by K. M. Walton
Maybe that night, maybe later, I started riffing on my guitar and came up with a simple, but I guess somewhat profound, riff. Perfect in its quirkiness, perfect in its nod to the blues, and absolutely my style. I started rapping my new lyrics I’d written at the service station. It worked.
There’s something about the inertia and the conception of writing a song. It always gives you a pulse. A deep and light energy. A chill up your spine and a euphoria that overtakes your senses. Almost makes you cry in a way. Even if it’s a funny song. When that feeling comes, then you know you’ve hit gold. It’s a real fleeting moment but a sincere one for sure. A little magic in the air, and you happen to be able to catch it like a firefly in a jar. I got that feeling that night when I put the music to the lyrics. Just like painting a perfect picture. Somehow it all came together in a way I couldn’t have planned.
I think the best songs, and for that matter, the best things in life, come easy. I mean, you have to bust your ass to get to the time and place where they can arrive, but it’s like the saying goes: put the work in and be prepared for when that golden opportunity or idea comes to you.
I was ready and it came. Just a simple little ditty that would change my life.
Later that week the band came over, and it was again one of those easy sessions. Jeffrey Clemens, a.k.a. the Houseman, my drummer, knew just what to make of it. He and my bass player, Jimi Jazz, quickly figured out the exact rhythm section groove. We worked out a break and bang: new song. Done and done. Just like that. Easy as could be. Another song for our rapidly expanding repertoire.
We titled the new song “Cold Beverage” and plugged it into our set at the Plough and Stars in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The praise was immediate from our growing weekly audience. As a matter of fact, our audience went viral. Our Monday-night shows went from an empty bar to a line down the block, and all of a sudden I guess I went from being a street musician to a local rock star. I mean it was literally over the course of a couple months. It was the best year of my life, and the music was deep and full of magic, promise, momentum, and energy. We were cooking.
There was a moment some weeks or months later when Washtub Robbie came up to me after the gig with a big smile and a hug and said, “Kid, I hope you like that song ‘Cold Beverage’!”
I asked, “Why’s that?”
“Because you’re going to be playing that shit for the rest of your life!”
Washtub Robbie knew I had a hit. I just didn’t know it yet.
Summer of 1993 sped by, filled with exciting times. Our regular shows were more packed, and we started being booked at bigger venues. We got gigs outside of Boston, and shows in Philly, NYC, and DC led to a producer and manager. We also landed an impending record contract with Epic Records.
By Christmastime we had G. Love and Special Sauce, our debut record, in the can, and had achieved a solid studio version of “Cold Beverage.” The record dropped in the spring of 1994. The first single to release off the album was the eloquent “Blues Music”; the follow-up single was to be “Cold Beverage.” We were both happy and surprised that “Blues Music,” a darker, deeper, sultry song, was chosen as the single over our catchier “Baby’s Got Sauce” and “Cold Beverage.” Looking back, it’s a good thing we dropped “Blues Music” first because it had a vibe that everyone was down with. It was heavy, and it was a statement.
“Baby’s Got Sauce” and “Cold Beverage” had the same sentiments and roots, but they were catchier. For a lot of people and critics, catchy tunes can be written off. That being said, releasing “Blues Music” first gave us a certain legitimacy from which we benefited. It allowed us to not be a one-hit wonder. I have to thank our AR man, Michael Caplan, and his infinite wisdom for that call.
To be a single, a song must be sticky. “Cold Beverage” had much stickiness. From the intro drum fill to the first vocal shout of “YO!” To the guitar riff, bass line, energetic hip-hop drum groove, let alone the lyrics, the song was completely sticky.
Top to bottom. Sticky.
When a record company chooses a single, they might allow a video to be made. A video didn’t always happen. Because our debut record was gaining steam and buzz, famous video director Mark Romanek offered to make the video for “Cold Beverage.” This was a huge opportunity, and I didn’t even realize at the time how lucky I was.
