I had always, always coasted on my talent, and I was finally discovering that to be a great artist—or even to strive to be a great artist—required much, much more. Ryan is going to have to figure that out for himself, and I don’t envy the fall.
One afternoon in December 2007, I was sending the family Christmas card around when I came across an e-mail address that had to be Ryan’s—who else would reference both the Grateful Dead and Danzig in his e-mail name? He and I had not communicated directly in more than six years, beyond a few secondhand greetings that mutual friends passed along. But on an impulse, I sent him the card. I didn’t expect to hear back from him, but I did:
best of holiday wishes to you and yours too david.
I wrote back to ask Ryan how he was, and whether or not he might ever be coming back to North Carolina. His response:
i am actually spending lots of time working on my new home and kind of sticking it out with some of the other latch-key keys i met along the way in my journeys. we need each other during the holidays.
on a personal note my back hurts today from hiking but i am going to do a few stretches and see if i can maybe align myself for an afternoon up the mountain. i am out west now with friends.
i don’t know if you will see me back in n.c anytime soon. i have kind of moved on and away from things that hurt me and even though i know its good to embrace the pain not run from it, i don’t think a person needs to re-learn those lessons again and again in order to feel complete.
Ryan asked how I was, too, so I filled him in on what we’d all been up to. It had been a difficult year, including a rough stretch in June that involved hospital stays for two members of my household. That seemed to resonate:
oh david,
how sweet is life eh. i know how hard some if can be too. hospitals are no fun. i am sure we will see one another soon enough.
best to you and yours this holiday.
xx
ryan
Selected Discography
Blank Label, “Non-Existence” (1991, Fishbeat)—Ryan Adams was barely old enough to drive when he made his on-record debut as drummer in Blank Label. The three songs on this vinyl seven-inch are hardcore of the sort you might have heard from the West Coast a decade earlier.
Patty Duke Syndrome demo (1993, unreleased)—Before disintegrating in a tidal wave of nasty vibes, Patty Duke Syndrome recorded eleven tracks that could have made up a spectacular power-pop album. Two of these songs (“Texas” and “History”) did appear on a 1994 Blast-O-Platter Records seven-inch single split between Patty Duke and another Raleigh band, GlamourPuss.
Whiskeytown, Angels (1995, Mood Food)—Recorded in a single day with Greg Elkins, the four songs on this seven-inch EP perfectly capture the scruffy, ragged charm of Whiskeytown’s early days. Most notable for “Angels Are Messengers from God” and its punk-rock-was-too-hard-to-sing manifesto.
Whiskeytown, Faithless Street (1996, Mood Food)—A remarkably mature full-length debut announcing Whiskeytown as one of America’s best new bands, and Ryan as a songwriter to reckon with. The opening track “Midway Park” still ranks among the best songs he’s ever written. Outpost Records’ remixed 1998 reissue adds some key early bonus tracks.
Whiskeytown, Rural Free Delivery (1997, Mood Food)—Combines the Angels EP’s four songs with four outtakes from the same session to finish out the band’s Mood Food contract. Though the band has disavowed it, Rural Free Delivery is great fun, especially the countrypolitan rendition of Black Flag’s “Nervous Breakdown.”
Whiskeytown, Strangers Almanac (1997, Outpost)—All roads lead here, a stunning masterpiece of mood, pacing, and pathos. Still the best album Ryan has ever made, or ever will—and for listeners, the closest thing to being inside his head when he was on the cusp of stardom. Geffen Records’ 2008 reissue adds twenty-six bonus tracks, but the 1997 original remains definitive.
Ryan Adams, Heartbreaker (2000, Bloodshot)—What was envisioned as a quickie placekeeper during Whiskeytown’s downtime turned out to be Ryan’s most fully realized solo album, setting the stage for his post-Whiskeytown career. A landmark for him, for Bloodshot Records, and for alternative country in general. Whiskeytown, Pneumonia (2001, Lost Highway)—Whiskeytown no longer existed by the time this swan song finally emerged following a protracted period of record industry upheaval, and it does have a rather artificial feel. Despite some very fine individual tracks, Pneumonia is unfocused and doesn’t quite hang together. Some listeners (including me) prefer the original and widely bootlegged 1999 version, with a more polished Scott Litt mix and a different running order.
Ryan Adams, Gold (2001, Lost Highway)—The pump was primed for Ryan’s big breakout, but Gold fell short aesthetically as well as commercially. Not bad but not great, either, and nowhere near his best. For those who had been paying attention all along, this is the most overrated record in his catalog.
Ryan Adams, Demolition (2002, Lost Highway)—Drawing as it does from Ryan’s growing stash of unreleased albums (including 48 Hours and Suicide Handbook), this compilation is his version of the Who’s Odds ’n’ Sods. It would be worth owning just for “Dear Chicago,” but Demolition has plenty more than that to recommend it and does not feel the least bit like leftovers.
