The Idle Class: Legacy Issue 2015 by The Idle Class

THE IDLE CLASS THE Legacy ISSUE

featuring White Water Tavern Sister Rosetta Tharpe Louis B. Jordan Ben Nichols

Summer 2015

CELEBRATING THE ARTS IN ARKANSAS

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THE LEGACY ISSUE SUMMER 2015 LIVING LEGEND PAGES 24 - 29

An enduring staple of the Little Rock nightlife, The White Water Tavern has a few ghosts lingering between its walls.

THE PIONEER PAGE 32

Sister Rosetta Tharpe paved the way for rock ‘n’ roll greats. It’s time she got some recognition.

A PUNK PREQUEL PAGES 38 - 39

Lucero frontman Ben Nichols reminisces about his former band Red Forty & days in the Little Rock punk scene.

HE WAS EVERYTHING PAGES 40 - 41

Louis B. Jordan achieved crossover success & influenced the likes of James Brown.

ALSO FEATURING

A VISIONPAGES WORTH SHARING 12 - 13

Move Orchestra make music that is dark, ethereal & engaging on their new EP.

THE PAINTED LADY PAGES 10 - 11

Louisa Jane finds inspiration in art and music for her new fashion line.

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“Hard Travelin’ Man No. 11” by Neal K. Harrington

A VIBRANT LEGACY PAGES 14 - 15

The Thea Foundation rose from tragedy to help young artists bring beauty into the world.

THE BALLADEER PAGES 19 - 23

Neal K. Harrington draws from our musical heritage to make uniquely American art.

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Editor’s

note EDITOR & PUBLISHER Kody Ford

MANAGING EDITOR Katie Wyatt

EDITORS-AT-LARGE Jeremy Glover Marti Nicholson Marty Shutter

CONTRIBUTORS

Last year, we published our first Legacy Issue that featured Arkansans such as Mary Steenbergen, Charles Portis and Harry Thomason. The issue has been one of our most well-received, but something was lacking from it - musicians. Our state has made significant contributions to music of all genres from the Delta Blues to R&B to Country. Sure, Johnny Cash, Al Green, Levon Helm and Glen Campbell are household names, but so many singers and musicians have done their part and haven’t received credit where it was due. Like rock ‘n’ roll? Thank Sister Rosetta Tharpe. What about R&B? According to James Brown, it wouldn’t exist without Louis B. Jordan. These are names familiar to musicphiles but not exactly household names. That’s why we decided to focus our second annual Legacy Issue on Arkansas music. We hope you enjoy it. On another note, we recently celebrated our inaugural Black Apple Awards in April (see pg 7). It was a bigger success than we hoped. Around 300 people came together to celebrate creatives from around the state. We are very grateful for those in attendance, those who voted and our sponsors. Also, we couldn’t have thrown such a great party without our friends in Art Amiss, a nonprofit devoted to supporting artists, writers and musicians in Northwest Arkansas. Thanks again to all of you. See you in the fall, Kody Ford Editor-in-chief

Joshua Asante Melissa Brawner Connor Brogan Nicole Cagle Matt Faries Mark Fonville Connor Brogan Gabe Gentry Willi Goehring Shayne Gray Danielle Green Michelle Hedegard Katy Henriksen Catherine Johnson Kevin Kerby Stephen Koch Mandy McBryde Joe Meazle Bonnie Montgomery Dave Morris Sally Nixon Harold Ott Brandon Otto Mike Poe Susan Porter Chrystal Seawood David Slade Sandra Spotts-Hamilton Greg Spradlin Holly Tallon Jane Urquizu Allison Williams Kat Wilson Gwendolyn Wind Amy Xu

LAYOUT Amy Ha

COVER

“Hard Travelin’ Man, No. 10” by Neal K. Harrington

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WORDS / Kody Ford PHOTOS / Matt FAriES & BRANDON OTTO

hen I started The Idle Class Magazine, one of my goals was to bridge some gaps. From Eureka Springs to Fayetteville to Little Rock, Arkansas has vibrant artistic scenes. The problem is people don’t tend to know what’s going on in other parts of the state. With each issue, we have done our best to feature a variety of content from within our borders. Like many magazines, we wanted to give people the opportunity to speak about who they love in our state, but rather than just having a typical “Best Of” section, we decided to go big or go home. Needless to say, we didn’t go home. On April 11, The Idle Class Magazine hosted the inaugural Black Apple Awards at the Garden Room on Dickson Street. We had 15 categories - favorite artisan, musical act, 2D artist, 3D artist, creative agency, filmmaker, performing poet, alcoholic craft beverage, non-alcoholic craft beverage, radio show, fashion photography, theatre company, chef, and local jewelry designer. Voting took place on our website (IdleClassMag. com) and the top three from each category were chosen as the “nominees,” who were announced at a raucous party at Backspace on April 1. The person or business with the most votes was chosen the winner and

received a beautiful, handmade award, the result of hard work by artist Nicole Cagle and Perrodin Supply. Turnout exceeded our expectations with almost 300 people packed into the Garden Room. We had live painting by Sasha and Tolik Rayevskiy, a performance by Benjamin Del Shreve and a fashion show with designers, artists and stylists - Samantha Hussey, Andi Wise, Mo Galiabo, Flora and Fauna Jewelry, Amanda Hallam, Jenny Tuzz, BaddJaxx, Meleah Loyah, Natalie Denton and Melissa Arens. Afterwards, the party continued across the street at Cannibal & Craft with performances by Teenagers (of Fayetteville) and Sea Nanners (of Little Rock). The evening was just incredible and would not have been possible without vigorous planning and the relentless work of Bo Counts, Melissa Arens, Natalie Denton, Jane Urquizu and Eric Jensen. Art Amiss knows how to throw a great party and they proved it once again. Proceeds from the event went to support their efforts. The event was sponsored by BLKBOXLabs, KUAF 91.3 FM, Maxine’s Tap Room, Farmer’s Table, Cannibal & Craft, The Garden Room, Perrodin Supply, Onyx Coffee Labs, Core Brewing Company, Ozark Beer Company, Diamond Bear Beer, Pink House Alchemy, Backspace, and Arsaga’s. Again, we are grateful for everyone who made this evening a success. We look forward to doing it again next year.

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WINNERS OF THE 2015 BLACK APPLE AWARDS Favorite Jewelry Maker: Chain Crochet Favorite Fashion Label: Fayettechill Clothing Company Favorite Fashion Photographer: Jade Howard Favorite Filmmaker: Alexander Jeffery Favorite Radio Show (tie): Ozarks at Large & Shoog Radio Favorite Theatre Co.: TheatreSquared Favorite Performing Poet: Houston Hughes Favorite Creative Agency: BLKBOXLabs Favorite Craft Beverage: ONYX Coffee Lab Favorite Craft Beer: Ozark Beer Company Favorite Chef: Jason Paul of Heirloom Food and Wine Favorite Artisan: American Estates Favorite Artist (2D): Sally Nixon Favorite Artist (3D): Dayton Castleman Favorite Musical Act: Tyrannosaurus Chicken 8

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THE PAINTED LADY Louisa Jane finds inspiration in art for her new clothing line. INTERVIEW / NICOLE CAGLE PHOTOS / DANIELLE GREEN & CONNOR BROGAN

ashion can be defined as a manner of behavior, a trend, or literally styles of dress and ornament. For many it is a love and passion to Louisa Jane it is her vision of The Painted Lady. I had the opportunity to interview her and learn the backstory behind her rebranded clothing line, Louisa Jane-The Painted Lady. From a young age, the Dublin-native has embraced her passion for creativity. “My love of fashion and design and creating pretty things that make people happy play a major role in why I’m a designer,” she said. “I had a big love of fashion from a young age and started making clothing in my early teens. The only subject I truly loved in school was art and I was torn between doing graphic design or fashion design in college, but eventually chose the latter.” For a number of years Jane worked in retail display and sold customized sweatshirts and other craft bits designed and made by her. She studied fashion design, fashion buying and merchandising at Grafton Academy in Dublin. Just shy of completing her studies at Grafton Academy in February of 2012, Jane started her business, Lou Lou’s Lovelies. A year ago she moved to the United States and currently works out of a studio with internationally acclaimed Irish artist, Maser, in Fayetteville, Arkansas. [Editor’s note: She moved back to Ireland shortly before we went to press.] As a designer what inspires you the most? I’m inspired most by mid-century art, design and fashion, old movie and music icons. I’ve always been fascinated with the intrinsic link between music and fashion and all the wonderful cultures that have stemmed from that. Other designers/brands that inspire me are; Karen Walker, Orla Kiely, Roksanda Illincic, Marni, Creatures of Comfort, Band of Outsiders, MSGM, Comme de Garçons to name a few. I think Jacquemus is incredible. He’s such a clever designer. I love his website and his Instagram, everything he posts is like a perfect little composition. I went to see his A/W’14 collection in Opening Ceremony in New York last October and it was so good I wanted to eat it. The A/W’14 collection 10

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has inspired me to start experimenting with neoprene; at the moment I am using neoprene to design new-collar shapes and intend to design complementary outerwear and dresses. When you are in your studio is there anything in particular that sparks your creative energy when executing an idea? Good tunes, Earl Grey tea and flowers. With music it’s anything from The Velvet Underground, Donna Summer, Talking Heads, Steely Dan, Metronomy, LCD Soundsystem, to The Drums. Is there a significant meaning to the name, “The Painted Lady”? I started hand painting canvas and cutting panels for my tote bags from it a number of months back and that’s when I decided to rebrand my design line from Lou Lou’s Lovelies to Louisa Jane-The Painted Lady. I love that it sounds very ‘60s psychedelic much like a Jimi Hendrix or Cream album name, in contrast to my clean and simple branding. Based on our conversation thus far, music appears to play a major role in your design. Can you elaborate more on your love for music? When I lived in Ireland I would DJ at various clubs in the city. I loved the energy it gave me and feel that same energy listening to music in my studio. Music is powerful and very inspiring

to me. In a lot of ways it sets the tone for my ideas. How would you describe your style of design? Clean and simple lines with an emphasis on color, print, shape and texture. I want my aesthetic to be all about comfort and ease and always have an element of functionality, in seam pockets, in a dress, or a hood on a cape. I love the idea of my designs being people’s happy clothes; for example, if you’re having a bad day you’ll put on one of my pieces and it’ll make you smile. Do you think your work differs from other designers? I think you’ll always find someone, somewhere who is doing something similar to you. It’s so hard to do something that hasn’t been done before especially in fashion, the 20th century covered so much. I think we’re all inspired by stuff we see, are drawn to, and love; it filters through us and we interpret it in our own way. I always set out hoping what I’m doing is unique and from the heart. In your experience as an artist and designer have you faced any challenges or successful moments with your work? There are constantly challenges when designing but that’s one of the things I love about it is figuring out the challenge and

correcting it. Features like this are the successful part. It’s exciting to think that someone wants to write about what I do and feature my work in a magazine or on a blog, it reassures me that I’m making a mark. I have noticed you implement a lot of primary colors and textured patterns in your designs...are these your favorite elements and principles of design? I love the primary colors. They make me very happy! Bold prints and bright colors are my jam. Color is most important to me; it’s a very emotional thing. I recently went to see Henri Matisse: The Cut-Outs in MOMA and some of the pieces were so incredibly beautiful I almost cried. He was the absolute color master. I went to the Bauhaus Museum in Berlin last year and it had a huge impact on me, it was what inspired my recent rebrand. I love the principles of design school and try to be mindful of them when designing. Those principles being: a product must fulfill its function in a practical way, be durable, inexpensive and beautiful, organic designing of objects in keeping with their own present-day laws, without any romantic gloss or fanciful frills, and simplicity in multiplicity.

