03/01/99
It seems nearly every career, whether it’s called a profession or a trade, has its conclave, some sort of annual tribal gathering. In the business (can anything that pays so inadequately be called a business?) of folk music, - is the Folk Alliance and its annual Folk Alliance Conference. I’d never been before and I was picturing folkies in Birkenstocks, all-cotton pants or hippie skirts and Woody Guthrie T-shirts wearing Shriner’s fezzes and throwing Martin D-28s out of the motel windows. Didn’t happen that way. At least not that I saw.
The Mollys attended/performed at this year’s Folk Alliance Conference in Albuquerque. The deal is all the people involved in the business end of folk music get together and do a granola version of the biz schmooze. Performers, managers, booking agents, venue operators, promoters, festival talent selection committee members, record company executives, musical instrument and accessory manufacturers, CD design and pressing companies, nearly any damned thing to do with making music - except the fans - are there.
I’m here to tell you that although I didn’t see one fez (unless it was worn by a Middle Eastern musician hoping to do a project with Ry Cooder) it wasn’t all that different than your average trade show ("I'll have my person call your person.") OK, less polyester and no product roll-outs at topless bars, but other than that... (On the other hand, there was a huge nude dancing club around the corner from the Albuquerque Convention Center and every time I walked back to my car I was wondering if I’d see some folkie risking eternal PC damnation by sneaking into that joint. It had a huge mural on the outside wall, probably 15 feet high by 100 feet long. It was an airbrush spoof on a 20th Century heroic mural, like you’d see on an old US Post Office building's frieze or somewhere in the old Soviet Union. It featured a bunch of female nude dancers being presented with a scroll marked “Bill of Rights” by a cop with arms like Big Bad Jim and a chiseled face that could be on Mt. Rushmore. To his side were three judicial-looking monkeys - Hear, See, and Do - wearing powdered wigs and labeled "city zoning commission." There’s a good story in there somewhere.)
So anyways, The Mollys took a break from touring to drive the 450 miles over to Albuquerque from Tucson for this folk business shindig. We played the opening night show at the Kiva, a big live performance theater in the convention center. We were a couple acts before Greg Brown. Lucky us. We did about 20 minutes and the crowd - whom I’ve got to say I expected might be a bit cold and overly critical (they're music business people who are used to having people throw their best at them) - went nuts. We got an extra five minutes. We did not suck.
I began to feel we really might be neither impostors nor party crashers. (Playing in the rhythm section of a “folk” band one - that would be me and maybe some others - gets the feeling that one is the proverbial turd in the punchbowl since many hardcore folkists go into spasms at the sight of electric basses and drums; of course, they don’t mind banjos and bodhrans through 30,000-watt PA systems. Go figure.) No problem here, that I could tell.
Next day it was up early and make the rounds over at the trade show, where all the folks on the business end of the folk business were hustling their wares.
That didn’t last long before we were hustled off by Albuquerque’s singing social activist, Chuy Martinez. Chuy was running an outreach program for the conference. He and Bill Nevins, a Mollys medal of honor winner from way back and a prime mover in getting us out of the shadows and onto the stages at this conference, took us to the county juvenile detention center (if you don’t think it’s a prison, you ain’t been there) for a show. We set up in the auditorium/gym. After a long wait, in filed a bunch of extremely solemn uniformed kids, walking single file with their hands clasped behind their backs. Each group was followed by a supervisor. Most of the kids, at least 80 percent, were Hispanic or Native American. They sat down cross-legged on the floor in perfect rows, silently. Most were in their mid-teens. But there were some as young as nine. I have children, including a son who is only 12. It was tough to watch. I knew these kids probably pulled some pretty heavy stuff to get stuck in here; I was told about the only way a sub-teen was getting locked up was for extreme violence. Still, necessary or not, it was grim. Nearly any one of those kids would be damned lucky ever to grow up to have what we have.
Chuy gave a straight ahead talk about who we were and made it sound like we were doing a very cool thing by coming to play for them. I don’t know what anyone else in the band thought, but I wished like hell I could do something more than play music for them. I also strongly suspected that these kids had too much grim stuff on their minds to get a lift from listening to a bunch of adults playing weird music. Wrong. A few sat on their hands and scowled, but most moved to the music, smiled and even clapped along. I know Kevin and I had both said before the show, in unison, “There but for the grace of ...”
