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Although he received writing credits for numerous Joan Jett originals and has subsequently had many other tunes covered by various artists, his accomplishments in this area may be one of the industry’s better-kept secrets. In addition to Southside, old friend and song writing guru Richie Supa occasionally lent a pen and a brain to pick, but Byrd proves perfectly capable of turning out great songs all on his own as well as performances largely recorded and co-produced with Bob Stander in his aptly named Byrd Sanctuary home studio. Work initially began in Nashville with Ray Kennedy, perhaps best known for his work with Steve Earle. But who knew he could sing? Never mind that he may very well be, as recent warm-up shows (when he’s not too busy backing legends and goddesses like Mavis Staples, Ronnie Spector and Darlene Love for shows he does fairly regularly at the lil’ ol’ Rock Hall of Fame) attest, one of the most affable frontmen since Rod Stewart “staggered n’ swaggered” with the Faces. “I grew into my throat,“ Byrd laughs, “like I grew into my nose.” With refreshing self-awareness and candor, particularly in a weird pop moment when anyone with a goofy outfit and autotune is immediately proclaimed the greatest treat since fried peanut butter, he confides, “I’m not a natural singer. But I’m a history buff— of music. Good music. The Temptations, Al Green, Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, Joe Tex, Wicked Wilson Pickett as well as good ol’
drunken sailor music like The Stones, Faces, Chuck Berry, and Humble Pie. It’s all in my brain. Stylistically and emotionally I know all the riffs – it’s getting that to translate to my throat that’s the tricky part!” Byrd notes in typical self-deprecating style, “Sometimes I sound like 30 miles of bad highway!” And what highway—good or bad—doesn’t include at least one detour? Especially when dealing with a Runyonesque raconteur whose encyclopedic knowledge of riffs is not merely musical and anything but mundane. To experience Byrd in full plumage is to be plunged into a raucous cornucopia of juicy characters from the finest street corners of the world. Imagine Jackie Gleason riding a tour bus instead of driving the Honeymooners. Or Don Rickles breaking into Doo-wop with Dorothy Parker and you may begin to come close, if not quite ready, for your cigar. Then again, the young Byrd’s chops were honed by the demands of Catskills resorts, playing the riff to “Honky Tonk Women” more frequently than a jukebox before most of his contemporaries were brazen enough to sneak into Max’s Kansas City, where he met Carol Kaye, a beautiful girl who shared
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