The Americana and roots music authority
Why A Surfer Fool Named Chuck Prophet Rules The Depression We Don't Have
It's quite interesting to me, although frustrating and not-easily-understood, to trace the courtship and romance and finally the birth of Americana. It's an unwieldy term, as is often noted, but I'm willing to accept it.
Because it sounds nice. It sounds friendly. Funny, though: the musical approach the term was coined to describe is often not at all funny, nor particularly inviting. And I find its Elder Statesman not from some dark cove nor hollow in Appalachia, but from Orange County, California -- a thoroughly decent and intrinsically hard-working man who makes fun of death itself.
Here are my credentials: I'm smarter than anyone who's ever fucking lived; I'm only slightly younger than God; and I _do_ know music. And betting against me is only very slightly stupider than shoving me in my own bar. With luck, the bouncer will peel me off of you and the Red Cross will have plenty of O-Positive on hand in the emergency room.
I could be simply bragging. It would be easy enough to find out if you'd like.
We don't know for certain when Mr. Prophet hit the road with Dan Stuart's outfit Green On Red many years ago (probably, it's said, because Mr. Prophet was illegally young at the time) but the old pictures clearly a loopily-grinning man-child among the studiously hard-bitten road warriors. Mr. Stuart's punk sensibilities quickly meshed with Mr. Prophet's appetites for Hendrix and Dylan, T-Bone Walker and Waylon Jennings. Old friends will point out that Mr. Prophet's appetite was so vast that no one would ever compare it to affectation nor coy irony.
Sadly, such a thing as coy irony indeed exists.
Mr. Prophet's guitar work very quickly became the stuff of whispered insider trading: "He stands up there so damn dumb as to do the Tonto shielding-his-eyes just so the scrawny idjit can get a look around and then Danny or Chris yells at him and he plays about six goddamned notes and he's wandering around again, still smiling."
In my very many years of hearing the insider trading whispers about touring artists, the fiercest buzz I ever encountered was pinpointed on only two of such pickers: Albert Lee and Mr. Prophet. Mr. Lee, now a Nashville luminary, was often the bootleg victim of Eric Clapton, whom -- much to his credit -- was unabashed about trying to hide smuggling an ancient cassette deck monstrosity to hear "Head, Hand and Feet," Mr. Lee's old gang of co-conspirators from England.
And Albert Lee is on record saying, quite wistfully, this: "Prophet? That guy? Yeah, he...you know his stuff, right? I'm just not much convinced, I'm just not sure any of the rest of us know how to _play_ a guitar."
Were this some college course (I teach only theology -- the realm of music is far beyond me) I'd insist upon committed students doing their homework and thoroughly researching the syllabus readings outlined at the beginning of the term. Only the untutored or unwelcomed could have possibly overlooked the raving perfection of Mr. Prophet's first solo venture, "Brother Aldo."
It remains a work of transcendent beauty. And it abides, for me the scholar and scientist, the earliest cave drawings to be found of the grotto of Americana. Look over the lists of most influential records (annoying? hell, yes!) purporting to be of the kind of music, this American stuff, and dust for Mr. Prophet's fingerprints.
Kelly Willis? Alejandro Escovedo? Ryan Adams?
Wait, let's simply think about Mr. Escovedo, ND's only Artist of the Decade. When did he finally gain something like widespread recognition and acceptance? After Mr. Prophet, with his characteristic generosity of spirit and his abundance of native talent, at least co-wrote all of the songs for "Real Animal" and tore the strings off of any plucked instrument needed for Mr. Escovedo's long and undoubtedly tiring career to rest on those archetypal laurel leaves.
I should simply say that Mr. Prophet comes through, and always has: why do cerebral Americana-istas like Jules Shear, the way fucking too-smart-for-his-own-good Dan Stuart, the Robison's of Texas, Mr. Escovedo, Jon Dee Graham rely on the grace and the generosity of a goofy surfer dude?
Because he knows things they don't and is effortlessly kind in not reminding others of what they haven't yet learned.
This year, spilling into next, will be an odd and uneasy one. The last of the epoch of huge rock-and-roll beasts will lumber forward -- still a scrawny kid with the Tonto eyes -- will emerge to take his place.
Should I repeat this? Betting against me is bone-headed dumb.
