Most would think that being forever associated with a single, campy role in an artist’s career would frustrate a serious performer.  Not so for Randy Jones.  His three years as the original cowboy from the Village People has been a springboard for a four-decade-long career that goes well beyond a character role in one of disco’s most famous acts.  It’s an association that Jones embraces as much now as he did a young performer in 1977 and has provided him an extraordinary life in a notoriously unforgiving industry.

“From the beginning, with my contribution to Village People being the Cowboy, I realized it was an image that was the closest to the American psyche,” he says.  “The American cowboy is the most representative, most reassuring and most iconic image of what it means to be an American, not only to those of us who are American, but to everyone around the world.  So for me, from the beginning, the heavy lifting had been done.  It has been a role that is an integral part of me and second nature and it fits my personality and sensibility to a 'T.'”

Jones says his ease in the role and his preparation for not only his tenure in the band, but the career after, was a direct result of the upbringing in his native North Carolina.  Born and raised in Raleigh, Jones was well-prepared for a career in show business after years of children’s and repertory theater, as well as educational training at the N.C. Governor’s School, UNC-Chapel Hill, and the N.C. School of the Arts.  With an intense background in theater, film, music, and dance, Jones seemed almost destined for a role in a multi-faceted outfit like Village People when he moved to New York City as a young man in the ‘70s.

“I would never have had the career and the opportunities that I have had in this great life without the magnificent education system of the state of North Carolina,” he says.  “Nothing prepared me more for New York City in the '70s than my education.  It was a solid, liberal arts education combined with a very strong conservatory arts education.  I would recommend it to everyone, but one has to have the drive to make the most of all the opportunities.”

It was that drive that in 1977 would help him fill a role in a new and burgeoning concept group from producer/composer Jacques Morali and partner Henri Belolo.  Featuring a core of performers who could not only sing but act and dance as well, Village People presented a multi-talented core of men whose costumes and macho personas represented a cross-section of iconic and traditional American male gender roles.  Although the concept of creating an inorganic and calculated male pop group wasn’t unchartered territory at the time, doing it with such camp, pizzazz, and irony most certainly was.

“I think that from the beginning I realized that we were embarking on something rather unique in show business,” he said.  “It was perhaps an early version of a ‘boy band,’ although I'm not sure I would accept the responsibility of being a ‘fairy godfather’ to the Backstreet Boys, ’N Sync, etc.  From the beginning I viewed what we were attempting as essentially a comedy act with some very well-crafted and deceptively simple pop songs, [so] how could we go wrong?  Nobody else gave us an ounce of credit, nor did any of the critics ever think we'd succeed.  But we did – far beyond anyone's expectations – to the point where we have surpassed selling more than 100 million units world-wide to date.”

All of those sales, of course, didn’t occur solely during Jones’ tenure with the group – they continue to perform and sell records today, over 30 years later.  But his stint with Village People was during perhaps their most memorable and creatively-iconic years, providing some of the hit singles, videos, and television appearances for which they’re most known.  While it may be easy to dismiss the group today as little more than a disco caricature, for a young Randy Jones it was something very different during the group’s first few years in show business.

“Although it may have seemed like the Village People experience was a glib, pop, rock ‘n’ roll trip, I was deadly serious about it,” he says.  “I was a fully prepared and experienced  professional actor/singer/dancer who realized that the opportunity to get up onstage and sing 'Macho Man,' 'In the Navy,' and 'Y.M.C.A.' with a wink, a wiggle and wave was yet another chance to practice my craft.  It just so happens that it was akin to winning the lottery when it comes to a big chance in show business.”

And like the option to choose to have the lottery winnings pay out over the years instead of one lump sum, Jones continues to reap the benefits of the role he originated over 30 years ago.  It’s a title that he’s carried proudly while paying him handsomely over the years and allowing him the freedom to explore the performance skills and interests he learned to master growing up a young artist in North Carolina.  As such, life for Randy Jones goes well beyond being a cowboy.  Today, a Broadway and off-Broadway performer, a television and film actor, a touring performer, and something of an American icon, he is today, still living the dream of a lifetime.

“I think that [the] very best life any human being [can live], whether they be a performer, a teacher, a nurse or a plumber – no matter what one does to make a living – is a life best led in the light,” he says.  “My life has been and continues to be a blessing and phenomenal experience, and that has always been my desire, to live in an open and honest way.  I always dream, even when I'm awake.”

©2010 adrian varnam. All Rights Reserved.

Technorati Tags: encore magazine

The story of Charlie Mars seems almost too cinematic to be true: Young musician from a small town in Mississippi scrapes together enough money during college to record an album. He tours relentlessly for the next several years, recording two more albums and building a following the old-fashioned way, only to wear himself down with touring, booze and pills. After a stint in rehab, he finds himself in Sweden, performing by the sea, living on a boat that doubles as a restaurant, and writing songs for what he hopes is a new album.