Can you describe your current line or any current projects that you are working on? I’ve been working on a dress and top design over the last few weeks. I’m planning to build a five-piece clothing collection, making all the samples myself, and look at having it produced. The idea would be that all the pieces work together so you can make numerous outfits out of the five staple pieces and my accessories. My aesthetic will be comfort and ease - nothing too structured or fitted - with emphasis on shape, color, print and texture. As a designer, Jane’s favorite aspect overall is having the ability to take an idea in her head and turn it into a reality. Instagram has played a major role in her career as a designer; Jane refers to it as “her visual portfolio and inspiration.” She is constantly posting her work and inspirational eye-candy. Visual social media has been an essential advertising and marketing tool for Louisa Jane-The Painted Lady. Jane hopes the future will grant her the opportunity the have her designs produced, sold online, and stocked in suitable boutiques around the globe. FOLLOW: @LOUISAJANEDESIGN

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Move Orchestra Have A Vision Worth Sharing I’m on speakerphone, having a hard time telling the brothers Brogan apart. In my defense, their end of the line is very excited. “We just finished our EP!” “And it’s Ryan’s birthday in the same weekend!” I make sure the basics are covered. “What’s the EP called?” “Okay, so maybe we said we’re done, but we’re not... because we don’t know what to call it, yet.” In October 2013, Connor, Cuinn, and Ryan Brogan formed in Fayetteville under the name Move Orchestra. With the seeming lightness of a blank slate, the band immediately started touring, energetically tweaking each aspect of their project into a cohesive package. To promote upcoming music on their Facebook feed, Move Orchestra made several short films like “s t e a m,” an aphoristic blink behind the scenes during the recording process of their debut EP, an almost Lynchian Easter egg. A surgical attention to detail and inventive design stretches across all of the band’s social media platforms: Whether you land on their beautifully managed website or get sucked into their sleek, artfully over-exposed Instagram posts, it’s plain that these guys have vision to work with. Even the comments made by the band’s Facebook account feel organic to the Move Orchestra narrative – a singular, polished band voice is ever present - and I’m curious how mindful that

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effort is. “That’s a lot of Connor,” I hear from more than one voice. “It’s a work in progress. Trying to streamline all images and ourselves as a group consistent across the board,” Connor adds. I ask about the ee cummings-esque punctuation of their singles, and the brothers confirm my suspicions of this being a less obnoxious version of the classically eye-grabbing alternating caps adopted after the release of their darkly electronica-steeped single, “m o o n.” Though vocally-driven almost to a fault, the track also manages to feature a 7/4 jazz-fusion groove played in an eyebrow raising time signature. “If anything I guess in the future we might have the vocals be more of an instrument and less the main focus.” I give them a lot of credit for trying on so many hats as a band, and for trusting in what can come from improvisation. Another single, “i m p u l s e,” is a digital electronic experiment, complete with a huge dive bomb near the end. “p a t t e r n,” a cinematic, analog-laden track, is my pick of Move Orchestra’s singles. Swelling around the 1:30 mark, it moves in kaleidoscopic, anxious movements as painfully postmodern as Stan Getz. The lyrics fall appropriately moody yet sparse, with abstract offerings such as: “I’m gonna make you feel like none of this is real, like everything’s surreal, I’m gonna make you.” I ask Connor whether he thinks this nebulousness

Words / Gwendolyn Wind Photo / DANIELLE GREEN makes the lyrics inaccessible or simply leaves the jist of the song open to interpretation. “I think the lyrics are accessible,” he answers. “It’s not like I’m trying to create analogies out of nothing and relate to the weirdest things... but not as direct as a pop song. I’m not giving away entire visions.” Cuinn starts talking about the equipment they’ve been collecting and teaching themselves, and the autodidact streak in each brother becomes immediately apparent. They go on to discuss researching manuals, and I realize this is what comprises many of their shiny Instagram offerings. Synthesizers and music-making black boxes stand revered like the holy trade tools of some sacred, ancient brotherhood. They tell me some of the different things they’ve been able to teach themselves that came in handy while recording the new EP. Mentally, I return to their clean, contemporary Bandcamp interface and remember the length of the credits (unusual for a such a new project), the mixing and sound design and analogue arrangement of every track accounted for. It’s impressive to see a band come right out of the gate owning such a strong vision of their own work, especially when the arena’s set up for local acts to find some comfort in remaining one step removed. VISIT: MOVEORCHESTRA.COM

MAKING A MESS

THE INNER PARTY TALKS ABOUT THEIR LATEST ALBUM INTERVIEW / SHAYNE GRAY PHOTO / MATT FARIES The Inner Party is a band based out of Fayetteville. It’s the creative relationship between singer & guitarist Keith Miller and bassist Dave Morris. The band formed in 2007. They have a new 16 track album recorded at Fuse Recording Studio in Lincoln, Nebraska, entitled “The Inner Party Makes A Mess.” Matty Sanders produced, engineered and played drums for many songs. The live band includes Jimmy Holloway on guitar and Derek Faires on drums. Their name is from George Orwell’s book 1984 where society is split into the Inner Party, the Outer Party and the proles. We caught up with Dave Morris of The Inner Party to discuss their new album. When did The Inner Party start and who writes the songs? Keith and I started playing together in 1999. He was in a band called the Proles and 8 years later we started up The Inner Party. Keith and I write the songs. We do have some co-writes but most are written by just him or me. What inspires you to create art? Keith is a visual artist. Outside the band he writes and records songs all the time and has written about 200 songs. Jimmy gets something out of playing live he just can’t get anywhere else and I feel the same. For me a

lot of it is about documentation and I don’t want to be one of those older guys who talks about music but has nothing to show for it. What are some challenges and benefits of being a band based in Fayetteville, Arkansas? It’s close to several other big cities and it’s a brutal musical environment that forces you to be tough. That being said, there are some great bands and people here. In particular we’ve been very proud and lucky to have the support of 3B Radio and the Fayetteville Flyer. This album is a professional quality record. The sound is thick, crisp and has a great tone. It’s catchy with an Anglo power-pop post-punk feel. The vocals are commanding and possessed. My favorite songs are “Blast Off,” “When the Zombies Come,” “Walt Disney” and “Minimum Wage.” You will dig The Inner Party it if you’re into artists such as Bad Religion, Bauhaus, The Pixies, The Clash, The Cure and The Ramones. The new album was released March 3, 2015 on iTunes. They’ve previously released 2 EPs, 2 Singles, and a collection of demos. VISIT: theinnerparty.com

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The Thea Foundation:

A Vibrant Legacy WORDS / SANDRA SPOTTS-HAMILTON Photos / Mark Fonville

In 2002, two grieving parents established a vibrant legacy for their daughter. That legacy is the Thea Foundation, based in North Little Rock, an outgrowth of the positive effect that the arts had on their late daughter Thea Leopoulos. Shortly before her untimely death in a car crash at age 17, Thea immersed herself in visual arts, dance, theater and competitive speech. The experience rapidly changed her confidence and dramatically increased her interest and success levels in academic subjects, as well as her general happiness. For parents Linda and Paul, the direction that legacy should take was not immediately obvious. Paul began researching the connection between improving critical thinking skills required by academic subjects and involvement in art disciplines. That research confirmed the transformation they had seen in Thea, who had gone from making C’s and D’s to a 3.5 grade point average after deeply involving herself in the arts. The connection between involvement in the arts and self-confidence continues to impact Arkansas high school students through the foundation’s scholarship program. The scholarship is based solely on students’ creativity rather than academic achievements or intention to major in the arts. Awards are made in six categories: visual arts, performing arts, creative writing, slam poetry, fashion design and film.

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As of May 2015, the awards have grown to 270 scholarships, totaling more than $2 million. Currently, the foundation has raised $1.7 million toward an endowment goal of $2 million initiated in 2013. To help reach that goal, an event called “Into the Blue: An Evening with President Bill Clinton” was held at the Clinton Presidential Center on May 13. President Clinton, a longtime friend and supporter of the Thea Foundation, has hosted an annual fundraising event in Washington, D.C. This marks the first year the event has been held in Arkansas. In addition to the scholarship program, the Thea Foundation reaches out to the Arkansas community in other ways. “Arts Reconstruction” establishes partnerships between the Thea Foundation and other arts organizations and institutions to enrich art experiences for students during and after school. “Thea’s Art Closet” was created after Paul traveled to visit a school and learned from the art teacher that funding for basic art supplies is often inadequate and the supplement often comes out of the teachers’ pockets. Now the foundation works with a non-profit Donors Choose to provide funding for supplies. “Thea Paves the Way” is an outreach event which brings together students, teachers, families and community groups to work together in covering the sidewalks of the

Clinton Presidential Center with art rendered in colored chalk. The day provides a creative opportunity for the community to collaborate and highlight the importance of art to the community. “The Art Department” is a series of art shows held quarterly to exhibit works of professional artists from Arkansas. “Arkansas A+ Schools” is a network designed to combine interdisciplinary teaching and daily arts instruction. The program is research-based and provides ongoing professional development for school staff members and includes a component of active research. Paul Leopoulos notes the reward of meeting the young people who are touched by the Thea Foundation, listening to their stories, and seeing their growth. He recalls how the 2014 fashion design scholarship winner, Alexis Stevenson, began the project which requires 75 percent of materials used to be recycled. She

tAKE IT OUTSIDE

stated that at the beginning she was not particularly committed to recycling, but she added the element of getting signatures of commitment to recycle from community members and leaders. The signatures were incorporated into her dress design. As the number grew, Alexis felt her own commitment to cleaning up the environment grow. Paul states, “I didn’t imagine that students would get so engaged and get others excited.” The Thea Foundation is focused on programs that will stay within the state of Arkansas, but Linda and Paul share the dream that other states will see what they are doing and proliferate it. In Louisiana, the recently formed George Rodriguez Foundation of the Arts was modeled after the Thea Foundation, planting the seeds to bring that dream to fruition. VISIT: THEAFOUNDATION.ORG

WORDS / JANE URQUIZU IMAGE / GARY SIMMONS

Hot Springs Plein Air Festival Kicks off in June Entice your senses at the 2015 Hot Springs Plein Air Festival this June. The Fine Arts Center of Hot Springs first introduced Plein Air Festival to Hot Springs in May of 2013. The event celebrated the city’s majestic buildings with featured artists capturing the moment through live outdoor painting. This year, artists such as Gary Simmons, Tim Tyler and Hugh Dunnahoe will do live paintings throughout the event, taking place June 10 to 14. On the last day, judges will decide which artist’s painting earned the “Best of Show” award. During the event, you’ll have a chance to hone into your natural creative abilities during their live demonstrations. The artists will give insights on how to choose a scene, capture light and shadow, and work quickly.

Unlike many of the other festivals happening around this time, Plein Air is completely free to the public. All you have to do is show up and enjoy the many talented artists doing what they do best. And although the festival may come to an end each day, the fun doesn’t stop there. The 2015 Plein Air Festival will coincide with the Hot Springs Music Festival. So, after a day well spent appreciating the visual art produced at Plein Air, the evening will be filled with the poetic sounds of the orchestra, chamber concerts and other ensembles. Make the memories last with a piece from one of the Plein Air featured artists. All of the artists participating will have their work on display and for sale at the Fine Arts Center.

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ARTISTS WE LOVE: ELIZABETH WEBER

INTERVIEW / HOLLY TALLON

lizabeth Weber paints windows. It is through these windows that she hopes to not only better understand her inner essence but to allow viewers to do the same - to look and see themselves as they truly are. Polychromatic. Effervescent. It is through Weber’s paintings that we find ourselves and realize we have never been lost in the first place. Also a poet, Weber’s words and brushes are dipped in light, and her paintings and poems center visually and thematically on an exploration of light and spirit. Weber was born and raised in upstate New York and spent her postcollege years living in New York City and Los Angeles. Ten years ago, Weber stopped in Little Rock on her way to a Peace Corps assignment and had an exhibition set up less than 24 hours later. She’s been with us ever since. Committed to service, Weber works as an artist-in-residence at Arkansas Children’s Hospital and as a part-time art teacher. The Idle Class recently had the privilege of chatting with Weber and learning more about her work. How did you become an artist? I took as many art classes as I could in junior and high school. I was finished with a lot of my core classes a year before graduating, so I filled all my extra classes with independent studies in art. I started off in college being a metalsmith [and] then switched to sculpture, painting, and finally ceramics. About 15 years ago, I found my way back to painting. I truly feel that one does not choose to be an artist. It is the thread by which the cloth of our life is woven. As an artist I have no choice but to create. For without creation there is no deep breath. No peace. No living. Many of your paintings, especially those in your “Portal Series,” are reminiscent of starry, galactic landscapes. Do you see stars when painting? All of my work is a reflection, an attempt to communicate, to translate

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my inner landscape outwards, to connect to something much larger than myself. Yes, it is true that I can easily get lost in the cosmic photos of our universe, but is it not also true that on an atomic level, we are made of the same stuff as stars? Maybe it is a deep part of myself that is remembering, reconnecting, with its source. So, you are asking about inspiration. Inspiration can and does come from anywhere and everywhere. It can be sparked from a mood, a dream, an interaction or encounter, the way the wind blew through the trees and played in my hair, the warmth of the sun filling my body as it rose in the sky. You mention painting is a way of transforming your inner pain into light. What do you think of art as therapy or about the impact creating art can have on inner transformation? I start with a black canvas, just as when I look within, I acknowledge my shadows. I recognize experiences as expressions of light, even those of tremendous darkness. Having your heart shattered because you opened it wide for another, allowing yourself to be vulnerable is a beautiful thing. It may, in that moment, feel like you will never find all your broken pieces in the aftermath of the destruction of your expectations, but the very act of opening is such a beautiful thing. Khalil Gibran in the book “The Prophet” says something like, ‘Your greatest joy is only as high as your deepest sorrow.’ It is a transformational idea that through acknowledging the opposite side of the pendulum that transformation has the space to occur. For me, the act of painting gives voice to that space; it turns the darkness into light. Some of your paintings have original poems included with them. What comes first, the poem or the painting? I paint how my heart experiences the world. Sometimes that is from an experience that just happened and is fresh in my heart. Other times, it may be inspired by a line of poetry that I have read, a turn of phrase that resonates deep within, and I can see its ripples touch past experiences and nudge them to the surface. There are times when an experience of

Opposite Page: “He Is the Breath Inside the Breath” - 24” x 36” canvas Above left to right: “Splinter of Silence” - 18” x 24” canvas “Seeking Refuge in the Forest of My Heart” - 24” x 36” canvas “My Voice Searched the Wind” - 36” x 36” canvas

the heart calls for the pen and paper to witness and then the paint follows. Other times, it may be the other way around. There is fluidity in the dance for me, and I do not always know where my muse will take me, but as any good partner knows, it doesn’t matter how good your lead is if you are not willing to surrender to them, to trust in the purpose of the flow. VISIT: mysoulspath.com

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ARTISTS WE LOVE: KEN ADDINGTON

INTERVIEW / DONNA SMITH

xperience, intrigue and eclectic. No artist in the state represents these words more than Ken Addington. For years, Addington has painted and presented his bright, abstract works to the delight of viewers. Though travel and theatre took him across the country, Arkansas called him home. Let’s find out a bit more about Ken and his use of painting to understand the world around him. Ken Addington attended the Memphis Academy of Art, University of Southern Mississippi and the Cape School of Art, Provincetown, Massachusetts, where he studied under Henry Hensche. In 2005, he was awarded a Fellowship Grant by the Arkansas Arts Council. His works are included in over 70 private collections throughout the United States. Early on in his career, Addington traveled around the US working as a portrait artist, never living in one place more than three months at a time before eventually settling in Arkansas. Now the artist shared his thoughts on his work and how he differentiates Art with making art. When was the first time you knew you wanted to make art? Looking back on the course of my interest in art and when I knew I wanted to apply to art, I can’t remember a specific moment. I had two older brothers who made drawings and I do remember being captivated by the magic of making images and then being instructed in ways to make those images more accurate. So, from an early age I started paying attention to what looked magical. I can describe that curiosity but, at the time it was simply attractive, a region I found rewarding to explore.

