Charlie Mars – Apparently, A Backstreet Boy for a New Generation

After a summer hiatus, I returned to my quest for good music by venturing to the Saxon Pub last night to catch Charlie Mars. I can honestly say, I can’t remember how he found his way onto my radar. I think it was one of those automated “if you like this, you might like that” recommends. All I know for certain is one day Like a Bird, Like a Plane arrived, and I added it to my iPod. Then, I forgot to listen to it. A few months later, I read he was doing a month of Thursdays at the Saxon Pub, so I started listening. Intrigued, I made my plan to pay him a call.

Charlie Mars reminds me of a cross between an earnest singer/songwriter type that’s drawn to the dark side, such as Johnny Cash, and Sting, circa The Dream of the Blue Turtles. His lyrics are poetic, with defined hooks, which allow glimpses of complicated relationships and altered mental states. Its poetry delivered with a breathy drawl, steeped in melancholy.

In contrast, his music is, well, groovy. Listening to it, you’ll undoubtedly find your hips subtly swaying, your eyes closed, and a glass of wine in your hand. Like a Bird, Like a Plane, has a compelling, sinuous rhythm – excellent for those occasions when it seems appropriate to display how those years of Pilates have allowed your hip to move in opposition to your waist.

Having explored his music in the privacy of my own home, I was looking forward to the Saxon. What would Charlie bring for his “man-alone-on-stage-with-a-guitar” mode? I admit, I was caught completely unawares.

I entered the Saxon to a standing-room only crowd. After a quick stop at the bar for essentials, I found a home by the rail overlooking the room and began to observe. It didn’t take me long to realize I had inadvertently stumbled into a gathering of my exact demographic: 85% of the audience was female, aged 25-45. Almost every male in the room was attached to one of the females, obviously acting as chaperone. Interesting.

Charlie took the stage a fashionable (and slightly irritating) 15 minutes late, carrying a set list sketched on a torn piece of cardboard. He was presentable, but his appearance alone could not account for the waves of surging estrogen in the room. Average height, dirty blonde hair and green eyes, he wore the scruffy-but-hygienic musician look like a pro. His guitar work had more style than technical expertise, but he accompanied himself easily, working percussive touches into his chord work. Okay, his songs were poetic and his breathy vocals compelling, but I was at a loss when this crowd of seemingly intelligent women started singing along… in complete unison… like a hypnotized and eroticized choir to Meet Me by the Backdoor.

Charlie: “Whoa oh oh, why don’t you meet me by the backdoor yo-oh?”

Those Girls: “I can meet you, yeah I can meet you.”

Charlie: “I can meet you by the backdoor, yo-oh. Why don’t you meet me by the backdoor yo-oh.”

Those Girls: “I can meet you, yeah I can meet you.”

Betty, Slack Jawed with Horror: "Oh. Ma. Gawd."

I suppose I could analyze this phenomenon for hours: the cliché of women who love musicians; the caretaker wanting to nurture the artist; the desire to be the muse; the bad boy thing; fame; the reversal of power roles now that women can earn more money than men…. there's plenty of psychology there. Instead, I’ll confess: my THAT GIRL principles were so offended that, rather than linger and admit I had his CD in my purse ready for an autograph, I bolted the moment he left the stage. I simply couldn’t be seen standing unchaperoned in that throng of star struck women. I wasn’t going to be THAT GIRL by association just for a signature. (SHUDDER)

In conclusion, Charlie Mars is a solidly talented musician. His music is a little pop-sounding, but I like it. I look forward to his new album. I find his tortured, scruffy-but-hygienic artist image a little to contrived for my taste. I sincerely congratulate him on the acquisition of such a dedicated fan base. I encourage you give him a listen. I encourage you to go see his show. But please, I beg of you, don’t join that hypnotized and eroticized choir. And if disaster should strike, and every shred of dignity leave your body, for the love of god, please, don’t tell me.

I really like this song.


This one is steeped in melancholy:


But this one now brings on a PTSD episode.

Delbert McClinton & Dick50 – If You Label Me You Negate Me

I recently saw Delbert McClinton at Gruene Hall. It was a raucous, sweltering night full of great music and cold beer. Afterward I sat at my computer, trying to describe what made it such a special treat, and I started thinking about good music. What makes Delbert’s music so enjoyable, so special? I’m lucky to live in Texas, where good music is so accessible. We have a generous crop of great musicians who live and play right here in Texas, and artists from other parts of the globe, like Tennessee, always make a point of putting Texas on their tour schedules. Consequently, we get a continuous infusion of visiting talent. These days, the Texas music scene and the Americana music genre is thriving.