Upon returning stateside he wins enough money one night in a casino to buy studio time to record the songs. A major label catches wind and summons him to New York City and signs him to their roster, all without a band, a manager, or even a tour to speak of, within the previous two years or so. After three years of seeing his dreams come to fruition—radio play, tours throughout the U.S. and Europe, videos, famous friends, critical success—the label folds, and the phone stops ringing. He’s just another casualty in a corporate record industry that has a hard time staying adaptable, relevant and solvent in the digital age.

Independent once again, he has visions of what his newest project should be, and he assembles a core in the studio to make a record that sounds as true to him as anything he ever recorded. It’s his most successful album to date and the one of which he’s most proud. He’s come full circle, scarred but smarter, living the life he’s imagined for himself, and doing everything he can to make the best music he’s capable of making. Fade out.

Except that’s really what happened.

Now on his own, touring in support of his newest record, and seemingly in control of not only his present life but his destiny as well, Charlie Mars is able to reflect on his career with an honest introspection and knows the journey has lead him to perhaps his best days yet.

“When I started out, I was young and really just wanted to party, have a good time, play music, and I didn’t really have the discipline or desire to commit myself to being good,” Mars says in a recent interview with encore. “But as time went on, that became more important to me than being young and wild. I started asking myself, Why is it you’re doing what you’re doing? What is it you want, what do you want to say? What’s close to your heart? Over time I feel like I’ve gotten there. I feel like I’ve still got a little ways to go, but I definitely feel like I see where the light is pointing me, and I feel good about it.”

That place beckons the support of Like A Bird, Like A Plane, Mars’ fifth record and his most ambitious to date. In what seems like a departure of sorts from his more Americana-influenced previous efforts, his new material is more groove-oriented, with emphasis on the vibe and feel of the music, as opposed to nicely packaged, radio-friendly rock. He sites producer Daniel Lanois’ style as a jumping-off point, as well as albums like Paul Simon’s Graceland and even more obscure Dire Straits. To him it seemed to be a gradual shift in focus.

“As time progressed I started listening to a lot more atmospheric music, and I think it just naturally progressed into a sound that I feel like I want to be doing,” he says. “There’s more emphasis on percussion and drums, allowing that to carry the songs instead of loud guitars. I think I’ve gradually started to gravitate toward that stuff, and I don’t think I did early on in my career. But I definitely feel that I’ve gotten better at doing what I want now. I listen to earlier records and then listen to this one, and this one feels like home to me—like, it’s honest.”

Thus, Mars has comforted himself into his driving force. No longer is he solely motivated by the desire to be wildly successful, nor does he feel the need to create music that abides by some formula, in order to get it on the radio. No longer does he need to follow the whims of some corporate brass or create by committee. Today, his energy centers on being true to himself and creating the best art possible. The irony of it all is that honesty carries everything he strived for from the beginning: success, happiness and the added bonus of a clearer conscience.

“I realized in that whole process that I did some things along the way because I thought that it would get me where I wanted to be, and I felt a little bit like an actor playing a part,” he says. “Once all that went away—the major label folded, the manager stopped answering the phone, the booking agency stopped calling—I realized [most of] those people were never my friends, and I was naive to think that they were. I just decided if I was going to continue making music, I’ve got to do something I believe in. All that makes me happy now is doing good work, and nothing matters unless it’s coming from the right place.”

©2010 adrian varnam. All Rights Reserved.

Technorati Tags: encore magazine

Recently I began thinking about that process parents go through in deciding whether or not to enroll their kids in music lessons.  If there are clear and proven benefits to music education, why isn’t every child of a loving and capable parent doing it?  What’s holding them back?  Is it money, fear of commitment, is the whole process just overwhelming and better ignored than confronted?

On the same premise, why isn’t the adult who always wanted guitar lessons signing up later in life if they have the means?  Or why’s the loving spouse hesitant to purchase lessons for his/her partner, even though he or she’s been talking about picking up the fiddle again (or something comparable) for years now.  What are they waiting for?  What are they afraid of?

Dear readers, I ask you now for your help.  I want to hear your comments.  I hope that you would take just a couple minutes to think about what may prevent you from taking that leap.  What’s holding you back?  What are your worries?  What are your answers to such questions as:

1) If you’re a parent, what are your fears or concerns that may prevent you from starting your kid in music lessons?  Is it money?  Unclear benefits?  Commitment for you and the kid?

2) If you’re an adult and have always wanted to take lessons, what’s holding you back?  Or what’s holding you back from giving the gift to your spouse or another family member?

3) If you have gotten your kid/wife/self started in music lessons, is there anything you know now that you wish you knew before you started?

4) And lastly, if there were some resource that could calm/address/eliminate those fears or concerns, would you be more likely to start those lessons?

And just as important are the opinions of those who don’t even have a dog in the fight – you don’t have to be a parent for your voice to matter in this discussion.  If you were a parent, would any of this even matter to you?

Thank you in advance, friends.  Your feedback will be invaluable research for a new project; one in which I hope can make a real difference in the creative lives of anyone who cares about music.  I look forward to your comments below!

©2010 adrian varnam. All Rights Reserved.

Technorati Tags: arts, Creativity, music

Originally published in encore magazine on April 14th, 2010.

