Savage Circle

NOTE: When I tried to post a link on my Facebook page to it, I was informed that my post contained "blocked content" that had been flagged as "spammy or abusive." Say WHAT?!!

Guten morgen, meine readers. Pay not that much credence to the title. It simply stems from the fact of my listening to The Ruts' superlative John Peel Sessions as I write this, recordings that bristle with far more elemental power than much of their released catalog. This and strong black coffee and steel cut oats are really setting me up nicely for the day.

Anyway, it has now been something close to three weeks since I packed my scant belongings and winged it to Denver. And I must say, I have officially fallen in love with this town. It's nice to find Austin again, as I remember it. So no, I won't be moving back to L.A. I am staying here.

So, the plan now:

1) Work up a significant nest egg, paying off some debts and buying much needed musical equipment along the way.

2) Get a new apartment.

3) Start a new lineup of The Hormones.

4) Finish the novel before the year is out.

I'm sure Number Three is surprising to some of you. I suspect many have been wanting that out of me for a long time. Others may wonder about the wisdom of it. The way I look at it, that was my band. I wrote the songs, I led and fronted the band, it was my baby. I discovered when I was an L.A. resident my old band was better known than I realized, far better known than Napalm Stars. And after witnessing longtime Hormones brother band The Stitches induce fits amongst a roomful of drunken 20-somethings over a month ago, I realized that I know all-too-well how to do that, as well. And I went home and wrote six really good songs in a row, my first compositions in two years.

But first, I need gear. And three other locals who also understand that delicate mix of Johnny Thunders, Cheap Trick, The Clash and the Rolling Stones that I've been mining all these years. The gear is crucial, though: At the moment, all I have is a late '70s Japanese Les Paul Custom copy I got off eBay for $200, and a tiny Fender one watt practice amp that's only good either for a really muffled blues timbre or the nastiest '60s fuzz guitar you've heard. (Seriously, I could recreate Vincebus Eruptum with this thing, and at low volume.) Neither of those sounds are characteristic of the sound I go for, and I could only play Charlie's living room with that setup, anyway. With no band.

Anyway, thanks for reading this. I'll try to write about books I've read lately or something soon. I appreciate your indulgence.

TIM'S GREATEST HITS: Merle Haggard

I'm in more of a Buck Owens mood today, but today is the birthday of Buck's fellow Bakersfield honky tonk maverick (and my favorite country singer, period), Merle Haggard. I was raised on the man's vintage recordings, which bordered on a hard, twangy variant of folk rock, for all their poetic wonder. Haggard has written lines I would have killed to have written: "The only things I can count on are my fingers" immediately comes to mind.

I was fortunate enough, as an Austin Chronicle staffer in 1996, to have interviewed Merle during a tour stop, in the middle of a string of profiles I did for the paper on classic country artists. So well did I capture the horrendous disrespect the man was experiencing at that point in his career, my piece was reprinted in a number of other alt-weeklies across the nation! I reprint the version which ran in Philadelphia City Paper; like many of the numerous pieces I wrote for the Chronicle, this is nowhere to be found in its online archives.  

Happy birthday, Merle.

Legendhood and 50 Cents Will Get You a Cup of Coffee

Merle Haggard ruled country music despite his contrariness. He now wonders if that same contrariness may be costing him.

By Tim Stegall

"You don't look like a Merle Haggard fan."

I suppose I don't, considering I'm standing before this dressed-for-success reporter from Austin's daily newspaper while wearing hair that could've been styled by Sid's of London and a dilapidated antique vest held together with safety pins, punk rock badges and a prayer. Still, my reply is the only sane and rational one such an observation merits:

"Lady, what the hell does a Merle Haggard fan look like?"

As has seemingly been the norm for maybe the last ten years, Merle Ronald Haggard of Oildale, California, youngest son of James Francis and Flossie Harp Haggard, is getting less than he deserves. At 58-going-on-59, the youngest man to be voted into the Country Hall of Fame, Haggard has produced one of the most consistently, artistically rich bodies of work to emerge from country music (if not American music, in general). He has earned the praises of the form's pioneers, his own contemporaries and its reigning current stars. The man's even revered and admired by rock 'n' rollers ranging from the late Gram Parsons and almost-late Keith Richards to Wayne Kramer and members of D-Generation.

So, what does such a lifetime batting average get Merle Haggard, at least of late? How about two — count 'em —two tribute albums that have received more attention and airplay than contemporary Haggard recordings that may well be every bit the equal of his vintage Capitol tracks. And can someone please explain why Haggard was forced a few years back into the insulting position of having to OPEN FOR CLINT BLACK! Now, who should be opening for whom?