My son, Kevin (no, not the accordion player), 12, turned down my offer to come to the show. He was with Dianne - my wife, the Mollys’ business manager and his mother - at the trade show. He’s usually game for anything, the ultimate roady/gofer - strong as a horse and ready for anything. But he didn’t want anything to do with this gig. I can’t blame him. But I’m glad I went.
Folk Alliance conventions, I’m told, always feature hundreds of showcases - short sets by performers, either in a big auditorium like we played the first night, or in smaller motel conference rooms or hotel suites. We hosted one the next night at a conference room, playing at midnight, in between sets by a bunch of other folk solos and duos.
In between all the schmoozing - trying to make a good impression on festival committee members and promoters - we went to hear people we wanted to hear. For me, number one was hearing Greg Brown on that first night. I’ve been a fan for a long time, but have never been able to hear him. If he or Ry Cooder (I’ve been a fan since he did session work on that first Taj Mahal album but have never heard him) are within 500 miles, you can bet I’m gigging somewhere else. Well, this night I at least got to hear a short set by Greg Brown. He did mostly of new material but came across even bigger live than recorded. Yow. The high point was “Mose Allison Played Here,” the one older song he did. I’d long suspected that the story behind that song had to do with a notoriously obnoxious venue operator in Albuquerque. Damned if Greg didn’t introduce the song with a long story, and even more graphic detail, about a rough night on the road - in Albuquerque. It’s not a whiny Bob Seeger woe-is-me type of on-the-road song. It’s funnier than hell. (“Oh, Brown, surprised you’re still around. Your crowd only drinks water.” etc.) I hoped the miserable SOB it was about was in the audience. Better than a public spanking. (To quote Brown's song: “Last night’s band signed the poster, “F*** You Miguel.””) Enough said.
We did a showcase for one of our favorite venues, McGonigle’s Mucky Duck of Houston, the next night. This time we packed the joint. But before we played I got to hear great sets by Jimmy LaFave (check him out if you get the chance) with a guitarist and bassist, and Greg Trooper. Trooper was hilarious. Theresa, one of the owners of The Duck, had apparently told Trooper what she wanted to hear in no uncertain terms. He razzed her from the stage. Those Jersey Boys know how to get even, even if they do now live in Nashville. It was a good time.
While the front line was at an acoustic showcase (Gary and I were told our services weren’t wanted) the next night, I went to catch a show by Laura Love. We’ve been friends for a while, occasionally crossing paths on the road. She and her dead hot band proved why Mercury Records tracked them down; something that seldom happens to folk-ethnic bands. Barbara Lamb, a violinist and newest member of the band, played some great stuff. And Rod, the guitarist, and Chris Leighton, the drummer, schooled everyone out in the audience. My idea of a perfect tour would either being double billed with Los Lobos or Laura Love. MoLLys and double L. Hell yes.
The closing at Albuquerque’s beautiful old Kimo Theater was something to look forward to, despite being the end of the conference. We were the closers. That’s a tough spot on a Sunday night. But the crowd, for the most part, hung around. The sound crew, or at least part of it, was fighting amongst themselves from sound check in late afternoon. The hum from the stage monitors was so loud as to almost drown out the instruments and vocals. I was told it was in “the house” - the main speakers, too. The sound sucked, period. The people in the audience, which was open to the public, got a raw deal. We played a hot set and got an encore, but after hearing how bad the audio was in the mains I felt like they were cheated. I’m glad they didn’t seem to feel that way. (Which brings up a story: Once a long time ago, I saw Rod Stewart, the pre-Do You Think I’m Sexy Rod, on a double bill with some friends of mine who were then just a local band from Washington, DC. Anyway, this big time sound company farts around with the monitors and house system throughout the opening act’s entire set, driving everyone crazy and almost ruining the set (Grin, Nils Lofgren’s old band). Rod Stewart came out and the sound was suddenly fixed. To his credit, he broke one of his special aluminum mike stands (the kind he could throw up in the air and treat like a javelin) and he took the ragged end and tore up all the big time sound company’s monitors. Arrrggghhh.)