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sinceileftyoublog · 4 years

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Live Picks: 1/17

Tedeschi Trucks Band

BY JORDAN MAINZER

A new band from a familiar face and two non-Chicago bands who love Chicago.

Modern Nature, Schubas

When the prolific Jack Cooper of Ultimate Painting and Mazes announced his new band Modern Nature with a four-song EP, I was under the impression his new project would be his most expansive yet. Nature is jazzy, sprawling, and a bit meandering. The group’s debut album How To Live, released later last year, finds the perfect mix between motorik folk rock and its more experimental offshoots. Indeed, Cooper refers to the urban-rural dichotomy when contextualizing the spaciousness of the record, and the album is certainly more focused than the EP with which it shares only one song (the title track “Nature”). He says he wants people to think about what the album means for themselves, and despite the reference-heavy, obtuse album notes, How To Live offers plenty to take in.

First and foremost, the band, featuring BEAK>’s Will Young, cellist Rupert Gillett, Woods drummer Aaron Nevue, and Sunwatchers saxophonist Jeff Tobias, is tight and loose when they want to be, and their playing enhances the compositions and the lyrics. Opener “Bloom” begins with a drone hum and cello and ends with clacking percussion, leading into the appropriately titled “Footsteps”, whose wiry guitar lines, panning synths, warm saxophone, and light vocals are foreboding. Cooper essentially describes what happens in Modern Nature songs, with lines like “turns loops to the point in which they meet” and “repetition, spark burst fission,” and you’re wondering whether the music or the words came first. That sort of circularity offsets the linearity of many of the songs’ beats, and the instrumentals do the same, as harmonic keyboards circle around the drums and guitars of “Criminals”, while “Seance”’s initial stop-starts settle into a groove that then devolves into the initial guitar pattern in reverse.

“Footsteps” ends with field recordings, but not the type you’re used to; for Cooper, the field can be the city. Environmentalism is certainly on his mind--“lock them up and don’t forgive them” he sings of destroyers on “Nature”--but he’s more interested in the places and things we’ve never explored but know are there. “Out of spirit worlds, let it whirl, out and in, swirling like fireflies,” he whispers like a witch on “Peradam” over rounded guitar notes, shaking percussion, and arpeggio harmonium. More concretely, on “Devotee”, he refers to the “end of the rainbow”, though you don’t know which end he’s talking about. Really, it’s the journey to the place that matters. As the record ends on a jazzy outro, you can’t help but feel that the journey has just begun.

Singer Hannah Cohen, Tōth (the project of Rubblebucket co-founder Alex Toth), and Brooklyn psychedelic folk band Olden Yolk open.

Los Lobos, FitzGerald’s

We’ve previewed many a Los Lobos show over the past couple years and will recommend them every time, despite having never seen them play. Their most recent album was a surprisingly great Christmas album, Llego Navidad, though it should never be surprising that this band puts out anything other than great.

Creole funk band Paul Cebar Tomorrow Sound (Cebar, drummer Reggie Bordeaux, percussionist Mac Perkins, bassist Mike Fredrickson, and multi-instrumentalist Bob Jennings) opens.

Modern Nature; Photo by James Sharp

Tedeschi Trucks Band, Chicago Theatre

Tedeschi Trucks Band returns to the Chicago Theatre for their annual residency, which takes place tonight, tomorrow night, and next Friday and Saturday. Their most recent record was last year’s Signs, which we described as “definitely a band showcase,” highlighting the horns of “Walk Through This Life” and Susan Tedeschi’s blues guitar picking on “The Ending”. A year removed from Signs, expect to hear from all over their discography and a smattering of covers.

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toddlazarski · 3 years

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Last Suppers Vol. 4

Shepherd Express

“And I try to wash my hands,

and I try to make amends,

and I try to count my friends...”

— Neil Young

I never realized how much white existed on a kitchen wall calendar until we flipped to last month. May 2020: like an endless sea of milk, spilt, all over ripening spring and coming summer and everything between now and the distant horizons sprawling in every direction. The Target-bought spiral-bound hope of organization and forward-thinking adulting now somehow resembles a hanging talisman of the old joke about how to make God laugh: “make a plan.” There it sits, sometimes taking on the sense of a mirror, the unsmudged kind, too well-lit, the Windex-ed type necessitating looking away, the seeking of distraction. And there it remains, post-dentist visit luminous, crisp, unfettered, yawning, as we’ve quieted the ceaseless streaking of Sharpie, the scribbling and jotting and plotting, the road signs of an appropriately lived, full life, like all of us were looking up at the professor, scrunching brows, nodding knowingly, doodling something in the margins to play at attention and appropriate labor. Something to look forward to is the key to happiness, an old adage of sorts, is a wise thing a smiling, knitting grandma would say from a rocking chair, indicating you should get moving, with the plan-cementing and the aspirations of nights out and days together. For now though it is but a march of indistinguishable blocks of vivid pale, a tiny number in the upper left corner of each that means approximately nothing.

