Mavericks of Sound

by Ensminger, David

  While imprisoned in Lexington, Kentucky, you worked with Red Rodney, who took you from being a straight rocker to a jazzier player. Is there anybody influencing you today like Red Rodney did then?

  I have a lot of contemporaries. I’m pretty close to guys like Chris Vrenna, or John X, or David Was remains very close to me creatively. All these guys are doing things. They’re showing a high degree of creativity and courage and pushing music into new spaces. Releasing it from old ideas. It’s not the same as my relationship with Red, because that was more the fundamentals of music, the language of music, but I hold these guys pretty much in the same esteem and I feel like we have a real healthy petri dish that we’re trying to operate in.

  The Mekons: The Politics of Pop

  Originally published in Thirsty Ear, 2000.

  According to traditional Marxist beliefs, in a time when there’s a vacuum in terms of authentic revolutionary or progressive avant-garde art, the most significant art, say art that holds people’s attention, is produced by reactionaries. Do you believe that’s true?

  John: I think what’s happening now is symptomatic of what’s happening across the board, not just about art, but about capital in general.

  If you’ve been consistent in terms of being a band, it’s probably about attacking power, whether it’s in the boardroom, bedroom, or barroom.

  Langford: We’re always burrowing around the edges of it.

  But you’ve said that you’re not purists about it, so what does that mean? For instance, is Tony Blair evil? Billy Bragg has said, in effect, that at least he stands for education and other Labour issues. Is he being an apologist?

  Timms: He would be. That doesn’t surprise me at all.

  Langford: Blair’s not evil, but he represents something that is evil. He’s always preaching about democracy, but people are now more powerless than they’ve ever been. Blair and Clinton have really been presiding over the dash away from democracy.

  Timms: Blair and Clinton are problematic because they’ve continued the policies of their countries’ previous governments but put on a face. It was easy not to like Thatcher and Reagan, you just weren’t supposed to like them. But Clinton is harder to dislike. He coats everything with this veneer of liberalism, but in reality there’s nothing he’s done that’s been different than the previous governments. He carries it on, but says, “We’re not doing this.” It’s hard to focus on disliking them because they don’t admit it themselves. . . . Thatcher was pretty unapologetic about what she did, so it was easy to say, “I don’t like her and what she did.” But it’s very hard dealing with these rightist liberals.

  Greenhalgh: They know better, basically. That’s why Tony Blair is evil. He’s a very intelligent person. They come out from a 1960s culture. They know what’s going on . . .

  Langford: But they know what they have to do to get elected. Blair had to go to Australia and kiss the fucking ring of Rupert Murdoch. And he had to go around to all the moneymen and tell them he wasn’t going to rock the boat. It’s like, what is the fucking point?

  Americans tend to carry their politics innately in their emotions and psychology and tend to be rather unconscious of their beliefs; do Europeans tend to be more self-aware of their politics?

  Langford: There’s no socialism in America, and there’s socialism all over Western Europe.

  But that’s like saying there was no peasant class in America, therefore we had different stages in terms of social and political development.

  Langford: Right, that’s a major difference.

  Greenhalgh: But stuff like that is definitely disintegrating.

  Sally: It’s still there, but it’s changing. The essence of America is the individual, but I wouldn’t say that for Europe, it’s the society.

  The focus is on community?

  Timms: Yes.

  Langford: Individualism is not going to work much in England, because the institutionalized socialistic mechanisms are not going to be broken down.

  But is that just cultural relativism, where one thing is as good as the next?

  Langford: I think one can be highly critical. But rock ’n’ roll isn’t art, then suddenly becomes art? You’re saying Robert Johnson wasn’t fucking art?

  Greenhalgh: I think there obviously is a difference, but it’s easy for us not to be bothered by all that. It’s not like we say, “Today I’m going to make art.”

  But is outsider art, say a guy scribbling on an aluminum wall, as interesting as a Monet?

  Langford: There’s good scribbling.

  Timms: Often it is.

  Greenhalgh: You say rock ’n’ roll started in the mid-1950s with Elvis, then trace it, and it’s somewhat interesting. But it’s rather boring too.

  But we can trace it back to country, and then even back to Africa.

  Langford: Back to people banging two rocks together.

  Greenhalgh: At the end of the day, it all gets meshed together.

  As Ian from the Make-Up has said, when kids no longer have to go into the community to play their music but just sit at home, where they can make and produce their own album, it becomes weird, masturbatory, and inverted, because rock ’n’ roll used to be about reaching out.

  Langford: Everything becomes so dissipated as people sit home locked away in their own little worlds and no one has common ground anymore, except for a huge corporate thing. So the only thing you have a conversation about anymore is so bland it’s useless.

  Timms: My point is that you kept asking us how we viewed ourselves—what we view ourselves as artists—and where do we sit, and where we come from. We think that everybody is capable of making something, and it doesn’t matter. . . . It’s just music, and it’s not necessarily incredibly special.

