescued Boulder Theater."

Now, that's worth hearing live, instead of over the radio.

Flatirons Magazine, 1995

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MANJIRO SUMMIT '95

Before I left Colorado Springs for the "1995 Japan-America Grassroots Summit," sponsored by the Manjiro Society for International Exchange, I half-expected the trip to be an elaborate package tour. Nobody could explain to me what happened at the summit. Would there be panel discussions? Lectures? Historical presentations? Or would it be sightseeing?

It turned out to be all of the above.

And more: Attendance at the summit also included two nights of homestay with a Japanese family. The homestay is what makes the summit truly "Grassroots." After attending the summit Oct. 28-Nov. 6, the American participants - there were about 200, with several dozen from Colorado - came home with a better understanding of how Japanese live their day-to-day lives.

The one-on-one familiarity that comes from understanding seemed more crucial this year than at any time since the end of World War II. The 50th anniversary of the war added an emotional edge to already tense relations between the two countries, including controversies on both sides over the 50th anniversary commemorations of the war, difficult trade negotiations and the public protests against U.S. bases in Okinawa following the alleged rape of an Okinawan teenager by American servicemen. The homestay segment of the summit bridged the gap and reminded us that behind national differences are plenty of individual similarities.

I had been invited on the trip at the Japanese government's expense along with several other delegates including Colorado Springs Mayor Bob Isaacs for a preview of the event, because the Manjiro Society, a non-profit organization based in McLean, Virginia, alternates the event between Japan and America, and next year's summit is planned for Oct. 2-7, 1996 in Colorado Springs.

This year's summit took place in Kagoshima, a beautiful port city at the southern end of Kyushu that has as its centerpiece Sakurajima, a live and smoking volcano in its bay.

Because of Sakurajima's majesty, I had decided on a homestay in Kagoshima to get to know the city and its volcano better. Attendees chose in advance from ten regional homestay locations, including remote villages such as Wadomari, on Okinoerabu Island two hours' flight from Kagoshima, and Nishinoomote City on Tanegashima Island (the headquarters for Japan's space program).

One reason it's hard to describe the summit is that much of its programming structure depends on where you spend your homestay. This summit opened with an afternoon of welcome speeches in Tokyo, but after one day of cultural performances (traditional music and dance and a tea ceremony) and history lectures in Kagoshima, the attendees split into small groups according to their homestay locations. For the next two days, each locale planned its own agenda, from loosely structured sightseeing to pretty serious panel discussions.

The Kagoshima homestay group spent the first day meeting with the city's mayor (Mayor Isaacs of the Springs exchanged gifts) and lunching at City Hall; sitting through more history lessons, which are enlightening but a burden to endure during such an otherwise exciting experience; and a brief but beautiful traditional dance performance at a reception where we met our hosts for the next two nights.

Then the eight of us in the Kagoshima group went off with our homestay families for our unique one-on-one experiences.

Not everyone got a real-life look at daily Japanese living, though: Jeff Brown, a Colorado Springs art teacher who had his homestay in Wadomari, had a wonderful time. But he was treated like a visiting dignitary, and villagers dressed their best to come visit him and take his picture. He didn't get an accurate view of those villagers' lives. And though accurate, some Americans got to see a privileged view of Japanese life, because they were assigned to wealthy homestay families and showered with extravagant gifts.

Luckily, my homestay was with an unusually large (for Japan) family that doesn't live extravagantly and didn't treat me like a curiosity. Mr. and Mrs. Yamashita have eight kids who range from 7 to 23 in age. Tsutomu Yamashita is a professor at the local technical college who works the long hours typical of Japanese employees; I didn't get to spend much time with him. Sayoko-san, my 51-year-old homestay "mother," is a housewife who volunteers with the local traditional dance troupe. She's a progressive woman who often invites foreigners to stay with her family, to expose her children to people from other cultures. She speaks close to fluent English, as opposed to my stumbling Japanese. She used to run a restaurant in Kagoshima, and dreams of selling her local specialty, a deep-fried, meat-filled potato dumpling called Caroke, in an American fast-food chain.

We spoke and shared ideas and knowledge for the next two days about the education system in Japan (she thinks it asks too much of her children); about racism; about the difference between Japanese and American work ethics; about things that affect our lives, not just our countries.

She took me to the 120-year-old local elementary school where her youngest children walk to classes every day; the local hospital, where her older son Shinya was having his sore throat investigated by a doctor (the prognosis: didn't want to go to school); and Kagoshima's downtown entertainment district, where hundreds of bars with tiny, discreet square signs attract the working population after office hours. I slept on the floor on a futon; used their Japanese-style furo; I ate sukiyaki communally with the family.

Somewhere in between the talking and eating, we also squeezed in a lot of sightseeing, including a breathtaking ferry ride and drive halfway up Sakurajima's smoking spout (the first night in Kagoshima it erupted a fountain of ash that forced contacts-wearers to put on their glasses). We also visited the mountainous area around Kirishima, a hot springs resort north of Kagoshima; and the local botanical gardens, where a Chrysanthemum Festival was being held.

I also did my best to have a cultural exchange at the most basic level: I ate as much Japanese food as I could, from the udon noodles to a local rice-dumpling snack specialty called "Jambo," and of course I had the freshest sushi I had tasted in my life.

The climactic moment of the trip came at the end of the homestay, when all the American participants gathered back in downtown Kagoshima to join in an annual street festival parade. We were given short festive "hapi" coats to wear, and instructed to watch the Japanese around us for cues.

And the sweetest moment was later that same night, when the Colorado delegation, including members of the Japan-America Society of Colorado, gathered at the dock after a ferry-boat farewell party and began singing "Moonlight Over Colorado" amidst the tearful farewells, as an invitation to the 1996 Manjiro Summit in Colorado Springs.

But the most lasting moment will be the one when I first stepped into Sayoko Yamashita and her family's doorway and saw a crudely-drawn sign with a Japanese and United States flag crossed, and the words "Welcome Gilbert" written across it. The sentiment was sincere, and for the first time since I was in Japan, I truly felt welcome in Japan.

I only hope I can do the same for the Japanese visitors next year.

Rocky Mountain Jiho, a Japanese-English newspaper in Denver, Colorado, 1996