What is Americana music? Wikipedia says, “Americana is an amalgam of roots musics formed by the confluence of the shared and varied traditions that make up the American musical ethos; specifically those sounds that are merged from folk, country, blues, rhythm and blues, rock and roll and other external influential styles.” It then goes on to list examples of Americana artists ranging from Bruce Springsteen to Willie Nelson, Lucinda Williams to Kelly Willis. I suppose that is as good a definition is any. To me, Americana is simply Texas music – no formula, no categorization. Instrumentation and sentiment are fluid.

It started with folks like Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley, and was continued by others without being called Americana. In the 70’s and 80’s, as rock and country became increasingly separate sounds, driven almost exclusively by record industry executives, artists that refused to choose sides lost their industry homes. Listeners were forced to choose between George Strait on the one channel and Wham on the other, with a rare cross-over venture on the adult contemporary channel (“Islands in the Stream” anyone?)

It was sometime in the 90’s when someone finally tried to make a place for artists that didn’t fit the mold and started calling it Americana. With the birth of the 21^st century, the progression of technology revolutionized the music world for independent artists. With minimal investment an artist could make a CD, book gigs, and peddle their wares to listeners directly. The need for an industry standard contract and music molded by suits had dissipated. This has been a giant win-win for artists and listeners alike: artists get to make the music they want to make without industry interference; listeners get the music.

Why recount this brief, layman’s view of Americana’s history? Because, if it weren’t for artists like Delbert, there would have been no impetus for evolution.

What can I tell you about Delbert that you don’t already know? He’s a pioneer of the Americana genre: one of the first musicians to make a career defying categorization. Is he blues, or country, or roots rock? Yes. In Delbert’s world, there is no distinction between rock, country and blues. Does he play an instrument? Yes, almost all of them, although he’s best known for his harmonica technique. He’s been around long enough to have taught John Lennon that famous harmonica technique, just in time for The Beatles to record Love Me Do. He’s a Grammy award winning musician: once for a duet with Bonnie Raitt, the other for Best Contemporary Blues Album. He’s a prolific songwriter and talented musician who’s every appearance seems to be cause for a party of epic proportions.

One of his great talents as a musician and band leader is his ability to find and forge ties with other hugely talented musicians. Dick50, his backing band, is a KILLER group of insanely talented musicians. The core of the group starts with Kevin McKendree. Kevin plays keys, but when he picks up a guitar, you would never know he was foremost a keyboardist. In a world full of musicians who are all attitude and no craft, Kevin McKendree is the real deal, punctuating music with perfect intuition, and ripping through boogie-woogie piano like nobody I’ve ever heard. Lynn Williams provides complex yet metronome like beats on drums, and Spencer Campbell provides the low notes. On this run, the legendary Gary Nicholson sat in on lead guitar, accentuating a band that was already a force of nature.

Seeing Delbert McClinton at Gruene Hall was akin to a visiting charismatic preacher delivering an on-your-feet sermon to a group of beer-drinking sinners at the little wooden church in the center of town. It was 99 degrees at 9:00 on a Friday night in downtown Gruene, and 115 inside Gruene Hall. Everyone was either on their feet crowding the stage, or standing on the benches around the perimeter of the room. As Delbert moved through his set list, full of classics like Giving It Up For Your Love, Every Time I Roll the Dice, and Shotgun Rider, the crowd sang and swayed. The entire spectrum of music lover, from The Finger Guy to The Drunk Dancing Girl drank their fill of the music gospel pouring forth from Delbert et al. At the end of the night, everyone pouring out of The Hall that night had been bathed in the baptizing waters of beer and sweat, having heard The Good Word from a musical evangelist of the first order.

For me, it was a revelation - the realization that one of the pioneers of the music I love was standing right in front of me, preaching The Gospel of Texas Music. I wonder how many of us truly appreciate the salvation and redemption we have received, thanks to the musicians like Delbert?

Dear Delbert, the chains of conformity have been broken, we have been delivered from the mainstream. For this salvation, we offer up thanks for your integrity and faith during the tribulations of the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s. Amen.

Raul Malo - A Foregone Conclusion

From my earliest memories, I’ve lived my life with a soundtrack running in the background. The holiest moments of my life have been accompanied by music, leaving an indelible mark upon the memory. On very rare occasions, I’ve encountered musicians of such extraordinary talent that cherished memories are created by simply experiencing their music. Above and beyond any doubt, the master of this phenomenon is Raul Malo.

Having seen his show many times, I told myself that there was really no need to get tickets the next time he came to town. Then, I read he was booked at Sam’s Burger Joint in San Antonio. Okay, I said to myself, I’ve never seen Raul at Sam’s, I’ll go to that show. A couple of weeks later, I read that he was going to be at Antone’s. Well, there’s no point in seeing him twice, I thought to myself. But as the date approached, I kept thinking What a Crying Shame it would be to miss him when he was in Austin. What else did I have on my agenda for Tuesday night? What if something really amazing happened and I missed it? I really do love his music, so… I found my way to Antone’s on Tuesday night and Sam’s Burger Joint on Wednesday night to see his shows.

