Resident #5: Dobie Gray

     In this age of ubiquitous media coverage, in which it’s nearly impossible to just listen to an artist (and I use that term loosely) without interacting with them in some other form, it’s easy to forget that radio was the dominant conveyor of music to the masses for most of the last century. Visualizing a singer without knowing what they looked like used to be a necessity; there were probably teenagers in the late 60s who had no idea that the Beatles grew out their hair and stopped shaving various parts of their faces.

     Most of the time, we can match a singer with his/her voice even without knowing for sure that the two are in fact related. If perchance you were to listen to Bob Dylan without first knowing what he looks like, you would probably guess that he looks like a grizzled Civil War sergeant suffering from hemorrhoids. Which he does. Similarly, Billy Corgan looks like an effete, whiny man-child. Small wonder, then, that this is exactly what he sounds like. Katy Perry looks like fake cotton candy that was used as a prop for a strip routine at a gentlemen’s club somewhere in outer suburbia. Voila! She was also the soundtrack for said strip routine. It works the other way around, too: Prince sounds like a flamboyant little man who wears gossamer scarves and eyeliner. Jackpot.

     During the 70s, this absence of accompanying images undoubtedly led to some interesting musical encounters. Take, for instance, Dobie Gray. My wife’s mother loved his song Drift Away; however, according to her daughter, she had no idea those mellow pipes belonged to a fellow African-American until much later. I like to imagine the reveal somewhat cinematically, as a first-person narrative: “Oh, I recognize that song…that’s Dobie Gray.” Starting out on the floor, the camera slowly pans upward. “Nice cowboy boots. Nice tight jeans. Huge ol’ shiny belt buckle…I do believe we’re looking at a real cowboy here. Wait a minute…his hands look kind of dark. Maybe he’s been out working in the sun? Ooh, broad chest, plaid shirt, pearl buttons. And I think I see some chest hair. Mmmhmm. What?! OH MY GOD that is a fine-looking brother!”

     Or something like that.  Look, I’m not going to tell you not to judge a book by its cover or any other such pithy aphorism. As we just discussed, that approach is usually at least moderately successful and, as a sort of pre-emptive filter, probably about the best you can do. There’s a reason books and LPs have covers, there’s a reason punk rockers and cowpokes look like they do, and if I were to claim that I or anyone else I know only looked at the heart when judging someone, I would hope that you would enjoy a good laugh at such a ridiculous statement and return to ignoring me.  All I’m saying here is that when our expectations are subverted in such a constructive way, it can be a reminder that we’re all just regular folks, out to live and love and occasionally eat lobster, and that what’s on the surface isn’t necessarily the whole story. This is true of athletes, movie stars, politicians, Wall Street bankers and yes, even black country singers.

Resident #4: Michael Martin Murphey

     In the 1970s, it was okay for a cowboy to have long hair and a thick, luxurious beard; riding the range was most definitely a counter-cultural activity, and if a wide-brimmed hat and a buckskin jacket weren’t exactly haute couture, they were a lot more common than they are now. Cowboys nowadays wear feed-store hats and Carhartt jackets and shave on a regular basis, and while I’m sure they’re more comfortable, they assuredly aren’t half as flamboyantly iconic. Country music could use some leather fringe.

     Anyway, thanks to market segmentation and the new requirement that we define ourselves by what we don’t listen to as much as by what we do listen to (what, you weren’t around to protest that legislation?), country music and pop music currently have a somewhat antagonistic relationship; country music sets itself up as having the pulse of middle America, whereas pop music is all about the party (and/or sippin’ Bacardi), and never the twain shall meet.

     However, as I said before, the 1970s were a different time; a time where a guy who grew up in the heart of cow country could go play on the Midnight Special; a time where a song about a girl who loved a horse a little too deeply could go all the way to #1; a time where a cowboy could sneak a few bars of a Scriabin prelude into a song that was meant to be played around a campfire. Country music was pop music and vice versa, and guys with a bit of twang in their delivery were respected on both sides of the aisle, as it were.