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How do you feel your interest in theatre feeds into your studio practice? Do you find a correlation between the two fields? I’m in my seventh decade of making images. I took training at the Memphis Academy of Art (now, Memphis College of Art), the Cape School of Art under Henry Hensche and the University of Southern Mississippi, where I fell into theatre. Actually, a very old and wellendowed community theatre in the French Quarter brought me out of school when I was a senior. What things are you most excited about that you’re working on currently and what inspires that work? It’s non-objective, but not purely so. I did use the wildness, which most people refer to as “nature, “ as my model. But, this is the side in which I’m way more interested. Representational artwork was my beginning point in the wild world of art. I’m more trained in representational artwork, however, age and experience has left me in the more “presentational” mode. Radcliffe Bailey recently spoke at UA and described his studio as “church.” Would you equate your own practice and studio to a sort of religion or spiritual experience for yourself? As far as a mission statement or reason I do artwork, I don’t refer to my images as art. I refer to them as artwork since art is to me a concept. It doesn’t actually exist so what I do is evidence of art. I use it as most folks use religion or science. I apply to art in order to reconcile myself with the unknown.

Neal Harrington

the

BALLADEER Neal K. Harrington creates images that are frantic, suggestive & deeply American.

WORDS / KODY FORD PHOTOS / KAT WILSON

Above left to right: “Feather Signal” - Woodcut with India ink washes - 24” x 24”; “Delta Oracle” - Woodcut with India ink washes - 32” x 24”

lligators walked among us. That’s what the sign said anyway. We walked down the Bona Dea trail, a paved path that ran alongside a marshy area kept saturated by Lake Dardanelle on the edge of Russellville. Mist hung low in the air, the remnants of the Sunday afternoon storm that dissipated less than an hour before. Neal K. Harrington - artist, professor, father - leads the way, one curve after another as we looked for a bridge to take some pictures. He’s clad in a Trilby hat and an unbuttoned plaid shirt revealing a screen-printed image that he had designed for a poster contest. Its a bit of a self-portrait with the dominant feature being a caricature of his lush facial hair that falls somewhere between Dusty Hill and Frank Beard on the ZZ Top Scale of Man Plumage. It’s a stylish look for the moment, but one that Neal has rocked for a while. As we trudge on, searching for the perfect locale for a photo shoot before the sunlight moves past the “magic hour.” “I used to walk out here every night with my kid,” Neal says. “He wouldn’t go to sleep until I pushed him around in the stroller.” Fatherhood is one of the topics that Neal is passionate about discussing along with music and, of course, his art. All of them intersect in ways that keep him on edge, each one demanding his love and his time. He constantly strives to give them the attention they deserve. Children came within the last decade of his life while music and art have been a part of it since his childhood. Neal grew up in Rapid City, South Dakota, in the shadow of Mount Rushmore, only 20 minutes from the thunder of the engines in Sturgis. While he didn’t come from a family of artists, he described his mother 20

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as a “busy body,” who did cross-stitch and stained glass while working two jobs. Comic books played a major role in his development as a young artist. He was particularly drawn to the covers and drew them to teach himself, but still never learned techniques like perspective until college, something he attributes to his “hippy art teachers” lackadaisical approach to teaching the craft. “I learned it all on my own through failure,” he says. “That’s why I tell my students really drawing is about correction. Make a mark, react. Make a mark, react. Correct it, correct it. I don’t make a mark and go ‘Yeah, that’s the one.’ Look at the Old Master’s, they’re looking for the perfect line. They’re searching with their gestures. I just learned that innately.” Aside from art, Neal loved playing guitar and taught himself metal riffs by reading guitar tablature in the back of magazines. He found the blues through the white-boy licks of Brits like Cream and the Rolling Stones before working his way back to the Delta of Leadbelly, Elmore James and Howlin’ Wolf. Once he discovered the blues, he was hooked. “I like a lot of the upbeat blues, the shake your moneymaker stuff with the shuffle,” he says. “It has a catchy beat. I liked the stories. I enjoyed playing it.” After high school, he went to the University of South Dakota, which was the largest university in the state, but had no illustration program. His parents supported his artistic endeavors but wanted him to just be an artist on the side. He tried various majors like pre-law, but hated them almost as much as he hated doing graphic design, which at that time was mostly type-setting in the early ‘90s pre-Adobe-Creative-Suite era. He took a painting class with a professor who was rough around the edges to say the least. The professor would openly ridicule students paintings, but after seeing Neal’s sketchbook, he announced to the class that Neal was “one of the only people who could draw in class.” Neal painted, but found himself drawn to the social aspect of printmaking at the school. He also became intrigued with a young

“I don’t make a mark and go ‘Yeah, that’s the one.’ Look at the Old Master’s, they’re looking for the perfect line. They’re searching with their gestures.”

printmaking student named Tammy. A few years later, he married her. That was 18 years ago. Now they have two children together. After graduation, Wichita State University accepted Tammy into their MFA program. Neal traveled with her to tour the school and met with the painting professors, who recruited him into their painting program. After a year, he realized that painting wasn’t for him and decided to transfer to the printmaking program, but there was a catch. He had to continue his T.A. duties in painting and his wife would have to teach him printmaking. “When we first met, Neal told me that he didn’t consider himself an artist,” Tammy says. “In undergrad school, he was a graphic design major and probably felt like he was just floating along, drifting without any passion for this type of art making. He eventually switched to painting and a spark emerged in him. He devoted many hours to his artwork. In graduate school, Neal switched from painting to printmaking. He was pretty nervous about this but hopeful for a smooth transition. “Even though he had to re-learn much about printmaking techniques, Neal was not afraid to push the boundaries especially when it came to size.

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In the same year that he was reintroduced to carving relief linoleum blocks (9” x 12” size), he wanted me to order the largest pre-cut linoleum size possible. I ordered a few 36” x 36” linoleum blocks and Neal, to his credit, carved on those blocks with success. He is bold in his experimentation and in pushing scale in his work. I have never worked a 36”x36” relief and it boggles my mind to even attempt that. Neal is an artist now.” His learning curve was steep and he soon found himself teaching a class while in graduate school, often teaching techniques he had only recently learned. For his thesis, he decided to merge his love of Greek myths and music. “I felt a kinship with those stories and I swear this was before ‘O, Brother Where Art Thou’ came out,” he says. “I started doing prints that told the story of early blues, but I caught a lot of sh-t from the painters [in school] about that because I’m white and they didn’t think I should focus on African-Americans. I said I’m doing what I know and I’m trying to visually express this music because that’s what I listen to. Why should I draw a white guy playing that?” After grad school, he began branching out beyond the blues and got into bluegrass heavily which led him into a regionalist style he describes as “R. Crumb meets Thomas Hart Benton.” He also found inspiration in Lynd Ward’s “wordless novels” such as “God’s Man,” which told the story of an artist who moves to the big city, signs a deal with a stranger, whom he later finds out is the Devil, in only 139 wooden panels. He has created several art series such as “American Goddesses,” “The Bootlegger’s Ballad” and the “Hard Travelin’ Man.” Some of the inspiration came from the Steinbeck-esque tales his grandfather told him about the Great Depression and their nomadic lifestyle of constantly searching for work. “It’s these self-reliant backwoodsy dudes and what went on at that time--could be a distant time ago or current and they’re just poor,” he says. “I just think about him and that time period and the crazy sh-t that went on. Ghost stories and booze and violence. I just kinda let my imagination wander and think about that self-reliant culture and what they went through.” While developing his works, which he calls “visual ballads,” Neal starts with a premise - sometimes it’s as simple as an object like a birdcage or an ax - and tries not to overthink things. “The story comes from the view/listener,” he says. “I set up situations/events that have

Harrington look now.” In 2013, Neal also created the storyboards for the Miller Brothers highly-anticipated debut feature film “All the Birds Have Flown South.” One of the highlights of Neal’s career is winning the Delta Award at the Arkansas Arts Center’s prestigious Delta Exhibition 2013. He will also be showing his work at this year’s show. Currently, the Cantrell Gallery in Little Rock represents Neal. He first came to their attention after having his work showcased in the Delta exhibit. “Neal Harrington’s art is special because it tells a story,” said Cindy Scott-Huisman, co-owner of Cantrell Gallery. “There is clearly some kind of storyline that would go with any piece I’ve ever seen of his. It draws you in, to look at the details because you want to know more about what’s going on in the piece and once you start looking at a piece more carefully and you stop and think about what all went into the making of the piece, you fall in love.” These days one of Neal’s biggest challenges is balancing his work life of teaching at Arkansas Tech University and running their student gallery with being an artist and a father. “After teaching all day, maybe running the kids to ballet or baseball, then I’ve got to come home and do art,” he says. “Let’s say I get in an art show, which is great. You’ve got to get it in 2 weeks. Now I come home and I’ve got to build the box to ship it in and now I’ve burned 3 hours I could have been drawing or playing guitar. So I’d love an assistant to build my boxes or something, but I also want it done right.” Whether it’s a late night stroll around an alligator marsh or sweeping the floors of the Norman Hall Art Gallery or chiseling away on a giant wooden slab in his basement studio, Neal gets the job done. It’s the sort of work ethic that would have put a smile on the weathered face of those working-class men in his work. And while he could have done graphic design or stuck with painting, he doesn’t regret his chosen medium of printmaking. “They sell paintings that elephants make,” he says. “Elephants don’t make prints.” VISIT: NEALKHARRINGTON.COM

Opposite counter clockwise: “Pandora” - Woodcut, 42” x 48”; “Snake Shaker Shack” - Woodcut with India ink washes - 24” x 24”; “Hard Travelin’ Man No. 2” - Linoleum cut - 17” x 14” Above: “Atlas Brown II” - Plain linoleum - 24” x 15”

elements of a story but the viewer will bring their own baggage to the work.” Though his newer works don’t always include musical instruments or equipment, he still employs musical elements such as rhythm, repetition, and textures. Over the last few years, he has collaborated with his former student, singer/songwriter Adam Faucett. “I knew him before the beard,” Neal quipped. While in class, Neal encouraged Adam to pursue his music and promised him that if he ever made an album, Neal would do the artwork. Adam brought him rough sketches for the covers of his albums “The Great Basking Shark” and “Blind Water Finds Blind Water” and they developed it further with Neal’s hand creating the finished product. Adam describes Neal’s work as “legitimate, important, neo-folk art.” “He does beautiful work,” Adam says. “It’s deeply American. The subject matter is so relatable in a fantastic, Americana kinda of vein. The amount of detail and obvious man hours that goes into the large wood cuts he does is just daunting. There’s so much going on beyond the subject matter of the picture. You can see the inner-workings of the artist himself. They’re so busy you can see the process in a weird way. It’s automatically recognizable and even though it looks so classic, it has this earthiness to it. It’s gritty. Often the busyness of the line work in it seems almost frantic, unnerving. No one is doing what he’s doing, definitely not on that talent level.” Adam says he wants to work with Neal for more album covers in the future. “I’ve sorta branded my stuff off of it,” he adds. “I’ve got that Neal The Idle Class Magazine

LIVING LEGEND For decades the White Water Tavern has been a frequent haunt for musicians, vagabonds, artists and even politicians. Here’s the story behind it all from the mouths of Larry “Goose” Garrison & Matt White. Introduction / Kevin KErby Interview / Gabe Gentry Photos / Joshua Asante There were four of them: Nick Coffin, M.C. Ferguson, Sean Hughes and Matt White. They seemed young. I mean really young. Impossibly young. att was the only one on my radar as he was the one with the hair. A sidesweeping modified pompadour. I started seeing him at shows. My friend Mary Chamberlin informed me that he was a good guy and that he was from Conway. I started referring to him as Mr. Conway. At first I thought he was a fan of my music. I quickly realized he was a bigger fan of Ben Nichols, and would only show up when I played with him. No matter I was still intrigued. I think our first conversation was about Bruce Springsteen. I was concerned that my son, then about three, was too obsessed with Mr. New Jersey, as I was not a huge fan. White assured me that I was not giving The Boss enough credit. Turns out he was correct. Our second conversation was about the White Water Tavern. He explained that he and his three friends wanted to take the reigns from Goose (I suppose Goose was looking to take a backseat, and let someone else drive for a while). I was filled with indignant shock. How could Goose turn the beloved Tavern over to this group of KIDS? I was convinced Goose was making a mistake. But just like with The Boss, I turned out to be wrong. I ran into Matt and his buddy Seth Baldy at Pizza D one night. This was back when I was drinking, so I decided it would be a good idea to give the Conway kids a little “good natured” ribbing. But, for some reason I saw Matt for whom he really was and is: a smart, sweet, honest and educated young man. Someone who is loyal to a fault to his friends and 24