Ergo, it's hardly surprising that when the Austin office of Sun Records throws a press reception for Haggard, he has to face reporters as supercilious and disinterested as Ms. Dress-For-Success. Later, she'll show how much of a Haggard fan she is by asking her colleagues if he was an "outlaw."

No, Merle Haggard was never an "outlaw." Merle is certainly friends with Willie Nelson, but Hag's never been one to hang with cliques or join clubs — he was even outside that batch of outsiders. Hag's always boogied to his own internal beat. He refused to record in Nashville, forging his own hardcore honky tonk vision at the height of the strings-and-choir-laden "Nashville Sound." Even when he got pegged as The Voice of the Silent Majority via the ironic "Okie From Muskogee," Haggard turned around and penned "Irma Jackson," an unflinching account of an interracial love affair Capitol managed to bury.

For over 20 years, Merle Haggard ruled country music despite his contrariness. He now wonders if that same contrariness may be costing him.

"I've been one that didn't really play the game," reflects Haggard, before adding wearily, "I'll play the game, now. I'll do everything I'm supposed to do, and see if that's what it is."

Haggard's discomfort with that decision is as obvious as the furrows and creases which have overpowered his once-handsome features. Of course, it's hard to get comfortable at any anonymously catered function in an anonymous hotel reception room, with its Swedish meatball buffet and grin-for-pay bartender. Or maybe it's the sore throat he contracted in Australia that's making him visibly squirm? Whatever the case, as Haggard switches from black coffee to a tumbler of George Dickle, he's hardly grinning and bearing the situation.

Still, for a man that's resigned himself to Playing the Game, Merle Haggard's doing an awfully good job of playing it by his rules: "It's almost like someone's censoring music, nowadays," he grouses. "I don't think the public is really getting a fair listen to what's really happening. I don't think they get a listen of the stuff that's great anymore. A lot of things that they hear are there for reasons other than music."

In Haggard's opinion, music video's intrusion into country music has made the music part damn near incidental. "They're writing songs about videos. The song has become secondary. And I think a song should be good enough to where you don't have to draw no pictures. I think that's why we're losing such a great amount of quality. Music's so thin. It's so refined — so perfect. And it's unenjoyable to me. I just can't even listen to it."

Lately, many of Haggard's contemporaries are turning towards the rock 'n' roll market to find respect. Johnny Cash or Willie Nelson, anyone?

"Hey, I'm fixin' to do the same thing!" snaps Haggard. "I'd rather listen to rock 'n' roll stations myself. But there's a lack of diversity on radio these days. There should be a full scope, a full picture. But there's not a full scope. There's just these 'models' you're talking about, these video people... I don't know what to do about that, but the American public's the ones that are getting screwed."

Well, there still has to be a good-sized audience for Merle Haggard and his music. It's no mean feat, selling out two consecutive houses at Austin's Palmer Auditorium without the benefit of any advertising, strictly on the strength of phone sales. Haggard shrugs it off, chalking it up to salesmanship of the Austin Fire Fighters Association, who the shows benefitted.

"But they do the same thing for other people," he adds, "and have had nobody there. People buy the tickets and they just don't show up. But they're showing up at our shows. We're really proud of that. It proves that there's still an audience out there, and I think program directors around America are foolish not to see that. But they've got to sell automobiles, and they've got to cater to the people they sell their time to, and if they don't do that, they're gonna lose themselves as radio people. Radio's gonna be turned off for good."

Refusing to let go of his anti-radio tirade, Haggard foresees a pendulum swing in the near future.

"I predict there's a lotta stations that are gonna make some serious programming changes in America. There's a station in San Francisco that's been programming traditional country music. They've been playing me and Willie, I think they've played Cash, even a Lefty Frizell tune or something like that. [Listeners] called that station, and the [programming director]'s name is Frank Terry. Frank said, 'Merle, the kids are calling in, saying "Who is that?"' And he said, 'I'm tellin' 'em, Ask your daddy!'" he laughs.

Or just go down to the local record shop. Up until a year ago, Haggard's back catalog was in a shameful state of disrepair. But in the past year alone, Razor & Tie has issued a superlative two-CD collection of his Capitol singles, while Koch International has given five of his vintage '60s LPs (including his legendary tributes to Jimmy Rogers and Bob Wills) the reissue treatment. Sun Records has also issued two budget line CDs of fine remakes of Haggard classics, the reason for the meet-n-greet Haggard's enduring. Meantime, there are two Haggard box sets now out. Haggard personally prefers the more comprehensive (and pricey!) box set offered by German reissue house Bear Family, The Untamed Hawk. ("In German, I guess my name means 'The Hawk' or something like that.") The Capitol box set, Down Every Road: 1962-1994, represents the meat of every Haggard era with a tilt toward his creative peak in the '60s.