For over 25 years, few in music have associated being from the South more than the band Southern Culture On the Skids (SCOTS). As their name would suggest, SCOTS has made a career out of highlighting the seedier, campier and more outrageous aspects of life south of the Mason-Dixon Line, thanks to their unique brand of rockabilly/surf/country-fried rock ‘n’ roll. Now seemingly busier than ever with touring, a new record coming out this year, and upgrading their back catalog of albums and merchandise, SCOTS is once again positioning themselves to be the standard-bearer for all things bee-hived, lacquered and plastic-covered.

Recently, I spoke with frontman Rick Miller, via phone, during his band’s week-long annual residency at the Continental Club In Austin, Texas.

encore: What have Southern Culture on the Skids been up to lately?
Rick Miller: We’re doing a week’s worth of shows in Austin at the moment; we’re putting the finishing touches on our new record; we’ve got a new Web site coming; we’ve reissued Too Much Pork for Just One Fork, which has been out of print since 1992 or so. We’ve started re-issuing old Fuel-classic T-shirt designs, and we’ve got new T-shirt designs, so we’ve been busy.

We’re just doing our own thing now— we’re not working with Yep Roc [Records] anymore as our label. We’re just like a lot of other bands: We feel like it’s a better business move to try and do it on our own. We have a good established fanbase, so we’re just working toward that, and it should start to all fall together here pretty soon—we’ve been working at it a long time.

e: What makes that the right decision to be independent now as opposed to several years ago?
RM: I just think the Internet has come a long way. I mean, the music business has deteriorated as the Internet, and other ways of delivering product and publicity have grown. I think more and more bands are just taking care of things themselves. If you can sell 25,000 units, and you only make a couple bucks off each one, or you could sell 5,000 of them yourself and make 80 percent profit, why would you use a label? Even young bands are using the Internet to start their career instead of going the traditional route with an independent label and moving up to a major. You just don’t see that as much anymore. And I see that on the studio side of it, too, because I run a studio. No one has a budget; no one has any money. Even the recording is going into people’s living rooms—not that I’m saying that necessarily makes for a good-sounding record. But the do-it-yourself approach has just become so much more feasible.

e: Is SCOTS’ new material in the same vein of the music you’ve made your career on?
RM: Some of it is. [Bassist ]Mary [Huff] has got three originals on the record, which is new for us. And the sound of the record is kind of all over the place. Our records have always had a few different types of genres on it, I guess, you could say, and it’s kind of the same way with this one. We’ve got some songs about just kind-of living in North Carolina and the Southeast that I think a lot of people can identify with. One of ‘em is called “My Neighbor Burns Trash”—you know, the usual.

Then we have some very interesting stuff in a minor key, almost—I don’t know if you’d call it “psychedelic”—and a couple good instrumentals. Not necessarily “surf” but moody things. Just things like that. I think it’s all really good, but it’s hard to tell right now when you’re just finishing something.

e: Do you ever go back to old records and say, “Wow, that was a really good record?”
RM: Yeah, in hindsight, sure. I still really think Dirt Track Date was a really good record, and I really like the one before that, Ditch Diggin’. It has some really nice minimalist stuff on it. But we go back all the time, and take old songs we like and add it to our repertoire.

Since reissuing Too Much Pork for Just One Fork, we’ve pulled out and played some songs we haven’t played in 20 years, you know? So, it’s fun. It’s fun to go back, and relive those and play a lot of them better than when we recorded them.

e: So how do those songs about North Carolina translate when you play them outside of the Southeast?
RM: Pretty good, because so much of the Southern mystique and mythology is so much a part of literature, music, movies, you name it. Most people everywhere have some understanding of Southern culture—or however you want to put it.

Like the song “My Neighbor Burns Trash” is about a neighbor that I had who was a Holy Roller, and she just burned trash all the time. It was really strange. And the song itself became as much about tolerance as any thing else. So, some of the songs translate on other levels outside of just being Southern.

e: How do you, as a songwriter, manage to take a strange story like that and work it into a cohesive song?
RM: Well, it takes a lot of work. And it’s really all about editing, because you can sit down and just write 15 or 20 verses—just writing it down, writing it down. You don’t really worry too much about rhyming or anything. For me it’s more about capturing a feel or a visual thing or a character. The hard part is editing it and making it concise. I think that’s what takes time to get a song right.

You hear some songwriters say, “I wrote that in 15 minutes on a sheet of toilet paper while I was sitting in a bathroom somewhere.” That does happen occasionally, I guess, but not that often. Most of the time you have to be working on a pretty steady basis to even think that something like that could happen.

e: How do you navigate that fine line between characterization and making fun of someone?
RM: I just think you have to care about what you’re writing about, you know? You don’t just see it as satire, you actually care about it and you know about it. I think you look for stuff like that: the character-driven songs where you can actually get inside them. That, and I love banana pudding.

e: Do people around the country, outside of the South understand that? That it’s satire, but you do love these people because that’s where you come from?
RM: I think so because it comes across in our delivery of the music. It’s not aggressive; we’re not flying the Confederate flag or anything like that. It’s about genuine things that are interesting about the South. No place has the identity that the South has, and so many interesting things came from here. Some of those things may have sprung from things that weren’t so good, but nevertheless, they’re interesting. I enjoy the people from the Southeast, I enjoy being from the Southeast, and I think that comes across live and in all that we do.

