JD SOUTHER

Back in 1979 I dragged two friends to Rockefeller’s in Houston to see J.D Souther. I was just a junior in high school but I knew that he was cool, that he’d written all these great songs.

Black Roses, White Rhythm And Blues.
New Kid In Town.

He was sick that night, barely had a voice, so instead of doing two sets, just did one. But the show was amazing. It was one of the nights that made me want to be a songwriter for a living.

Yesterday I stepped out of my hotel in lower Manhattan and there he was, standing by the door.

I think when you see a hero you should let them know. And maybe get a picture.img_0265

RODNEY CROWELL – BE A LITTLE HUNGRY

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1996 – Nashville

Rodney Crowell is on his way to pick me up for breakfast. I’m standing in the lobby of the hotel wondering why this is happening. I don’t know Rodney that well. We’ve toured together a few times, ran into each other a few times in airports and on street corners in New York.
Like so many events in my life, I’m not sure how I got here, but here I am.

He shows up in a brand new Lexus. This is the first time I’ve been in one, maybe even seen one.
“Nice ride,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, “Pretty tall cotton.” (That has to be one of my favorite Texas turn-of-phrase.) “You know, I’ve done well, but I never did so well that I wasn’t hungry. I’ve always had to work. All my friends that don’t have to work? Their songs start to suck. They’re not hungry anymore.”

And looking at Rodney’s output, from songwriting, records, touring, producing, books, it shows. He works. He both wants to, and needs to.
Just as there are many ways to get paid, hunger comes in many forms. Call it drive, desire, passion, the need to pay the bills, it’s all the same. It’s that thing, that voice telling you to get busy, the motivating fire to make something. And to do it better, constantly pushing to find something new, to go a little deeper.
Always be a little hungry.

(I took this photo of Rodney Crowell in Nashville on 9.12.16. He sounds better than ever. And that is one nice hat.)

MODERN FOLK MUSIC

Years ago, David Kahne (the record producer and also my A&R guy atColumbia Records) told me that the magic of Bruce Springsteen is that he writes new folk songs. You feel like you’ve heard them for years.
This morning when I sat at the piano for an hour learning “Racing In The Streets” that statement made sense.

I woke up singing the song today, and lately when that happens, I have to learn whatever it is that’s bouncing around my head. Songs like “Autumn Leaves” or “My Funny Valentine.”
I like to explore how the songs are put together, why they work.
With those old songs, the melody and chords go together like a complicated jigsaw puzzle. There’s a lot of moving parts.

“Racing In The Streets,” has this incredibly deceptive simplicity that, when you really look at it, is so complicated and crafted, so beautiful, and haunting in it’s truth. The lyric just sits there on the notes. There is nothing fancy about it.
It’s just real, true.

You don’t have to be behind the wheel of that car to feel it.
And there’s only 6 notes in the song.

Almost twenty five years after David Kahne’s statement I found myself sitting at the piano, playing that same melody for an hour, singing the words over and over, marveling at what a truly great gift Bruce Springsteen is to the planet.

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WRITING SONGS WITH RADNEY FOSTER AND JACK INGRAM

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Writing a song with somebody connects you like glue.

You sit in a room and spill your soul, tell each other secrets that you can’t, or won’t, confess in any other setting.
You find the poetry that hangs around the edges of a life,
Sing about the beauty, the darkness, what’s lost and found.

Together, you put it all into a rhyme, a melody,
Sing it a couple of times, make a recording.
It might be that no one ever hears it, might turn out to be a hit.
Regardless, at the end of the day, you have something that wasn’t there before, something you couldn’t have made without each other.

There’s a connection that comes from doing this.
The song may not last, but that link does.

I’m grateful to have had the chance to write with both of these gents, Radney Foster and Jack Ingram.
The songs are usually pretty good, but the hang is relentlessly fantastic.

Joe Ely

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The first time I saw Joe Ely was around 1986, at the Austin Opry House. I remember saying to the person with me, “Well, that’s what Rock and Roll looks like.” It was raw like good church, a show. He was all over the stage. The songs were a crazy mash up of West Texas swing, Mexican rhythms, and flat-out rave. Loud guitars, pedal steel, drums and accordions.

A few years later, at a party at his house near Austin, I sat around a fire and listened to him, and others, sing. His version that night of “Because Of The Wind” stuck in my mind because of his voice — low, soft, full of horizon.

In 1989 I opened for him on a tour of the Netherlands, UK and Ireland. Every night was electric. We would stand backstage and watch Joe give it all. It was something like the power I’d witnessed as a kid hanging out near the chutes at rodeos around Texas.

Joe is that mix of melancholy distance and barely controlled lightning. He has more stories than most libraries (whether they’re all true or not is completely irrelevant), and he’s a master at the telling. His music is equal parts Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison, Woody Guthrie and Mexican folk songs. To me, he’s an American treasure.

I ran into him the other night at a party and he told me a great story that had to do with being stuck in a New York City basement during Hurricane Gloria with Keith Richards and Ron Wood.

You should’ve been there.

Marathon Speeding Ticket

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You get used to driving fast in West Texas. There’s no reason not to.
So, when I went through Marathon on my way to Marfa, yes I thought I was going slow. But compared to 90, 60 feels slow.

When the sheriff pulled me over, right in front of the Gage Hotel, looked at my license for a minute, gave me a very polite lecture on speed limits, then asked me what I did for a living, I said, “Oh, I’m a songwriter.”
“You write anything good?”
At that, I reached into the backseat and pulled out a copy of ‘Marathon,’ and handed it to him, saying, “Well, there’s that.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Really?”
“Yeah, kind of crazy, but I wrote it about this part of the world.”
“Well son, I’m gonna listen to this on the way home, and if it ain’t any good, I’m giving you a ticket next time. OK?”
“Absolutely.”
“Have a great day, and drive safe.”
“Thanks.”
Who says music doesn’t pay…

And, yes, I hauled ass to Marfa.