Not that Haggard's living in the past, or totally eschewing more contemporary music or musicians. Dwight Yoakam, his hat, and his spray-on jeans make an appearance on a track on Hag's latest Curb LP, 1996. The track, "Beer Can Hill," is a tribute to the Bakersfield honky tonk scene which spawned Haggard and inspired Yoakam, and also features Merle's friend and fellow Bakersfield legend Buck Owens. Haggard has also taken up Iris DeMent as a bit of a cause celebre, cutting her "No Time To Cry" after hearing a version of his "Big City" on the Tulare Dust tribute album. Of the latter, Haggard has remarked that DeMent "took the conviction and sincerity to a depth that I, the writer, had not been able to reach."

Listening to 1996, it's easy to see the source of Haggard's resentment of latter-day programming. The LP stacks up nicely against his vintage output, and some of his most mature and full-blooded music of his career is getting dissed in favor of the latest line-dancing novelty. Haggard has certainly never sung better, has gotten more resonant and rounded with age, and has improved his long-standing ability to find the emotional core of a lyric and bring it to the fore. Still, even Haggard's shaking his head at Curb's packaging in Spartan graphics virtually identical to his 1994 LP.

"They're gonna put a cover on this new album," he says. "They're not going to get away with that. The ones you're talking about are going to be collector's items 'cuz they are gonna put a cover on it. I just don't understand it. It's almost like sabotage. Why they would want this album to look like the last one is beyond me. I don't understand it, but I've always been confused."

Maybe, Merle, but nowhere near as confused as the audience you greeted at your evening performance at Palmer Auditorium. Nor are you as lacking in manners: Austin was treated to maybe one of the last of the old-style country & western revues, complete with brief showcase opening sets by the Strangers and Haggard's ex-wife/longtime partner Bonnie Owens. Ignorant of the treat they were receiving, the boors and drunks, at least in my immediate vicinity, were loudly expressing their impatience. "Who's this bitch? Get her off! Where the fuck is Merle?!!"

This must've been exactly what triggered Haggard's bittersweet tune, "Footlights": "Putting on that Instamatic grin" and "kicking out the footlights again" when the heart and soul just might not be able to back the gestures up. Indeed, the croak illness had reduced his voice to a shadow of its expressive singing style, yet Haggard gave all he could. In this case, it meant the Strangers' backing may've had to be a little more restrained than usual, and Haggard could only offer a close approximation of his rich, sub-Lefty Frizell croon.

None of this seemed to penetrate the thick and loud skulls seated around me. "Aw, Hay-ull! He's drunk and drugged and fucked 'til he's all fucked-up! This is bullshit!"

Yes, "friend," you're right. The stench of bullshit was thick in the Palmer Auditorium air that night. But that stench wasn't coming from Merle Haggard's side of the stage. Many apologies, Merle. As usual, you deserve a lot better.

Weird Dreams Inside The Goldmine

"We're doin' bloody Eddie Cochran songs? 'Ere, mate! I was looking forward to playin' 'The Cartographer Of Love!'"

I never remember my dreams, except they're always weird as hell. But sometimes, you have one so odd, you have to write it down. Such as the one I had Friday night.

It's my last night in Austin, before I move back to L.A. (No, I know I left Austin two years ago for Tucson and then Phoenix, before finally settling on L.A. This is clearly a parallel universe. Just follow along.) The latest lineup of The Hormones (again, I know this never happened!) are playing our farewell show at Emo's. Only Emo's looks oddly like a bar my Denver friend Adams took me to my first day in town, a week ago. The rest of The Hormones have decided to not play the gig. I'm sitting at the bar, contemplating a solo acoustic set and not relishing the idea, when who should walk in but my old buddy, Keith Richards? (Because, y'know, Keef and I are sooo tight, and he's frequently in Austin.... *rolls eyes*) It's been awhile since Keef and I last hung out, him being busy with his modestly successful lil' rock 'n' roll band and all....

We're all smiles, laughter, and boozy bonhomie, buying rounds and playing catchup. Then Keith asks when I'm going onstage. I explain the situation of The Hormones downing tools.

"Well, fuck those bastards!" Keith roars. "Let's you and me play the gig! Right now! I'm sure we can find a drummer 'ere!" And sure enough, we just so happen to find Television drummer Billy Ficca wandering around (because he hangs out as much in Austin as Keith, apparently). After a quick word, he's as excited as Keith to be a Hormone for the night.