©2010 adrian varnam. All Rights Reserved.

Technorati Tags: encore magazine

The history of rock ‘n’ roll is paved with youthfulness. Aging rockers and legendary icons aside, rock music has always been a reflection of youth culture, and with it comes the familiar themes of rebellion, restlessness and angst. The trick for some bands who care about such things is to somehow capture that spirit while making it their own. For Wilmington’s Fortune in the Sun, it seems that they’re on their way.

In listening to the band’s debut album, Where’s My Jetpack?, I’m struck knowing just how young they really are (college-aged). Sure, often the style of music sounds like something created by kids raised in the early 2000s, and every once in a while the lyrics reveal youth by being a little cliché, but the production, structure, and musicianship sound as if they just released their fifth album, not their first. In an industry where nearly everything’s been done before, Fortune in the Sun somehow have put together a very mature first record; one that reflects the differences in their personalities without sounding garbled or thrown together.

“I think that our sound is the juxtaposition of all of our backgrounds,” drummer Daniel Ziglar says. “Chris Keck (guitar) is a rocker, Attilio [Cardelli] (bass) is into crazy music, I come from a jazz background, and everyone has their specific type of music that they listen to. In my opinion it shouldn’t sound as good as it does together because we’re all so diverse, but it does.”

Diversity aside, the record is clearly a result of the classic equalizer in most of music: ability. Almost immediately, from the very first listen, it’s evident that each band member knows what he’s doing. From Brett Mondie’s nearly pitch-perfect singing, to every member’s careful musical contribution on each respective instrument (including a typewriter), what this group has produced doesn’t sound like a young band trying to be grown-up. It sounds like four really good musicians becoming one unit.

“Being in this band together has led to our own sound,” Keck says. “Daniel and Attilio weren’t our original drummer and bass player, but when we added them, the talent level was so much more incredible. Everything you’d want in bandmates, they brought to the table. As soon as they joined, we knew Fortune in the Sun was complete—we had the band we were looking for.”

And there is no question that the sound of Where’s My Jetpack? reflects their unified efforts. It’s cohesive, it seems to be equally contributive, and it’s complete and thoughtful, from beginning to end. But like even the most celebrated collaborations, the songs usually start somewhere and most often from the primary songwriter. Fortune in the Sun is no different.

“I think what’s cool is that the whole thing started with Brett sending us scratch-tracks of him just playing guitar and vocals, and the songs just came out of that,” Cardelli says. “In a lot of ways they’re just dressed-up singer/songwriter songs with an in-your-face poppy flare. It became a big production by the end, but it all started simply.”

That “big” production itself is what stands out most on the album. It doesn’t sound like a locally produced, independent record with a shoestring budget, and it doesn’t sound like an overly done tour de force either. The band managed to do what a lot of young artists often don’t: Put it all together in a package that highlights everyone’s ability, without sounding strained, while keeping the listener engaged. It’s a delicate collection of tasks in the recording process, but the band admits it was a combination of having enough time to experiment (but not too much), having an open mind to fresh ideas, and having an engineer behind the board who knew how to bring it all together.

“[Producer] Lee Hester was really good at working with us and our crazy ideas, even though the concept of this band is founded on that: crazy ideas,” Mondie says. “He was really cool about being flexible with us.” “Translation of ‘cool’ is ‘ridiculously patient,’” Ziglar adds with a laugh.

It works—and it’s a great debut. For all of their youthfulness, both individually and collectively, Fortune in the Sun have released a fine first album that stands alone. It’s a snapshot in the early life of a band that without question has the potential to put together many more as they continue to grow.

Interestingly, the over-arching theme of Where’s My Jetpack? may be exactly what Fortune in the Sun, like all artists, needs to internalize to make it to an ever-more-difficult next stage in their career: a second album.

“If there’s any central theme on this album, it’s facing life and its challenges and being strong enough a person to overcome them,” Mondie clarifies. “Sometimes life’s going to be trivial, and sometimes it’s going to be very serious, but you have to be strong enough and fight through it. Every single person is faced with that at one time or another in their life—they’re faced with the choice of being strong enough. If they want to survive, they have to be strong enough to keep trucking, regardless of what happens.”

It’s good enough advice for anyone. Or any band.

©2010 adrian varnam. All Rights Reserved.