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overly passionate about art, music and other things that don’t matter much to the general public. And, most surprising of all, Baldy hugged me as I left. Without being too dramatic, I would say it ranks right up there with the five most sincere hugs I’ve ever been involved with. A few days later I ran into Goose at the White Water. The man who let me play at his bar more than I should have. The man who had given me more money than he should have. The man who had given me more good advice in fewer words about music and work than anyone else I had ever met. You know, Goose. He asked what I thought about the Conway kids and if he should give them a chance. Before I even knew it, I was giving the kids my stamp of approval. I’m not egotistical enough to think that I’m the one who made the difference in his decision, but I am egotistical to think that I did make some difference. As soon as the new crew took over, you could tell it was a good fit. Oh sure, there were a few growing pains. The decision was made to get rid of the Golden Tee machine, which sent shock waves through the regular happy hour crowd. Then, the bar went non-smoking(!). It wasn’t long (in the grand scheme of things) before Coffin and Ferguson decided the bar owner life just wasn’t for them, leaving White and Hughes to oversee things. The learning curve was steep, but they adjusted well. It’s amazing to watch on any given night the way that Hughes keeps would-be trouble-making patrons calm by keeping an open line of communication and not taking things too seriously. He is the Buddha in the middle of the tornado. And White? Well, like his mentor and friend, Goose, he rides the line

FEATURE Matt White at White Water Tavern.

between respecting the talent of the musicians who keep coming back to the Tavern, and not letting their heads get too big that they can’t fit out the door. There truly is hard work, and plenty of it, and the current regime isn’t afraid of it. [EDITOR’S NOTE: The following conversation was recorded between Matt White and Larry “Goose” Garrison by Gabe Gentry in late 2009. It has been edited for space and clarity.] Matt: Goose, what’s your earliest memory of stepping foot in this building? And what was it like? Goose: I was 18 at the time, I was underage of course. And there was a potbelly stove right over here, and it had a pool table right around where we’re sitting right now. A guy named Hamby owned it, but he’s dead now. It was just a little ‘hole in the wall.’ It was not near as big as it is now. It was a pretty trashy place, but you know it’s not trashy now, it was really bad then. I got in here at 18 and thought I was getting over on somebody, you know. M: I can relate, I can relate. The first time I ever saw the White Water I was definitely 19. There was a girl that I liked a lot from Conway and she brought me down here. It was wintertime, and we sat in the parking lot on a random night. And I remember her coming in to survey the situation, to try and see if she could get me in. I think it was really slow, and I wasn’t able to get in. However, I got very hip to the fact. Very soon after, I brought a guitar case with no guitar, and just kind of pretended that I was playing that 26

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night. Every Tuesday night, I would just bring a guitar case, walk right past the door guy, throw the guitar case under the stage and that was it. I’m pretty proud of it. G: I used to work for Mopec railroad, and we’d come across these very tracks right here, and I would see people going in and leaving, and they were all having a good time. I was like, I need to go in there again ‘cause after the couple of times at 18….. M: What is it like to run a bar for 30 years? You’ve had to see a lot of people that you care about pass away? G: Oh yeah, god there’s been a lot of them. Oh man I have no idea. I never thought that I’d be right here right now. Especially with my style of living. Its just unbelievable. M: How important is it for you to see this place live on? I mean it seems like places like this are disappearing in America like every day, places like the White Water. They’re disappearing… and you’ve managed to keep it together for over 30 years… G: I think it’s in good hands now. You know, that’s up to you. Really. You know how it is now, you know you’ve been here for three years, you know it’s not that easy. You used to come down here and see me running around like a chicken with its head cut off. But I would be working. It’s not all fun and games, but damn I’ve had some good times down here. M: Some of the best times you’ve had? G: Oh yeah. I wouldn’t have had it any other

way. There’s just no way to describe it. Sex, drugs, rock and roll. The best punch I’ve ever seen thrown was from a guy who was named Red. He’s no longer alive anymore, it’s a shame. There was this a--hole in this one band on Tuesday nights. They wouldn’t quit playing and they played longer than they were supposed to. The drummer was a real a--hole and he slapped Victor. Yeah Victor, good guy. He slapped Victor and Red just got up and kind of like oh its okay, y’all get your stuff off of the stage. It was about here at this table ----M: Aside from the free beer, what do you think, what is it about this place that makes musicians love to play here so much? Because if you ask around town it seems consistently for here to be a favorite spot to play. G: For one thing, we give people their first chance. The other places in town will not hire these local bands unless they’ve got a CD out or they’ve got something going. They’ve got to play their first gig someplace, that’s the way I looked at it. You know, you’ve got to give them a chance. They appreciate that, they come back and they play again even if they do get off the ground. M: Speaking of bands getting their first chance, it seems like Tuesday nights here became kind of like the jumping board for bands playing here for the first time. At what point did Tuesday nights become popular and how did that happen? G: That was TJ Deeter. He came in here and asked, what is your worst night? I said, well, Tuesday nights. So he said I should start

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booking bands on Tuesday nights, I said have at it! Good luck! I said, you can do the Tuesday nights and I’ll tell you what I’ll do, I’ll give $3.50 pitchers of PBR beer. So we started doing the $3.50 pitchers of beer and it just took off. After about 30 days, you couldn’t get in here on Tuesday nights. It was so packed. And you know, Tuesday night in a bar, there’s no party to go out, it’s the worst night in the world.

M: I’ve always been really touched by how much this places means to a lot of people. It’s not uncommon at all to see an older person walk in here and look around and say, “I haven’t been here in 20 years.” But there are a few things that they always remark about, that I’m curious as to what your general thoughts are about it. People always say, “I remember when that bar was a goddamn shuffle table!” So the very bar that’s here right now –

where the bathrooms are. At first, the kitchen was back there with black and white tile. There were booths up against where the bar is now, I mean its been changed around three different times from three different fires.

M: One time you told me that, you literally said, “This place is a magnet for motherf--kers, for lunatics.” And I’m curious, how [did] being surrounded by a lot of crazy people for 30 years shaped you?

G: Yeah, it was a shuffleboard table right up against the wall. We had one of our famous fires and it warped the shuffleboard table so we used it as the bar.

M: The same person who burnt the place originally burnt the place a second time? Is he in prison? What happened?

G: I’m not sure if it was this place or me that attracted those lunatics. I attract fruitcakes, too. And I guess since it’s in a bar down here hidden, they think they can get away with anything. I guess that draws the nuts, I don’t know.

M: People always ask about – G: But they come in here and they say, you know this son of a bitch hasn’t changed, but I mean we’ve got upstairs and the big seats. The bars turned around, the bar used to be here

M: What happened with the second fire? What’s the story there? G: The same deal, same guy.

G: He went to the pen and he got out about 10 years ago. He was a maintenance man at an apartment building in Jacksonville. And a girl complained about her A/C and he beat her to death with a hammer. He rolled her up in the carpet and threw her over the I-40 Bridge. Of

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course, it took them about five days to figure out it was Ronny.

to go around and say hi to every swinging d--k, it’s just part of it.

M: This is a person that you knew, the person that burned your bar down?

Gabe: Any bands that broke up at the White Water?

G: Yeah and he and I were kind of friends. I guess we were friends because he could have burnt me down. He burned Bennigan’s down twice. He came and put a flare in my wall and like 12 minutes later he would go to Bennigan’s, pour gasoline all over them and burn them.

M: I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a band breakup while here. In fact, I’ve seen a lot of bands that were literally on the cusp of breaking up, some touring bands, that had been off for weeks on some sh-tty tour, who were kind of losing hope. They came here, had a very intimate, great show, people appreciated them that were at the show. People that worked here even appreciated them and showed them respect, and were actually into it. I’ve literally had bands write me and say “you know what, we were in a pretty awful place and to be there, to be at that bar, that show there really revived us.”

M: How long were you closed the second time and what were you doing in the meantime? Just getting the insurance in place... G: Yeah, and insurance companies don’t get in a hurry. After a year, your customers decide to go to another place and it’s like starting over every time you have a goddamn fire. You might as well just start completely over, because everyone is used to going to another bar, you’ve got to get them coming all back into your bar which is not easy to do, but it’s not impossible, of course, because it’s been done. It’s a costly ordeal. M: I can only imagine. What about the third time? What happened there and how long were you closed? And what was the process of trying to reopen that time? G: A guy on a motorcycle ran into the side of the building and busted the gas line and the water heater. So when the hot water heater kicked on, it just flash fired about half of the upstairs. It just scorched it pretty good. I was leasing to a guy named Mike Mile for about six months and he was supposed to have insurance, but he didn’t have insurance. So I had to go back and sue the guy that had the motorcycle, which he only had 25 thousand dollars for the insurance, so I had to rebuild this damn thing with 25 thousand dollars after a 75 thousand dollar fire. M: So where were you personally? How were you feeling in late 2006 when you put the place up for lease? G: I was burned completely out. I didn’t have any managers, I was just running the place myself and it finally got me down. One kidney, high blood pressure, diabetes, you know it kind of gets to you after awhile. Doing everything yourself, it’s just hard. M: So you said screw it, I’m just gonna put this up for lease and see what happens? G: Mmhmm. But, I mean in the past, I have not had that much luck with it you know. You guys got lucky, I pulled down the sign and I said to hell with it, I’m not going to lease it out. But then TJ called me and said if you’ll just talk to these four guys, I’ve got your people. And I said, you know, TJ, I really don’t want to but I will. So I talked to y’all and I liked y’all. M: I remember that specifically when we called you, I was extremely nervous. It was pouring down rain, we had been in two nights before, and three of the four of us had all worked together in a restaurant in Conway. Like I said, we would come down here every Tuesday night, we were here, saw a for lease sign in the window, and said hey, let’s take over the White Water! Totally joking at first, but then the next day when we woke up it was like call Goose and see what the story is. And I remember being so nervous about calling you, and we had Nick speak to you on the phone for the first time, and I think that you were at least pleased that we didn’t call you before noon. M: So its been almost three years now that we’ve been running the place, how did that affect you? You’ve been out of it for three years; do you think it has made you a little more sane or a little more healthy? G: Oh yes, exactly. I was so burnt out at that point; you know I was ready to kill somebody, someone, or two or three people. But that was basically people that worked for me, several of them I could have killed. But I mean I was just mentally not into it. And you have to be; you have to have the right attitude. You come in here and walk through the door frowning, and then everyone’s like f--k him. If you’re not happy and you don’t say hi to every swinging d--k and female in here, they take it seriously. You have 28

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G: Yes, there’s been a lot of them come through that didn’t have a time and wasn’t going to get home. Last place they played charged them for their food or something like that, and they barely got here. They didn’t have any more money but I would always feed them and give them gas money you know. They would be on the verge of like, you know, quitting and I think some of them when they got home they said f--k this road sh-t. Cause it’s hard on the road. I hear stories about them getting stiffed all the time. I’m like, what did you do about that? Because I would want to do something myself, I wouldn’t just sit back and let somebody stiff me. But they’re on the road, they can’t call their lawyer or whatever, and they don’t have anything in writing. So there’s nothing they can do. M: I think that goes back to one of the aspects of what’s special about the White Water, and going back to as time moves on, the sh-ttier people get to each other it seems and why a place like this is disappearing. And what makes this place so special is that if you are on the road and you do manage to get a show here, you’re going to be respected and you’re going to be appreciated, and we’re not going to be sorry motherf--kers to you like a lot of places are. G: Yeah, I don’t know how many bands have come and told just horror stories about how they got stiffed, how they got charged for their free drinks and free food. And they would end up with nothing after they subtracted their food and drinks off of their tab. They would just end up with nothing, they would only have gas money to get here and that’s as far as they could get. M: It’s been an honor. It seems like it’s been happening a lot more often to hear some prenominal musicians from all around the country, get on the microphone and say, “this is our favorite bar to play in the country.” Bands from all over are more often saying that this is their favorite place to play and it’s something about the building, something about being treated with respect and the location that makes it very special. G: You’re young so they can connect with you. God dammit, I’m almost 60 years old. They look at me and say, “Look at that old motherf--ker. He don’t understand.” They don’t know I’ve been here for 35 years. But you, they see you’re a young guy and you pretty much know what the hell’s going on. Me, I’m an old bastard. The good thing about the White Water is that you get a band in here, and you get that certain feeling that the band is into it, the crowd is into it, and they put on the best performance. It doesn’t matter if you’re packed or if there’s only 10 people in here, the band is into and the crowd is into it and they put on the best performance that they have ever done. I don’t know what it is, it’s not magic, there’s just a calmer feeling, I don’t know what it isM: There are a lot of ghosts in here, and there’s a lot that sounds corny, but a lot has been soaked into these walls, there’s something special about the room. Hands down, the reason that, for you to take a chance on us to give us this opportunity… Gabe: What makes a show here special? G: What’s great about the music here, is when a band comes in and the crowd is into the music and the band is into it, it doesn’t matter if it is 10 people or 200 people, there’s a certain vibe in the air and the band puts on a great show, their best show. And the crowd enjoys that so much. It’s like magic.