March 11th was a date, in hindsight, that stands out. A memorial-type night where, within the half hour it took to put a toddler to bed, the country froze and sought in vain for the Ctrl+Alt+Del keys on a foreign keyboard. The NBA season was suspended. Rudy Gobert was positive. Tom Hanks had it. An impossibly incongruous confluence: Forrest Gump and a tall French shot-blocker I target in every fantasy basketball draft existing together as the collective harbinger of societal doom. It felt like being in a movie, or the first episode of Leftovers, but the part that would pass as an emotional montage, and then move on. March 13th—Friday the 13th, but not soundtracked or jump-scaring, quiet, and directed by a Fincher or Polanski or Lars Von Trier—was where an unspoken contract was entered by sentient and capable-of-critical thought Americans, a day where laying low, taking it easy, became a gesture of care, an act of society. June 13th is a wedding we’ll attend this year. An idea, an event to schedule a haircut close to, a thing to cause ponder on the state of my black suit, something to look forward to that will have too many long-unseen friends and reunion fueled by an open bar. It was a wedding we would attend this year. It’s been moved to the fall. July 20th was once a road trip start date, years ago, the commitment steer-branded on my mind, I remember, because people would ask: “what are you doing this summer?” “When are you leaving?” “When will you be in New Orleans?” Everything else of the fruitful season seemed mere preamble, fun-enough filler before an apex, day-after-day of appetizer or salad, a mere whetting of appetite. A big day was coming, anticipation followed me like cartoon character stink lines. July 4th was a date I saw Tom Petty at Summerfest; June 28th was a date I saw Tom Petty at Summerfest; June 30th was a date I saw Tom Petty at Summerfest. These were constellations, a solid reading of the charts, the blipping beacon the control tower sends up when it is stormy and time to turn off autopilot. Now our plain is mostly like the map you see where dragons are fire-breathing around the edges. I remember the dates, like jersey numbers of favorite players, of all the Fridays in whichever is the upcoming month: aims of nocturnal revelry to make all the Tuesdays and Wednesdays and nothing days pay. This year, so far, May 26th meant something, for a while, and April 24th before that. The end, the other end, of Safer at Home. Instead the political panoply that is supposed to represent us sat at home and decided we don’t need that guidance, or a plan. Public safety is less important than dollars. Our Supreme Court sided with all those guys outside all the Capitol buildings with guns.

So maybe it’s time to get back to this, with the togetherness, the glasses clinking, hugs and unprotected mouth-open laughs at sunny beer gardens, the days you circle on the calendar and hope will have no rain, all the times where there is no greater mark of the specialness of a day than the meal. Like when my mom took me to Max & Erma’s for my 8th grade graduation. I don’t recall where the rest of the family was, but I definitely remember the tortilla soup. I’m not sure where my parents took me after high school graduation, but I remember knee-bobbing antsiness, the polite nods at congratulatory mentions of the future, because I was distracted by the prospect of going to go get very, very drunk. I remember my college graduation, where mom, somehow, before Google maps or Yelp or my Milwaukee food yammering, procured profound reservations at long-lost white table cloth gourmet Mexican southside spot El Rey Sol. Of course, I also didn’t care that much, because it was mostly a pitstop on a day well-deserving of getting very, very drunk.

The rest of my Milwaukee occasion-eating can likewise be charted like a sprawling pinned Google map of identity-carving. La Merenda is where I told my parents my novel would be published. Palomino is where we told my mother-in-law we were having a kid, over Bloody’s and Maria’s, piping curds goo-ing with expectation. It is also where I’ve told my wife everything, through the years, our spot of sanctuary, gut-growing comfort, fingers always slick with grease and cocktail condensation. I began my food writing ventures with a dinner at Braise. Vanguard was dad-rock-appropriate and rightly meaty for my first Father’s Day as a father. Von Trier was memorable for impossibly hard news scrubbing. A liquid yuletide dinner at Jamo’s is where I told a new friend that Die Hard 2 was my favorite Christmas movie, thus cementing an annual tradition, quick-contracting an adult life together of corner bars and such ridiculous conversational ping-ponging. I think of the spots and memories as a kind of incomplete Pinterest board, accomplished peak experiences that add up to an old man’s personality, the only truly prized collections of a weathered damaged person as he ambles down creaky basement stairs to be with his thoughts and his whiskey and his sad music.