Technorati Tags: encore magazine

Since the release of their fifth record, A Boy Named Goo in 1995, the Goo Goo Dolls have been mainstream pop/rock music icons. Their smash hit-single “Iris,” released three years later for the film City Of Angels, sent the band, and their frontman and primary songwriter Johnny Rzeznik, into superstardom. Now, after over 20 years together, the Goo Goo Dolls are slated to release their ninth album, Something for the Rest of Us, sometime this year. Recently, I spoke with Rzeznik about the life of a rock star, his Buffalo, New York, roots, and what matters most in his life.

encore: What does it feel like for you, waking up and knowing that you’re doing what you truly love every day?
Johnny Rzeznik: Well, it depends on what my perspective is when I get up. Most mornings I feel really grateful [for] making a living doing what I love. I try to always remember that it could be otherwise; I could have to get up and do something I don’t want to everyday. So, from that perspective, I feel pretty lucky.

e: Was there ever a point where you said, ‘We either sink or swim at this point?’
JR: Right before A Boy Named Goo came out I was like, OK, if we don’t sort of “make it” on this record, I’m gonna finish up college and go on my way, you know? And that record happened, and I’ve been earning a living doing this for—this has been like my only job for—the past 15 years. So, yeah, it’s been a good run.

e: Could you imagine doing anything else?
JR: Yeah … yeah, I could. I mean I’m 44 years old now. I love playing. I love making music, and I love being in the studio. I’m grateful to all the people who still come out to see us. But, yeah, I see myself at some point settling in, staying in one place, having some kids and trying to be a good dad, you know? And I’ve gotta finish up college at some point, too. I really do, man.

e: Why is college still important to you?
JR: You know, it’s just one of those things. The music career came up and I never finished. It’s like a small piece of unfinished business, and you never know when the bottom’s gonna drop out of this. I may have to go find a job, you know? I’m being funny, but I’m not.

I grew up in Buffalo, and when you grew up in Buffalo, you always had to have your doomsday scenario planned out. I mean, you really needed Plan B. My old man always told me that: “Don’t quit your job until you got a new one.” Coming from that working class, blue-collar mentality, it doesn’t leave you. No matter how hard you try or how successful you think you are, you’re always like, “Holy crap, I don’t wanna be broke in the gutter.”

e: Has that blue-collar Buffalo upbringing stuck with you throughout your career?
JR: Yeah, definitely. I know what it’s like to be poor. There was a point after I was 16, after my parents died, [when] I was homeless. I was lucky enough to have a friend whose parents let me sleep on the porch. Luckily, it was summer. You don’t forget that stuff, and there’s still times I go back to that moment, and go, “I ain’t goin’ back, man. I ain’t goin’ back to that shit.”

Sometimes it haunts me. I don’t wanna get corny, but there’s no question in my mind that something’s watching out, because I’ve done pretty well for myself, considering where I came from.

e: Is that why you went back to Buffalo to record the new album?
JR: Yeah—you can’t grow up in a place like Buffalo and not have it be part of your DNA. There’s just a certain feel there, and I am of that place, I’m made of that stuff. Just having that in my face everyday made the process [of writing and recording] more visceral, a little more real.

e: Did it take you back to your childhood; were you reminded of things that came out in the new songs?
JR: I was reminded a lot. It’s kind of weird; mostly, I was reminded a lot of struggles my mother had at the end of her life. She was working in a factory, sewing buttons on suits, doing piece-work, and it made me think a lot about her and what lengths she went to try and provide for us. That meant a lot to me, and it started me thinking about the angst and uncertainty of the times that we live in and how it affects people emotionally. Because I know how it affected her emotionally; her having to say “no,” and how that must’ve broken her heart to have to say no, because we just didn’t have anything.

e: Has that been a driving force for you in trying to continue to be successful?
JR: Well, it ain’t about collecting a ton of money, but I have a hard time saying no to anybody. It keeps me working and going. When you don’t know how you’re going to feed yourself, that leaves an impression on you.

e: In your success, do you identify more as a “band guy” or as a songwriter?
JR: I’d say I’m more of a songwriter, but I’m still a band guy. I go out and do a lot of private charity events by myself, but I don’t really have solo projects or anything like that—I haven’t felt the need to do that. I mean, I like my band.

e: Speaking of charity, you wanted to highlight the organization you’re working with now, USA Harvest, for this upcoming concert at Trask Coliseum.
JR: At all of our shows, we ask everybody to bring as much non-perishable food as they can to the shows, and there are collection points. USA Harvest is this really interesting all-volunteer, direct-action organization—there’s no money being exchanged in hands at all. The volunteers come, collect all the items, and distribute them to the women’s shelters and homeless shelters in the community that night. It’s really important, and I’m just asking for everyone to bring as much as they can. Right now there are a lot of people that need a lot of help, and you will enjoy the show more and I will work much harder because of it.

e: What was getting inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame like for you?
JR: You know, that was really, really cool, because we haven’t exactly been critics’ darlings. A lot of music critics toss us off.

There was some validation in certain respects. You know, that’s the only award that I have in my house—it’s the only one that I’ve got. All the gold and platinum records and stuff, all my sisters have all that.

e: Do those awards mean anything to you?
JR: Not really—that stuff sort of passes. I feel really comfortable where I am now—not complacent, I’m still working my ass off. But all the affectations, all that peripheral nonsense, is gone. I’ve settled into a nice life. We’re not the biggest band in the world, and that’s okay. I don’t live in a mansion, and that’s okay. I have a girlfriend that I adore, we’ve got a good life together, and I’m gettin’ to do what I want to do with less pressure from the outside world. It’s great. I’m actually enjoying myself.