Most videos at the time—and this was the height of MTV’s power and popularity—were lip-synched. I was not having that. I was of the mindset that everything in music had to be real. Be true. I refused to lip-synch on a video. To me, that was a sellout move. I’m a Blues Man. Blues Men don’t lip-synch. The label was so hot on us they went with it. They actually brought in a mobile studio unit to record us performing live on the street while they shot the video.
The video for “Cold Beverage” came out and was immediately added to MTV’s rotation. It was even on Beavis and Butthead, who said, “Haha this sucks.” That exposure helped to blow us up. Thanks! The video played next to the big hits of Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Beck. Here was our killer video, with a live recording, next to all of these huge-sounding produced records. Luckily, we got just enough play to put us on the map before MTV dropped the excellent video.
Who knows what would’ve happened if we’d used the recorded version in the video? Regardless, that brief time on MTV, with such a sticky song, garnered us thousands and thousands of fans. Looking back, it sounded too raw for prime time, and that was good. I think if it really blew up huge, it might have destroyed us and made us into a one-hit wonder. Yeah, we got exposure, but not too much. I think it was just enough.
It was clear to see this song was rapidly changing my life.
As we hit the road our audiences swelled, coast to coast. Our show got hotter and hotter. More people. More energy. The hottest part of the show? When we launched into that, “Yo! Could I get a Cold Beverage…” I mean it was fire. People couldn’t get enough. Sometimes, when we were playing sultry, slow tunes, someone would yell out “Play ‘Cold Beverage’!”
The shows went by. The years went by. Thousands of shows year after year, coast to coast, city to city. We continued releasing records and singles, all to varied degrees of success. Meanwhile, we had gotten into the habit of closing the show with smoking-hot versions of “Cold Beverage” resplendent with improvisational jams, freestyles, and covers mashed into it. It turned into this highlight we could depend on, and then it became a crutch.
We knew it was the high point of the show. We knew we could use it to end the show on a highlight and bring the house down. We did. Night after night after night.
So, it became a goal of mine as a songwriter: can I write a tune that will be a bigger closer than “Cold Beverage”? Sometimes, on the very rare occasion that I didn’t play it, I felt a certain victory: wow, we had a killer show and we didn’t even play “Cold Beverage.”
I decided to take the time to break it down and asked myself: What was it about this song? I tried to emulate the song structure and make new songs, but it never worked. “Cold Beverage’s” composition was perfect in its uniqueness.
It was also inimitable.
The main verse riff was so simple, and yet it represented all the blues I had ever absorbed. An arpeggio on a G7 chord (in the C position) followed by a chromatic bounce on another G7 chord (in the D7) position. Both of these chords I had learned by trying to learn Robert Johnson and John Hammond songs.
The chorus shifted rhythmically off the syncopation of the verse groove to emphasize the one beat and bounced between G-C-D-G-C-D, on James Brown–style funk chords. Ninth chords.
The lyrics were simple, pure, and crucial. Yeah, the song was literally about beverages, but I stand by it. It’s a poem. It’s my poem. You can visualize the heat and visualize the drinks and feel the sensation of your thirst being quenched. And who can’t sing along with the chorus? It even has one of those vocal performances where people
can’t understand whether I’m saying “I like Cold Beverage yeah” or “I like Cold Beverages,” the former being correct.
It sure is some badass poetry.
COLD BEVERAGE
WORDS AND MUSIC BY GARRETT DUTTON / © 1994 CHICKEN PLATTERS (BMI)
Yo could I get a cold beverage
I need some leverage
It’s sunny outside
Some lemonade would be nice
Or a Sprite through the drive-through
At B.K. yo I’ll buy girl a drink
But girls got to pay
On the front porch I got
Some iced tea
If you like a taste of tea
Then come along with me
It’s martini time
Yeah yeah feeling golden
Bring your own beverage
Just make sure it’s cold
I like cold beverage yeah!
