THU., FEBRUARY 23, 2006
Cowpunk
by Ann Powers
Last September, one of my old-time punk heroes ambled through town. He hadn't been spotted in the Northwest for years, and I figured he'd get a fanfare from the local cognoscenti. Seattle's a major market for Americana — ask faves like Bobby Bare Jr. or the Drive By Truckers, both of whom got early love here — and this guy practically invented the art of reworking country music with punk flair. So imagine my utter shock and devastation when my cries of "Jason Ringenberg's coming!" were extinguished by a blanket of blank stares.
How could these people, traditionalists all, not recognize Jason, so crucial to their beloved genre's history? Upon further thought, I didn't blame them: they were victims, after all, of an earthquake. That seismic shift was caused by Uncle Tupelo, the hugely influential Illinois alt-country band whose majestic (if, to my ears, boring) sound ushered in a whole new idea of indie-roots revisionism.
Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy's passionate but somewhat somber style suited the Nirvana generation's underlying Puritanism; it allowed a new vanguard of history-haunted kids to wrestle anew with the issues of integrity, legacy and realness that rock's dance with country always raise. The new Americana produced some stellar talents, from Bare and the Truckers to Neko Case. But listen, you Bloodshot Records fanatics, these well-schooled Americanists weren't the first wave of alt-country — or even the second. Back in the Pleistocene Age of the early '80s, a phenomenon known as cowpunk revived the same heroes later rediscovered by Americana (that would be Merle, Johnny, Willie, and Loretta) and stirred its own duststorm besides, with music that tore shit up instead of just tediously preserving it.
Ringenberg's little Nashville outfit, the Scorchers, was born close enough to punk's big bang to make piss-taking a major part of its value system. Its shows were notoriously rowdy, with Jason cavorting like a well-dressed chicken while guitarist Warner Hodges squeezed feedback from his amped-up Fender. The healthy tension between the band's crazy rocking and Jason's choirboy-sweet country croon boosts the energy levels on the recordings, too. The Scorchers have inspired many little siblings, from Dash Rip Rock in New Orleans to the Seattle-via-Tucson Supersuckers and Dallas' the Reverend Horton Heat. But none hit the same perfect balance of old-fashioned and out-of-control.
Jason's real peers were not in the South or the urban Midwest (the two poles of today's Americana scene) but in sunny California, where half a century's worth of singing cowboys laid fertile ground for a new breed of country-rock fantasists. The Hollywood noise wranglers of the '80s had no worries about honoring tradition — for them, American music was always both truth and tall tale, and no good at all unless it was loud enough to break a few bottles.
Foremost among them was the Blasters, led by the brothers Phil and Dave Alvin, who hailed from Downey, California (just like the Carpenters). The Alvins exuded good humor and hungry eclecticism; their sound took from barroom blues, rockabilly, and norteño music as freely as from the Bakersfield sound. Guitarist Dave would later join the great punk band X and its Grand Old Opry-ish side project the Knitters, a particular favorite of young Americianists, as this spirited tribute album shows. He's also made some beautifully eclectic solo albums, like Ashgrove.
The Blasters' serious good-time beat was only one variation on county-rock the Hollywood cowpokes came up with. Equally important, though now largely forgotten, was Rank & File, the quartet formed by ambitious punks Alejandro Escovedo and Chip and Tony Kinman. With former members of the Nuns and the Dils on board, Rank & File was the first band to show the really hardcore kids that country could be tough. Chip and Tony now make pure (though still very theatrical) cowboy music in the harmonious Cowboy Nation; Alejandro's become an acknowledged alt-country national treasure with albums like the powerful With These Hands.
Or you could argue that the Gun Club mattered the most on L.A.'s mad-trad scene. Led by the Dionysian white bluesman Jeffery Lee Pierce, the Gun Club didn't emulate roots music as much as eviscerate it and examine its bloody guts. Sharing members with the Cramps (like my cousin — I wish! — and the coolest guitarslinger ever, Kid "Congo" Powers) intensified the Gun Club's gothic swamp-thing vibe, but it was Pierce's heartfelt semi-coherence that gave it soul; sadly, the longtime indulger died, sober but damaged, in 1998. Signs say the Gun Club may be in for a revival, however — John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats reviewed Miami for eMusic, and the White Stripes used the band's music as its pre-show soundtrack on its last summer tour.
You see, people, how much punk-Americana roamed the earth before Tweedy even met Farrar? And I haven't even begun to discuss the countryish side of the Paisley Underground, the neo-psychedelic scene that spawned the Dream Syndicate and the Rain Parade. Adorably floppy-haired bands like True West, Green on Red and the Long Ryders emulated the original El Lay country-rock sound of the Byrds and Gram Parsons, with some Nashville Skyline Dylan thrown in, with infectious enthusiasm. Long Ryders' leader Sid Griffin even wrote a fine biography of Parsons before forming the bluegrassy, transcontinental Coal Porters.
And there's more: the loopy Minnie Pearl mysticism of Victoria Williams; the self-described "postmodern neo-traditionalism" of her ex, Peter Case; the swoony twang of Green on Red guitarist Chuck Prophet's solo work. But you get the idea — when your Americana urge pushes you toward the historic, consider the whole timeline. Because music's roots grow more like ivy than like roses; they spread, even into cracks where you might not have thought to look.