©2010 adrian varnam. All Rights Reserved.

Technorati Tags: encore magazine

The story of the young rock ‘n’ roller who dedicates his or her life to music upon hearing The Beatles first perform on Ed Sullivan has become something of a legend nowadays. Countless recollections from performers of popular music have been shared over the years, citing this exact moment as being the one when something inside them changed, when the seeds of possibilities were planted, and when they knew that their lives would never be the same.

For violinist David Harrington, a similar life-changing moment occurred in his young life as a musician, but not on television or with The Beatles. It was a new piece from avant-garde composer George Crumb, and it would have the exact same effect on him that the mop-topped Fab Four had on countless young artists before. It would be a moment of pure inspiration and would help give birth to the formation of a rock band of his own, the Kronos Quartet.

“In August of 1973, my wife and I had the radio on late one night, and all of a sudden this music came on,” he says. “At the time, it was hard to find music that felt right to me—not only to listen to but to play—and then, all of a sudden, that night there was ‘Black Angels.’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It didn’t really sound like a string quartet to me—I didn’t know what it was for the longest time [laughing]. But I found my ears just totally invigorated, cleansed and excited. So, I feel like in that one 20-minute period or so I was able to find my music.”

The piece was extraordinarily unorthodox and challenging, even within the world of experimental music of the time, and it marked new ground in the composition and performance of the string quartet. But for Harrington it was that musical complexity that seemed to have an adverse effect on him, helping to make sense of the Vietnam War-obsessed world that he was part of, leading him down a path that he would follow, even through today.

“For me, on one side there was late-Beethoven, and let’s say on the other was the sound of Jimi Hendrix,” he explains. “And, somehow, Black Angels brought those two together for me, and, all of a sudden, the world made sense—being a musician made sense. So I feel like everything I’ve done since then is basically the same: It’s attempting to find music that feels right.”

The global and decades-long journey that began as an outlet to be able to perform “Black Angels” in San Francisco has today grown into perhaps the world’s most famous string quartet. While most ensembles are stuck performing music by male composers between the years of 1750 and 1900, living somewhere in Western Europe, Kronos Quartet has forged a career, challenging audiences with modern compositions from around the world. They have also destroyed perceptions of what a proper and well-behaved string quartet should play, as evidenced from their 2000 release of the Requiem for a Dream soundtrack or a 2007 tour with wordsmith and musical madman Tom Waits. The result has earned them a reputation in the “classical music” world as innovators, supporters of diversity in music, and the breakers of as many cultural and artistic barriers as possible. Harrington says as technology and communication improve, this mission becomes more and more realized every day.

“It’s a fantastic time to be involved in music,” he says. “We have unprecedented access to other musicians, composers, instruments and technology. Not a day goes by when there’s not something really cool that’s about ready to happen in the world of our music. The fact that a couple of years ago I heard [this group] from Palestine on MySpace, and then within days I was in touch and they started writing music for us is simply amazing. To be able to have music from Palestine, Serbia, Iceland, and Egypt—places that one wouldn’t normally think there’d be any involvement in the world of the string quartet—is extraordinary.”

While the discovery and communication of the world’s many sounds are often an exercise in exploration, there are moments where the understanding goes much deeper. Harrington says that most of the world shares commonalities in terms of the cultural and almost primal importance of music, but there are still places today that don’t share the same philosophy. It’s an understanding that has helped him foster gratitude.

“Virtually every culture values music and has it as a central part of society, but it’s not always the case,” he says. “It’s interesting that we have this recording coming out next week—music from Afghanistan—and to hear stories of [a musician] having to hide his instrument in the trunk of a taxi cab to get it away from the Taliban is shocking. I mean, there are a lot of things that needs to be corrected in our society [in America], and all sorts of problems that need lots of attention, but we’re fortunate that we we’re not going to get our fingers broken if we play a musical instrument, or we’re not going to get shot going to concert. So we have a lot of things to celebrate.”

For Harrington the celebration isn’t only for the fact that he’s a part of a society that, despite all of its problems, still allows him to freely live the life that he chooses. It’s also because of the simple realization that regardless of what he’s playing or with whom, he gets to spend his days enveloped in music. In a world that places such importance on the beauty of sounds, he and his colleagues in the Kronos Quartet get to be the bearer of gifts. That, in and of itself, is reason enough to continue.

“I guess many years ago—almost 37—I decided that I was a musician and the world was just going to have to deal with it,” he says with a laugh. “And it hasn’t been easy. Many times it’s been a lot less than easy, but I’ve always been able to call myself a musician, and I really value that. For me the part of the responsibility, or job, is to share music and to transmute as much as possible. Not everyone in our society gets to call themselves a musician, yet nearly everyone is affected by music. So to be able to share that, at a certain point you’re really grateful for being able to be a musician and spend 24 hours a day exploring the world of music.”