Give me frosty mug
Filled with A&W
If you got ice cream
Make it a double scoop
Milkshake at the fountain
Really good sounding
Chocolate egg cream
Yo, I’m champ cherry pounding
Caught a chill vibe
Orange juice in my ride
Wawa’s to the right
They got a beverage inside
Dig me a hot coffee
Fill it up with ice
Watermelons like drink
Please fix me a large slice
Summertime is cool the heat is getting old
Yeah I’ll get a beverage
Just make sure it’s cold
I like cold beverage
When I’m fishing
Let’s keep one thing clear
The bait’s over there
The brew’s right here
Two six packs and a big bag of ice
Didn’t even catch a bite
But the brew tasted nice
Back to the bar
Strawberry daiquiris and a colada
I need a whole lotta them
Fruit drinks to catch me a buzz
I must tell you I’m the
Kool-Aid kid
Before you serve my drink
Please stick it in the fridge
I like cold beverage yeah!
It was as simple as could be, but it sure worked. It had catch phrases and the naming of famous drinks. Lemonade. Kool-Aid. Martini. Egg cream. Strawberry daiquiris. Sprite. A&W. Bug juice. Colada. Six-pack. Coffee. Orange juice. It had local Philadelphia references with the convenience store Wawa and the famous “Champ Cherry” soda from long-closed-down Levis Hotdogs. I still smile when I sing those Philly words. Because truly, you have to be from Philly or the Tristate area to know what the hell Wawa is, and you’ve got to be from Center City or South Philly (and my age) to remember Levis Hot Dogs. So that’s pretty classic and a true tilt of the cap to the city that raised us.
Lyrically, “Cold Beverage” had concrete references, which allowed listeners to visualize, which is key to connecting. People could see and actually taste this song. They could latch on to those references, visualizing them as they flew by.
I mean it was perfect.
In Lou Reed’s “Take a Walk on the Wild Side” you could see the story he laid down. I believe I captured something similar in “Cold Beverage.” That’s what a great song does. A song should be a picture or a movie that takes the listener on a ride. I took people on a ride of refreshment. And it’s no small thing, there’s a reason there are happy hours, “It’s five o’clock somewhere” sayings, and lemonade stands—it’s as old as the cavemen. We all need a drink. From ice-cold water to lemonade and even the hard stuff. It’s in our DNA, we gotta have it.
There was a radio station—Y100—in Philly that played “Cold Beverage” backed by the Beastie Boys’ “Fight for Your Right” for a solid fifteen years at 5:00 p.m. on the dot every Friday afternoon.
Now it’s 2016 and “Cold Beverage” is twenty-three years old. Washtub Robbie was right. I do play it almost every night, and I will be completely honest, I love it every time. When I start to play it I have a huge shit-eating grin on my face.
I love the music.
I love the lyrics.
I can’t believe how much the people love to jam to it. It always blows my mind. In a lot of ways, the strength of that one song, and certainly the record it’s on, has been the catalyst for my long, steadfast career as a touring musician. I’ve continued to challenge myself on every record, to produce a song or songs that could replace “Cold Beverage” as a closer. Mostly for my own sanity and to keep pushing our live show. Indeed, we did score some great closers on the Sugar record, and now I usually close the set with “Nothing Quite Like Home” or “Weekend Dance.”
But, I play “Cold Beverage” every night. And we always bring it. It feels better not to depend on it as a closer, but rather, to drop it anytime I want to bring up the crowd energy and keep the people smiling. You have to keep pushing as a musician.
Complacency is the enemy of creativity.
“Cold Beverage” definitely kept the lights on around here since it came out. I’m sure happy I got my brakes fixed that day. I’m happy Washtub Robbie gave me that old rag. I’m happy that Jim and Jeff knew just what to play. It’s just one of those things. You write songs as best you can and write them for no other reason than that they just need to get written. If you do that, you’ll hit gold sooner or later. And if it’s real, it will make people dance until the end of time. Like my badass 1963 Dodge Dart, I think this song will run forever.