This is where I ponder them all these days, because, of course, we can’t congregate. Not fully. Not at any more than 25% capacity. Not yet. We must continue to backlog the graduation and retirement celebrations; the birthdays, the date nights, are heretofore banished to arrears. Zarletti has long been a favorite for such big deal days: something so classic in it’s brand of old-school, low-lit, cozy, big-ish city downtown class; a spot from the Billy Joel song, the one about the bottle of white and the bottle of red, that turns drastically halfway through, and always reminds, surprises, wow, Billy Joel is really good. The spot to bring parents, when they are in town, and making a night of it, destination-dining for before a Jerry Seinfeld show. Or James Taylor. Or maybe another Paul Cebar night. Something at Riverside or Pabst or Turner or one of the other venues we sometimes forget about downtown because we only go downtown a few times a year that aren’t Giannis-related, the kind deeming it appropriate to bring parental credit cards and parental-type wine knowledge and the from-out-of-town desire for every appetizer. It was a New Year’s Eve, frigid beyond reason, a reservation and a window seat gazing on Milwaukee Street’s exhibit of amateur night: illegal-looking mini-skirts scooting by, vehement disregard for jackets, everyone flying trashily against the indifferent wind, quick to get to wait in line, outside, at a place called Dick’s. It was a night where I realized all I wanted was to eat, eat more, chase and maintain a wine buzz, and go home to cozy pants and couch hibernation. I realized I’d turned nearly full adult. Zarletti is currently offering curbside, another step in this direction during our time of being grounded, suspended. It’s a bit of make-believe, like when I put a pinky up in the air while pretend-sipping from an impossibly small cup at a tea-party, playing at elegance, it can be a reason to take a shower, put on non-elasticized pants, and be in the world.

Of course, it’s not as easy as it once was. In our DIY celebration experience there was an unexpected iIrritability over what to order across the homefront, unease, uncertainty about such a menu existing on my phone—phone menus generally more of the realm of pizza and tlayudas and short rib melts, the unrefined domain within which I thrive. But, it’s also this: I simply love asking a waiter what to have. The guidance, the expertise, a cultivated person who knows how to pronounce aglio e olio, one who has probably been to Italy more than once, who can do the whole wine presentation rigmarole with appropriate authoritative nonchalance while maintaining white shirt. I was reminded of the crisp, professional Zarletti service and all that our curbside culture leaves me wanting for. All of the plan and the know-how and the guidance that our political system leaves us all wanting for, too. I sought out the phone server’s recommendation, not knowing what to expect—-this is a person answering the phone, this is a person freaked out about job security, this is not your guidance counselor. And, still, there it was, a cheery, helpful rundown of appropriate Chianti’s, clear-voiced reassurance on precise pick-up time, an unabashed endorsement of the bolognese, lending conviction and a jarring reminder of days where you could talk to people who knew more than you, when you could be led, by a leader, united, when somebody in a place of esteem and prominence knew to steer with a gentle hand on back. As if you could talk to a favorite grandma again, count on the chief of your country to pretend to care or know how to think or speak in coherent grown-up sentences.

Even the server seemed to take part, ushering our fare outside before my brakes could even squeal, everything in a crisp stapled bag. Donning a medical mask and gloves, he seemed to have my best interest at heart: “I was starting to worry about you,” he said, coyly indicating my tardiness. You and me both, bub, I thought, but didn’t say, because it’s the kind of banter that doesn’t quite translate that well through a mask. Also, I simply felt slow. My interaction-ability, my small talk, seemed to have grown rust, an attempt at rapport seemed foreign, even dangerous. The languor was likewise synonymous with the entirety of downtown around me, dreamily desolate, like an hour of a city where only criminals are out, it all sucking me down, sponging inertia and energy for big weekend night specialness. In the backseat my daughter didn’t care, she was insistent only on seeing the monstrous inflatable lobster or crab or whatever it is atop the Milwaukee Public Market. I obliged, willingingly, thinking, honestly, it was actually probably the hottest thing going in town at the moment.

By the time we cracked the bottle, lightly re-warmed polpette di carne, veal and beef meatballs in bright pomodoro sauce, started guzzling old unpronounceable grapes, began twirling linguine flecked with pecorino and chile flakes, lacquered with olive oil and garlic, began greedily sponging bolognese stew with torn bread pieces because the all-day-seeming simmer of beef and pork had too much heart for rigatoni-conveyance, everything was right, and, somehow nothing seemed quite right. It was not just the takeout containers, needing to be dumped into real bowls. Or the fact we couldn’t find a candle. Or the dimmer switch in our dining room that buzzes subtly when romantic-levels are sought. Or the presence of a baby monitor between us, where a candle should have been. Or that I had to sweep up my own crumbs, and I don’t even have one of those special server crumb-shovels. Or my Nespresso machine, usually seeming quite nice, adequate for after-dinner digestif-ing, was now somehow not noisy enough, not old enough, not machine enough, more of an espresso app, really, compared to any real Italian joint. Or that I still had white paint crusted on my hands, because I’m at that point in quarantine of wandering around the house, simply wondering what else I might give a coat to. Maybe it was that, mostly, being home after all, I didn’t feel particularly rude looking at my phone mid-meal, and thus ruined the moment like the obvious bad date guy in every Nora Ephron piece. The food could not have been better—and yet it underscored that I’ve never missed a restaurant so much.