  Ralph Stanley: The Original Man of Constant Sorrow

  Originally published in Thirsty Ear, 2003.

  Ralph Stanley’s high-lonesome, mournful tenor is often and widely hailed as the greatest voice ever to emerge from Appalachia, especially when singing his signature tune, “Man of Constant Sorrow,” or his definitive, a cappella version of “Oh Death,” the centerpiece of the O Brother, Where Art Thou? sound track. Indisputably the elder statesman of old-time bluegrass music, Stanley is one of the most prolific recording artists in American history—initially playing with his older brother Carter as the Stanley Brothers and later as leader of the Clinch Mountain Boys—performing on more than 170 bluegrass, country, and gospel records over the course of six decades.

  You refer to your music as “mountain music” instead of “bluegrass.” Why?

  I like for it to be mountain music or old-time country music or traditional bluegrass. Either one will fit me. It’s traditional, basically.

  Were you surprised that six million fans bought the O Brother, Where Art Thou? sound track, or had you realized there was an audience, and it was just a matter of time before you reached them?

  I don’t think anybody expected it to do that good, but I am certainly glad that it did. I think it did because of the old-time music. T. Bone [Burnett, producer of the sound track] and the Coen Brothers put it out where people could hear it, and they advertised it. There were probably thousands and thousands of people who hadn’t ever heard this type of music before, and when they heard it, they liked it.

  Do you think those people will continue to buy your records, or records by other bluegrass artists?

  Ah, yeah, they are. When I do a personal appearance, every night I ask for people to raise their hands if it’s the first time they have seen my show. Sometimes it will be one third of the audience. Well, those are new people that I have picked up, and there’s also the old audience that I have had for years.

  Would you describe the bluegrass festival circuit as a family unto itself?

  Yeah, this Down from the Mountain tour [featuring a host of roots music artists] was just like a family. All the people were nice and cooperating and helped each other. It was actually more homey-like than festivals, really. Everybody wa
s just for each other.

  Did that suggest to you that even in 2003, when people can be a little bit cynical and jaded about the music industry, there are still really good people in the business?

  Yeah, that’s right. They’s good people and all the music is good. Well, there’s some that’s bad out there, I guess. And some, well, I don’t know. I better not judge that [laughs].

  Was it a difficult decision to leave Rebel Records after thirty years and record for a new one?

  No, I was pretty anxious to try something new, and I think it has helped me in a way. Like I said, it’s gotten me a lot of fans. The sound track of O Brother is the most publicity I’ve gotten. I don’t feel that I have lost any of my old fans, but I have gained new ones.

  Over the past several years, you’ve worked with a lot of younger artists, from Patty Loveless to Dwight Yoakum. How do you know when you can trust the musical sensibilities of artists who are sometimes thirty to forty years younger than you?

  Well, I don’t let anyone record with me who is not a fan of mine or doesn’t believe in my music. Everybody who records with me, from Bob Dylan on down to George Jones, everybody loves me and my music, and I knew they would do the best that they could do, and they did. I didn’t doubt them a bit. There’s some country people who I wouldn’t want, who didn’t record with me.

  Your press statement says that your material is original, unlike Bill Monroe. Can you clarify what that statement is supposed to suggest, because I just saw you on the Bill Monroe PBS special and obviously you are a fan.

  Well, a lot of Bill’s sound and Stanley’s sound is different. Whatever I said about Bill, he’s the greatest in my book. But his style is still different than Stanley music.

  But how would you describe that difference to a person who might not be a diehard bluegrass fan?

  Bill’s music was a little more polished. Ours is just a little rougher than Bill’s, not as smooth, just really down to earth, in the mountains.

  Would you say the difference is that Bill Monroe did not grow up in Appalachia?

  I’d say that Bill Monroe, the Stanley Brothers, and me have just about the same fans. It altogether was good. But I don’t sound like Bill Monroe and he didn’t sound like me. He was the greatest, I think, but we didn’t sound alike.

  Didn’t Bill Monroe leave Columbia Records because he felt the Stanleys were copying his sound?

  Well, he told Columbia that if they signed the Stanley Brothers, he would resign, which he did, yeah. But that didn’t last long. We was the greatest of friends. We got together and I recorded with him, and Bill recorded with me. I don’t have anything but good things to say about Bill Monroe.

  Is your picking style something you learned from your mother?

  No, she just played the old claw-hammer banjo. I didn’t get much from her. That’s all I learned from her was that. It’s just a style that God gave the Stanley Brothers and me. I can’t explain it. It’s just natural.

  Speaking of God, you went to a church where instruments were not allowed. Were they considered too sinful to be in the church?

  I joined that church and was baptized and they buy every record that I make, but they don’t want it in church.

  You were firmly in the mainstream right after WWII, then rock ’n’ roll came in and quickly supplanted bluegrass, just like bluegrass had for a time supplanted country music. Were you ever tempted to switch styles?

