Is there a more intriguing story than an enormously talented, rock and roll recluse? The kind of artist that is so gifted, with a vision and unique sound, and he (or she) just walks away? Don’t you want to know why? What did they do after they stopped being famous? Does it make that person more exciting?
“Would we still be talking about Buck Owens if it weren’t for Hee Haw?” I was asked recently and have spent an inordinate amount of time mulling over the answer. The answer, of course, is maybe. Hee Haw was an amazing music delivery system, imbuing Buck’s image with a family-friendly, easily accessible shorthand: he’s that smiling guy on TV every week with his Buckaroos and the pretty girls and Grandpa Jones and Roy Clark, and he’s kind of funny with his dad jokes, and he makes some catchy tunes. You think (if you’ve spent time watching Hee Haw) about what Buck Owens looked like, which, in an pre-MTV/CMTV videos era, is pretty spectacular. You can conjure up what he looks like playing his American flag striped guitar, you know what the Buckaroos look like, you can see Don Rich smiling in your mind’s eye.
I don’t know that a lovelier box set than Hulaland: The Golden Age Of Hawaiian Music has ever crossed my desk. Four discs of carefully curated tracks (105! 105 tracks of Hawaiian music! Your luau could go on for ages!), collecting a vast range of music from the 1920s to the ’70s, are housed in a gorgeous, hardbound book. The book serves as liner notes, written by James Austin, as well as a collection of memorabilia from a time when the States went tiki crazy, and reproductions of vintage sheet music covers from the Hawaiian heyday. It’s compulsively readable, showcasing notable Hawaiian musicians, a brief history of the ukulele, and all kinds of lagniappe wrapped in a candy-colored package. It’s worth the price of admission alone.
True fact: your new favorite song is probably on new album from St. Louis’s indie-Americana stalwarts, the Bottle Rockets. It’s hard for me to pick a favorite, because South Broadway Athletic Club is packed to the edges of the grooves with such great tracks (assuming you’re listening on vinyl).
Nineteen pages into Ray Wylie Hubbard’s book, A LIfe… Well, Lived. I had teared up, laughed hard enough to snort, and planned on buying his back catalogue of music (which is extensive). Hubbard is a natural raconteur, and his memoir is loaded with witty, honest, closely observed stories that span his lifetime. A Life… Well, Lived is written in an non-linear fashion: there are straight-up autobiographical chapters, stream of consciousness stories written with a lack of respect for the constraints of “proper” punctuation and capitalization, plus his filmic song lyrics. Hubbard has a literate, biting style of writing, and it is incredibly enjoyable. Buckle up, it’s a hell of a ride.
Even on their more upbeat tracks, there’s a shot of melancholy running through Moonsville Collective’s Heavy Howl. Moonsville Collective is a California-based, seven-piece Americana group—including two generations of the same family—playing the sort of music that one might expect hill folk to play, but with the occasional harder edge.
There’s a familiar feeling to the new Motel Beds album, Mind Glitter. It has a sort of retro indie feel, if your retro is the late 1990s, early aughts. There are nods to the Beach Boys, a little Brit Pop, smart harmonies, and some fine ear wormy choruses. It’s a solid return for the Dayton-based band, whose last album, These Are They Days Gone By, was released in 2012.
Holly Golightly has been particularly productive lately, releasing Slowtown Now! last month (review), and now reuniting with The Brokeoffs for Coulda Shoulda Woulda. Recorded on the Georgia farm Holly shares with Lawyer Dave (aka The Brokeoffs), Coulda Shoulda Woulda comes out swinging for the fences, and connects like mad. Songs of salvation for sale, dances to be learned, and an awfully sad Christmas are all here, along with some of the most delightful swearing ever laid to wax.
The story of Denny Lile is both terribly sad and terribly familiar. A deeply gifted songwriter, who drew on personal experience to craft raw and honest songs, really should have made it, but he had demons. He had record deals that fell through and he had a moment of terrific success when Waylon Jennings covered one of his songs. Then, there was a legal battle for the rights to his songs. And then, there was alcoholism.
One might say that if it weren’t for the Carter family, country music as we know it (or knew it, rather) wouldn’t exist. Director Beth Harrington’s film, The Winding Stream: The Carters, The Cashes And The Course Of Country Music, explores that notion, starting with A.P Carter, his wife Sara and sister-in-law Maybelle, following that stream to the Carter Sisters, to June Carter and Johnny Cash, all the way to Rosanne Cash. The Carters’ influence was far-reaching, shaping ancient melodies into popular songs, and pushing the guitar into the forefront of American music.