     Of course, Michael Martin Murphey isn’t even really a country star; he’s a straight-up cowboy. Listen to his biggest hit, Wildfire. Here’s a man who knows horses, who’s spent time on a ranch, who may have slept out under the stars a time or two. Is there such a thing as cowpoke street cred? Because Michael Martin Murphey has it in spades. Does he wear at least one article of clothing made out of leather at all times? Without a doubt. Does he wear shitkickers with the toes so pointed he could crush a cockroach in a corner? I shouldn’t even insult him by asking. And yet he’s undeniably a radio star.
     That sense of inclusion is one of the big reasons we here at the Home love the 70s. It wasn't about looking good (hell, I think the opposite may be the case) or developing a brand or even entertaining other people. Folks made music because, well, because they liked music. There's a lot of freedom in doing something just because you want to, a freedom that sadly just isn't present much anymore. We're all scenesters with our PBR and black-rimmed glasses and skinny jeans and hair-metal concert t-shirts and American Spirits and dive bars and bike locks in back pockets and ironic sense of detachment, and that just isn't healthy. So God bless you, people who made it through the 1970s in one piece. If you want to walk around braless, you do it. If you want to go to music festivals with your old lady and make a public nuisance of yourself by doing that swaying, arms straight up in the air waving your head around shuffling hippy dance you do, feel free. If you want to smoke a joint at the next picnic table down while the family reunion goes on without you, light it up, my friend. You've earned that peace of mind.

Resident #3: The Ozark Mountain Daredevils

“Daredevil” is no longer a widely-used term, if it ever was. Guys who flew airplanes back when they were called aeroplanes were definitely daredevils (read Faulkner’s Pylon for a nice literary treatment of those crazy badasses). Evel Knievel could perhaps be called a daredevil, but his heyday in the 70s is nothing more than a fond, hokey memory. By the way, everyone should watch his movie Viva Knievel!, if for nothing else than Gene Kelly’s turn as a washed-up alcoholic motorcycle mechanic. (And why are washed-up characters always alcoholics? For once it would be nice to see someone who got out of the biz simply because they always wanted to travel and see the Great Wall of China and their hectic schedule never allowed them any free time instead of because they had substance abuse issues. But I digress.) My grandmother used the term often to describe my brother and I, although I began to suspect she was exaggerating a bit for effect when she accused us of having a death wish every time our little Honda minibike went over 5 miles an hour.

I’m not entirely sure where the “Daredevil” part of the Ozark Mountain Daredevils came from. Was daredevil a more acceptable lifestyle choice in the 70s? Or maybe the Ozark Mountain Daredevil is something akin to the Tasmanian Devil. Are they easily fooled into eating sticks of dynamite? Let’s just agree that the daredevil part is baffling at best and go from there.

At any rate, listening to their biggest hit, Jackie Blue, the “Ozark Mountain” stuff certainly rings true. There’s a sense of loss there, a melancholia, that anyone who’s spent time in the Ozarks can identify with. Beyond Branson and Andy Williams, there’s a lot of poverty and small-town nastiness in them thar hills. In the past few decades, it seems that the success stories have all involved musicians moving away from their small-town roots; they go to LA or Nashville and get purtied up and make bland beige rock that no one really likes but that all the white people agree to pretend to like because at least it’s not that uppity Kanye West. And what gets lost when that happens is a sense of place; my small town becomes “Small-Town America” as interpreted by people who’ve been trying all their lives to be anything but small town, and the individuality and unique characteristics of towns and regions get glossed over in a desperate appeal to sell some records.

But listen to the Ozark Mountain Daredevils. They came from somewhere. It's right there in the band name. They're a group with a sense of place, an identity that's both specific and approachable. When did this become a bad thing? Who is listening to this song and wishing it were less specific, that it was about some nameless girl who may have had a problem with something but let's not get too deep into it right now? The best music is like the best wine; knowing where it comes from doesn't necessarily determine its potential, but it certainly does allow us to experience it on an elevated level. And if there are some naturally occurring sulfites that go along with it, I'll have a catastrophic headache in the morning and wish I could stab out my eyeballs but it will always be worth it.

Residents #1 and #2: Lenny LeBlanc and Pete Carr

Lenny LeBlanc was in his mid-20s when Fallin’ became a hit. Lenny and friend Pete Carr had teamed up to record an album and, their inspiration evidently being used up in the creation of the music, they decided the simplest thing to do was to join the ranks of such musical luminaries as Loggins & Messina or Hall & Oates and just go with the whole last name thing. Leblanc & Carr’s album Midnight Light was a modest success, with a few singles garnering radio play. Interestingly enough, Pete decided soon afterwards that he preferred producing to performing, and the group amicably separated.

Lenny went on to have a nice career making Christian music, even winning a Dove award (the Christian Grammy, for those not hip to the whole Evangelical subculture). I’m not sure what circumstances led him to use his music for the glory of God rather than gettin’ laid; perhaps he had a conversion experience similar to that of Saul on the road to Damascus, who, if I remember correctly, saw a bright light that startled him so much he fell off his donkey while his companions made fun of him and then he swore a vow to never ride donkeys again (I think that’s the story…I pieced my knowledge of the Bible together from Arch books and medieval paintings). If the real story of Lenny’s conversion is any more prosaic, I’d be sorely disappointed. Although if his music is any indication, he isn’t really the kind to do anything dramatically, up to and including religious experiences.

