“Sometimes I see the world through Jefe’s eyes, rich in the color of another’s taste
I imagine this world in new degrees, through threads he spins like tapestries; saving the wonder others waste…”
Alan Paul was part of a writing movement that picked up the pieces of music journalism left slightly askew, first by the deaths of giants such as Ralph Gleason (founding editor of Rolling Stone magazine) and Lester Bangs (see Phillip Seymour Hoffman in Almost Famous ), as well as the ambiguous relevance of old-guard critics, such as Robert Christgau, to those then coming of age.
When Paul assumed the Managing Editor position with Guitar World magazine in 1991, it was a third-place music trade in a niche market, with a severely bent crawl towards the mountaintop. Under the leadership of Paul and Editor-in-Chief Brad Tolinski, that peak was mounted within a year. Twenty years, and a Guitar Hero or twelve later, Guitar World’s influence has proven pervasive and deep.
“Sometimes I hear the world through Jefe’s ears, new drums beat in times unknown
I feel the dance grow from his grooves, lured within exotic moves; charming the silk from hearts of stone…”
Paul is a writer who can weave the essence of his subject into the finest patchwork quilt; deftly threading the leather of life well-worn, only to turn simple facts inside out to reveal their true nature- that certain haute couture uniqueness of our favorite artists, delicately woven- like silk lining leather.
“Some days I touch the world through Jefe’s hands, and like a ghost I watch him take my wheel
I lean into his twist and turn, taking what he leaves to learn, making sacred all the things I steal…”
But Paul’s connection to the guitar ran much deeper than whatever writing assignment was next. A devotee of the Allman Brothers Band and the spirit that pervaded that era, Paul ended up taking a series of guitar lessons to supplement his internal encyclopedia of rock, jamband, blues and jazz history. He knew he needed to understand the instrument in a more fundamental way, physically stepping into the shoes of would-be subjects before he could properly do so psychologically.
Developing his musicianship brought added dimension to a form of journalism that once seemed either tiredly doomed, or determinedly set on repeat, in absentia of the fire that made the music worth covering in the first place. While magazines such as Relix, Downbeat and Rolling Stone had always treated music and musicians with a sense of culture and passion, it was heretofore unheard of for a technical magazine to do so.
“Some days I dream the world through Jefe’s songs, lush melodies build into soft refrain
I find the truth within these hymns, of tragic hope and honest sins; haunting is the light that can’t remain…”
Now, Paul has released a memoir about what became his biggest leap of faith, not only into music, but into the deep end of life itself. The book, Big In China, details his family’s nearly four years spent in Beijing, where Paul first started a personal blog, then a column for the Wall Street Journal, and eventually a band named Woodie Alan, after Paul and fellow guitarist Woodie Wu. The band (also featuring Zhang Yong on bass, drummer Lu Wei, and saxophonist/US Diplomat Dave Loevinger) went on to be named the Best Beijing Band 2008, in a city of twenty-plus million people. Releasing their debut disc, Beijing Blues, as the Paul family returned home to New Jersey, the album, and now Big In China, tells a story that seems at once modern and topical, yet timeless.
“Some days I find my world with Jefe’s help, what’s come before can lead to somewhere new
Live what you love, love what you live, give what you got, take what will give; choosing best fate to rendezvous…” [1]
Much in the same way Paul’s coverage of “old school” musicians brought attention to the overlooked and forgotten, his own journey does the same for certain qualities in our lives that we lose touch with- a sense of adventure, the thrill of testing the unknown, earnestly digging deeper- pragmatically leading by example towards renaissance.
The Literary and the Musical share far too much to ever hope for a succinct summation, but when you encounter a work like Big In China, the two are found so intertwined that one can seem much less without the other. And as Paul embarks on nationwide book tour, which will mix readings and musical performances, he takes his new world blues to a different kind of crossroads- the East/West kind.
Brandon Findlay: The book, at its heart, describes the all-American dream, which, with our current music industry, probably would not happen in America.
Alan Paul: I think at some point- I was writing my column, it started doing well, and the band took off- I was aware of that. I think we were just in the right place at the right time. The opportunity was there to do almost anything that you could think of and pursue. And rather than spend a lot of time thinking about why that was so, I tried to just make things happen as much as I could. There was just this tremendous feeling of optimism and “can-do-anything” [attitude].