  I would have quit before I went rock ’n’ roll. I know one way, and that’s natural, and when I can’t make it, I’ll come home and stay. I believe in my music.

  In the early 1970s, when hot artists with new licks and drum sets forged a style called New Grass and tried to widen the bluegrass tent, you stuck even more firmly with tradition?

  I stayed just the way I started. All that new stuff that they put out . . . that’s the reason I say that I don’t know what bluegrass is. When I think of bluegrass, I think of Bill Monroe and traditional. Well, Bill’s a traditional guy, but we’re just a little further back.

  Your nickname for Ralph Stanley II [his only son] is “Two.” How did you know when he was ready to take up a front spot in your band?

  Well, I could tell by the way he goes over with the crowd, the way they buy his records. I could tell, just the way when I hired Ricky Skaggs and Keith Whitley. I hired them at sixteen years old. I saw potential, I saw a future in that, just like I see it in Ralph. I believe I am qualified to know to do that.

  Did he really begin as early as six or seven?

  Oh yeah, he recorded a tape with me when he was three.

  And now you have a young grandson who is following in the same footsteps?

  Yeah, he’s ten. He’s playing a mandolin now. He started out playing the spoons.

  Was the new record you recorded with Jim Lauderdale [Lost in the Lonesome Pines, Dualtone Records] made in the old style or with new, computerized cut-and-paste technology?

  We did the Jim Lauderdale record the new way.

  When you listen to the records, which sound do you prefer?

  You know, I enjoy both. I can do with either one. Of course, I am used to doing it this [older] way, but I like both.

  After 170 records and 150 shows a year, are you completely at ease with the recording process?

  Yeah, just as much at ease as I am doing a show or something. Yeah, I don’t pay any attention to it. I do the best I can with it, you know. That’s the way I do whatever I do.

  Nothing surprises you in the studio?

  No, not really.

  How important was it for Lauderdale to come to Virginia to record?

  All me and my band live close to the studio here, that’s the reason. We’ve been recording at the same studio for several years, and it was much easier for us to do, so I thought that Jim could come from Nashville up here better than us all could go down there.

  He had actually been an honorary Clinch Mountain boy in 1998, when Ralph II was ill.

  Yeah, I believe it was then.

  You’ve had experience with Lauderdale off and on over the years?

  Well, that’s our second project. We recorded one before that (I Feel Like Singing Today, Rebel Records) and it did good, and he wanted to do another. Of course, it was nominated for a Grammy too, but it didn’t win, so he wanted to do another one. I think [Lost in the Lonesome Pines] is a better one, and I reckon he thinks so too. He thought maybe we could win a Grammy with it, which we did.

  Did you know he had actually gone to Nashville in 1979 to get a bluegrass recording contract?

  I knew he liked bluegrass. I understood that he went down there as a writer. He’s a good songwriter.

  Your self-titled album for DMZ as well as O Brother concentrate on older material. Does it ever concern you that people focus on Stanley Brothers material and not much at all from your sixties, seventies, and eighties solo music?

  Well, with that old material, you see, I went back farther than me and my brother or anything that I had ever done. I went back farther.

  Why do you think people are so interested in the oldest material? Why did T. Bone insist on it?

  Well, he just wanted me to try a different sound. Of course, the O Brother sound track did so good, and it was all old-time music, like “O Death,” “Man of Constant Sorrow.” All that was old-time music.

  Speaking of T. Bone, he said you are enjoying yourself like crazy, driving around with sunglasses and a black leather jacket in a Jaguar. Is he exaggerating?

  Well, I drive a Jaguar sometimes. I’ve always enjoyed, for several years, driving around like that.

  In the next five years, do you see yourself as busy as you’ve been the last five years, or slowing down?

  I’m cutting down by about half on my personal appearances, and I’ve signed with Columbia Records to do six CDs, so I’ll do that, and I guess that’ll probably be all that I do, if I can do that much, you know? You never know at my age.

  What do you want people to remember most about you?
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  Well, I would want them to remember that I respected what I do and believed in putting on nothing and doing it natural, which I’ve done for fifty-six years, and I believe that’s why I am around today. There are not too many people that stay in that long. I’m just down to earth with it and believe in nothing fancy.

  James McNew: Yo La Tengo

  Originally published in Thirsty Ear, 1998.

  You’re happy with the way the new songs on I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One feel when you play them live?

  I think so. As far as this stuff is concerned, this record is really different for us, in that normally, even every time we make an album, there’s been at least one or two songs from that record that we say goodbye to and never try to play live. But we’ve played every song from this record live one time or another. Actually, compared to the other records, we’ve played all the songs fairly faithfully compared to the versions on the record. We shift them up a little a bit, but for the most part it’s been steady.

  I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One, your last record, was voted by Spin as one of the 90 top records of the 1990s; Rolling Stone voted it one of the 150 top records of the 1990s. You are about to be on a K-Tel compilation, and the Toronto Globe called you the best band in North America. That sounds like a lot of pressure when making a follow-up record.