Raul has scores of women fans, many of whom love him fanatically. They flock to him, unable to resist his magnetic draw. In my world, this is immediate grounds to avoid him like the plague. I’m not THAT girl. (If you read my Tab Benoit post, you know my feelings on being THAT girl.) So, I told myself I was going to these shows to watch the spectacle. I would stand in the back, not crowd the stage. I’d enjoy the music and watch with icy disdain as all THOSE girls acted silly.

He opened both shows with a knee-weakening version of Bruce Channel’s Hey! Baby. Let me say this: Raul’s musical range is truly astounding, but this man is a born crooner. The rich timber of his voice, combined with his natural showmanship, is irresistible. Having effectively ensnared most of the women (and a few of the men) in a warm, happy place with the magical vibrations created during Hey! Baby, he deftly moved to songs off his most recent albums, Lucky One and Sinners and Saints.

He’s put together an especially winning combination of musical talent for his backing band. Michael Guerra provides stirring harmonies, and a dash of conjunto with accordion; Elio Giordano plays neck-bobbing stand up bass. Kullen Fuchs is the renaissance man of the group, a born multi-tasker. He plays keys, xylophone and trumpet, and on more than one occasion I saw him playing keys with one hand while wailing away on the trumpet. Impressive! John McTigue has been Raul’s drummer for a while now, and I think he may actually be a robot. Not only is he a damn machine at keeping steady time, but when he gets in that special drummer zone, he breathes out on every “3”.

He moved from new material to old, and every once in a while, he would exhale another crooning tune, such as O What A Thrill, or the devastating Sombras Nada Mas, and those who were close to regaining their sensibilities were pulled back into their trance. By the time he ended the shows with Every Little Thing About You, I was emotionally exhausted: I had experienced the best and worst of love, danced and drank, wept and laughed.

It’s easy to recall this experience while sitting in the relative safety of my office, far removed from the enslaving experience of his live performances. You can listen to his records, you can watch him on You Tube, but none of these acts can convey the true magic of hearing him live. And what is it about Romance languages?  Utter a well spoken phrase in Spanish or Italian and suddenly I'm Jamie Lee Curtis in A Fish Called Wanda with my eyes rolled back in my head;  talk about an Achilles Heel. Truly, at Antone’s or Sam’s, he could have led me off a cliff with nary a whimpered protest from my lips. He’s a male siren with the ability to call susceptible souls straight to their doom between the Scylla and Charybdis. I may have tried to protect myself by standing well back, but there was simply not enough room in those venues to find a safe distance.  I was still well and truly caught under his spell.  Again.

You know, I kind of hate him for making me abandon my THAT girl principles. He knows, however, that all he has to do is smile that dimpled smile, turn his sparkling gaze in my direction, and belt out one of those killer ballads, and my transformation from impervious cynic to THAT girl is a foregone conclusion.  And every time he plays a show in Central Texas, I'll be there, trying to hold on to my wits and failing spectacularly.

Guy Forsyth - Leave Preconcieved Notions At Home

On Friday night I made my way over to The Saxon Pub to see Guy Forsyth.  For those who aren’t familiar, The Saxon Pub is an Austin live music institution: it’s dark, small and just seedy enough to feel like an adventure for the aging hipster set, which makes it a stellar venue to catch Guy Forsyth. 

Guy is an insanely talented musician.  He plies the acoustic guitar and ukulele with intensity, he plays electric slide guitar masterfully, and his skill with a harmonica is a beautiful thing to behold.  He doesn’t seduce his audience with gentle wooing and subtle caresses – he won’t appeal to those who prefer polite affections from their musicians.  Guy’s musical style reminds me of the bad boy your parents warn you about.  He’s the musical equivalent of the lover who slams you against the wall and strips every ounce of resistance from your brain.

At least, that’s the musician I thought I was trekking to see Friday night.  I had this beautiful metaphor mentally sketched when I walked in the door.  Imagine my surprise, showing up for a date with the tattooed bad guy that would have made a parent cringe, and finding the roustabout carnie who took the stage.  Was he here to play music, or was he here to set up a tilt-a-whirl? 

Guy was wearing hickory striped bib overalls of the Dickies variety with a black tank top, and sporting a pork pie hat.  He didn’t have sideburns – he had burnsides; no really, his sideburns connected to his moustache – a style straight out of GQ, The Civil War Issue.  The facial hair was fluffy enough that, from my side view of the stage, I kept remembering a pot that needed scrubbing back at home.  When he sat down to play the saw, I was convinced I saw a pouch of RedMan in his back pocket, and felt a moment’s concern for the folks at the table up front, who were easily within spitting distance.