Of course I can just as much be a liability in a restaurant. My Clark’s always look too scuffed, I don’t know how or when to tuck in a shirt, when we go through the wine tasting, testing bit—so formal, a pretentious thing all our 18-year-old selves would loathe us for—I feel that I’m suddenly sitting in my father’s borrowed and oversized suit, that I’m about to be called out as a fraud, politely asked to leave the place, be told, “this is for the grown-ups.” But if anybody likes the whole charade more—the welcome of the owner, as Frankie Valli seemingly always hits overhead, who kind of puts out his arms like he’s been waiting, the accepting nod from the host when she finds my name, validates my existence in the tablecloth world, the cocktails at the bar stoking expectation, being handed a menu like a fresh Choose Your Own Adventure but after a two-Negroni buzz, the recitation of clandestine specials from the server like a def jam poetry flow where I feel like snapping fingers, the big night conversation so much more potent, charged, so much less small, the feel of spotting your waiter across the room, seeing his hands full, knowing this is it, your time is now—they have a serious problem.

Places like Zarletti don’t exist solely for special occasions. Under now unimaginable normal circumstances, we could go on a random Wednesday. Or for lunch. But, looking back, what did we ever do to deserve that? Did we get good grades? Memorize enough things in school to progress, avoid the margins of society? Did we have all our vaccines as a tyke and eventually quit smoking and go to the doctor once a year-ish and the dentist twice-a-year, more or less? And so now, yes, we should be good, barring car accident or one of those freak early cancer diagnoses that only really happen to other people anyways? Or are we all, the ones here, now, looking forward to going back to a lifetime of memorable meals so numerous we barely notice them, just incomprehensibly lucky?

As of this writing June doesn’t look much better than May, and July—who knows? I notice a chiropractor appointment has sprouted like a weed in an innocuous white cube a few rows from now, making me wonder how the quarantine time warp has trapezed us into our late middle ages. But otherwise there is certainly space to contemplate, reckon, know and grow expectant of how the Sharpie will be ready—so unused, so hard-up—as to come out in those satisfying soaks where you have to write fast to keep from bleeding out, and then keep going, on to the next weekend. For now, out of nostalgia, out of caution, also out of reasonable hopefulness, I’m setting sights again on New Year’s. There will be reservations, and Milwaukee Street a-twinkle with clamorous revelry and mini-skirts like glorified handkerchiefs going by, the biggest fears of everyone just catching a cold, all of us ready to burn 2020 to the ground, dance on the ashes, drunkenly, irresponsibly, appreciatively clinking glasses, and here will come the waiter, expectant of all my wishes, eager to help, ready to hold my hand.

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theftliabletoprosecution · 4 years

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All Souls to the Polls

50 to 50 Concert

If you are about voting (and who the heck in their right mind is not?) here’s 50 artists from 50 states that will be performing on October 17-18 to try and get all the folks to the polls. They include Los Lobos, Fantastic Negrito, Paul Cebar and many others. Funkadesi will represent Illinois.

#50to50

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honeymke · 5 years

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It was such an honor and a pleasure to write and record a song with stomata, Connie Grauer, Deonte Witt, Dylan Ovanin, and Paul Cebar! I still can’t believe that I got to cut a record with someone whom I believe is one of the best singer songwriters in the north. And he’ll be at jazz fest in case any of my New Orleans friends wanna hear a legend. Crawfish and highlife will by available for purchase May 1st and our album release show will be at the Sharon Lynn Wilson Center on May 3. https://www.instagram.com/jaywiththegoodtone/p/BwDc6LZnNZH/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=q2bsjiqpz3cl

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massongs · 7 years

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July 2017 Shows

1 - Piano Fondue at Blackhawk Campground w/Taras Nahirniak 7:30-10:00 pm

6 - Steely Dane at Summerfest 5:15 pm

8 - Piano Fondue Private at Granite Peak Wausau w/Taras Nahirniak 8pm

15 - Brink Lounge with Francie Phelps, 8-11 pm

18 - Piano Fondue Private at the Wilderness Resort Wis. Dells w/Dr. Josh Dupont, 2:30-3:30 pm

20 - Steely Dane with Paul Cebar and Gregg Rolie at Water Festival Oshkosh WI 6 pm

21 - Rare Steakhouse Milwaukee, Piano Bar, 8-11pm

22 - Piano Fondue Private Bailey’s Harbor WI w/Peter Hernet 8pm

28 - Rare Steakhouse Milwaukee, Piano Bar, 8-11pm

29 - Private event

30 - Steely Dane at Atwoodfest, 3:45pm

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mikemasseymusic · 7 years

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July 2017 Shows

1 - Piano Fondue at Blackhawk Campground w/Taras Nahirniak 7:30-10:00 pm

6 - Steely Dane at Summerfest 5:15 pm

8 - Piano Fondue Private at Granite Peak Wausau w/Taras Nahirniak 8pm

15 - Brink Lounge with Francie Phelps, 8-11 pm

18 - Piano Fondue Private at the Wilderness Resort Wis. Dells w/Dr. Josh Dupont, 2:30-3:30 pm