Oh, and one more thing — when I saw Jason Ringenberg last, he was enjoying his second career, as Farmer Jason, one of the most entertainingly corny acts on today's children's music circuit. The tots you know will love his intact cowpunk attitude. Maybe they'll even forget to remember to forget him.
How could these people, traditionalists all, not recognize Jason, so crucial to their beloved genre's history? Upon further thought, I didn't blame them: they were victims, after all, of an earthquake. That seismic shift was caused by Uncle Tupelo, the hugely influential Illinois alt-country band whose majestic (if, to my ears, boring) sound ushered in a whole new idea of indie-roots revisionism.
Jay Farrar and Jeff Tweedy's passionate but somewhat somber style suited the Nirvana generation's underlying Puritanism; it allowed a new vanguard of history-haunted kids to wrestle anew with the issues of integrity, legacy and realness that rock's dance with country always raise. The new Americana produced some stellar talents, from Bare and the Truckers to Neko Case. But listen, you Bloodshot Records fanatics, these well-schooled Americanists weren't the first wave of alt-country — or even the second. Back in the Pleistocene Age of the early '80s, a phenomenon known as cowpunk revived the same heroes later rediscovered by Americana (that would be Merle, Johnny, Willie, and Loretta) and stirred its own duststorm besides, with music that tore shit up instead of just tediously preserving it.
Ringenberg's little Nashville outfit, the Scorchers, was born close enough to punk's big bang to make piss-taking a major part of its value system. Its shows were notoriously rowdy, with Jason cavorting like a well-dressed chicken while guitarist Warner Hodges squeezed feedback from his amped-up Fender. The healthy tension between the band's crazy rocking and Jason's choirboy-sweet country croon boosts the energy levels on the recordings, too. The Scorchers have inspired many little siblings, from Dash Rip Rock in New Orleans to the Seattle-via-Tucson Supersuckers and Dallas' the Reverend Horton Heat. But none hit the same perfect balance of old-fashioned and out-of-control.
Jason's real peers were not in the South or the urban Midwest (the two poles of today's Americana scene) but in sunny California, where half a century's worth of singing cowboys laid fertile ground for a new breed of country-rock fantasists. The Hollywood noise wranglers of the '80s had no worries about honoring tradition — for them, American music was always both truth and tall tale, and no good at all unless it was loud enough to break a few bottles.
Foremost among them was the Blasters, led by the brothers Phil and Dave Alvin, who hailed from Downey, California (just like the Carpenters). The Alvins exuded good humor and hungry eclecticism; their sound took from barroom blues, rockabilly, and norteño music as freely as from the Bakersfield sound. Guitarist Dave would later join the great punk band X and its Grand Old Opry-ish side project the Knitters, a particular favorite of young Americianists, as this spirited tribute album shows. He's also made some beautifully eclectic solo albums, like Ashgrove.
The Blasters' serious good-time beat was only one variation on county-rock the Hollywood cowpokes came up with. Equally important, though now largely forgotten, was Rank & File, the quartet formed by ambitious punks Alejandro Escovedo and Chip and Tony Kinman. With former members of the Nuns and the Dils on board, Rank & File was the first band to show the really hardcore kids that country could be tough. Chip and Tony now make pure (though still very theatrical) cowboy music in the harmonious Cowboy Nation; Alejandro's become an acknowledged alt-country national treasure with albums like the powerful With These Hands.
Or you could argue that the Gun Club mattered the most on L.A.'s mad-trad scene. Led by the Dionysian white bluesman Jeffery Lee Pierce, the Gun Club didn't emulate roots music as much as eviscerate it and examine its bloody guts. Sharing members with the Cramps (like my cousin — I wish! — and the coolest guitarslinger ever, Kid "Congo" Powers) intensified the Gun Club's gothic swamp-thing vibe, but it was Pierce's heartfelt semi-coherence that gave it soul; sadly, the longtime indulger died, sober but damaged, in 1998. Signs say the Gun Club may be in for a revival, however — John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats reviewed Miami for eMusic, and the White Stripes used the band's music as its pre-show soundtrack on its last summer tour.
You see, people, how much punk-Americana roamed the earth before Tweedy even met Farrar? And I haven't even begun to discuss the countryish side of the Paisley Underground, the neo-psychedelic scene that spawned the Dream Syndicate and the Rain Parade. Adorably floppy-haired bands like True West, Green on Red and the Long Ryders emulated the original El Lay country-rock sound of the Byrds and Gram Parsons, with some Nashville Skyline Dylan thrown in, with infectious enthusiasm. Long Ryders' leader Sid Griffin even wrote a fine biography of Parsons before forming the bluegrassy, transcontinental Coal Porters.
And there's more: the loopy Minnie Pearl mysticism of Victoria Williams; the self-described "postmodern neo-traditionalism" of her ex, Peter Case; the swoony twang of Green on Red guitarist Chuck Prophet's solo work. But you get the idea — when your Americana urge pushes you toward the historic, consider the whole timeline. Because music's roots grow more like ivy than like roses; they spread, even into cracks where you might not have thought to look.
Oh, and one more thing — when I saw Jason Ringenberg last, he was enjoying his second career, as Farmer Jason, one of the most entertainingly corny acts on today's children's music circuit. The tots you know will love his intact cowpunk attitude. Maybe they'll even forget to remember to forget him.
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