The Finger, We Are Fuck You (2003, One Little Indian)—Ryan and D Generation’s Jesse Malin on a punk binge. You won’t remember a thing about it afterward. Instead, seek out Malin’s Ryan-produced The Fine Art of Self Destruction (2003, Artemis Records).
Ryan Adams, Rock N Roll (2003, Lost Highway)—Moving ahead from Gold’s homages to 1970s-vintage classic rock, Rock N Roll takes its cue from ’80s college radio and new wave. It’s about the most ill-tempered Ryan has ever sounded on-record. Ryan Adams, Love Is Hell (2004, Lost Highway)—Originally released as two separate mini-albums in late 2003, Love Is Hell lives up to its title and then some. It’s as mournful as Rock N Roll was angry.
Ryan Adams & the Cardinals, Cold Roses (2005, Lost Highway)—After a hiatus spent recovering from a broken wrist, Ryan let his freak flag fly with this two-disc album. Heavily influenced by the sound and style of the Grateful Dead, Cold Roses’ steady-rolling country-rock seemed to set things up nicely for . . .
Ryan Adams & the Cardinals, Jacksonville City Nights (2005, Lost Highway)—. . . a return to the classic country-rock of Whiskeytown. But Jacksonville City Nights is a disappointing mess. Far from sounding at home, Ryan sounds lost and desperate . . .
Ryan Adams, 29 (2005, Lost Highway)—. . . and even more so on the final album in his 2005 trilogy, a song cycle about Ryan’s own roaring twenties (with nine songs, one for each year). Dreary and uninviting with little to recommend it, 29 is also one of his poorest-selling albums.
Ryan Adams, Easy Tiger (2007, Lost Highway)—Nevertheless, Ryan bounced back pretty well with the straightforward, relatively concise Easy Tiger. It’s got some silly indulgences, too, so at least some of this album’s luster is probably in comparison to 29. But it was his first to crack the top 10 in America, debuting at No. 7 on the Billboard 200.
Ryan Adams & the Cardinals, Cardinology (2008, Lost Highway)—One step forward and two steps back with Cardinology, an album so forgettable it barely exists. Given this, the Cardinals disbanding in 2009 didn’t seem like much of a loss.
Ryan Adams, Orion (2010, Pax Am)—In which Ryan tried to put his metal enthusiasms on-record. Also forgettable.
Ryan Adams & the Cardinals, III/IV (2010, Pax Am)—Recorded around the time of Easy Tiger, this two-disc compilation rescued some decent songs. But it still has the feel of leftovers despite its billing as a “double-album concept rock opera.”
Ryan Adams, Ashes & Fire (2011, Pax Am)—In which Ryan finally quit screwing around long enough to get back to where he once belonged, with a spare and lovely set overseen by classic-rock icon Glyn Johns. A touch more subdued than it needs to be, perhaps, but still Ryan’s best since Heartbreaker. Also tied with Easy Tiger for his peak US chart position, No. 7.
Ac
knowledgments
Writing a biography of a living person can be an iffy business, but I was fortunate to have a great many people who helped out in ways they may not have even realized. For assistance, encouragement, and/or generally copacetic vibes, I owe huge amounts of gratitude to Ross Grady, Dana Kletter, Matt Brown, Rick Cornell, Tim Sommer, Rob Miller and Nan Warshaw, Rhett Miller, Jim Sughrue, Peter Blackstock, Nancy Bryan, Allison Faust and Dave Hamrick, Paul Spragens, Stephen Judge, Dan Durchholz, Lynn Blakey, Karen Balcom, David Fowle and Timothy Roy, Liz Biro, John Harris, Jeannette Hall, Phil Melton, the Menconi kids (Edward, Aaron, and Claudia), Leigh Watson, Steve Terry and Chris Laney, Brad Rice and Danny Kurtz, Chris Riser and Nicholas Petti, Bill Mooney, Wes Lachot, Darren Robbins, Ed Bumgardner, Jeff Calder, Daniel Coston, Tim Peeler, Carter Monroe, Jenny Whaley, Dave Rose, Spott, Paul Siler, Alina Simone, Stacy Chandler Holt, Melinda Newman, Jeff Hart, Silas House, Mark Kemp, Valerie Marino, Allison Green—and of course, Scott Huler.
A special few went truly above and beyond the call of duty: Dean Dauphinais, Tracy Davis, and George Lawrence for being extra eyes, and voices of enthusiasm when I was at my lowest ebb; Tom Cushman, for access to his from-the-beginning archive; Holden Richards for his ears, insights, and wisdom; and Martha Burns for being Martha Burns.
Somehow, a mere “thank you” seems inadequate. So I’ll sign off the way Ryan used to: See you at the rock thing.
Ryan Adams Page 18