20 - Steely Dane with Paul Cebar and Gregg Rolie at Water Festival Oshkosh WI 6 pm

21 - Rare Steakhouse Milwaukee, Piano Bar, 8-11pm

22 - Piano Fondue Private Bailey’s Harbor WI w/Peter Hernet 8pm

28 - Rare Steakhouse Milwaukee, Piano Bar, 8-11pm

29 - Private event

30 - Steely Dane at Atwoodfest, 3:45pm

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theselyricsspeak · 9 years

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For you’re tired but hardly weary And I’m weak but we’ll be strong If and when we find our strides, dear Somewhere further along

Paul Cebar and the Milwaukeeans, “Somewhere We Both Belong” -Upstroke for the Down Folk

#love the rawness of paul's voice on this one #paul cebar #paul cebar and the milwaukeeans #somewhere we both belong #upstroke for the down folk #lyrics

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wyceradio · 10 years

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WYCE 881 Essentials - Paul Cebar

Paul Cebar began his musical career in the coffeehouse folk scene of Milwaukee in the mid-70s. After searching for the right sound with The R&B Cadets, Cebar (acoustic guitar and vocals), Pluer (vocals), Juli Wood (saxophone), Anderson (bass guitar), Tenor (saxophone), and Randy Baugher (drums) formed Paul Cebar & the Milwaukeeans. They focused on African, Latin American, Caribbean in a rhythm and blues context, later expanding to include R&B sounds. They released four studio albums, an EP, and a live album, including Upstroke for the Downfolk (1995), between 1993 and 2001. Cebar’s latest effort is with his group Paul Cebar Tomorrow Sound. Their 2012 release, They like me around here, is a 19-track album made with David Greenberger. Paul Cebar Tomorrow Sound released their new record Fine Rude Thing in January 2014. WYCE Essential Listening Selection is “Baby Shake” from Fine Rude Thing (2014).

#wyce #881essentials #paul cebar #tomorrow sound

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misterjayem · 4 years

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Paul Cebar as Graham Central Station at Chris & Heather's Country Calendar Show https://www.instagram.com/p/B5zBc3fFU23/?igshid=3x34r7v54cjr

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sinceileftyoublog · 5 years

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Chuck Mead Interview: Hit It, Get It, and Quit It

BY JORDAN MAINZER

Context isn’t everything, but it can often shape the mood of a record. Such is the case with Close To Home, the new one from Nashville-based Americana artist Chuck Mead. Recorded in the legendary Sam Phillips Recording studio in Memphis and produced by Matt Ross-Spang, Close To Home is a record of true stories and legends, featuring with some Memphis stalwarts, exemplary of the loose expansiveness of the Home of the Blues as opposed to the concision of Music City, laden with Mead’s quintessential sense of humor and just enough sincerity to evade corniness.

On Close To Home, there are songs of devotion that tackle both moods: For instance, “My Baby’s Holding It Down”, Mead’s sweet tribute to his wife who looks after his home when he’s on tour, is a non-traditional juxtaposition with a song like “Daddy Worked The Pole”. That one’s about a man who got a job hanging telephone wire so his wife wouldn’t have to work the kind of pole that normally comes to mind--until she started stripping so he didn’t have to work. “Billy Doesn’t Know He’s Bad” and “There’s Love Where I Come From” occupy two sides of the same coin, the former an exasperated look at a sociopathic outlaw and the latter an ode to inclusiveness, both songs in it for the good guys. The distorted country rock of “Big Bear in the Sky” references Native American lore; the title track tackles the eerie prescience of songs on the radio. But as serious as Mead gets, he’s also having loads of fun, with the bayou grooves of “Shake”, barroom piano of “Tap Into Your Misery”, and reggae blues of “I’m Not The Man For The Job”. Perhaps the most ramshackle is the old-school hillbilly burner “Better Than I Was (When I Wasn’t So Good)”, which ends with a snippet of the recording of the song itself. “Did that sound drunk enough?” asks bassist Mark Andrew Miller with an appropriate drawl.

I spoke to Mead over the phone last week about Close To Home, and my main takeaway was that his personality was reminiscent of the album itself. Friendly, engaged, unafraid to tell me when I was wrong about the record, and possessing of a penchant for quotes, quotables, and non-sequitir, Mead was a delight to talk to. He’s coming to City Winery on Thursday for The Cosmic Honky-Tonk Revue, a co-headlining tour with Jim Lauderdale and Jason Ringenberg, all backed by his band, the Grassy Knoll Boys. Read the interview below, edited for length and clarity.

Since I Left You: What about Close to Home is unique to you as compared to your previous records?