M: And it’s moments like that are what make, that’s what all of the hard work is for me, personally. G: Yeah, I’ve seen some of the best shows down here when we had 10 people. It didn’t matter to the band. M: Absolutely. And that moment is what the goal is, for me anyways. The reason that you gave me the opportunity to come in here and run this place, the reason that is the most profound thing that has ever happened to me in my life, for those moments, to bring in the kind of music that we believe in to people in our town. So, a moment when everything connects, when everyone realizes this is something really, really special happening here, that moment, that’s the goal. That’s the goal of the White Water. And there’s something very intimate and personal about this place to the performer and the audience that is very rare. G: Oh yeah. But it is great to come down the stairs with the band just starting off, and you see a packed house and everyone – it’s just such a good feeling. You know you’re going to have a good night, you know the crowd’s going to have a good night, you know the band’s going to have a good time. (Continued on page 46)

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inspired We asked 5 musicians what artists inspired them. Here’s what they had to say. ILLUSTRATIONS / SALLY NIXON

David Slade American Princes Little Rock, AR

Bonnie Montgomery Singer/Songwriter Searcy, AR

Growing up in a dry, conservative county in central Arkansas, I wasn’t afforded the cultural luxuries that a lot of young people enjoy. But my friends and I didn’t know any different and we created our own world of inside jokes and exciting weekend activities that kept us quite entertained. We didn’t realize that we were using a tremendous amount of creative energy just to find something to do on a Friday night. For example, make-shift costumed wrestling leagues or suspenseful homemade movie plots were commonplace. So, when an actual band came along--a live band that had great energy, truly good talent and amazing stage presence--we were beside ourselves. The Screaming Mimes, my friends. They may as well have been the Beatles and instead of 1964, it was 1994 and they were changing lives. We looked forward to their shows for weeks--planned our outfits, afterparties and carpools accordingly--and we got our minds blown each and every time they played, whether it was in a forgotten auditorium at Harding University, a Searcy High School homecoming event, Berryhill Park, or any other venue. They turned commonplace buildings like the Legion Hut into legendary concert halls. They were a white boy funk band. Yes, it’s true. With a full horn section and lots of wa-wa pedal. They had beautiful posters that hung around the halls of the schools and on the court square. They had costumed shows, t-shirts for sale, album art, original songs and museful sayings in between songs, like “Check It, Bleed!” Each band member had his own Beatles-esque persona -- Rob Bell being the lively, Pentecostal-style keyboardist and singer; Isaac Alexander, the Paul McCartney of White

County and main frontman/songwriter/guitar player; David Shedd, the quiet, mysterious and shy bass player; and Aaron Brister, the street-smart, energetic, perfectly in-the-pocket drummer. All this fan-fare, plus our difference in age (I was about 4 years younger than all the band members) made them larger than life, a cultural force, an inspiration during very formative years and a glimmer of hope for our future lives outside our small town. Despite all these perfectly played elements (timing, placement, relevance to their audience, etc), the fact of the matter is that The Screaming Mimes were a great band. They were and are truly great musicians. The songs are air-tight, singable, full of melodic hooks and universal themes. I departed from White County and lived all over the world making and studying music for myself. Years after those youthful fan-crazed days, I went on to form a band all on my own. I knew The Screaming Mimes towered in my memory as musical geniuses. But after going on to become a band leader myself and hearing scores of other bands outside White County in all kinds of lively scenes, I came back to Searcy one night and crashed a high school reunion just to see them again. That contagious, wild excitement flooded me all over again. It was a tremendous show, not because of nostalgia, but because I realized something phenomenal-the Screaming Mimes were really good. Which meant, even as teenagers, we all had good tastes and knew good music. The bottom line is the same here as it is for any musical legend, whether it’s Beethoven or the Beatles: the music was good. And so it has endured and always will. Even in a dry county.

I moved here in the summer of 1993, and the first group of friends I made were all frantic about a compilation put out by a local punk label, File 13. I remember one girl breaking down the best songs on the record, “Towncraft,” and giving me background on each of the bands. “The very best one,” she said reverentially, “is Chino Horde.” This was the band of Burt Taggart, one of the label’s principals. In the probably-morecinematic-than-it-really-was memory that I’ve constructed for that moment, she then touched the record player’s needle down and I heard Burt’s music for the first time. From that point, on, he became a mythical figure in my mind. A kid – but a kid older and far more sophisticated than I was – who made the kind of music that I had always wanted to make, and who pressed his own records. The whole thing seemed effortlessly talented, effortlessly cool. In high school, my friends and I took to calling him “The Burt Taggart,” as though Burt were his middle name (which it is, technically, but you get my drift). I didn’t actually talk to Burt until a decade later. It was 2003 and my band was trying to figure out how we were going to make records and go on tour. We were drinking at Pizza D’s, as was Burt, several tables over. John Beachboard (our bassist), brusquely told me, “Go over there and get us signed to Max Recordings.” I don’t remember why or how, but that’s what I did. That’s the first conversation I had with the guy. From that point on, the effect of his support for my band cannot be overstated. I suspect any band that’s been on Max would say the same. There are a lot of existential threats for an aging rocker. Life makes an inevitable pivot towards families with young children, as well as decidedly non-rock-n-roll careers. But here, again, I catch myself following a path that Burt’s forged; a family man to the nth degree, he still remains dedicated to Max and, more importantly, manages to put out consistently brilliant records of his own. Every now and then, the Big Cats will come on KABF during my evening commute, and the music still feels as meaningful and wise as it did when I was fourteen, leaning over a friend’s parents’ turntable waiting for the needle to drop.

Allison Williams Musician & proprietress of May Bell Music Fayetteville, AR Mandy McBryde Singer/Songwriter Little Rock, AR

I've got this old recording of a radio interview my mom did in 1979. She was 27 and the recent winner of a statewide talent competition held in Hot Springs, Arkansas. In the interview a young Bob Robbins inquires about her dreams, her musical influences, and her plans for the future to which she responds, "Well gosh, in about five months I will be havin' a baby!" Shortly after that interview she shared the stage with country music greats Marty Robbins and Eddie Rabbit, center stage and draped in a polyester maternity top. Most of us grow up thinking our parents are some kind of superheroes. But my mother had this way of bringing people to life with an effortlessly majestic vibrato. I spent my childhood watching her perform on stages, around campfires, in backyards and living rooms. The "venues" varied, but they did so with a quite certain and steadfast response. It was the look of awe on the faces of those who listened to her sing. She was made of magic, and I wasn't the only one who knew it. In 35 years I've yet to listen to that recording with a dry eye. It's a story of the woman who is everything I wish to be. And it's slowly dawning on me now that I was there in that moment; unborn and growing under the influence of the greatest inspiration I would ever know.

Michelle Hedegard Guitarist and Vocalist for The Paper Hearts Fayetteville, AR

It's been so long, but I can specifically remember being very moved by this acoustic band with three singers from Little Rock called Rainy Day Regatta and their song "California" off their "Living as We Do in the Midst of So Much Ordered Light and Noise" EP. Standing in Clunk Music Hall next to Bev Weidner, that song coming from the stage and she and I looking at each other with that look like, "yes my heart is gushing with love and sadness about this song." The layering grows and becomes huge and the voices are just perfect. It's raw, but it's perfection.

#TCISMETAL TC Edwards was the legendary front man of the Little Rock heavy metal groups TC & The Eddies, TC & The Ponies and The Piranhas. Ever since TC saw DIO on the cover of a Hit Parader magazine that was a gift from his fifth grade teacher, he became obsessed with ‘80s hard rock and becoming a metal singer. After high school his musician friends helped make these dreams come true by forming bands with TC as their transcendent front man. TC had a passion for metal clothing, and from age 13 until age 43, he dressed the part every day, and lived the life every night. Although autism made it difficult to communicate, with help from his friend Freddie, his band mates, and their music, he overcame that obstacle and shared his fierce metal voice. TC

MEMORIES OF TC EDWARDS’ MUSIC

WORDS / MIKE POE Photo / cATHERINE JOHNSON

had a scream that could shatter a high-rise, and heart that could outshine the sunrise. While he was a loud metal beast on the stage, he was more of a quiet kitten in the crowd. Whenever speaking was difficult, TC could turn the subject to music, since it was something he could always relate with others about, and have knowledgeable and passionate conversations. TC was a metal music encyclopedia, and he could list the names of all the members of the most obscure bands and every release date. Though he is now gone, TC will be eternally remembered to me as heavy metal music’s biggest fan, this music community’s biggest love, and the biggest big brother this little brother ever had.

At every major old-time musicians’ convention - Clifftop, Mt. Airy, Galax – there’s a big tent in the vendors’ section packed with CDs. Mostly from County Records, Smithsonian Folkways, or Rounder, it’s the place new fans of what Harry Smith called “old weird America” flock to. That’s where I first found, on a compilation of Ozark bands, Pope’s Arkansas Mountaineers. Any description of Pope’s Arkansas Mountaineers is bound to fall short of the mark – the band must be heard to understand their powerful charm. It’s a blend of feral intensity, innocent pomp, and ease with the music. Formed as promotion for Pope’s music store in Searcy, the band had only one recording session, in Memphis, 1928, for RCA Victor. They’d played together about a week: John Sparrow on guitar, John Chisolm on fiddle, his son Wallace Chisolm on fiddle and guitar, and brothers “Tip” McKinney and Joe, on guitar & mandolin. They broke up not long after. Warbling three-part harmonies, led by Tip’s booming baritone, mirrored the crosstuned fiddle, banjo, and guitars, melodies rising and falling against guitar chords that upended everything I thought I knew about old-time music. I soon packed up my banjo, quit the rainy Northwest, and headed home to the Arkansas Ozarks.

This woman invented Rock ‘N’ Roll. You’re welcome.

Sister Rosetta Tharpe’s edgy take on gospel music took the genre into uncharted territory influencing rock & country legends like Elvis, Johnny Cash, Little Richard & many more. WORDS / STEPHEN KOCH ILLUSTRATION / CHRYSTAL SEAWOOD

rkansawyer Rosetta Tharpe was born on March 20, 1915, in Cotton Plant in Woodruff County. Her amazing guitar skills and singing voice first gained attention in the Pentecostal Christian Church Of God In Christ (C.O.G.I.C.) church in which she was raised. She signed to Decca Records in 1938, and began to appeal to wider, more secular audiences – and she even recorded secular music, much to the chagrin of the church. Among her secular pursuits, Tharpe performed and recorded with Cab Calloway, Duke Ellington, and Decca labelmates Louis Jordan of Brinkley and Lucky Millinder and His Orchestra. With Millinder, Tharpe recorded the decidedly non-gospel songs “I Want A Tall Skinny Papa” and “Shout, Sister, Shout,” and even appeared in videos for them. “She was a remarkable woman for daring to make her music in the way 32

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that she wanted to make it,” Tharpe’s biographer Gayle Wald says. Wald’s “Shout Sister Shout: The Untold Story of Rock ‘n’ Roll Trailblazer Sister Rosetta Tharpe,” was published in 2007. “She dared to defy the conventions of the community that nourished her musical talent.” As a woman playing raucous electric gospel guitar for visual as well as aural impact, Wald says Tharpe was unparalleled. “[She] was an unclassifiable figure. Where are the female guitarists that have carried on her legacy? … I don’t know that the legacy exists,” she said. “She may be just a one-of-a-kind performer.” Tharpe died October 9, 1973, at age 58 of complications from diabetes and is buried in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Along the way, she influenced such performers as Isaac Hayes, Elvis Presley, Etta James, Jerry Lee Lewis, Bob Dylan, Odetta and fellow Arkansawyers Johnny Cash and Sleepy LaBeef, while her blazing guitar and flamboyant moves

are echoed by the likes of Jimmy Page and Pete Townsend. She was featured on a U.S. postage stamp in 1998. So why isn’t she in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? Well, she didn’t even receive a proper headstone until 2009. But events in Arkansas to commemorate her centenary this year include a May 8 tribute concert at the Old State House Museum in Little Rock and a radio musical called “Can’t Sit Down,” airing on “Arkansongs” affiliates this summer. But it’s not enough. Sign the petition to induct Rosetta Tharpe into the Rock Hall here: http://petitions.moveon. org/sign/put-sister-rosetta-tharpe. Arkansawyer Stephen Koch is a musician, award-winning reporter and editor, and author of Louis Jordan: Son of Arkansas, Father of R&B. Koch’s weekly “Arkansongs” program is syndicated on National Public Radio affiliates across the state.