My nose kept sniffing, expecting the blended scents of tobacco, sweat, dust and day old Irish Spring on the air.

Oy.  Forget rough lover metaphors, at least if my eyes were looking at the stage.

Although my eyes kept recalling scenes from HBO's Carnivale, my ears were not disappointed.  Guy is an amazing musician.  He can sell folky, socially conscious ballads, or jazzy ditties with a touch of Dixieland, or pure delta blues, or even Satchmo with equally convincing mastery.  He bends each instrument he plies to his will, and his intensity leaves you more than satisfied at the end of the evening. 

I plan to catch him again at Sam’s Burger Joint on June 24 and I’m intensely curious which visual version of Guy Forsyth will show up for the gig.  Tattooed bad boy, seasoned musician, or roustabout carnie, the next time I won’t walk in the door with preconceived notions; and, I know whichever it is, the music won’t disappoint.

Will Sexton – That Certain Kind of Something

Anyone familiar with the Austin music scene knows the name Will Sexton. If you grew up in the Austin area, you heard his name in the 80’s and early 90’s as he navigated almost every aspect of the profession – guitar player, singer, songwriter. As a teenager and twentysomething, maybe you caught his acts around town. Maybe you knew someone who had babysat for someone whose kids played with his kids. He was the Kevin Bacon of the Austin music scene, never more than four degrees away from practically everyone in town.

After that, Will might have fallen off your radar… until December 2009. That’s when we all heard that this seasoned but still young musician had suffered a mild stroke. It was shocking to everyone, but since I am exactly 3 days older than Will, I found it especially jarring. I read the article… oh, he had some clotting disorder called the Prothrombin gene mutation, that’s why it happened, whew… and then missed the Antone’s benefit for him the following February… and then let myself forget.

Last fall I happened to be at the House of Blues in Houston to catch Raul Malo. His opening act, Sahara Smith had a familiar face in her band - Will Sexton was playing bass for her. He looked great, he sounded even better. From that moment forward, Will lingered in the back of my mind. I kept reading the upcoming Austin show lists, subconsciously hoping to see his name.

And then, in March, my own life took an unexpected detour. On a routine visit to my doctor, my blood pressure was strange and my pulse was too high. As we sat discussing it, my doctor looked at my sandaled feet and said, “The veins on your left foot are raised, the veins on are right foot are flat. Have you ever noticed?” That led to a series of questions and tests, which revealed that I had developed a blood clot behind my knee and small pulmonary emboli in every area of my lungs. A referral to a hematologist and many blood draws later, I learned that I too had the Prothrombin gene mutation.

I’d been walking across a mine field, oblivious to the danger… until I got to the other side. Anyone of those clots, slightly bigger, could have ended me. Instead, each one was just small enough to pass through my heart, but not quite large enough to pass through the small vessels in my lungs. Now I am safe: as long as I stay with the rat poison, my body will heal itself and I shouldn’t develop any new clots. Still, I wrestle with big questions and curse this damn detour.

In May, as I mindlessly checked my local music venue calendars, I saw it: Will Sexton, at The Saxon Pub, May 12, 8PM.

The show got underway with a stage full of colorful characters. He had a drummer, a bass player, a lead guitar player, a piano player, and his girlfriend - Charlie Faye – playing acoustic. They surrounded him like a semi-circle of supportive talent. He looked just the same. That night, his guitar work was facile and technically unimpaired. His voice was somewhere between an early Tom Petty and a George Harrison, circa The Traveling Wilburys – melodic, and with incredible range. As the set progressed, I found myself entranced in Will’s amazing musicality, but a little distracted by so much band. If he was insecure in the wake of his malady, the only clues were the number of musicians on stage with him, and the little book he used to keep up with the lyrics. I enjoyed the experience immensely, and wondered what he would sound like without all that back-up.

I caught him again the following Monday, when he played a few songs in between Jess Klein’s sets at the Whip-In. This time it was just him and Mike Thompson on keys, all acoustic. In this setting, Will’s bluesy acoustic style and beautiful vocals were the stars, lightly punctuated by an old upright piano. I was easily lost for those few songs, and left craving more.

I keep searching for meaning, as if age and music and rat poison form some kind of cosmic trinity linking people together.  So far, the only cosmic truth I've found is this: sometimes life takes a detour, and maybe the alternate journey is meaningful. Or maybe not. 

I'm still working on it.

It looks like Will's going on the road for a while; I hope he finds his way home to Austin soon. Until then, we’ll just survive with a Certain Kind of Something.