Chuck Mead: The lion’s share of what I record is in Nashville, so going to Memphis to do it is a departure. To put yourself in a different place--and there were a couple of songs we had been playing for a little while that took on a different dimension just because of where we were and the studio we were in, the Sam Phillips Recording studio he built in 1962 when he left Sun [Records] and had enough money to do what he wanted to do. My buddy Matt Ross-Spang is a great producer and is the manager for the place now doing a lot of great work. Just tapping into the spirit of Sam Phillips, where anything can happen.

SILY: The title of the record is taken from the idea of songs that “hit close to home.” Were you playing with the idea that home is not as much a concrete place as it is a feeling?

CM: Yeah, I guess you could say that. You’re always close to home. Home is where the heart is...on the bus! Sorry, that’s a Frank Zappa quote. But it’s true, nonetheless. I think you hit on something. But that particular song [the title track] is about how some weird song on the radio explains exactly what you’re going through. How does that happen? Man. That thing you said last week that came true. It makes it seems like there’s some order in the universe when probably there’s not. It seems like it happens a lot. I don’t want to get too spacey or hippie-dippie about it.

SILY: You mentioned working with Matt. How did the record have a different instrumental vibe than your previous ones?

CM: We never had someone coming into play like during this one. Don Herron who used to be in BR549 played some fiddle. Critter Fuqua from Old Crow Medicine Show came in and played accordion. It was still very Nashville-centric, but because we were in Memphis, we got Rick Steff to play the keyboards. John Paul Keith came in and played guitar. It lent more of a local flavor to it. It led to a slightly different vibe, which is great. Doing the same thing every time would be pretty boring, don’t you think?

SILY: And the album within itself has a nice variation--speaking of which, how did you decide upon the sequencing?

CM: You know, I don’t know. I just went through different sequences the songs were in, and it just seemed to flow the best the way it came out. It’s not like we were trying to tell a long story or anything. The songs seem to go together even though there’s a lot of different kind of things on it, and I guess that’s just because it’s us.

SILY: I want to ask you about a few specific tracks. First up: Is “Big Bear in the Sky” literally about stargazing?

CM: Well, no, it’s about that particular constellation. Many different cultures have a legend that they put a bear up there in the constellation. This particular story is an Indian legend from up in Canada. Originally, the song was for the Bear Family label out of Germany. [Founder Richard Wieze] asked me to write a bear song for their 40th anniversary.

SILY: I like the juxtaposition in the track “My Baby’s Holding It Down” between “holding it down” and “holding me down.” What’s the difference to you?

CM: Well, she never holds me down. She’s holding it down because I’m not there. But she’s not holding me down at all--though she could probably kick my ass. People who travel a lot, the people at home have to take care of stuff. And when you’re home, you have to take over, because they’re holding it down the rest of the time. She’s also probably holding down her anger. [laughs] But not really. People suck it up and they get through life. That’s just kind of what that song’s about. She doesn’t need me around. I guess I’m kind of nice to have around sometimes.

SILY: It’s about your wife, presumably?

CM: Yeah. I wrote it with my friend Paul Cebar, who also travels a lot and has been married about as long as I have. But you can write only so intimate a song. It’s general. It’s a tribute to significant others who hold it down a lot.

SILY: In the song “Better Than I Was (When I Wasn’t So Good)”, at the end, when you say, “Did that sound drunk enough at the end?”--

CM: That was Mark Andrew Miller who said that. [laughs, then imitates] “Did that sound drunk enough?”

SILY: Was that the type of thing you simply left in because it was so funny?

CM: Well, yeah. When we got the rough mix of it back, and that was in there, we thought, “Well, that’s gotta stay.”

SILY: Let’s talk about “Billy Doesn’t Know He’s Bad”. In so much of traditional music, you have murder ballads where the murderer has a clear intention and a lot of agency, and here, it’s a song where you have a lot of empathy for this murderous outlaw who doesn’t know why he’s doing the things he’s doing.

CM: No, I don’t have a lot of empathy. It’s a comment on sociopathic people. They think everybody thinks exactly like them, but they don’t care. They don’t know they’re being bad. They don’t know they’re assholes. I’m not excusing anything. Billy was an asshole. He lit up his neighbor’s house for no reason! It was a comment on someone like Jesse James or Billy The Kid who were kind of glorified for the way they lived their lives. Jesse James robbed and killed people. He’s a sociopath. You try to be understanding of it. When I wrote that song--Logan Ledger and I wrote that song--it seemed like it needed something. Mark Miller said, “Hey man, I think I have a good bridge for that.” So he comes up with that middle part that takes it to a whole new level of people trying to understand the way they are, nature, and nurture. It really ties it all together. I was really happy to have that happen. It’s kind of different. Those songs aren’t usually about that. It’s usually about a guy who kills his girlfriend because she’s pregnant or something.

SILY: Do you think the instrumentation of that song was an intentional contrast to how you’re viewing the character and subject matter?