RUBBING SHOULDERS WITH LEGENDS Joe Lee went from the Mississippi mud to launching Jonesboro’s first record label. WORDS / HAROLD OTT

met Joe Lee in 2006 while researching 1960s Arkansas garage bands. I found a listing in the White Pages and coldcalled him. We spoke briefly about the label and set up a filmed interview. I made the trek to Jonesboro and entered his music room, home to hundreds of records and tapes from the studio that he had kept for decades. He told me about growing up in Inverness, Mississippi, on his father’s farm, where he made friends with the worker’s kids. They played a makeshift onewire instrument called a diddley-bow, attached to the side of a shack, along with piano and guitar. One of the kids was Calvin “Fuzz” Jones, who became a prominent blues musician playing with Muddy Waters. Lee and Jones reconnected in their last years. Music became an indelible part of Lee’s life on the farm. He took up the saxophone in school and delved into jazz. He moved to Memphis and met Slim Wallace who offered Lee a gig at Fernwood Records, home to Bill Black and Scotty Moore of Elvis’ band from the Sun Records days. They produced the hit song “Tragedy” by Thomas Wayne and Lee met Jerry Wexler, head of Atlantic Records, and introduced him to his friend Bob Tucker’s group, the Tarantulas, who later released “Black Widow” on Atlantic Records. Lee wanted to start a record label and found funding in Jonesboro. Alley Records began in 1962 with the release of Bobby Lee Tram-

mell’s “Arkansas Twist.” Lee didn’t have proper equipment yet, but Trammell, a wild rockabilly performer recently back from California, was insistent, so he used a cheap “Voice of Music” recorder and put Trammell inside a loaded coat rack in lieu of a vocal booth. The result became a jukebox hit that put Lee and Alley on the map. Over the coming years, he produced dozens of records for Alley and many one-off labels. The Bill Black Combo formed in 1959 as an instrumental rock group and had a string of top 20 hits in the early ‘60s. In the mid-‘60s, Black became terminally ill with a brain tumor and passed the reigns to Bob Tucker, who led the group as the opening act for the first US tour of the Beatles. Shortly afterward, there were several lineup changes adding Lee with Kenny and Don Trigg, self taught brothers from nearby Harrisburg who played in the Sabers. The radio station WBAM in Montgomery, Alabama, sponsored a series of shows in the 1960s called the Big Bam, featuring an ensemble of the top chart acts at Garrett Coliseum. At one of the shows in the mid-’60s, the place was packed with over 10,000 people and the Bill Black Combo opened for Billy Joe Royal, who had a huge hit with “Down in the Boondocks.” The venue had folding chairs on the floor and starting with the first song, many picked up the chairs and moved close to the stage, blocking the aisles and creating a wall of people. Before they finished the first song, the crowd was rushing the stage, nearly causing a riot. The band had never seen a reaction like this to their group, but went right

into the second song as rehearsed. Then the fire sirens went off and security shut down the performance. The fire marshal came to the edge of the tall stage and motioned to Kenny Trigg, who was told to get the crowd under control before it went completely out of hand. Trigg went to the main microphone and in his thick southern drawl at a thundering volume said, “Lookie here, y’all move those chairs back where they was.” The crowd started laughing, convinced he was a comedian, and it completely broke the tension and settled the crowd, who actually moved the chairs back as requested and they went on with the show. Throughout his career, Lee released his songs, starting at Fernwood, Alley, and beyond as the Joe Lee Combo, which once included members of the Dixie Flyers, Atlantic’s studio band, who backed up major artists like Aretha Franklin. In his final years, I regularly visited him to hang out and listen to his stories like the ones above, usually while sipping on Henry McKenna bourbon. I bought a reel-to-reel player, which Lee taught me how use to repair the tapes. Every time I went back I found something new. Lee passed in 2013. He was one-of-a-kind and is missed by all who knew him.

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Breaking Barriers The Alphonso Trent Orchestra became one of the highest paid jazz ensembles and then they faded away. WORDS / SUSAN PORTER

ur state’s musical legacy is rich – folk, rock, pop, country, blues and gospel – but jazz, not so much. Throw out the name Alphonso Trent or the Alphonso Trent Orchestra and there’s a pause. Most folks have never heard of Arkansas’ Alphonso Trent, but he was cutting edge. In the 1920s and 1930s, Trent broke racial barriers. He had the first black orchestra that did radio broadcasts in the Southwest. Trent was one of the first to bring a standup bass and a vocalist to a jazz ensemble. They were the house band at the Adolphus Hotel in Dallas for almost two years, played for the inauguration of Texas’ first female governor Miriam Ferguson and were one of the highest paid orchestras in the early days of jazz. Trent was known for operating a co-op band. Musicians were allowed to weigh-in on arrangements and had a say on major decisions. All members received the same pay. Late in his career, Trent attracted the young Charlie Christian who played with his small combos in 1934 and 1937. “Alphonso Trent represents this deep well of jazz,” said Robert Ginsburg of the North Arkansas Jazz Society. “He was a fascinating character. You’re talking about a guy who was right there at the very beginning of this music.” Although history has overlooked Trent and his bandmates, a group of scholars, writers, promoters, musicians and filmmakers are on track to tell the story of the Fort Smith native in a documentary film that is scheduled to begin shooting this year. The script is adapted from a one-act play written by Henry Rinne, former Dean of the College of Arts and Humanities and Social Services at the University of Arkansas-Fort Smith. It is being produced by John McIntosh of Fort Smith’s Red Cat Productions. Both Rinne 34

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and McIntosh researched Trent’s life, but McIntosh credits Rinne with doing “95 percent of the work.” Trent was born in Fort Smith in 1902 and died there of a heart attack in 1959. His father was college educated and the family lived comfortably. The younger Trent was different than most musicians of that era, especially black musicians, because he was schooled as a pianist. Growing up, he played street corners for change and performed in a few professional bands. He was 21 when he formed his own five-piece combo. The group played their first engagement at the Basin Park Hotel in Eureka Springs during the summer of 1923. After the Eureka run, Trent left Fort Smith to attend Shorter College in Little Rock. There he joined a six-piece group called the Synco Six. He quickly rose to the top, became bandleader, recruited more musicians, and hit the road as the Alphonso Trent Orchestra. The Alphonso Tent Orchestra was known as a “territory band,” the name for regional touring groups. But over time, Trent’s hard work and sensibilities moved the band from a territory band to the national touring circuit. “All of the players were well-spoken. They wore suits. They were polite and they all read music. Their arrangements were complex,” McIntosh said. But despite their exemplary deportment, they were not allowed to stay or eat at the white hotels where they played. They stayed in homes or camped out. They traveled to gigs in their cars, often stopping along the way to play on the street for change to buy their next tank of gas. McIntosh said during that era there was a funeral home in Fort Smith that allowed traveling black musicians to stay upstairs. After the 18-month engagement at the Adol-

phus ended in 1926, the band toured Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas and Tennessee. In 1927 and 1928. They headed to the East Coast playing rooms like Roseland Ballroom in Louisville, Kentucky, the Greystone Ballroom in Cincinnati, Ohio and the Arcadia Ballroom in Buffalo, New York. In the summer of 1928, they were contracted to play the St. Paul Riverboat on the Mississippi River. When the riverboat gig ended, one of the orchestra members left the band to join Jelly Roll Morton’s band and another left to eventually play with Cab Calloway and Chick Webb. But new musicians filled their slots and the band stayed busy on the East Coast and Upper Midwest. In 1929 they played their only New York City show – a week long engagement at the Savoy Ballroom. In late 1929 and early 1930, they became the house orchestra at the Plantation Club in Cleveland. It was there that the things began to change for the popular orchestra. A suspicious fire destroyed the Plantation Club and along with it all of the orchestra’s instruments except for Snub Mosely’s slide saxophone, which he had luckily carried home the night before. Without their instruments and no money to buy new ones, the band was more or less adrift. Alphonso’s father eventually came to the rescue and bought new instruments for the band. But it was the beginning of the Depression and good-paying gigs were getting harder to find. The orchestra’s momentum and morale had been broken. In 1931, Trent and his bandmates returned to Fort Smith. They continued to work in Arkansas and surrounding states but in late 1932, a discouraged Trent left the orchestra. Violinist Anderson Lacy took the helm, but kept the Alphonso Trent Orchestra name. In less than a year the orchestra

disbanded, but before they did, they made their final recording, which consisted of the songs “Clementime” and “I’ve Found a New Baby.” The songs were recorded without Trent. One of the theories as to why Trent and his orchestra are not better known is that they recorded only six songs. In addition to the 1932 recordings, they recorded only four other sides: “Louder and Funnier,” “Gilded Kisses,” “Black and Blue Rhapsody” and “Nightmare” which were recorded with Trent in 1928 on the Gennett label. Despite the hard times, Trent could not stay away from music and entertaining. He put together some smaller combos and toured Arkansas, Texas, Oklahoma, Wyoming and the Dakotas. Many of the orchestra members joined other groups or formed their own groups such as the Jeter-Pillars Orchestra. In Rinnes’ paper on Trent, he states, “The Alphonso Trent Orchestra deserves the attention of more people than a few collectors of rare jazz recordings.” McIntosh enthusiastically agrees and has assembled a first-rate team to take the story of Alphonso Trent to the masses. Anyone interested in the film project or who has information about Trent and his orchestra can contact jmcintosh4@gmail.com.

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ONE OF THE

GREATS South Arkansas native Sleepy Labeef has rockabilly in his blood and he’s not slowing down anytime soon.

WORDS / JOE MEAZLE PHOTO / KAT WILSON

rkansas has a rich history with regards to its ties to the rockabilly movement of the 1950’s. Several names repeatedly surface when the topic is mentioned. Names like the late Billy Lee Riley and Sonny Burgess, both regarded as heavyweight pioneers of the genre. When you narrow the topic of discussion to Northwest Arkansas, undoubtedly the name Ronnie Hawkins will be the first mentioned, and with good reason. Not only was he a pioneer Rockabilly, but the band he assembled as Ronnie Hawkins and the Hawks would go on to become The Band, quite possibly being one of the most influential North American bands of the late 1960’s and 70’s. One name that may be slightly less familiar, but no less important, is that of Sleepy Labeef, who currently resides in Springdale. Several factors might explain why his name is not as quick to surface in this type of discussion. His family moved from his native Smackover, Arkansas, to Houston, Texas, by the time Sleepy was 18 years old. However, one must consider that he had been playing music all over south Arkansas for years before this move. In an interview with The Idle Class, Sleepy states, “As young as 13 I would hitchhike from Smackover to towns that had radio stations like Camden, Crossett, El Dorado, and Texarkana and play live on the air.” Thus, the argument that moving to Texas makes him less of an Arkansawyer just doesn’t hold much water. That being said, the impact that Texas had on Sleepy should not be overlooked. While there, he was a regular on local Houston radio shows. This led to him being asked to play at live venues, opening up for many of the popular touring acts of the time, including George Jones and Elvis Presley. Sleepy would eventually move to other parts of the country, including a stint in Nashville and one in Boston, before returning to Arkansas in the late ‘90s. Another of the arguments for why Sleepy’s name might not surface in this conversation is his affiliation with several questionable or even fly-by-night record labels early in his career. Sure, he recorded for Starday, Dixie, and Gulf Records, who were usually known for re-recording hits with non-original artists, but many singers got their foot in the door of the industry this way. Notables for some of the very same labels include Roger Miller and Johnny Paycheck. Sleepy would go on to record for more prominent labels such as Sun, Rounder, and the record giant, Columbia. As such, the small-time label argument doesn’t hold much water either. In the late 1970’s there was a rockabilly revival of sorts in Europe that would see many American artists traveling to play for enthusiastic European audiences. Sleepy was the perfect fit for this. Many of the early practitioners of rockabilly had been herded into either the corral of rock ’n roll (Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins, Elvis) or the corral of country music (George Jones, Conway Twitty, Johnny Cash). Sleepy’s 36

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sound never wavered much from that of the early days of Rockabilly. “Country, gospel, rock n’ roll and rockabilly seem to all run together for me,” says Sleepy. In 1977, he was asked to be a part of a European tour, but was unable to participate. “I never had a birth certificate before then,” Sleepy recalls. That made it impossible to get a passport or visa in time. By 1979, these issues had been resolved and he was able to be a part of a Grand Ol’ Opry European tour as a guest. When that tour arrived at their first airport,

Sleepy says, “I was surprised that the kids in the crowd all seemed to know me just as well as they knew Marty Robbins.” He has been playing in Europe ever since and plays almost as many shows there as he does in the US. His most recent project “Sleepy Rides Again,” a documentary and an album of the same name, has him teamed with such Nashville mainstays as Kenny Vaughn, Dave Pomroy and Gene Dunlap. They all tip their hats to Sleepy, not only for his high-energy performance and

seemingly endless repertoire, but also for his enduring contribution to American music. At just shy of eighty years of age, Sleepy does not seem to be slowing down one bit. Sleepy is a native Arkansawyer currently living in the state of his roots, and seems quite proud of that fact. Arkansas has much to be proud of in Sleepy Labeef. He should, with no doubt or hesitation, be listed among the many rockabilly greats that this state has produced. VISIT: SLEEPYLABEEF.COM

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BEFORE THE BOOTS & THE BALLADS Lucero frontman Ben Nichols reflects on his early punk rock days in the Little Rock scene.