Pete Carr, of course, was one of the Swampers, the group of Southern studio musicians who honed that Muscle Shoals sound and can be heard on records from just about every artist who was somebody in the 60s and 70s. Let’s just put this out there: Pete is good. Incredibly good. For instance, you know that Barbra Streisand song “Woman in Love”? 

Listen to the harmonizing guitar parts at the beginning of the song. That’s Pete. Guitars on Rod Stewart’s hit “Tonight’s the Night”? Pete. Paul Simon’s ”Kodachrome”? Pete. The point is, he’s got an ear for a good tune and a mind that sees all the production angles. That’s a rare gift, friends.

So, I can certainly see why Pete would want to join up with Lenny to get his time in the spotlight; I can also see why he would decide that playing second fiddle to Monsieur LeBlanc wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I think Lenny falls firmly into that singer/songwriter camp, and as has been proven on many a stage, they have a hard time playing well with others.

I was in a bar one time (for completely innocuous sporting-event reasons, you understand, not because I like to wet my whistle with something fiery and Kentuckian on a regular basis) when I overheard some dude explaining to his companions how he was a singer/songwriter. It seemed like such a mouthful to self-apply, I immediately began laughing. This may or may not have resulted in some terse words being exchanged, but the point is, even if you are a songwriter who also happens to be a singer, wouldn’t you just call yourself a musician? There’s enough pretention already in identifying yourself as such (“I’m in a band.” “What kind of music do you play?” “Oh, it’s so original, I can’t really describe it.” See? Bullshit.); why would you want to further pigeonhole yourself? All you’re really saying when you identify yourself as a singer/songwriter is that you think the rest of the band is holding you back. Please. No matter how many open-mic nights you play with all the other tormented souls, you’ll still never write a song half as beautiful as Fallin’. And that’s a fact.

Is this thing on?

I had a conversation recently about my (relatively) sheltered upbringing, at least as it pertains to music. Of course, while I was a kid, I had no idea that I was missing out on anything. My parents’ LP collection was composed of a Beach Boys album, some vaguely Star Trek-related Leonard Nimoy vanity project, and a few Christian records with bearded men in leisure suits on the covers. 

(The Imperials? Was that an actual group?) Anyway, I came to discover music for myself much later than most, and consequently I wasn’t subject to the usual whims and caprices of parents and older siblings that constitute the first exposure to music of most young folks.

For instance, I had heard the name “James Brown” as a child, had even heard I Feel Good a few times when attending sporting events, but that was it. I think I was in college before I realized that the crazy gospel preacher in the Blues Brothers was someone everyone else recognized but I didn’t. 

I had a full-on revelation, then, when I was in my mid-20s and first heard Sex Machine. Sweet Mother of all that is Holy, that flipped my shit! I couldn’t get that song out of my head for a good week; I may have gone a bit overboard and bought a James Brown boxed set instead of the next month’s bus pass.

At any rate, I love discovering music that is new to me, even if seemingly everyone else in the universe has heard it before. There have been occasions where I’ve told someone they have to check out this obscure band from way back, only to discover that The Clash or ELO were a bit more well-known than I had expected them to be. But that’s ok. Sometimes getting to the party late means that all the people who are only there to get fucked up are already deep in their cups and that the really cool people, the ones with whom you are looking forward to having that conversation off in the corner about the stuff you noticed the third time through the 1^st season of Arrested Development, are just starting to get their buzz on. Yeah. That.

Anyway, here at the Home, we're big fans of 70s AM radio, and chances are you are, too. Do you have a lovely, full beard? Do you often think concerts were good, but there could have been a few more random musicians up on stage? Do you think the flute is under-utilized in modern pop music? Do you like bands where the drummer doubles as the lead singer? Do you own a pair of those glasses that weren't really glasses but weren't really sunglasses, either, because they were half-dark and half-tinted yellow? Then the Home is the place for you, my friend. Welcome.
At present, you'll have to sit back and let me ramble semi-coherently about my love for these underappreciated musicians. In the future, I hope to be able to provide some interviews and perhaps even interaction with these artists. In the meantime, if you have artists you'd like to discuss, stories you’d like to share, or even if you want to tell me how stupid I am and how you hope I go skydiving and then on the way down get sucked into a jet engine (PS: this actually happened to a friend of mine) (PPS: ok, no it didn’t), feel free to contact me. We’ll have so much fun!