CM: No, that was just kind of the way it came out. We went through it a bunch of times. I guess Rick added a Mellotron on that song to make it more dramatic, which helped out the bridge. In that sense, I guess you’re right. But it was one of those things that evolved in the studio. When we were originally working it out, it was just us four. That’s the thing that can happen in Memphis that doesn’t always happen here in Nashville, though that’s less true as time goes on. A lot of people own their own studios and cut their records so they can take as much time as they want. I don’t have that luxury. Usually, you just go into a studio and bang it out because everybody’s so damn good. In Memphis, you like to kick it around a little bit. That’s why we were able to chase that one around the room a little while.

SILY: What’s the inspiration behind the cover art of the record?

CM: I’ve been working with Jim Herrington for a long time. He’s my best friend. He’s done all of my solo records. He did the first couple of BR549 records, too. He’s photographed tons of great people over the years, and he and I have this consistency of getting something slightly noir that doesn’t look like your average album cover. Probably one of my favorite things someone said--there was a review of the record where the guy didn’t know anything about country or Americana but was drawn to the record because he thought it looked like Bryan Ferry. He liked the record, and he said, “It’s the most curious record you’ll hear all year.” For him, I guess. I don’t seem so curious. But it’s a tribute to the mysteriousness of Jim Herrington’s photo.

SILY: How are you adapting these new songs to the stage?

CM: Just goin’ out there and playin’ ‘em. [laughs] We’ve been playin’ ‘em over in Europe. Just bangin’ it out. We really did it pretty much live right there in the studio. More than a few songs, that was the vocal I was singing while we were cutting. Of course, we did overdubs where necessary, but there’s a certain liveness you want [in order] to capture the spirit of what’s going down. But when you start playing them after a while they do take on a certain dimension?

SILY: Extending a part or jamming.

CM: We don’t do too much of that. Sometimes, we’ll cut loose. We’re not a jam band to play a song for 30 minutes, although there’s nothing wrong with that. But I like to hit it, get it, and quit it.

SILY: Anything you’ve been listening to, watching, or reading lately that’s caught your attention?

CM: I’m reading a Lightning Hopkins biography right now. That guy recorded a lot of songs. [laughs] He’s one of my favorites though. I just finished this novel called Country Dark that was pretty damn good, about people up in Kentucky. Listening--I’ve mostly been listening to a lot of Jim Lauderdale and Jason Ringenberg. Gettin’ ready for the tour. We all have records out. Of course I like Margo Price’s record.

Album score: 7.1/10

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honeymke · 6 years

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The high strangeness and beauty that’s my life I guess. Gonna have a great show with Paul Cebars band. It’s lit. (at The Hook and Ladder Theater & Lounge)

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davehoekstra · 12 years

Text

San Francisco's Two Heartbeats

The Brown twins (San Francisco Chronicle photo)

Oct. 21, 2012--

Every big city has people like the Brown twins.

Marian and Vivian Brown, 85 and 85, are San Francisco icons. The twins wear matching outfits and share the same hair style. They often would greet pedestrians with hand shakes, which locals believed led to good luck. For the past 15 years the sisters have sat at the same window seat at Uncle Vito's pizzeria in Nob Hill.

Their smiles brighten the foggiest day on "Baghdad by the Bay," as late San Francisco columnist Herb Caen called his city.

Familiar characters like the twins give every city a small town touch.

So when humble, celebrated folks encounter hard times, people respond with small town style.

I learned of the Brown twins plight during a mid-August visit to San Francisco. I read a column in the San Francisco Chronicle by former mayor Willie Brown (no relation) explaining that the women were slowing down and facing a move into an assisted living facility. Brown reported the women did not have funds to relocate in the city.

He was afraid San Francisco would lose their unique touch.

The Brown twins are the sparkling gate to golden years.

Soon after my visit Vivian Brown fell in the apartment she shared with Marian. She was sent to a hospital and is now in assisted living in San Francisco.

She has Alzheimer's disease.

The city has rallied in support of the sisters. People have showed up on a daily basis at Uncle Vito's to donate money for meals and cab fare so Marian could visit her sister. Uncle Vito's owner David Dubiner has given Marian all the money along with matching funds.

"They had been in every night for almost a year and half," Dubiner said in a phone conversation last week. "They order the same thing, the small 'Mountain' pizza (salami, pepperoni, sausage, bell peppers, onions and mushrooms.) They both do not love all those toppings (laughs), but they agree to get that. A pot of hot water with lemon and two glasses of house red wine. Before that they came every Monday night. They had a circuit, one night to Fog City Diner (which has a Marian & Vivian booth), one night to Scala's Bistro (at Union Square), two nights at the Cheesecake Factory, two nights at the Hyde Street Bistro."

"I'm protective of them because they're our little ladies. They're frail. I had to do something. Marian will never have to pay for another meal anyway. She comes to my place because she lives around the corner and love it but I don't want her to feel like the only place anybody will buy her lunch is at my place. She doesn't want to leave her apartment. It's rent controlled and it's amazing.