INTERVIEW / DAVE MORRIS PHOTO / MELISSA BRAWNER

ucero frontman Ben Nichols is famous for his lovelorn songwriting and whiskey bent live performances. Both of these qualities have served him and Lucero well during their 15+ year career, taking him far from his native Little Rock and humble roots as a graduate of Little Rock Central and Hendrix College. Lucero has released seven albums in addition to numerous other releases and has toured extensively both nationally and internationally. In addition to Lucero’s remarkable success, Nichols is also an accomplished solo artist. His song “The Last Pale White in the West” was recently featured in its entirety during a very memorable montage on an episode of “The Walking Dead.” His music has also featured extensively in the films of his brother Jeff Nichols (obviously also an Arkansas native) such as “Mud,” “Take Shelter,” and “Shotgun Stories.” Prior to all of this, he played bass and sang in the pop punk band Red Forty and was a part of the Little Rock music scene during the 1990s, a time fondly remembered by many and which served as the basis for the 2007 film “Towncraft.” Even though Lucero was deep into the recording process for their upcoming new record, Ben took the time to reminisce with us about his experiences during this pivotal era of Arkansas music. In spite of living in Memphis and having great success there and nationally with Lucero, you have still maintained strong ties to Arkansas and the local music scene. Why is it important for you to stay connected to the music of Arkansas? I have to admit I wish I knew MORE about what was going on with Arkansas music nowadays, but it is getting harder and harder to keep up the older I get. Luckily, Mary (Lucero’s merchandise manager and bartender at the White Water Tavern) helps keep me in the loop a bit. But I guess I will always be connected to Arkansas and the music there because that is where I grew up and that is where I went to my first shows and that’s where I played in my first bands and that’s where I fell in love

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with music. Can you tell me a little bit about how you got started playing music and specifically about the formation of Red Forty? I was 13 or 14 when I got a bass guitar and started learning to play rock & roll songs with a few friends in the neighborhood. There was a band that was playing at high school parties and local shows called SFZ and they needed a bass player. I tried out and got the job and that was the first band I was in. Those were the first shows I ever played in public. It was terrifying. Pretty sure the very first show I ever played was with SFZ at what is now Vino’s but back then was called Mandrake’s (which is what it became after it was the infamous DMZ). We played a lot of shows with bands like Link Springs and Luwanda. We were influenced by R.E.M. and The Cure and all those ‘80s alternative bands. After SFZ I started writing my own songs and started trying to sing. It was terrible, but I was learning the ropes. I played in various bands in high school and luckily learned enough that by the time I started Red Forty in college I had at least a small clue of what I was doing. I was friends with Steve Kooms and Collin Brooks just from going to shows and seeing them play with a band called Substance. I convinced them to be in a band with me by letting them switch instruments. So Steve (who usually played guitar) played drums and Collin (who usually played drums) played guitar. It ended up working out real well. Can you give me a little bit of a comparison between what it was like being in Red Forty vs. what it’s like being in Lucero? Red Forty never toured. With Lucero that was always a goal. Red Forty was kind of a side project for Steve and Collin, but with Lucero, we were a full-on band right from the start. I learned how to write better songs during Red Forty. I found a voice, I guess. I learned a lot about setting up shows and being a lead singer and running a band. Then Lucero gave me a chance to play extremely slow and quiet songs. Singing songs that were that delicate allowed me to expand my songwriting skills. In Lucero I discovered how to write songs that weren’t limited to one genre.

What where some of your favorite Arkansas bands in your Red Forty days? Tons of bands were playing before, during, and after the Red Forty days. The local Little Rock scene was a huge influence on me. The “Towncraft” record was important. I remember them taking donations at a bunch of shows to get it pressed. I liked Hatful Day and Substance. Chino Horde was an excellent band. I still listen to that CD to this day. We played shows with The Stoney Jacksons from Hot Springs and Superstar from Memphis. Trusty was before our time but they were huge in my view. They had done it for real. There were a ton of bands: Shake Ray Turbine, Class of ‘84, Bloodless Cooties, The Big Cats, Generation of Vipers, William Martyr 17, Soophie Nun Squad... there were shows all the time. Other than people in bands, was there anyone you thought was especially important to the scene back then in a non-musical role? Stewart Isbell was always taking photos and videos. His house, along with Rice Street, was kind of a center of activity at the time. This is all pre-‘96, which is when I moved to Memphis. He ran the space at 800 State Street that put on a lot of good shows. It’s hard to think of anyone that WASN’T a musician though. EVERYONE had a band. EVERYONE was a musician. They were artists and writers and students and entrepreneurs and promoters, but they were all musicians. What are some of your favorite Arkansas venues past and present and why are they important to you? Have any of them played a specific role in your career or would you consider any of them particularly vital to the scene? The free shows at Riverfront Park downtown were the most impactful on me. The place was pretty much abandoned back then and we had the run of the place and the power was on. The fact that kids just took it over and played shows and made it their own always impressed the hell out of me. Of course I also remember Vino’s, Das Yutes A Go-Go, 800 State Street, and numerous random locations where Burt Taggart and David Burns tried to set up Longer Records. You mention Arkansas as well as places in Arkansas like the White Water Tavern in some of your songs. Can you tell us a little bit about what inspires you to do that?

Are there any other ways that being from Arkansas has influenced your career? I think I’m constantly homesick for Arkansas (even though I live right across the bridge and I come back to town all the time) and that’s why it ends up in a lot of Lucero songs. I’ve always had a huge pride in Arkansas’s musical legacy. The place boasts Louis Jordan, Jim Dickinson, Dale Hawkins, Levon Helm and Johnny Cash... yes I’m proud to be from the same place. So at this point we’ve established that you still spend a lot of time in Little Rock. How do you think the music scene in Little Rock today is different than it was in your formative years? There is still a lot going on there, obviously. The White Water Tavern has become extremely important to Arkansas music, not only for fostering local musicians but also for bringing in touring folks from out of state. I’m not exactly sure how things are different now. I’m old and out of touch. I figure there is a group of kids there somewhere making awesome music for themselves and their friends under the radar of the authorities or anyone close to my age. Do you have any especially interesting stories from the early days that you’d like to

share? I couldn’t get Red Forty booked at any of the river shows downtown so I had to book our first show myself. I had it in the back parking lot of my dad’s furniture store. Booked all the bands myself and made flyers and hung them up myself. From there on out we didn’t have any problem booking shows. Okay so I’m sure any Lucero fans reading this would kill me if I didn’t ask about this. I know you’re working on new music. What can you tell us about that? We wrap up recording the new Lucero studio album on April 24. The record should come out on ATO Records this fall. We are recording it at Ardent Studios in Memphis and working with producer Ted Hutt again. I’m playing all acoustic guitar on this record. I’ve never done that before. So we will see what kind of effect that has on the overall tone of the record. So far I am really proud of some of the new songs. We will see what folks think. But I’ve still got four songs worth of lyrics to write and that’s what I should be doing right now so I’m going to get back to it. God, I’ve got so much to do before the end of next week. VISIT: LUCEROMUSIC.COM

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THE GODFATHER Crossover chart-topper Louis B. Jordan influenced the greats & scored 50 Top Ten hits. Perhaps you’ve never heard of him. WORDS / STEPHEN KOCH

Who is Louis Jordan? “He was everything!” —James Brown

ouis Jordan was born July 8, 1908, in Brinkley, Arkansas. Jordan had incredible chart success during the 1940s, but it’s his subsequent musical and cultural footprint that makes it easy to see why so many call him the father of R&B. In an interview less than two years before his death, Louis Jordan told of his musical origins: “It was a saxophone in a store window. I could see myself in the polished brass – that started me off. I ran errands all over Brinkley until my feet were sore, and I saved until I could make a down payment.” After playing in Little Rock, El Dorado, Hot Springs, Philadelphia and New York, he got a job in the Chick Webb Orchestra. Webb’s was one of the country’s top bands even before its new young singer, Ella Fitzgerald, began turning heads. But after Webb axed Jordan for trying to start a new band with Fitzgerald and a few other key Webb players, Jordan went solo in 1938. What Jordan brought to the table was a new structure – a small group in midst of the Big Band era which Jordan would call his Tympany Five, no 40

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matter how many pieces might be in the group at the time. The T5 made up for its lack of numbers with hilarious routines and crack musicianshi. More importantly, a new sound emerged from the band. Jordan and his band would score more than 50 Top Ten hits, with many of his songs like “Choo Choo Ch’Boogie” topping the “Race” records chart for weeks at a time. In fact, the combined weeks in the 1940s with a Jordan song on top add up to years. Jazz critic Leonard Feather wrote Jordan’s “impact in the ’40s was comparable to that of the Beatles in the ’60s.” So it is perhaps unsurprising that Jordan permeated the culture in other ways – anytime someone says “open the door, Richard,” “let the good times roll,” “is you is or is you ain’t,” “what makes your big head so hard?,” or “ain’t nobody here but us chickens,” they are quoting Mr. Jordan. Jordan’s chart success alone makes him worthy of consideration, but his influence on those we consider influences today – Ray Charles, James Brown, Chuck Berry, Sonny Rollins, B.B. King, Bo Diddley, innumerable others – renders such consideration an imperative. Furthermore, while Jordan’s stripped-down sound influenced those later credited with establishing the genres of R&B and rock ‘n’ roll, his rapid-fire rhymes

about black life in America are considered the precursor to rap. Jordan additionally introduced calypso to the U.S. charts – while also heavily influencing reggae, ska and rocksteady elsewhere in the Caribbean. And Louis Jordan was an innovator beyond music. Louis Jordan starred in Soundies, the earliest form of music video, as well as featurelength film productions that were vehicles for his songs. Jordan’s “Caldonia” film was where a young James Brown first got to see Jordan in action: “‘Caldonia’ was a song you could really put on a show with,” Brown later said. “And I guess that Louis Jordan short is what first started me thinking along those lines.” Imagine James Brown not putting on a show with a song. The success of Jordan’s films like “Caldonia” helped solidify his crossover appeal. In 1946, Billboard magazine reported that the “Caldonia” film was “one of the few all-negro productions to get bookings in white theaters.” Little Richard said “Caldonia” was the first non-gospel song he ever learned, and Jordan’s “Cal-don-YAH! Cal-don-YAH!” shriek sounds uncannily like Little Richard. In July 2008, the film’s poster was featured on a U.S. postage stamp recognizing American black cinema. Michael Jackson – whose father, like Louie’s, was also an Arkansas native – said at Brown’s funeral, “James Brown is my greatest inspiration.” So here we have a direct line from the Father of R&B to the Godfather of Soul to the King of Pop. Despite his unmatched chart success and his profound influence, the name Louis Jordan hasn’t weathered well. But his songs, like “Saturday Night Fish Fry,” “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” “Beans and Cornbread,” and many more continue to be heard, decades later, in all sorts of places all around the world. Or, to paraphrase his 1944 number one song “Mop! Mop!”– about a musician commissioned to “find a riff that’s new” – Louis Jordan is gone, but his jive lives on -- and it still is making history. Arkansawyer Stephen Koch is a musician, award-winning reporter and editor, and author of Louis Jordan: Son of Arkansas, Father of R&B. Koch’s weekly “Arkansongs” program is syndicated on National Public Radio affiliates across the state and heard locally on KUAF.

Louis B. Jordan in “Caldonia.”

Self-Portrait with Telecaster Once I put her underwear in a faraway corner, put on the antlered mask and took up the rattle, sang and danced, something like “make her love me” in a tongue I still don’t know. But this time the dramatics, the hung-overness, seem foreign. I must be over a certain age, under the legal limit, over the performativity of loss, because I’ve gone and bought this guitar, a butterscotch-stained Picasso-shape of alder ready for my loving fingerings, all gained and reverbed, distorted up to 10. Easy to see how sorrow shakes dark windows, pond scum, cave walls, makes the dog whimper as if beaten, how it crawls up the neck into the song like a drunken worm. - Willi Goerhing

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BOHEMIAN RHAPSODIES

MADE AMERICAN Composer Florence Price combined the Old World with the Old South to create emotional-charged classical works.