There were some specific things that made [the music] unique to China. And there’s more of a music scene in China than people think- I know a lot of people find it surprising that it exists at all. But it is there, and at the same time, it is all-new and still fresh enough that it felt exciting. When we’d come into a town, or play a festival, there were people seeing music like that for the first time. So that gave it an extra edge of excitement. I just tried to feed on it- I was aware of it, but I didn’t dwell on it. I keyed off the energy and tried to take it further.
BF: You mention several times in the book that you maintained a sense of pride in being an American. Is it odd that the American Dream rarely happens domestically, but did happen in China, a country that many Americans are critical of?
AP: Well… yes, it is odd. I don’t know exactly how to answer that, with more depth. One of the things that is exciting about being in China right now, and during that period- and not just China, but other places in Asia- is that they do feel “on the rise”, that there’s a sense of optimism that’s not the case here, which is sad and disturbing.
I think it has a lot to do with our own prioritizing of values in this country. The energy could be changed and turned around and be more optimistic and that, I might say, really has nothing to do with China. I think there’s a little bit of demonizing that goes on with China because people see it growing as we [aren’t]- I think it’s more a matter of the United States re-evaluating it’s priorities.
BF: “Community” is one of the major threads running through the book. You move amongst several communities, with your wife and children being the anchor. Yet, you write that some of your family has not always expressed the strongest faith in your endeavors. You mentioned early in your journalistic career, that family members thought you were “slumming” by covering artists like the Allman Brothers, and your father seemed relieved that you would be “returning to reality” upon your return to the United States.
AP: I never really felt like I was slumming. I know my mother kept waiting for me to get the next job. There were times when I was frustrated with not being able to do some other kinds of writing that I would like to do, to branch out more. It’s just a fact that if you’re writing for Guitar World and Slam, you won’t have the same readership [and] impact with something you write than if you were writing for Rolling Stone and Sports Illustrated. And there were times where that frustrated me. But not really so much because of my ego; it was more that I just wanted to have a larger audience for whatever reason.
But, on the other hand, I had always valued… one thing similar about Guitar World and Slam is that their readers are really passionate, really hard core, and they really care about the subject matter, so I felt like I could write with passion and a certain ‘assumed’ knowledge, not having to explain what an “F chord” is, or what an “alley-oop” is [laughs]. I always appreciated that contact with someone who’s reading this and being impacted by it- that meant a lot to me.
I always felt, to some extent, that maybe having ten readers hanging on everything you wrote, and really being open to it, was better than having a hundred or a thousand people sifting through something you’ve written. But, at the same time, I got to China and met Woodie, and realized that stuff I had written made a difference to him- in a way “opening the door”. If I hadn’t had the Guitar World connection, I may have never had the whole relationship with Woodie, which became so meaningful to me. To some extent, that was a payoff for all my years of loyalty and service and hard work and just really doing stuff I believed in.
My last six months in China, I started working on a book proposal. My column was pretty popular, so I could get peoples’ attention. I had contacted several agents, and one particularly wanted to see a detailed chapter outline, which I started working on. [Then] the Olympics were so busy, the band started doing really well, and I was having so much fun with it, I wasn’t working on this book proposal. I very specifically remember a conversation with my friend Theo Yardley, and I said “You know, for my career, it makes the most sense to spend less time on the band and get this proposal done, because that’s where my career lies in the end, but I’m having so much fun with the band, and I’ll never know if I’ll ever get the chance to something like this again”. And she said, “Well maybe the band will end up being the book”, and to some extent she was right. I feel like I got a payoff for following my gut and my passion.
BF: Another payoff was that Slam magazine opened a Beijing office, in part, to help you become a credentialed journalist, which allowed you to cover the Olympics two years later.
AP: That is interesting; in all the years I worked for Slam, and Guitar World, I may have left some things on the table in terms of not working for other people, but I did it all in community, and had loyalty to them, and ultimately, they had loyalty to me.
In the first year there, I did a lot of work for Slam and Guitar World, and that really helped me. I was making this big leap, but having those guys remain supportive of me allowed me to go over there without feeling like I was walking away from everything. I knew there was a likelihood I couldn’t maintain the same pace- and I didn’t- but having that connection, and having them extend that to me, made a big difference.
BF: One such piece for Guitar World was a “day in the life” with Derek Trucks and Doyle Bramhall II when they were both playing with Eric Clapton and the tour came through China.