"But I don't know how long she can afford to stay there."

The Red Devil Lounge in San Francisco hosted an Aug. 30 benefit for the sisters.

Jazz vocalist Kim Nalley headlined and lounge acts like Pearl E. Gates and the Rebobs performed along with Pink Flamingo and the Mai Tais. Proceeds went to Jewish Family and Children Services (JFCS), which is monitoring donations.

"The twins are doing well,": said Barbara Farber, JFCS Director of Development in a Friday evening interview. "We provide transportation for Marian to visit her sister. JFCS is taking care of Vivian's needs and helping Marian when she needs it. The community has been incredible in helping them out. People write and tell us how they've seen the twins over the years in the financial district. The twins are like looking at any site in the city.

"It was a feel good for people."

JFCS is one of the oldest and largest family service institutions in America, founded in 1850 by immigrant pioneers who arrived in California during the Gold Rush. They created an extended family, not unlike the family that embraces the sisters,

D. Hoekstra photo, Aug. 2012

Dubiner said, "Marian did not want to go to the benefit. Because she felt like who would want to see her without her sister. I told her I would take her as a date. I said, 'You'd be surprised. People really love you.' And they do. Now, San Francisco has a huge drag community. And just so we're clear, they don't like being twins...

..They like being THE twins....

"They don't like people dressing up like them and there's a couple guys in the Castro who dressed like them a couple of times. So when we get to the benefit there's these two ladies dressed exactly like the twins. I was expecting it would go south real quick."

One of the women was Jane Wiedlin of the Go-Gos.

"She was smoking hot," Dubiner reported. "Her and her friend Susan Tenby. So Marian was between these two ladies who were dressed like her. At one point Marian had to go to the bathroom and Jane said, 'Let's go,' grabbed her and walked through the crowd. It was fantastic. That's the difference between people looking for publicity and people who were there to help. Jane just wanted her to be comfortable. Marian settled into her groove like she would do with her sister. She was one of three twins.

"And Marian said she never had that much fun ever."

(L to R), Jane, Marian Susan and David in background (Courtesy of D. Dubiner)

The story of the Brown twins only touched me more deeply because I am going through the same things with my own parents, 91 and 92.

They often act like twins themselves.

I've gotten used to assisted living facilities, hospitals and sudden falls. I'm still getting used to a tear in my eye as I drive back to Chicago after a Sunday afternoon visit.

On Oct. 15 my brother sent me a news story about how dementia sufferers will top 2 billion by 2050, according to the World Health Organization (WH0).

This would be the worst medical disaster in human history.

At Friday night's 60th birthday party for Chicago area clubowner Bill FitzGerald, I shared stories of aging parents with my friend and Milwaukee musician Paul Cebar. Cebar gently smiled and said, "Chuck Berry didn't tell us about this."

Farber said, "The best thing the twins are doing for the community right now is making people more aware of the difficulties that seniors have. Some of these seniors are only living on $840 a month and that's all they have. Medical costs are high. If someone needs in-home care, assisted living or skilled nursing, it is very expensive. For all of us who are in our '50s and '60s and we have parents in that position you really have to give a hard look at what you can do to help your parents and see what services your community has to offer. We just don't have enough good services for seniors. And the senior population is going to get much larger as Baby Boomers get older."

Dubiner, 47, added, "This is a timely topic. I started working at this restaurant in 1985 and bought it in 2001. I've known the twins that whole time. I've seen them go from little old ladies to kind of old ladies. It is sad at times. They've shared the same space that I've shared but obviously they have seen life through much different eyes."

David Dubiner and Marian Brown (Courtesy of D. Dubiner)

Dubiner always kept an eye on the sisters and still watches over Marian's visits. He was a journalism major at San Francisco State University. "They are very identical but that started to change a bit as Vivian's health declined," Dubiner explained. "Marian being sharper than Vivian in recent years, I think that has been a constant source of aggravation between those two. But before that you had to pay real close attention to how they spoke. It was that tough to tell them apart."

The sisters reportedly moved to San Francisco 40 years ago from Kalamazoo, Mi. According to an Aug. 31 post on Michigan Live, the sisters together delivered the valedictory address to their classmates at Mattawan (Mi.) High School, Class of '45. The twins also played clarinet in the high school band,

"They like to be engaged but they also like to be distracted," Dubiner said. "Spending their lives together they didn't always have fresh things to talk about, They liked to sit by the window, look at new cars and talk about them. I think their Dad used to be a car dealer or something. They know cars. They used to wait for whichever window table became open first, then when I bought the place I started saving one table for them."

Now Dubiner, his friends and neighbors are saving so much more. So much more.

It's worth repeating twice.

Readers can assist the Brown twins by visiting Jewish Family and Children Services.

Press the donate button at the bottom of the home page. To help the Brown twins, select "Emergency Assistance in San Francisco" under the Services option.

#Brown twins #Jane Wiedlin #San Francisco #Paul Cebar

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