And the bouncer doesn't want to get fired.
G.N.Williams
Because it sounds nice. It sounds friendly. Funny, though: the musical approach the term was coined to describe is often not at all funny, nor particularly inviting. And I find its Elder Statesman not from some dark cove nor hollow in Appalachia, but from Orange County, California -- a thoroughly decent and intrinsically hard-working man who makes fun of death itself.
Here are my credentials: I'm smarter than anyone who's ever fucking lived; I'm only slightly younger than God; and I _do_ know music. And betting against me is only very slightly stupider than shoving me in my own bar. With luck, the bouncer will peel me off of you and the Red Cross will have plenty of O-Positive on hand in the emergency room.
I could be simply bragging. It would be easy enough to find out if you'd like.
We don't know for certain when Mr. Prophet hit the road with Dan Stuart's outfit Green On Red many years ago (probably, it's said, because Mr. Prophet was illegally young at the time) but the old pictures clearly a loopily-grinning man-child among the studiously hard-bitten road warriors. Mr. Stuart's punk sensibilities quickly meshed with Mr. Prophet's appetites for Hendrix and Dylan, T-Bone Walker and Waylon Jennings. Old friends will point out that Mr. Prophet's appetite was so vast that no one would ever compare it to affectation nor coy irony.
Sadly, such a thing as coy irony indeed exists.
Mr. Prophet's guitar work very quickly became the stuff of whispered insider trading: "He stands up there so damn dumb as to do the Tonto shielding-his-eyes just so the scrawny idjit can get a look around and then Danny or Chris yells at him and he plays about six goddamned notes and he's wandering around again, still smiling."
In my very many years of hearing the insider trading whispers about touring artists, the fiercest buzz I ever encountered was pinpointed on only two of such pickers: Albert Lee and Mr. Prophet. Mr. Lee, now a Nashville luminary, was often the bootleg victim of Eric Clapton, whom -- much to his credit -- was unabashed about trying to hide smuggling an ancient cassette deck monstrosity to hear "Head, Hand and Feet," Mr. Lee's old gang of co-conspirators from England.
And Albert Lee is on record saying, quite wistfully, this: "Prophet? That guy? Yeah, he...you know his stuff, right? I'm just not much convinced, I'm just not sure any of the rest of us know how to _play_ a guitar."
Were this some college course (I teach only theology -- the realm of music is far beyond me) I'd insist upon committed students doing their homework and thoroughly researching the syllabus readings outlined at the beginning of the term. Only the untutored or unwelcomed could have possibly overlooked the raving perfection of Mr. Prophet's first solo venture, "Brother Aldo."
It remains a work of transcendent beauty. And it abides, for me the scholar and scientist, the earliest cave drawings to be found of the grotto of Americana. Look over the lists of most influential records (annoying? hell, yes!) purporting to be of the kind of music, this American stuff, and dust for Mr. Prophet's fingerprints.
Kelly Willis? Alejandro Escovedo? Ryan Adams?
Wait, let's simply think about Mr. Escovedo, ND's only Artist of the Decade. When did he finally gain something like widespread recognition and acceptance? After Mr. Prophet, with his characteristic generosity of spirit and his abundance of native talent, at least co-wrote all of the songs for "Real Animal" and tore the strings off of any plucked instrument needed for Mr. Escovedo's long and undoubtedly tiring career to rest on those archetypal laurel leaves.
I should simply say that Mr. Prophet comes through, and always has: why do cerebral Americana-istas like Jules Shear, the way fucking too-smart-for-his-own-good Dan Stuart, the Robison's of Texas, Mr. Escovedo, Jon Dee Graham rely on the grace and the generosity of a goofy surfer dude?
Because he knows things they don't and is effortlessly kind in not reminding others of what they haven't yet learned.
This year, spilling into next, will be an odd and uneasy one. The last of the epoch of huge rock-and-roll beasts will lumber forward -- still a scrawny kid with the Tonto eyes -- will emerge to take his place.
Should I repeat this? Betting against me is bone-headed dumb.
And the bouncer doesn't want to get fired.
G.N.Williams
Tags: alternative, americana, chuck, country, forum, music, prophet
Views: 30
Replies to This Discussion
-
Permalink Reply by willycoolahan on -
I like Chuck too. But for my money, the Elder Statesman of Americana is probably a Canadian named Neil.