AP: That piece was really important to me. I had already been talking to Woodie; we already had the first jam, but we really hadn’t gotten together yet. But I went down and saw that concert and got so inspired, I just had to make something happen, so I started pursuing him aggressively. And I don’t think I would have gone down there if I wasn’t doing the story for Guitar World.
BF: One musician you shine a light on in the book is Tim Lamb, who often went by the nickname “Tragocaster.” It seems like his influence was key in your decision to form what became Woodie Alan.
AP: Absolutely, and that’s why I wanted to find a way to mention him. I don’t know how many times I went to play with him, probably eight or ten times, and then jamming when he didn’t have gigs at friends’ garages or something. He was a great guitarist, with a great band. The first time I went, as I described in the book, it was a very intimidating situation to walk into. The band was just great and it was hard to get up there- I felt a bit overwhelmed. We’ve all seen great guitarists who are “head cutters,” who are happy to make someone look bad. And, if you’re lucky, you’ve also seen guitarists who are the opposite- great guitarists who are happy to make someone look good. And I knew he was very much the latter. So when he pulled me out and started trading licks and everything, it made me feel so good. For sure, I never would have had the confidence to get up and do what I eventually did. And that’s why I went out of my way to put him in the book.
BF: You discuss the idea of “Third Culture Kids” in terms of your own children, but what about the possibility that you were a “Third Culture Artist”?
AP: I never really thought of it that way, but we were creating something different, and I guess that’s sort of what it was [laughs]. At the bottom line, what we were playing was [American], but it was filtered through their experiences, and their experiences were… diffuse. They knew certain things really well and they didn’t know other things at all. They didn’t really know the connection between any of it.
I have that scene in the book where I play the Allman Brothers for Zhang Yong for the first time, which was just an incredible experience. Then I realized, “Oh my God, these guys don’t know the Allman Brothers- I just can’t believe it.” So I burned some CD’s and I talked to Woodie and he said “Oh, I know the Allman Brothers”, and he had some sense of them, but not really. One of the things I gave him was _At Fillmore Eas_t, and he called me up and said “Man, Derek Trucks is incredible!” He had no idea who Duane Allman was, or that that was forty years old.
Because of that, I think it was easy to not play cliches. When we first started playing, I burned Woodie a CD of the original versions of most of the songs we were playing, and then once we had the basics down, I said “Don’t even listen to those again, forget about them. We’re just going to create these songs on our own.” The basis of what we were doing was American music, but it was filtered through a weird, different way.
Mostly it was all good, but sometimes there would be funny things. We did this gig where we had to play four sets, so had to expand our repertoire for that. So we had some rehearsals, and I brought some stuff in. Zhang Yong had played in a lot of cover bands and he had a song he wanted to sing, and it was “Proud Mary.” And we sort of worked it up and I said “We can’t play this.” And he said “Why? It’s a good song,” and he just didn’t understand. I have nothing against playing covers, but I felt that was one tune that was impossible to play and not sound 40. Most of the time it was really positive, and we just proceeded forth and did our own thing.
BF: Which brings another main thread of the book forward, which is the idea of “investment.” By the time you reach the festival in Xiamen, playing for 5,000 people, the story itself had been propelled forward by defined moments of investment by each main character. For instance, you met Dave Loevinger, which then propelled you to hook up with Woodie Wu, and so on.
AP: That is true.
BF: As each member became continually invested, it somewhat closed a world music circuit; as the blues came from African traditions, became Americanized, and then Woodie Alan found a way to bring more of a world sense to it.
AP: That’s certainly a nice way of looking at it. I felt like towards the end we were exploring more Chinese overtones, and that’s one thing that got left behind by me leaving when I did. [Also] we weren’t rehearsing new stuff as much, because we were trying to finish the recording.
But Zhang Yong plays the guqin, which is a traditional stringed Chinese instrument, and we used it on “Beijing Blues.” It comes in and out and it sounds almost like a slide [guitar]. I think it was the second night of the Fujian Festival where he and I opened with an acoustic guitar/guqin duet. He was [going to open] with a solo piece, and twenty minutes before we went on, he called me over and said “Play these chords” and we worked it out for five minutes. It sounded pretty cool and it was the beginning of something. I feel like if we had another six months or a year, that was the next step. [Zhang Yong] was the guy who had the real, traditional Chinese music background, and he was definitely starting to bring it in, but we never had the chance to fully explore it.