Needless to say, our crowd was a drinking crowd, and we’ve broken many a bar record at many a club over the years. Cheers to the greatest drinking song ever written. “Cold Beverage.” I wonder what this world would’ve been like without that song.
Probably very thirsty.
Author photo
© Brandon Finney
G. Love—born Garrett Dutton—combines blues and hip-hop into what he termed “ragmop.” G. Love rose from the streets of Philadelphia into the American music scene in 1994. At the beginning of his career, he fused his vocal and guitar talents with his band Special Sauce—acoustic bass player Jimi “Jazz” Prescott and drummer Jeffrey Clemens. As G. Love and Special Sauce, they released such popular singles as “Cold Beverage” and “Baby’s Got Sauce.” His smooth vocal delivery and unfailing dedication to touring provided a steady climb to notoriety. Visit philadelphonic.com and follow him on Twitter @glove.
TIFFANY TWISTED
A SHORT STORY INSPIRED BY THE EAGLES’ “HOTEL CALIFORNIA”
By Ellen Hopkins
Having spent a year or five in search of the Hotel California, the song has always felt representative of my youth, but its meaning has always been open to interpretation. What really drew me in was the idea of a revolving door that won’t allow escape.
—Ellen Hopkins
The first time I stumbled into the hotel, I was seventeen, a damn good guitarist and decent vocalist, looking to break into the music business and out of the mold. That night accomplished both, but not in the way I expected.
First, you need to understand the reasons I ended up there. My parents were moneyed hipsters lacking the moral fiber to commit fully to each other, preferring the experimental lifestyle of an open marriage, fueled by the substances of the day. Their parenting skills were sadly lacking, too.
“We are sojourners,” explained Becky, who refused to let her children call her Mom. “Only here for a short while. So we must take every advantage of our time on this planet.”
“In this universe,” argued Dad, who was happy enough with that title. “One day we’ll step into another. They coexist, you know.”
I think it was the mushrooms.
I don’t know why they chose to have kids. Abortion was legal. My late sister, Harmony, and I were playthings with hippie names. Dolls to dress up and show off. Which worked out okay when we were little, but as we grew older, we largely looked after ourselves.
There were consequences.
For whatever reasons (parental example wasn’t one), Harmony had been a dedicated student. More, she was driven to maintain a perfect GPA, with Harvard as her ultimate goal. Instead, in her senior year and just shy of eighteen, she’d fallen in love with her calculus teacher. Harmony never did anything less than full-bore, and that included romance. Unfortunately, Mr. Clare was married, and while he wasn’t above having sex with a student, divorce was apparently against his religion. When he cut things off with Harmony, she totally shut down.
Whether because of brain chemistry or simply circumstance, she tumbled into a bottomless, black, cerebral hole. Lost her GPA in a single semester, and with it any hope of an Ivy League college. Two weeks before graduation, she swallowed a bottle of Becky’s Percocets, climbed into the bathtub fully clothed, filled it. Sank under. She didn’t bother to leave a note. Probably figured no one would read it.
Here’s the thing. I’d seen it coming. Said nothing. It was Harmony’s life, I believed, to stumble through or exit prematurely. Her choice. After we found her, water-bloated and bone white, I regretted that decision. She was my sister, after all, and one of the few people in the world I could talk to. But it took the Reaper’s knock to make me understand that, and then it was too late.
Becky freaked out. Erected a teepee in the backyard and basically moved in there, playing Jim Morrison on an endless loop and sleeping with anyone—male or female—who’d drop by, stash in hand.
Dad fell into an alternate universe. I suppose it might have been attached to our own, because he seemed able to wander back and forth at will, mostly ignoring the activities just outside the back door.
I think it was the peyote.