WORDS / KATY HENRIKSEN ILLUSTRATION / AMY XU

lorence Price made history in 1933 when her Symphony in E was performed by the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, marking her as the first African-American woman to accomplish such a feat, yet her reputation mostly dwells in obscurity. An African-American classical composer and Little Rock native, her penchant for exploration of spiritual folk elements and tonal harmonic progressions felt rather conservative alongside the masters of 20th century classical music experimenting with atonality and dissonance. As Er-Gene Khang, music professor at the University of Arkansas, explains Price’s music is a world away from our current culture, which worships irony and glibness. Instead it’s intensely emotional and charged with feeling. “Feelings seem to get a bad rap these days. They are considered synonymous with sentimentality, weakness or simple journalistic confession,” she says. “For me, unlike the caffeination of witty banter, the smart coldness of an ironic statement, or the glibness of a talented speaker, the currency of feeling operates on a slower, more sophisticated plane.” Florence Beatrice Smith Price was born April 9, 1887, to a dentist and piano teacher in Little Rock. She graduated at age 13 as class valedictorian and immediately enrolled in the New England

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Conservatory of Music in Boston. Following her piano and composition studies at the conservatory, she moved back to Arkansas to teach piano at Cotton Plant-Arkadelphia Academy, then Shorter College in North Little Rock. This was followed by a brief stint in Atlanta before settling in Little Rock where she married an attorney and started a family, as well as a music studio. Racial tensions proved high in 1920s Arkansas. Price was denied membership into the Arkansas Music Teachers Association and a high-profile lynching terrified the Prices, who relocated to Chicago in 1927. The Midwest relocation brought the dissolution of her marriage while at the same time presented her with many professional opportunities, including advanced studies at both the American Conservatory of Music and Chicago Musical College. She established herself as a music teacher, pianist and organist, and eventually as a composer when G. Schirmer published her work “At the Cotton Gin.” Before she died unexpectedly in 1953 at the age of 66, she had composed more than 300 works ranging from piano studies, chamber works, & choral pieces to symphonies and concertos. The University of Arkansas music department recently highlighted her life’s work in January. The two-day festival included world premieres and highlights that were broadcast on “Performance Today,” the most widely listened to classical music program in the country. Special collections for the University of Arkansas libraries recently acquired a treasure trove of Florence Price compositions when her former home on the South Side of Chicago was purchased by new owners who discovered an attic full of materials, including many scores that had never been published. Festival organizer James Greeson blames Price’s current obscurity on the conservative elements Price embraced in her music, explaining that Price drew from Bohemian folk classical world of Dvorak and composer Samuel Coleridge, who was known for tonal harmonic progressions. She was heavily influenced by what she termed “Negroid elements” that Greeson explains includes pentatonic scales, rhythms associated with African-American music and specifically a form known as the juba dance, which is the way slaves would accompany themselves without instruments on plantations where rhythm instruments were forbidden. One piece Greeson was particularly excited to play at the festival is named “Ethiopia’s Shadow in America.” “She was of course familiar with Dvorak’s New World Symphony and the slow movement of that was highly influential to her,” he says. “The slow movement is a pentatonic melody which has actually become a negro spiritual. He composed it in the style of a negro spiritual and after the fact words were written to it so it now is a negro spiritual.” Examining the connection between Dvorak’s exploration of European Bohemian folk and Price’s fascination with the rhythmic and tonal structures of African-American spirituals brings insight into the way Price composed with such depth of feeling. “When I first entered the sonic world of Florence Price, I knew I was dealing with a master of feeling,” says Khang. “She is someone with a versatile vocabulary, who’d thought a lot about the dimensions of feeling, and perhaps found, ultimately, that the best way to manifest and communicate these nuanced feelings would be through music, and only through her own music. “It is humbling that, through mostly ‘simple’ music - operating in a very tried-and-true tonal system with regular phrasing with relatively unadorned and pared down melodies, Price seems to find the most apt language to transmit such a rich and profound message.”

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A Journeyman and Mr. Chips AN ESSAY BY GREG SPRADLIN

“F

olks call me Mr. Chips.” The abrupt silence was broken by the underdeveloped lisp of the youngest one, who until now sat mute in the center of the family band rehearsal. That was the moment I knew I had crossed some goodsense median. Had I pushed my luck too far this time? A hungry musician work ethic and more than a little curiosity to find the secret wizards who live among us drove me here. Even though I already had years of hard time in the bars and honky-tonks of Arkansas, I was still barely in college. I had heard about people being abducted and unwittingly taken into some sadistic ritual or sacrifice. Could a hillbilly family band have lured me into their lair deep in White County to offer me up as a sacrifice in return for a healing for their youngest? Possibly. One never really knows unless you’re a witness. I’ve been playing music for money since I was in the seventh grade. As a teenager, I was a guitar mercenary. For $50 I’d show up just in time to play the gig; introduce myself to the band; then play the intro to “Old Time Rock and Roll” or some song by Alabama. I would get calls from complete strangers because their guitar player fell out, had to work or had a court date. The gigs were largely at VFWs, American Legion Huts, sometimes fairgrounds, flatbed trailers or rodeo arenas. But after enough awkward encounters, I would eventually have to adopt one hard and fast rule – no rehearsals… especially not at their place. With these bands, rehearsal meant driving all over greater Central Arkansas and meeting for a rehearsal in mobile homes, people’s kitchens, fire stations and outside on the ground where you could handily electrocute yourself with wires strung across mud, metal and spilled Mountain Dew – all just to spend a day rehearsing “Sweet Home Alabama,” “All My Rowdy Friends” and “The Chair ” with a sh-tty

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band who would never truly learn the songs. Early on, older musicians instilled in me a work ethic to become a journeyman musician preparing, taking any gig and doing my time on the sawdust floors and remnant-carpeted stages of beer joints just to pay my dues. It took years to realize that some dues are needed and some just leave marks deep in your psyche like tattoos that only slightly fade with time. For a while, both can be intoxicating experiences. My first recognition of the latter was on a perfectly normal night, deep in the woods of White County. I had accepted a gig from a man named Mr. Johnson whose family band was booked to play a grocery store opening in Beebe, Arkansas. He asked (as most of them do) if I could come rehearse with them at their house. My instincts were to refuse. He sounded like the kind of guy who took the rehearsal thing seriously, even though I could smell the song list - Johnny Cash tunes, 50’s and 60’s-era country/rockabilly and a half-ass stab at something more contemporary, like “Swingin” or a John Conlee hit. I reluctantly agreed to meet them around 5:30 pm at their house on a county road sparsely populated with farms and mobile homes. After getting lost en route, I went back to town to a pay phone and called the patriarch of the band for better directions. He said he would have one of his sons meet me at the driveway. This time, after meeting me by the mailbox with a rifle, Junior broke into a full kidon-Christmas-morning gallop as he beat it to the house announcing my arrival. The unnerved feeling rising in me was only heightened as I approached the simple, white clapboard house. On the porch, was another young male of indeterminate age who looked through me but didn’t speak as I walked toward the house and past him. The father was a sharp-dressed country man in a crisp white shirt, Stetson and Wrangler polyester pants girded up with a western belt. He welcomed me in and we made our way

inside, passing a hospital bed in the front room on our way to the kitchen. In the hallway sat two different pristine, vintage Fender Bassman amps (a blond and black piggyback), which seemed even more out of place than the medical devices in the living room. He apologized for hastily pounding a couple of manic shots of whiskey - explaining that he’d had a tough day and, no, he wasn’t interested in selling the amps. He introduced me to his wife, the bass player; Junior, the drummer; and his other son from the porch, who we’ll call Junior, Jr. After some quick awkward conversation and the overwhelming feeling that I had taken one random gig too many, we headed to our cars to rendezvous at the place where they rehearsed. As I started my car, the whole family had piled into their beat-up Jeep Cherokee and drove through a dark hole in the wilderness behind their house without an obvious road or path. I resisted the urge to throw mine into reverse and pretend this night never happened, knowing I would never see or hear from them again. Several yards behind their house was a shack where they kept their instruments and small P.A. and microphones set up in a circle. With a familiar ease, everyone settled in with their instruments - mom on her almost unplayable bass; Junior on his ramshackle set of drums; Mr. Johnson on his Fender acoustic; while Junior, Jr. took a seat in the center, still not having uttered a word or sound. The father had a stern, grandfatherly way of running the show. I could tell he was putting on his best face for the stranger, but he raged just below the surface. Shouting and whistling them down, Mr. Johnson corralled the band and with a rough, out-of-rhythm sense of time, he launched into “Folsom Prison Blues.” From the (Continued on page 46) Opposite page: “Hard Traveling Man No. 19” - Lineoleum cut, 17” x 14” by Neal K. Harrington

(“Living Legend” continued from page 29) M: And those special moments are the goal. And like what you said, there’s been several times when there’s been a very small crowd, but when something magical happens, even for a lot of performers from all around the country play here, there’s something about the room, atmosphere and the whole deal, that is very rare and special and that’s the goal. M: Without sounding too corny, I think that in addition to being treated well and respected, I think one of the huge aspects that makes the White Water special is being understood as an artist, or when you feel like someone is just really getting what you’re doing. When you think that someone understands this art that you’ve created, they appreciate it when they feel like all of this time that I’ve put into this, all of these things that I’m trying to express, when someone gets that in a profound way, the end result is maybe that person gets to get other folks there that will be there and appreciate that and get that. To be understood and to be appreciated as an artist, I think it’s pretty important. And I think that’s the goal of a lot of musicians, to make people get it and that’s a beautiful moment. For some reason I keep thinking about Cedric Burnside and Malcolm White, out of Mississippi right close to us, who come from a long line of persons who were playing at juke joints. G: The Delta, the Mississippi blues, Blind Mississippi Morris, I could go on and on. But another good thing is when a band recommends the White Water to their friends, and they call you. That’s how I got a lot of my bands, through a band that had been here. M: So to have folks like them take a chance to come here and for things to go pretty well initially, and to build up on that each time, to hear persons like those guys say, “This is our favorite spot to play in the world”. And to know that they’re sincere about it, when they come here there is something special about it, something magical about the crowd, something special about the room, that’s the goal and that is what all of the hard work is about. To stand on those steps and look out to see a smile on every single person, that’s the goal and that is what everything is for. That’s the most rewarding thing, I think. G: Better than money, you get that feeling. Because I definitely didn’t start doing this for the money. To make money, you know, that’s not the most important thing. Gabe: How has it been running a place like this emotionally? G: Emotionally, this place has been like a rollercoaster to me because it’s been so up and down. The three fires, how the hell can you- I mean you’re up one day and then you have a fire, and you’re at the bottom. That’s the thing, every time we had a fire, no one knew me after that. But when I got a bar up and running, everyone knows you and calls you.

But when you’re not in business, people look at you different. And of course with fires, you know people want to think the worst, I think. But the building, I remodeled this son of a bitch two times and rebuilt it three times, and I did it myself, or I supervised. And I did a lot of the labor myself, I mean it’s just been up and downM: Way after you’re gone, and they say Larry Goose Garrison, or if they say the White Water Tavern, they’re going to think of you or they’re going to think of the bar. G: Or both, depends on how old they are I guess. They’ll remember you if they’re young. I hope! I’ve buried so many of my friends and customers it’s unreal. You know that, hell they’re all up there behind the bar, beer bottles and pictures. We’ve got some beer bottles up there that have some ashes of some friends. I can’t imagine a life without this place, it would have been awfully boring, and I know that. I’ve had fun but couldn’t imagine life without the damn place, you know. It gave me something to do, and I feel like I belong here. I feel like I’m doing something even though I’m not doing much, it’s been fun. I can’t think of me having another job. M: And especially for such a small town, there aren’t that many options for an individual living out here. You don’t have a lot of options if you want to go out and see some music or if you want to go out to a bar, there really just aren’t a lot of options. And I feel this way personally looking at this place, what an honor to have a pretty rare type of spot to go to. That’s pretty badass. G: It is pretty rare, I have to admit. But now you’ve taken over, and it’s going even better than when I was here. M: Is it? G: Yes, it is. I feel like the White Water is in good hands. M: What an honor. G: I have all the faith in the world in you. You know, you’re the man. -----The thing about the photographs and the beer bottles behind the bar, they’re most of my old buddies that I used to run around with. They’re dead, but I got some pictures of them and some beer bottles with their ashes in them and the beer bottles were the kind of beer that they drank of course. We doctored the beer bottles up with certain things too, not just their ashes. We had to doctor them up with some stuff. I’ve got pictures of four or five guys like my old running-mates back there that just couldn’t quite make it as long as I did. I don’t know why. (Special thanks to Morgan Cook for transcribing the interview.)

(“A Journeyman and Mr. Chips” continued from page 44) downbeat, it was a hideous cacophony that resembled a hillbilly Velvet Underground that was aiming for something in the Porter Wagoner territory. From this point forward, my sole focus was first: getting out of this room safe and soon; and second: getting out of the gig. The family went through a couple of tunes with fits and starts and argued about what songs they wanted to play. Mr. Johnson stopped the arguing and call-cued their version of “Long Tall Texan” and without any further discussion, we were off and running. This one felt like they took a little pride in it as it clicked along with less bumps and clams than the others. Suddenly, after the first verse, the band topped cold. The father, doing his best man-on-the-street radio voice said, “Why hello there, sir. I don’t think we’ve seen you around these parts. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?” Then, in a loud, clear, self-assured, but lisping voice, Junior, Jr. heretofore speechless in the center of the circle, spoke up and said, “Folks call me Mr. Chips.” From this point forward, father and son launch into a deadpan manon-the-street radio comedy-style routine, where jokes are clearly marked with setups and punchlines, but no one laughed and their rote script memorization went on for an uncomfortable length of time until, without a cue, the band started up “Long Tall Texan.” At no point did anyone

speak of or explain what just happened. The comedy routine was the only time Junior, Jr. spoke the entire time I was present. We ran a few more tunes, then began wrapping it up. As I quickly packed my gear, Junior the drummer asked me if I liked Jimi Hendrix and then without waiting for an answer launched into “Purple Haze” while thrashing the drums and singing at the top of his lungs. This only irritated Dad. He shouted him down and forced an end to his free-spirited, psychedelic solo drum and vocal performance art piece. With my car running, I asked Mr. Johnson about the date of the gig, then acted shocked that I had mixed up the dates on my calendar and had double-booked myself. I apologized profusely. Oddly, it didn’t seem to faze him. Maybe there wasn’t a gig. After all, bands playing store openings was a dated concept harkening back to the 1950’s. His nonchalant attitude made it all the more surreal. Maybe I didn’t fit the profile of the mark he was expecting for the ritual sacrifice. From that point forward, I would like to say I was more rigid in screening potential gigs - but I can’t. The thing about chasing a dream is that there’s something addictive about wondering where the next call could lead you. You want to scratch that itch – or maybe it’s just an open wound that never heals.

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