BF: You have a deep love and appreciation for Derek Trucks, who has often added sarod and Qawwalli influences into American blues and jazz. Was that an influence at all?
AP: Not really, but Derek was an influence just in that, after the initial introduction to the Allman Brothers that I made them, Woodie then became obsessed with Derek. Derek became a very big influence on his slide playing and over the last four to six months we were playing together regularly, Woodie pretty much quit playing lead guitar and only played the lap steel, which isn’t totally reflected on the CD. So Derek Trucks was a huge influence on Woodie. I always thought his lap steel playing was very good, but once he got into Derek, he became obsessive about it and he took his playing to a new level. Yet, he never sounded like Derek, and to me, he sounds unique and completely like himself.
BF: As a writer, you’ve never been fond of ambivalence in the artists you’ve covered, yet in the book you are very open about recognizing that very quality in yourself in certain aspects.
AP: I always felt, given the right opportunity, I could write an award-winning column. I always had that confidence in my abilities as a writer, to see things and express them. But the band was something I always thought about, but I can’t say in any way that I had the same kind of confidence that, given the opportunity, I would be able to do that. And it was more out of the blue, so in a way it was way more gratifying.
Going back to the beginning [of the band], we didn’t rehearse much and then I had that meeting with Woodie, where he basically said “I think we can be pretty good if you’re willing to rehearse more.” And so we started doing it. I could have made a bigger point in the book, but after the email I got from him, I had the sense that he was going to want to break up the band.
There was a point where, especially if you’ve come up being a critic and writing about music, it’s easier when you play music to keep it loose and think “oh, we’re pretty good for guys who don’t rehearse a lot.” So, in a way, it’s a crutch, cause you’re saying “I’m not trying that hard” [laughs]. But once we started rehearsing more and taking it more seriously, I felt a little more vulnerable, and that was something I had to get over. I had to take “it” more seriously, be more professional about it, without taking myself more seriously in a way.
That was a big leap- once we started doing that and seeing payoffs, there was a point where I said “This is it- I’m all in. Now I’m going to start critiquing myself the way I would critique anyone else.”
Alan with Andy Aledort at book release event
BF: It was a fairly major, yet quickly-made transition to go from a state of vulnerability in your art to what you describe in the book as you “felt like you were steering a freight train with an incredible degree of control at your fingertips.“
AP: I remember that specific show very well. I think the night before we had played a really good gig, and we hadn’t played too many back-to-back nights- I remember thinking that “Wow, there’s a huge payoff to playing two [gigs] in a row.” We were playing [Dylan’s] “Meet Me In The Morning” when I started toying with the tempo- that’s when I realized we were sort of taking it to a whole new level.
Lu Wei is a great, great drummer. As a guitarist and a singer- you have to fit. But to feel great and really be on top of it, you need a great drummer. He was always a great drummer, but he wasn’t necessarily a great “blues” drummer. But at some point, when I was feeling more confident and he was locking into the music, it was a tremendous feeling.
BF: Was there a point in your progression where you felt you let go of the intellectual, analyzing part of yourself and connected more emotionally?
AP: To some extent, I felt like that part came easier for me. It was being able to be analytical without giving up the emotional connection was sort of a challenge. The hard part was just letting go- I felt like I was emotionally connecting from the start, but it was a big step to really just let go.
It relates to something I just said about not rehearsing- you want a little bit of excuse, you want a little bit of yourself in reserve. And once you just completely let go, it’s a little bit scary, but that’s what you need to do to connect and really get somewhere.
BF: You’re describing another thread of the book here, which is the idea of “transcendence”, which is something that many musicians simply have not found a way to do, even at the professional level. If you had to describe the process, how did you find yourself in the “zone”?
AP: One thing you can do to cover your weaknesses is to have a band that is completely built around you- your strengths, your weaknesses [laughs]. I [also] think one quality is being humble. I never really thought of it as “my band” but as “our” band. The people, to some extent, perceived it that way and the guys in the band sort of did because I was the one calling out the songs and whatnot.
BF: In some ways, the band really came together once you realized they were looking at you to be the leader.