-
Permalink Reply by Guy on -
That's a very cool way of looking at things, I must say.
The newsman's boy (and I flatly adore him) somehow doesn't get my Elder Statesman vote, though, because Neil seems so much more a rank force of astounding nature than any sort of statesman. Of course Neil wrote in stone about a hurricane because how could he not? He simply couldn't not. No more than I could write three sentences without having a gleeful asshole in them. (Please know that I'm the only butt of this joke.)
So I guess I'm stuck with my judgment: Chuck's a statesman. He's helped the cause, carried the flag, carried cool water to the wounded. Neil, I read as the thunderous voice of a prairie-kid Walt Whitman; and Chuck as Huck Finn, striking out for the territories.
Thanks a ton for making me not simply think, but be compelled to actually express my scrambled thoughts. That's a gift and this is a thank-you note.
-
Permalink Reply by tous on -
"Betting against me is bone-headed dumb."
Smartest thing you've ever said. Well, other than shouting "I Wish I Was Your Mother" to Alejandro at a Buick MacKane gig oh so many years ago.
Now, if you *were* Mr. Escovedo's mother, you'd spend hours arguing with yourself over this post of yours now, wouldn't you?
-
Permalink Reply by Guy on
-
In a life chock full of doing ridiculously stupid things, asking Escovedo to do that song while he was in Buick MacKane mode isn't something I expect to top. My only excuse remains the truth: an ocean of rotgut vodka was involved.
-
Permalink Reply by Angel Fernandez on -
I´m a fan but i don´t know if he would agree to be the 1st in a list. .... Although he deserves more recognition, it´s true.
I keep him next to T-Bone Burnett and Joe Henry.
-
Permalink Reply by Guy on
-
When I read "...but i don't know if he would agree to being the 1st in a list..." I grinned and nodded. Your point is inarguable. Chuck almost certainly would defend the position that he's not even Number One in the list of Fenderheads married to Stephanie Finch. There's a contrarian's eye that threaded the needle that stitched the thread which runs throughout his career.
Sometimes I wish he'd give it a rest, that absolutely sincere (but loony) sense of the play involved in self-mockery. It's fun, sure, a great grand diversion -- and a pleasure not afforded to many of us. But I can't help wondering if he'd just straighten up and act right, young man! more folks would have had the opportunity to appreciate the delicacy and the excruciating fine-ness of his best work. Vermeer dogging hell out of a Squire, that's what I hear.
Mr. Burnette and Joe Henry are formidable talents indeed, stalwart pylons supporting this bridge I like driving on and fishing beneath. Proof Through the Night remains a classic to my ear and I remain dumbstruck every time I listen to Shuffletown (or, for that matter, Trampoline, and there would have to be precious few of their recordings I don't treasure. But, short of "Shut it Tight," Mr. Burnette's compositions have never left me in terrified emotional free fall. Mr. Henry has managed that trick several times. It would baffle me to try to imagine anyone not wondering how in God's name he composed "John, Hanging" or "Easter" or "Bob and Ray."
But I wonder if a good standard might not be looking over the composer's fuller body of works and deciding, mentally, what song must be included and what could be overlooked in designing the Grail of popular music: the compilation disc that amounts to neither the so-long-baby-you-stomped-my-heart
version, nor the fresh-love-he/she's-got-to-hear-this school. With what Yeats called a cold eye, constructing instead a fair anthology of the artist's work. (And, by the way, hasn't the word "essential" been well and thoroughly peed on in the record racks?)
Then just haul the calculator out and tote up the numbers of songs and minutes one found perquisitive for the given artist. Which is, perquisitive, of course, a made-up word not much different than sticking to the New York Times Stylebook (all these silly misters!) when there's no sane reason to do so.
My bet is that Mr. Prophet's minutes and numbers would considerably exceed most anyone from the ND outfit still working and traveling. The bitch here is that so few folks have ever had a chance to appreciate his body of work. Mr. Prophet's mostly-real but partly-calculated nonchalance ultimately
spilled over into the marketplace, I suspect.