Kronos Quartet plays on UNCW’s campus in Kenan Auditorium on Sunday, with ticket prices varying from $6 for students, $10 for faculty and staff, $20 for seniors and $24 for the general public. Kronos Quartet released their latest record, Rainbow, on March 30th, featuring Alim and Fargana Qasimov and Homayun Sakhi.

©2010 adrian varnam. All Rights Reserved.

Technorati Tags: encore magazine

There’s something magical brewing at a certain beautiful renovated bungalow on Princess Street these days. Home to local label Winoca Records, it’s been ground zero for several recording projects, band practices and grassroots productions, from some of the area’s most dedicated and talented artists. After a successful kickoff with its first official release, the debut of Big Al Hall and Marching Rams, Winoca Records is now focused on project number two: Onward, Soldiers’ newest album, Ghosts in This Town.

Over the last couple of years, Onward, Soldiers has become one of Wilmington’s most interesting new rock outfits. Born out of the friendship of area newcomer Sean Thomas Gerard and longtime resident Kevin Rhodes, the band combines Gerard’s talents as a young and dynamic songwriter with Rhodes’ experience and guidance as a seasoned musician and mentor. The result is a musical partnership, along with contributions from several others, which provides the core of the band’s sound on Ghosts in This Town: intelligently written and layered American music, offering depth, soul and complexity.

“There’s definitely a feel behind the album itself as a whole, if you listen to it from start to finish,” Gerard says. “It goes through a lot of different moods—and that was definitely intentional. I tried to hit as many genres as I possibly could on one album, going from kind of country-esque songs to straight-up pop tunes to ‘60’s psychedelic rock. I tried to put something on there for everybody, and from the feedback I’ve gotten already from people, it seems like I’ve done an OK job at that.”

While Gerard admits that he may have produced a musical buffet in terms of sound, clearly defined lyrical content, this project proves to be a reflection of how his life has grown since moving here just a few short years ago. “The album is called Ghosts in This Town, and that’s kind of referring to me moving here and knowing nobody, and really having nobody know me,” he says. “A lot of the songs are about working through that, moving on and doing better things with my life. I think more or less the whole album’s about progress, and trying to move forward as a person and a musician.”

Interestingly, some of the biggest progress Gerard has made during his time here has been the process of making the record itself. By working closely with Rhodes and recording engineer Lincoln Morris—and having complete access to the recording studio at all hours—Gerard says the experience was absolutely invaluable.

“The whole recording process was like going to school almost,” he says. “I was sitting in the control room for pretty much six hours a day for almost eight months. Before that, my only knowledge of recording was the [computer recording software] GarageBand. I think because of this, I’ve done a total 180º as a musician since I moved here, from learning to be more open-minded to understanding how the business of music works.”

One of the most important lessons he values has been understanding the worth of his talents as a serious musician. Working closely with Rhodes throughout this process has helped him to take his craft more seriously, both in the recording studio, and the marketing the band.

“Kevin is probably first and foremost a business man when it comes to that sort of stuff,” he says. “He’s definitely been the one pushing the professional aspect of us as a band the entire time, trying to make us as professional as possible. The idea is that if we put that vibe out there, people will understand that we’re not just your regular band of misfits, and, hopefully, we get that respect back—not just [from] the audience but also [from] the clubs we’re trying to play. So far it’s totally paid off, and I’m sure it’ll continue to help us be respected as businessmen, as well as musicians.”

While the future will certainly hold copious learning opportunities for career management, the moment is about celebrating Onward, Soldiers’ first official full-length record. For Gerard, it’s a milestone.

“I think it’s the best damn thing I’ve ever done,” he says, with a modest laugh. “But then again that’s a matter of taste. I made a couple of full-length records when I was in Pittsburgh, and immediately after I put them out, I was dissatisfied with them. That’s just how I am. For some reason with this album, I’m still not tired of most of the songs. I think that’s a step in the right direction for me. So that’s something new in my life: not being immediately tired of all of my songs and being a part of something we’re really proud of.”

©2010 adrian varnam. All Rights Reserved.

In a previous post I wrote about a similar relationship between fear and creativity.  In the absence of one, there exists the other.  They’re opposites, antagonists, adversaries.

Now, I’m sure I’m breaking every philosophical rule in the book, but since I’m a writer and never claimed to be smart I’m going to take this relationship one step further.  If fear is the exact opposite of creativity AND love, the two must be related.  In fact, creativity is love.

Creativity means different things for different people.  It could be more obvious things like playing music, painting, inventing, dancing, or writing.  But for me, I define creativity as just a physical manifestation of a thought or idea.  It doesn’t have to be something hanging in a gallery.  It’s about thinking, and dreaming, and then doing.  And that act of doing brings something amazing to this world that didn’t exist before it.  Every single time.  And we’re all better because of it.

When you’re being creative something truly awesome happens.  You get inspired (or in-Spirit, as Dr. Wayne Dyer likes to say), you get enthusiastic, you tap into whatever it is that makes us uniquely who we are.  You lose track of the time, you tend to forget about the bills or what’s for dinner, and almost always you give birth to the beginnings of some really cool stuff that comes from — guess where — a place of love.