AP: There was one really speicific gig that I remember [that was] sort of early on. Our beginnings and endings were weak. We weren’t that rehearsed and would sort of be “ok” through large sections but then sort of wobble. [And I realized if the band] was going to do anything, I have to take command. So I started to, very consciously, and that part of it was not comfortable to me.
But once I started doing it and I accepted it, we immediately saw proof that it was fine, but the initial leap to do it was a conscious decision- “every band needs a leader and I’m the leader, whether I want to be or not.” To some extent, once we really started moving, that wasn’t even necessary.
BF: In a way, it reminds me of Col. Bruce Hampton and the Aquarium Rescue Unit, where he was the heart and soul of the band, but everyone around him was at the top of their instrument and in some ways a “better” musician than he was- yet it would not have worked with him and his vision.
AP: I think there’s something definitely to that. I eventually realized how much I brought to [the band], but it seems almost naive that I would get that far without being aware of it, but I was just never thinking about it. Even after I became more and more confident, because I respected them so much, on some I level I still took a backseat or assumed they knew better. And when I sat down and asked their opinions, that was, to me, the obvious way you would run a band. But eventually I realized that was a huge thing for them and it was one of the things that made them so loyal. To some extent I’d be proud to say it was similar to Col. Bruce- I’m a big fan of him as person and as a musician- I understand that and I think it does makes sense.
BF: Lu Wei said towards the end: “There is more freedom playing with Woodie Alan than any other band, and I began to understand why this was such a good idea: the freedom encourages you to perform better.” One phrase that proved a bedrock through the band’s progression is the mantra of “tight but loose.” Did you anticipate the difficulty in communicating that ideal across the language/musical barrier?
AP: To me, the art of the jam just comes naturally. The art of refining it and being more precise was more challenging for me. And for the other guys, it was the opposite [laughs]. They were completely capable of jamming, but they didn’t have much experience in it. I didn’t anticipate that at all.
The best way to get there was just to show them. Dave came from more of a R&B background in DC, and he would often vary his solos. And then I started soloing more too. We just sort of had to naturally explain it, but we hit a wall there.
BF: Besides Woodie’s slide and Zhang’s guqin, another unique sonic factor is that you found your voice, and loved being, an acoustic guitarist. How did that come to be?
AP: It happened naturally, actually. I was originally playing my Epiphone or my Tele Deluxe I had picked up on a trip back home. And most clubs had a pretty decent backline, like a Roland Jazz or a small Marshall combo I could plug into. I’ve always enjoyed playing electric, and I would switch back and forth during the set. And then we started rehearsing more, and it just became obvious to me that the acoustic was better. We discussed it a bit in the band, and I would ask their opinion, and it seemed like we found our voice with me on acoustic and [Woodie] on lap steel, sometimes harmonica. I felt more and more comfortable with it, and we liked the depth and dynamics it brought.
I also liked it more with Zhang Yong’s bass- he was very capable of playing the bass like a guitar. He was a very Berry Oakley-ish bassist, but he never heard Berry Oakley. So the way he played bass and Lu Wei played the drums, and the way I started attaching my guitar to the snare, it became obvious that this was what was best, and I stopped bring my electric, and never looked back.
BF: You mention in the book that some of the novelty of the band’s name was lost on a Chinese audience without the pop culture context of knowing Woody Allen, but the late Allen Woody was a friend of yours, and an influence as well. Wasn’t the name a homage to him as well?
AP: It definitely was to me. I can barely remember when I first picked [the name], but it completely was to me. The first time we rehearsed with Zhang Yong, he brought this 7-string bass. And it’s a cool bass, and he could really play it, but I thought it was completely inappropriate for what we were doing. So, next rehearsal we had, I brought my [Allen Woody Signature] bass for him, and I said “Hey, play this.” I don’t play bass much, but I love that bass. And he played it and liked it, and it made me so happy to have that bass played in the band because I did think it sounded good. I loved bringing Woody into it.
At the next gig, I brought it, and he played it on a few tunes, but he had brought his Fender bass, which I didn’t realize he had- he had gotten my message about playing a 4-string bass [laughs]. But for half a gig and one rehearsal, he played that Woody bass and I loved it. I was very conscious of Woody and I was confident- in knowing Woody as well as I did- he would have lost it, he would have gotten a kick out of the whole thing. I felt I was serving his memory a little bit of justice.
*****
End Notes: [1]: Lyrics from the song “Jefe”, © 2010 bella soul Music LLC. Used by permission.