And it's certainly no great huge goddamned giant-ass thought that the marketplace has much to do with what we mutually decide what does and doesn't fit within what might or might not be Americana. Dylan? Already sanctified like Simon Peter, the first Vicar of the Only Church, so we skip him. Okay. As in willycoolahan's quite astute suggestion of Neil Young as an Elder Statesman, though -- we sort of count out the giants on account of their giantism. To question the notion of what does and doesn't constitute what sort of music is alternately ridiculous and sublime.
Like sex, music, food, childrearing, tilling the soil: it's funny and sad in such a rapid cycle that it's often both at once.
Me (I'm a dumb-assed old Quaker)? I don't hold with any such damn-fool notion as winning a discussion. But so far I'm not swayed:
Chuck Prophet rules the roost I see and hear. No one is more welcoming, nor subtle, so generous.
That's my Americana.
-
Permalink Reply by Reno Sepulveda on -
Hi Guy. So this is how you've chosen to burn those precious existing brain cells. Right on! I won't even try to argue with you.
Me? I vote with my bar tab That, and the miles I put on my car.
-
Permalink Reply by dbhelton on -
dont argue with guy-good advice, although, sometimes when you agree, you may get an agrument as well. my admiration for chuck and his fan base goes quite a ways as well, from g.o.r. to today, he keeps bringin the heat
http://www.brink.com/content/4185/lunch-with-chuck.html
http://www.brink.com/content/4195/seafood-fest.html
http://www.brink.com/content/4308/.html
-
Permalink Reply by Guy on
-
You know, I really shouldn't be trying to pull off anything like an unbiased assessment of the San-Fran Surfing Fool, or I should have stopped being disingenuous about our friendship a mighty long time ago. But it was fun to act skeptical about his very existence in other forums -- because I truly do believe that an accurate description of his talent, his quite-considerable body of work, his grinning potshots at his own feet and his astounding dedication to the cause still add up to some weird rock-and-roll fantasy.
Rather as though he actually is the indefatigable and purely American gigger rather than the portrait of Springsteen the straight r&r press presents. No slight to Mr. Springsteen. I liked him a good deal and thoroughly enjoyed his company for a long time.
But my money's on Chuck. He's paced himself to perfection and the new songs are stunning. Plans for the new record are zooming on along. He won't be producing himself (a great time for that, I think) and he has his mind set on recording his American opus outside the US. And then maybe coming back home and tinkering with some friends of his (Jim Dickinson) and then some of mine (Don Dixon and Mitch Easter, the machinists -- they called themselves, of the first real studio REM lp's).
More of this to follow. I'm so very glad to hear from you both.
-
Permalink Reply by TenLayers on -
It's funny when a kick in the ass comes out of nowhere. I'm smart enough now to admit how dumb I can be about some things....and Chuck Prophet has missed my radar. I apologize for that but I'm now starting a mini journey to know somewhat of what you know about him.
Kick my ass some more ok?
-
Permalink Reply by Guy on
-
Okay, ass-kicking is my first name. How about Jeffrey Dean Foster? Probably never heard of him, I'd gamble.
I guess his "Million Star Hotel" solo effort got a big ND thumbs up, but not the right people heard it. Lots of people everywhere have seen him (at least as the guitarist in those bizzaro William Shatner/Price.com television commercials) but it's rare to run across new fans of his flat-out brilliant songwriting.
He's an idiosyncratic fellow -- makes big, dumb-ass power pop records when banjos are flying out of the pawn shop doors, writes gentle and haunting melodies when bombast rules the world -- he's the rara avis.
Google him, download some tunes. Or send me a mailing address and get "Million Star Hotel" with my compliments. Same applies for anybody else who reads this.
I'd like to be recalled as a generous man.
-
Permalink Reply by John Cleere on -
Q. Has Chuck ever been the headline act a festival?
A. Yes! Let me see, it was the kilkenny Rhythm and Roots Festival in Kilkenny, Ireland in 2008.
Q. Who organises the festival?
A. Me!
Q. How was it for you and the good folk of Ireland?
A. Magnificent. Two shows, two different sets, both great.
Q. Do you have websites over there?
A. yes, it's www.kilkennyroots.com
Reminder to self: Must check out Jeffrey Dean Foster.
© 2012 Created by No Depression.
Badges | ND Terms Of Use | ND Privacy Policy | Report an Issue | Terms of Service