But there’s another part to this whole creating thing.  When you’re creative, you’re giving something to the rest of us.  Something artistic, or thoughtful, or inspiring.  It’s always a gift, no matter how small.  And giving, completely and wholly and unselfishly, is an act of love.  Ask any mother.  There’s no doubt in my mind.

Creativity is love, both of ourselves and of each other.  It’s the absence of fear, coming from the purest parts of ourselves, and then sharing it with the world.

Every day we face a crossroads.  Which direction do we chose?  Do we start that novel, or violin lesson, or act on that new business idea. . . or do we find some excuse why we can’t?  We always, always have a choice.

Choose love.

©2010 adrian varnam. All Rights Reserved.

Technorati Tags: arts, Creativity, Inspiration, Resistance, Self

http://www.chrispottermusic.com/

Originally posted in encore magazine on March 24th, 2010.

Even the most celebrated of artists don’t always gravitate toward their calling on the first try. For world-renowned saxophonist Chris Potter, the discovery became an acquired taste. “I remember that before I heard jazz records, I didn’t really like the saxophone,” he revealed last week, during a phone call to encore from his home in New York City. “It wasn’t until I heard some jazz records that I heard the possibilities. It turned into something like: When there’s a food that you really didn’t like as a kid, and then you get older and try it one more time [only to discover] it’s not quite as disgusting—that’s kind of how the saxophone was for me. But by the time I was 10, there just became something about it, and I bothered my parents until they got me one.”

For Potter the saxophone wasn’t his first foray into music. Born in Chicago and raised in Columbia, South Carolina, he was already something of a musical prodigy by the time he was able to stomach the sax, having already become proficient at several other instruments. Although Columbia, by most peoples’ standards, is a large enough college town, with presumably above-average opportunities for a young musician, Potter was discovering that his love for jazz was difficult to foster with little peer support and influence. So, at 18 he moved to New York City to study at the New School and the Manhattan School of Music.

“The fact was: As a kid I was the only person my age who was interested in this music, so I was really off by myself,” he said. “Moving to New York really gave me the opportunity to meet a bunch of like-minded musicians at a very high level—it was extremely stimulating. People know that when they come here to study jazz music, the point is to be here, which isn’t to say anything bad about the schools themselves. That’s just how it works.”

Potter says that although his educational experience was extremely valuable, he doubts he would have become the musician he is today had the schools been in any other city. The New York City jazz scene is something in and of itself.

“This is probably the place where there’s the most jazz activity—it’s probably the place where more greats live than anywhere else,” he noted. “There’s more energy about it—there’s more people getting together and playing, and there’s just a lot of ideas floating around. The way jazz has always functioned is that there has to be a scene. There’s no art form that develops in a vacuum but especially not jazz music.”

Yet, the paradox with jazz, Potter explains, is that it’s simultaneously one of the most collaborative and individualistic forms of artistic expression. There exists celebratory improvisation and personal exploration, and the real need for structure both onstage and in a larger context.

“The whole point is to learn to improvise together and to make music together that’s probably based on some kind of formal idea. But within that each musician has a huge amount of latitude about what to do next,” he explained. “It’s a very social and collaborative process. I think sense of community is important in all of the arts but especially jazz music. You really need to be surrounded by very high-level musicians to keep growing yourself.”

Although Potter spends most of his time exploring those artistic communities in clubs all over the world, he says he does on occasion dive back into academia, offering workshops and clinics in universities across the country. In fact, he’ll be conducting one such jazz clinic and an additional Q&A session in preparation for his concert at UNCW this coming week. Although he admits being a clinician is a whole different experience than performing with his band in a club, interacting and influencing young musicians has its own payoff.

“It’s truly gratifying to see and be a part of,” he said. “It’s great to see the amount of energy the students have—they really want to know and learn. So you can hope that you can come in and say something that’s useful for them to hear, but you often never know. It could be months down the line when a student does something and says, ‘Oh, that’s what he was talking about.’ It’s hard to even count the experiences I’ve had like that as a young musician myself. Seeing a musician that you’ve listened to on records actually play—seeing how they physically relate to the instrument—can, in a certain way, really teach you a lot, even without saying anything. Then, when they actually do speak, I find it’s a huge source of insight into how they are as a musician, too.”

Whether it’s an academic environment or a jazz club, Potter understands that these interactive and precious moments of sharing a craft he’s dedicated his life to are the building blocks to understanding jazz itself. It’s collaboration that brings out the most in jazz music, both in appreciation from the audience and in the never-ending growth of the artist.

“That’s a lot of what it means to really teach jazz; to be around people who have dedicated their lives to it and see how they approach it,” he said. “Because it’s not something where you can just read a book and get the information. Even beyond the words that I’m saying, my hope is that maybe [students and audiences] can get something out of my attitude toward it, and experience where the music is really coming from at [a] deeper level.”

©2010 adrian varnam. All Rights Reserved.

Technorati Tags: encore magazine