We agree to do a set of Eddie Cochran covers, since we all know those songs. And just as we start up "20 Flight Rock," I look up and see that Keith and Billy are not set up onstage with me. They're on the floor, playing from the audience.

"No, no, no, guys!" I yell, an impatient bandleader. "Get up here with me!"

So, naturally, they're having to tear down and set up with me on the Emo's stage. Keith, of course, is having a lot of problems with this concept, as he's had a road crew for 40 years and has forgotten how to hump his own gear (even though all he has for this gig is a Gibson ES335 [the blonde dot-marker model, ala Dave Edmunds] and a little 15-watt Fender Pro Jr. combo). As my slumming all-star Hormones lineup begin setting up onstage, I proceed to explain to the sparse crowd that, although this is our last gig as an Austin band and I will be leaving for L.A. tomorrow, the other guys didn't want to play. "But hey! Who cares? May I present Hormones guitarist for tonight only, KEITH RICHARDS!"

To which absolutely no one applauds. I opt to forgo introducing Billy, or saying another word to these cold fish....

Finally, Keith and Billy are ready. "Let's rock!" Keith rasps. He then begin churning out the opening riff to "20 Flight Rock," sounding really great and Keef-ish.

And then I woke up.

Oh, Lord! The 2012 elections are already a tractor pull....

Michelle Bachmann responds to the news that she can "has cake."

That sound you hear is that of my eyes rolling out of control. Why? Seems congresswoman Michelle Bachmann - the Tea Partier's Tea Partier who placed the battle of Lexington and Concord in New Hampshire rather than Massachusetts, blamed Obama for bird flu, and totally erases whatever goodwill the state of Minnesota engenders for having given the world Bob Dylan, Husker Du, and The Replacements - is being considered a serious contender for the Presidency. And Donald Trump is considering a run.

Jesus, people. Can you please stop it? My eyeballs are bruised from all the spinning you're inducing.

By this point, it's well-known I'll listen to a George Michael box set on permanent repeat for the rest of my life before I'll vote Republican. I've also arrived at the conclusion, in my old age, that it doesn't matter what your party or ideology is -  you have to have a monumental, hyper-delusional ego to even want the Presidency. (And we all know Trump has that in spades.) You also probably should not be trusted, outright, again regardless of your affiliation or philosophy. I've also concluded that America really does not know what's best for it, thanks to the erosion of our educational system and its trust in Fox News as a source.

But damn, people. Do you really take either of these people seriously enough to lay your trust in their doing a good job running things? Especially in Bachmann's case?

If so, I'd best start pricing tickets to somewhere, ANYWHERE, that isn't America. You're on your own, dumbasses....

And yes, I hope you have a good day, too.

Greetings from Denver

Yeah, I know. It's been much too long.

Simply put, I've had too much negativity hitting my life the last few months. And it doesn't help regular blogging whenever you (very stupidly) leave your laptop on the Purple Line to Wilshire/Western. Nor does it help your sanity/serenity/stability when your entire living situation goes pear-shaped, and you literally find yourself with no place to make a temporary landing in the city you've made your home.

Hence, I took what may seem a circuitous survival path, which was really the path of least resistance: I transferred to my longtime (off-and-on) employers' offices in Denver, where I have at least four long-running pals living. One of those pals offered his couch for as long as I need it.

So, after a long bus ride through some of the reddest of American red states (I shall never forget the site of the Chevron station, just over the Utah side of the Utah/Nevada border, decorated with what seemed like thousands of deer heads!), I'm finding myself landed in the town that birthed both Jello Biafra and The Fluid, and gave Jack Kerouac residence for a spell. I shall be here several months, putting a dent in Charlie's couch and saving a considerable nest egg for my eventual return to L.A.

Thing is, I am tempted to stay here. This town seriously reminds me of the Austin I moved to and fell in love with in the '90s, the Austin that didn't need a "Keep Austin Weird" civic campaign. That funky, creative, low-cost vibe is everywhere. Mom-and-pop businesses still rule here, living is cheaper than I've seen in awhile (and the air more breathable), killer touring bands pass through, the women are gorgeous and comment favorably on my funny striped trousers, and I'm seeing lots of well-preserved '50s neon all about. My final decision will be influenced by certain musical and female factors, of course. But I'm being seriously seduced by Denver life.

Meantime, I'm only this much closer to a new laptop. I need a paycheck or two under my belt first. But this space will see far more action than it has this year so far, thanks to access to Charlie's computer. So, goodbye for now. Good to see you again, too.